#something something notes and attention isn’t everything

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 42: December 2024 - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

Talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent, childbirth.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Belle Verstappen

Oscar: Hey I need your help 🙃

Belle: Hi 😂 What did you do

Oscar: Nothing (yet) I’m trying to find a christmas present for Lily Her sister told me to get this purse but it looks like it belongs to a woman who yells at waiters about truffle oil <<sends Image of aggressively beige designer purse>> It’s like… structurally angry??

Belle: Oh no That purse has opinions about other people’s handbags

Oscar: Right?? I feel like if I buy this, Lily will just stare at me and then hand it to her mother

Belle: She definitely will

Oscar: Can you help me find something she’d actually like? Please? 🙏

Belle: Always Tell me what you’ve already ruled out And what’s your budget (Also how sentimental do you want to go—tears or tasteful appreciation?)

Oscar: No tears. Tasteful appreciation with optional kiss.

Belle: Perfect. She’s getting something she won’t re-gift to her Pilates instructor.

Oscar: You’re the best. If Max ever forgets your birthday I will throw him into the sea.

Belle: He won’t. But noted.

***

Belle had warned Oscar she was going to take this seriously. She just hadn’t told him that “seriously” involved dragging him halfway across Monte Carlo to a discreet little jeweller’s tucked between a florist and a bespoke tailor, where the display cases gleamed like treasure chests and the security guard looked like he moonlighted as a Bond villain.

Oscar hesitated at the threshold. “Isn’t this… a bit much?”

Belle didn’t even glance back. “You said tasteful appreciation with optional kiss. That rules out Zara.”

He followed her inside with the vague air of someone being led into an ambush—partly because he didn’t trust Monaco prices, and partly because he had a sinking suspicion Belle had already decided exactly what he was going to buy.

“Do you know what her favourite metal is?” Belle asked over her shoulder, already making a beeline for one of the glass cases.

“Uh… gold?”

Belle turned. “Yellow, white or rose?”

Oscar looked appropriately stricken.

She sighed, fond. “That’s what I thought.”

The woman behind the counter smiled warmly and brought out a tray of delicate pieces without even needing to ask.

“Something elegant, but not showy,” Belle murmured. “Not hearts, not too dainty. She’s not twee. She’s chic but understated. Smart. Wears a lot of navy and pink, prefers tailoring to ruffles.”

Oscar blinked at her. “How do you know all that?”

“I pay attention.”

“She’s your friend, not your client.”

Belle grinned. “Oscar. I’m a woman. We file these things away.”

He leaned over the tray uncertainly. “That one?”

Belle gave him a look. “That’s a baptism bracelet for a very wealthy baby.”

He flinched. “Sorry.”

She softened, nudging his arm. “You’re doing fine.”

It took twenty minutes, but eventually, they settled on a necklace—14k white gold, barely-there chain, with a small charm shaped like a lily of the valley bloom. Clean lines, no fuss. Thoughtful, elegant, exactly right.

Oscar held the box in his hands like it might bite. “You really think she’ll like it?”

“She’ll love it,” Belle said. “It’s meaningful, but not sentimental in a ‘please cry now’ kind of way.”

Oscar looked at her. “You know, if this whole architecture thing doesn’t work out, you’d make a terrifyingly good personal shopper.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Belle said, already sliding her sunglasses back on. “Now come on. We’re getting coffee. You owe me a pastry.”

Oscar followed her out into the sunlit street, the velvet box tucked securely in his pocket—and a faint, bewildered smile on his face.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1Watcher1997 📍Spotted in Monaco 🧵Thread: So I just saw Oscar Piastri walking out of a very expensive jewellery boutique with Belle Leclerc and um. What?

@/F1Watcher1997 1/ Okay so I was just getting coffee near the Marché and I SWEAR it was him. Oscar. Piastri. Holding a little blue jewellery bag and looking like a confused Victorian ghost.

@/F1Watcher1997 2/ And next to him??? Belle. Leclerc. Casual as anything, sunglasses on, pregnant belly looking adorable, telling him something about pastries and aesthetic balance (??)

@/F1Watcher1997 3/ THEY WERE LAUGHING. LIKE, GENUINE LAUGHTER. Not PR-smile laughter. Besties on a side quest laughter. What is going on.

@/mercedesfan56 Wait WHAT Oscar and Belle?? In a jewellery store?? That sounds like some fanfiction crossover

@/f1gossipcorner Not the Charles Leclerc sister and McLaren’s #81 being spotted together mid-luxury retail therapy 💀 What does it mean???

@/leclercsleftbrow Belle is literally married to Max Verstappen. Oscar is dating Lily??? What is the context here???

@/quadrant4lyfe Oscar doesn’t look that comfortable unless he’s with Lando or a car. If he’s LAUGHING in public, Belle’s got healing aura confirmed.

@/waggossipwitchI mean, we did get the whole, “Oh your sister already adopted me” tweet in May… So it probably was simply sibling coded christmas shopping. 

@/paddockcryptid Every time Belle shows up it’s chaos but like, soft chaos. Chaos with a croissant. We love to see it.

@/mclarenconfusionzone So. Belle Leclerc. Oscar Piastri. Fine jewellery. Are we starting a new conspiracy theory or just adding it to the list?

@/f1_watchdog Theory: Belle is now officially the Grid’s Wife. She’s Max’s. But also Oscar’s advisor. And Lando’s therapist. And Charles’ sibling guilt. She’s booked and busy.

@/F1Watcher1997 Anyway, they disappeared into a café and he still looked emotionally overwhelmed, so I assume it went well. 10/10 Monaco sighting. I remain confused but deeply invested.

@/helmetandheels Forget the constructors' championship. This is the wives championship and Belle is running strategy for everyone.

@/gridgremlins Belle “my brother forgot my birthday and now I’m Max Verstappen’s wife” Leclerc is not someone you underestimate. Oscar did the smart thing. He got reinforcements.

@/f1sillyseason Confirmed: Belle Verstappen is Monaco’s unofficial First Lady. Oscar Piastri is just happy to be included.

@/belletheory: "Belle Leclerc as the grid’s fairy godmother of taste and damage control" — can this be a real show?

@/cursedf1takes: I love how we all immediately went “Not romantic. But definitely iconic.”

@/f1wivesanon if Belle Leclerc ever took me jewelry shopping I would simply pass away on the spot

@/beesbuzzbakeblog

Plot twist: Belle is the grid’s emotional support gift selector and he needed help picking something for Lily for Christmas.

That woman probably has a spreadsheet of every girlfriend’s favourite candle scent.

@/madformclaren no bc imagine Belle redesigning the McLaren motorhome and Oscar being like “Can we install a soundproof coffee corner for Lando’s breakdowns”

@/lilyleclercfan all of you need to calm down. Oscar is clearly getting Lily a gift and Belle is helping bc she has taste and he has… hoodies.

***

Belle’s water broke on a Wednesday evening.

Not with a dramatic gasp or a cinematic flood, but somewhere between folding baby onesies and debating whether she wanted tea or hot chocolate. Max had just come in from a late workout, still damp with sweat and talking about how the cats had knocked over one of the houseplants again, when she paused mid-sentence, looked down, and blinked.

“Oh,” she said mildly, setting the baby sock she was holding on the armrest. “Okay.”

Max stopped mid-rant. “Okay what?”

Belle looked at him. “My water just broke.”

Max stared at her. “No it didn’t.”

“It did,” she said, calm as ever, already pushing herself up. “Can you hand me a towel?”

And that was the moment everything short-circuited in Max Verstappen’s brain.

“Wait, wait—like now? You mean it’s—he’s—” Max gestured helplessly at her stomach, already taking three steps in three different directions. “Are you okay? Is it hurting? Should I call someone? Is this normal? I can’t remember the list—where’s the list?”

Belle laughed under her breath. “Yes, now. No, it’s not hurting. Yes, it’s normal. And I put the list on the fridge, Max. Like I said I would.”

He spun toward the kitchen. “Right. The fridge. The bag! Where’s the—did we pack it? I don’t remember packing it.”

“It’s by the front door.”

Max reappeared with the bag slung wildly over one shoulder and two mismatched shoes on his feet.

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Love, do you want to maybe change your shirt?”

He looked down. “Right. Sweaty. Okay. Shirt.” He ran back down the hall, calling behind him, “Do we need snacks? I should bring snacks. Do hospitals have snacks? Is it too early to leave?”

Belle, towel in hand, stood serenely in the entryway and texted their midwife. “Still at home. Calm. Max is panicking. Will update soon.”

By the time he came back—shirt changed, bag zipped, shoes matching this time—she was already sitting on the bench by the door, pulling on a cardigan.

“How are you this calm?” he asked, dropping to one knee to tie her shoe for her because she couldn't quite reach.

Belle smiled, brushing a hand through his hair. “Because I’ve been ready for weeks. And because I have you. Even if you’re currently vibrating like a washing machine.”

Max leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against her knees for a second, just breathing.

“Okay,” he said, finally. “Okay. We’re gonna have a baby.”

“We are,” she said softly.

“And he’s gonna be perfect.”

“Even if he shows up at night and ruins my sleep schedule?”

Max grinned, eyes bright with something between fear and joy. “I’ll take the night shift.”

Belle laughed. “You already do.”

Max helped her up, kissed her knuckles, and said, “Let’s go meet our son.”

***

Max had prepared for hours.

Days, even.

He’d read every article. Watched videos. Subscribed to five different email lists for new parents. He’d downloaded two apps to track contractions and manually charted Belle’s symptoms in a spreadsheet—color-coded, because organization was the illusion of control. He’d practiced timing contractions with a stopwatch just to be sure he could do it under pressure. Every podcast, every class, every YouTube midwife said the same thing:

First babies take time.

Labour is long. Drawn-out. Exhausting. A slow crescendo of anticipation. There would be waiting. There would be pacing. There would be tears and ice chips and at least one existential crisis in a hospital corridor at 3 a.m.

Max had mentally rehearsed all of it like he was preparing for a grand prix. He had his hydration schedule. Backup snacks. Extra phone chargers. A playlist of calming classical music and one of Belle’s favorite lo-fi beats. He even laminated the birth plan. Laminated it.

What he hadn’t prepared for — what absolutely no one had warned him about — was his son arriving in under three hours, like he had a grid slot and something to prove.

“Three to four centimeters,” the midwife had said when they checked in, glancing at Belle’s chart like she had all the time in the world. “Nice and steady. First baby, so we’ll probably be here a while.”

Max, who had been ready to go full tactical support unit, nodded like he was accepting a mission behind enemy lines. Belle, by contrast, just breathed through another contraction with her eyes closed, serene in a way that made Max both proud and slightly concerned that she might be transcending this mortal plane.

She didn’t even look flustered. Just quietly powerful. Even beautiful, somehow, despite the pain, despite the hospital gown, despite everything.

Max held her hand like it might break. Offered her sips of water every five minutes. Massaged her lower back in firm circles like the app instructed. He kept his tone gentle, soothing, counting out the seconds of each contraction like he was timing qualifying laps.

Belle tolerated it — until one particularly sharp wave of pain made her head snap around. “Max,” she said through gritted teeth. “I love you. So much. But if you keep narrating the timing like GP does for you during Qualifying, I will shove that app down your throat.”

He shut up.

Dutifully.

Two hours passed, but they didn’t drag the way everyone had described.

They blurred.

Because the thing was — it didn’t go slowly. It went the opposite of slow. The contractions didn’t space out. They stacked. Barely a breath between them. Belle stopped speaking and started breathing in short, measured exhales, her whole body curling into the rhythm like a dancer hitting invisible choreography.

Max kept waiting for someone to say it wasn’t real labour yet. That this was early, that there were still ten hours to go. He had his pacing shoes ready. A bag of mints to stay alert. The nurses kept checking monitors. Belle kept moving through the pain like some elemental force — steady, precise, fierce in her focus but eerily quiet.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t panic. She just was.

It terrified him.

A nurse walked in at one point and froze mid-step. “Let’s get a doctor,” she said, her voice already sharp with urgency. “Baby’s coming.”

Max blinked. “Now?!”

“Yes.”

“But—she was only four centimeters—”

“That was ninety minutes ago,” the nurse said as she snapped on gloves.

Max’s entire nervous system went offline.

Suddenly there were lights, people, voices. A shift in the air. His laminated birth plan lay forgotten on the side table. Someone pulled a tray of surgical tools closer. A second nurse adjusted Belle’s legs. Another pressed buttons on the monitor.

“Mrs. Verstappen,” a doctor said gently, “you’re fully dilated. One more push.”

One more push? They hadn’t even been admitted long enough for him to finish the second playlist.

And then—

A sound.

Not Belle’s.

A cry.

Raw. Startling. Brand new.

The world seemed to hold its breath.

Max stood frozen as Belle let out a shaky sob of relief, eyes wide as they placed a squirming, damp, furious little person on her chest. Their son. All wrinkled skin and shock and tiny fists. Somehow realer than anything Max had ever seen.

Belle wrapped both arms around him instinctively, tears streaking down her face as she whispered, “Hi. You’re early.”

Max didn’t move. Couldn’t. His legs felt like someone had cut the strings inside him. His hands were still trembling from adrenaline, from awe. From everything.

“Max,” Belle said softly, still smiling through exhaustion, “breathe.”

He looked at her — at them — and the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding escaped in a quiet, stunned exhale.

His wife, radiant and wrecked and incredible.

Their son, calm now, blinking up at her with an expression that said: Of course it’s you. I’ve always known your voice.

Max sat down heavily in the chair beside the bed. The tears came before he could stop them. Silent at first. Then shaking. He buried his face in his hands, overwhelmed.

“Hey.” Belle reached out and brushed his cheek with the back of her fingers. “You okay?”

He nodded, choked, tried to smile. “I didn’t even get to read him his birth plan.”

She laughed — that hoarse, exhausted laugh that still sounded like home. “He had his own plan.”

Max looked down at the tiny boy resting on Belle’s chest. So small. So impossibly real. He reached out, hesitantly, and touched the back of his hand. The baby flinched — and then curled all five fingers around Max’s pinky.

Max swore something inside him broke open.

“Hi,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I’m your Papa.”

And just like that, nothing would ever be the same again.

Ever.

***

Belle had read the warnings. Heard the stories.

Labour, they all said, would be long. First babies took their time. There’d be hours — days, even — of waiting and watching and cursing the heavens. It would be a slow, miserable crawl to the finish. Everyone swore by the same mantra: You’ll know when it’s real.

And Belle?

She knew.

The hospital was colder than she expected. Or maybe she just noticed the cold more between contractions. When they checked in, a midwife said “three to four centimeters” with a warm smile and a confident, “We’ll probably be here a while.”

Belle nodded politely, but internally, she wanted to say, No, we won’t.

Something had shifted. She could feel it in her bones. Her body was working faster than it was supposed to. Not out of control, but... certain. Steady. Like the part of her brain that was ancient and animal had taken over.

Max held her hand like she was made of porcelain. Spoke in soft, anxious increments. “That was twenty-eight seconds. You’re doing so well. Want more water? I’m tracking everything. The app says—”

Belle clenched her jaw through a sharper contraction, her eyes squeezing shut. “Max,” she said through gritted teeth, “I love you. So much. But if you keep narrating the timing like GP does for you during Qualifying, I will shove that app down your throat.”

He shut the app. And his mouth.

Good man.

Time folded strangely after that. The edges of the world blurred. Everything narrowed down to sensation: breath, pain, focus. Contractions stacked like waves with no room to breathe between them, but she wasn’t afraid.

She wasn’t afraid.

She could hear Max talking to the nurses, could feel him rubbing her back, but it was all background noise. She was somewhere deep inside herself — some liminal space between agony and clarity — and her body was doing the work.

The nurse’s voice broke through like a flare.

“Let’s get a doctor. Baby’s coming.”

Belle opened her eyes. Max’s face went white. “Now?” he said, like someone had just told him race day was starting early and the car wasn’t on the grid.

Yes, now, Belle thought. He’s ready.

The room shifted in a blink. Gloves. Lights. Voices she didn’t recognize. She felt someone guide her legs into position. Someone else adjusted her IV. The midwife was at her side, calm and firm.

“One more push, Belle. You’ve got him.”

One more.

A rush of wet heat and silence.

Then—

He was there

A cry. Thin and sharp and brand new.

Her heart stuttered.

And then he was in her arms.

Wrinkled, furious, pink with life. His limbs flailed weakly. His cry cut through the room. Emilian was impossibly small and impossibly real. Warm and damp against her chest, his heartbeat like a hummingbird’s.

“Hi,” she whispered, forehead pressed to his. Her voice broke. “You’re early.”

She didn’t realize she was crying until a tear landed on his cheek. Didn’t realize she was smiling until her face ached with it.

Max hadn’t moved.

She turned her head and found him still standing where the nurse had left him — hands shaking, eyes wide, like someone had unplugged his brain and replaced it with static.

“Max,” she said gently.

He looked at her like he was seeing sunlight for the first time. Like he didn’t know how to breathe anymore.

And then he sat — hard — in the chair beside her, his hands covering his face.

She watched him cry. No warning. No words. Just tears spilling through his fingers as he struggled to contain something enormous and unstoppable.

Her chest tightened. Not from pain. From love. From the knowledge that even though she’d just done the impossible — he was the one breaking.

She reached over, brushed a tear from his cheek.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

He nodded, blinking hard. “I didn’t even get to read him his birth plan,” he managed, voice thready and wet.

She laughed, quiet and cracked around the edges. “He had his own plan.”

Max looked down at their son, still curled against her skin.

And when he reached out — slow, reverent — and their baby gripped his pinky with those impossibly small fingers, something in him gave way too.

“Hi,” he whispered. “I’m your Papa.”

Belle watched them, heart full to breaking, and realized she would never stop loving this moment — this exact, messy, beautiful second — for the rest of her life.

Because this was it.

This was everything.

***

The room was dark, except for the soft amber glow of the wall light above the bed. The noise of the ward had quieted — no more beeping monitors, no bustling nurses, no voices calling out updates. Just a cocoon of calm. Just them.

Belle lay propped up against the pillows, a warm blanket tucked around her shoulders, hair still damp at the roots. Her body ached in places she hadn’t known could ache. Everything felt heavy. Raw. Fragile and sacred all at once.

And perfect.

Their son slept against her chest, curled into the valley beneath her collarbone like he was made to fit there. He made these tiny sounds — hiccupy little sighs and grunts, the occasional flutter of fingers or twitch of a foot — but otherwise, he was still. Warm. Real.

Max hadn’t said much in the last hour.

He was sitting in the chair beside her, hunched forward, forearms on his knees, fingers loosely laced together. His eyes had barely left the baby. Like he couldn’t stop watching him breathe.

Belle didn’t blame him.

“You okay?” she asked, voice hushed.

Max glanced up at her. He nodded, then looked down again, blinking slowly like he was still processing everything. “I don’t think my brain’s caught up yet,” he murmured. “It’s just... looping.”

“Looping?”

“Yeah.” He leaned his head back against the wall, exhaling. “You. Him. The way he looked at you like he knew you already. The sound he made when they put him on your chest. The way he grabbed my hand. I just keep... replaying it.”

Belle smiled faintly. “I keep thinking he feels too small to be real.”

“He is real,” Max said softly. “He’s just... ours.”

The word landed between them like a meteor. Ours.

Belle looked down at their son. Her thumb brushed across his back, feather-light. He made a sleepy little grunt, then went still again.

“I thought I’d be scared,” she whispered. “In the moment. With the pain. With everything moving so fast. But I wasn’t.”

Max looked at her like she’d just said something profound.

She tilted her head toward him. “You were.”

He huffed a breath — not quite a laugh. “Completely. Terrified.”

“You didn’t show it.”

“I think I blacked out emotionally for at least twenty minutes,” Max admitted. “It’s all kind of a blur. Except for when he cried. That’s burned into my soul now. That sound...”

Belle knew. She could still hear it too — the first cry, like the start of a new chapter. The loudest, most welcome noise in the world.

“He loves you already,” she said.

Max raised an eyebrow. “You think so?”

“He stopped crying the second you touched him.”

Max leaned forward again, reaching out slowly. His hand hovered above the baby’s back for a moment, then settled gently across Belle’s collarbone, fingers cradling both of them. He stared at the little bundle between them like he couldn’t believe this was real.

Belle felt the weight of his touch — steady, warm — and closed her eyes for a moment.

“I didn’t know I could love anyone like this,” Max whispered. “You. Him. At the same time.”

She opened her eyes.

And in the soft lamplight, she found him looking at her the way he had the first time he’d told her he loved her — completely open. No defenses. No bravado.

Just Max.

Her Max.

She reached over with her free hand and curled her fingers around his.

“Get some sleep,” she murmured.

“I don’t want to miss anything.”

“You won’t,” she promised. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Max looked down at their son, then back at her. “Neither am I.”

Belle leaned her head toward his, resting their foreheads together over the top of their baby’s head. The three of them, held in a quiet that felt bigger than the room. Bigger than the world.

Outside, life would go on. There would be noise. Flashbulbs. Headlines. Races. Chaos.

But for now — in this room, in this breath, in this moment —

Everything was still.

Everything was new.

Everything was theirs.

***

The hospital had released them just after sunrise

Their son — barely eight hours old — was in his car seat. His hat kept sliding down over one eye. Max kept adjusting it, gently, carefully, like one wrong move would break the baby.

Belle hadn’t said much during the car ride. Just rested her head back, one arm around Emilian, the other brushing his cheek every few minutes to reassure herself he was still breathing. Max had driven home like he was transporting a Fabergé egg in a thunderstorm. Ten and two on the wheel. Hazard lights at every roundabout. Cursed out a Fiat for daring to overtake them at a “dangerously aggressive” forty kilometers per hour.

But now—

Now they were standing in their apartment foyer. Belle leaned slightly against the wall, exhausted but glowing. Max was holding the diaper bag in one hand and trying to unlock the front door with the other, only to realize he’d never actually let go of the keys when he parked the car.

He managed to open the door.

“Alright,” he whispered, voice reverent. “We're home.”

Belle stepped inside slowly, baby snug against her chest. The lights were low. The air smelled faintly of lavender and home. Shoes by the wall. One of Max’s hoodies on the back of a chair. The silence was soft.

And then—

Meow.

Sassy appeared first, sauntering out from the hallway like she was the appointed welcoming committee. She gave Belle an unimpressed once-over, then froze when she caught sight of the blanket.

Correction: caught scent.

She leaned forward cautiously. Sniffed. Paused.

Sniffed again.

And then sat down, tail flicking in regal judgment.

“I don’t think she’s sold,” Belle whispered.

“She’s processing,” Max said. “Let’s be fair — this is her first human sibling.”

Jimmy came next, galloping in from the kitchen like a small lion who had just remembered he had legs. He skidded to a stop at Max’s feet, stared up at Belle and the tiny bundle in her arms, and immediately chirped a curious little trill.

“See?” Max beamed. “Jimmy’s ready.”

“Jimmy thinks the baby is a weirdly shaped heated blanket.”

“Still counts.”

Lilly was last, peeking out from behind the sofa with suspicious eyes. She had always been the most cautious of the three — the observer. She didn’t approach. Just stared.

Belle slowly lowered herself onto the couch, sighing as she settled in. Max dropped the bag beside the armchair and crouched in front of her, reaching out to adjust the edge of the baby’s hat again.

“Okay, team,” Max said, glancing at the cats with mock seriousness. “New rules. This is Emilian. He’s your brother. He screams, but he’s very small and very important. No stepping on him. No licking his face. And absolutely no stealing his toys, Sassy.”

Sassy blinked, clearly unbothered.

Jimmy hopped up beside Belle and sniffed cautiously at the baby’s foot. Emilian shifted slightly in his sleep, letting out a tiny squeak.

All three cats froze.

Max and Belle did too.

Emilian blinked once, made a noise like a grumpy koala, and promptly went back to sleep.

Jimmy’s ears perked. Sassy jumped onto the armrest, as if to get a better view. Even Lilly crept a little closer.

Belle looked at Max and smiled. “They’re curious.”

Max sat beside her, one arm wrapping around her shoulders, the other resting lightly over the curve of Emilian’s swaddle. “I mean, I did brief them extensively. They had a team meeting.”

Belle laughed, letting her head rest against his. “Do you think he’ll love them?”

“I know he will,” Max said quietly. “How could he not? He’s got you. He’s got them. And...” He looked down at their son again, eyes soft. “He’s home.”

The baby made another tiny noise. Belle brushed her lips to his forehead. “Welcome home, Emilian.”

Max looked around the room. At the cats now lounging in a protective triangle around the baby. At Belle, exhausted and radiant. At the quiet, beautiful mess of it all.

***

Group Chat: 🍼 Baby Watch 2024 🍼

(Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Max Verstappen, Belle Verstappen, Lily Zneimer and Emilie Abadie)

Max Verstappen: He’s here. We’re home.

Oscar Piastri: I’m sorry— WHAT??

Lando Norris: HOME???? As in your actual house??? You just had a baby???

Daniel Ricciardo: HELLO??? No. NO. You don’t get to just drop that in the chat like it’s a race result “baby’s here. we’re home.”

WHAT DO YOU MEAN HOME???

Emilie Abadie: MAX EMILIAN VERSTAPPEN

You had a WHOLE CHILD and didn’t tell us until AFTER discharge??? You absolute maniac. When???

Max Verstappen: Yesterday evening. It took three hours. He was in a hurry.

belle’s a superhero.

Oscar Piastri: Respectfully wtf

Emilie Abadie: Three. Hours??? It takes longer for Lando to pick a Spotify playlist

Lando Norris: HEY

Max Verstappen:

we didn’t even have time to text anyone

by the time we were like “should we tell people?”

they were already offering us discharge forms

Lily Zneimer: I’m sobbing. Tell him Auntie Lily says hi 🥹💙

Lando Norris: Congratulations you guys

i love how calm this is

like

“hi we just created life, anyway we’re back in time for lunch”

Max Verstappen: he has so much hair belle says he looks like me i think he looks like her

Belle Verstappen: he looks like a very angry loaf of bread but a cute one

Lando Norris: i want photos IMMEDIATELY

Emilie Abadie:

give him the softest hat

and the biggest kiss

i’m crying

Lily Zneimer: we all are

Oscar Piastri: congrats, mate. seriously.

***

Text Messages: Victoria Verstappen & Max Verstappen

📸 [Photo Attachment: a newborn wrapped in a soft white blanket, tiny fists curled up, a full head of blonde hair, peacefully asleep on Max’s chest]

Max: Meet Emilian Jean Hervé Verstappen 💙 He’s here. He’s perfect. Everyone’s healthy. Belle’s incredible. We’re already home.

Victoria: WHAT WHAT DO YOU MEAN “HE’S HERE” W H E N MAX EMILIAN.

Victoria: I LITERALLY TEXTED YOU LAST NIGHT AND YOU SAID “ALL QUIET HERE” ARE YOU KIDDING ME

Victoria: I HAVEN’T EVEN BOUGHT THE SPECIAL BABY OUTFIT YET YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO WARN ME

Max: he didn’t want to wait

Max: 3 hours we’re already home

Victoria: YOU HAD A BABY AND THEN CAME HOME BEFORE I EVEN FINISHED MY COFFEE???

Victoria: I’m going to cry and then I’m going to spoil that child so hard he forgets who his parents are

Max: that’s fair

Victoria: Is Belle okay??? Do I need to bring cookies or a medal or a statue carved in her honour??

Max: all of the above she’s magic I’ll never recover

Victoria: send more photos

***

Text Messages: Sophie Kumpen & Max Verstappen

📸 [Photo Attachment: a newborn wrapped in a soft white blanket, tiny fists curled up, a full head of blonde hair, peacefully asleep on Max’s chest]

Max: Meet Emilian Jean Hervé Verstappen 💙 He’s here. He’s perfect. Everyone’s healthy. Belle’s incredible. We’re already home.

Sophie: WHAT You’re HOME??? Max Emilian Verstappen, did you just have a BABY and then casually TEXT me a PHOTO like you’re dropping off dry cleaning??

Sophie: WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?? WHY DID NO ONE CALL ME WHY AM I FINDING OUT THROUGH A PICTURE AT 10AM LIKE THIS IS INSTAGRAM

Max: because it was fast 3 hours start to finish Belle’s a machine you were asleep, I didn’t want to wake you

Sophie: YOU HAD A BABY YOU CAN WAKE ME FOR THAT

Sophie: Is Belle okay?? Do you need anything?? 

Max: Belle’s amazing she’s resting

Sophie: You’re a father. You’re somebody’s papa. I’m crying.

Max: I know me too

Sophie: He’s beautiful. I love him already. And I’m so proud of you, schat. You’re going to be such a good dad.

***

Text Messages: Jos Verstappen & Max Verstappen

📸 [Photo Attachment: a newborn wrapped in a soft white blanket, tiny fists curled up, a full head of blonde hair, peacefully asleep on Max’s chest]

Max: Meet Emilian Jean Hervé Verstappen 💙 He’s here. He’s perfect. Everyone’s healthy. Belle’s incredible. We’re already home.

Jos: Already home?

Max: Yeah. Three hours start to finish. No complications.

Jos: That’s rare. Must take after you.

Max: Maybe. Belle did all the hard work though.

Jos: Good name. Strong.

Jos: Looks like you.

Max: Poor kid 😅

Jos: He’s got your nose. Same fists, too. Look at those hands.

Max: He held my finger like he meant it.

Jos: That’s what you did. Day one. Held on. Didn’t let go.

Max: Guess it runs in the family.

Jos: Be better than I was. That’s all that matters. Tell Belle I said well done.

Max: I will. You can come meet him soon if you want.

Jos: I will. But not with a crowd. Just us.

Max: Just us.

***

Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Max Verstappen

📸 [Photo Attachment: a newborn wrapped in a soft white blanket, tiny fists curled up, a full head of blonde hair, peacefully asleep on Max’s chest]

Max: Meet Emilian Jean Hervé Verstappen 💙 He’s here. He’s perfect. Everyone’s healthy. Belle’s incredible. We’re already home.

Godfather duties start now, by the way.

GP: Already home?? What the hell, you went quicker than a Red Bull pit stop.

Max: 3 hours. Belle’s a machine. I cried like 4 times.

GP: Is Belle okay?

Max: She’s incredible.

GP: How are you feeling?

Max: Tired. Overwhelmed. Can’t stop looking at him. He’s… real.

GP: He’s beautiful. Name suits him. Congrats, mate. You’re gonna be a great dad.

***

Belle had barely managed to settle Emilian back down after his latest squeaky complaint—barely more than a sigh, but he had Max wrapped around his finger already—when the doorbell rang.

Max blinked from the couch “We’re not expecting anyone.”

“No,” Belle said, already moving toward the door. “But I think someone lost their battle with patience.”

Sure enough, seconds later, the front door opened and then came the unmistakable sound of Emilie’s voice.

“—I know it’s late, but I told you we were coming, Oscar—Belle will understand! I can’t do this via text anymore!”

Footsteps, hurried and overlapping—Emilie bursting in first, cheeks flushed, hair pulled back in a way that said she’d done it in the elevator. Lando behind her, carrying a ridiculous bundle of gift bags and a stuffed lion almost the size of himself. Oscar and Lily followed, a little more dignified, but no less eager.

“Hi,” Belle said, exhausted but so very, very happy. Her voice was quiet, but somehow it cut through the fuss.

“I tried to wait!” Emilie said, dropping her bag, and pulled her into a hug and then was practically sprinting toward the living room. “I swear I tried.” 

“You lasted six hours,” Belle said, laughing as Emilie dropped to her knees by the sofa. “That might actually be a personal record.”

Max gave a tired but pleased smile and adjusted the blanket so they could see more of the tiny, warm, pinkish face curled against his chest.

Emilie’s breath hitched audibly. “Oh my God.”

Lily leaned in behind her. “He’s so small—look at his little fingers!”

Lando gently set the gifts down—“Just a few things,” he muttered, even though one of the bags had glitter on it—and peeked over Belle’s shoulder. “Wow,” he breathed. “He’s so tiny.”

Belle let out a soft laugh. “He won’t be for long. He’s already got Max’s hands.”

Oscar simply placed a casserole dish on the dining table. 

“Are you alright?” he asked her softly, pulling her into a half hug and she smiled. 

“Never better,” Belle answered honestly. “Exhausted and sore, but happy.”

Emilie was already kneeling beside the couch, eyes wide and damp and reverent. “He’s perfect,” she whispered. “What’s his name?”

Belle smiled softly. “His name is Emilian.”

There was a pause.

Emilie blinked, slowly turning to her.

“Emilian?” she repeated, quiet and unsure, like she wasn’t certain she’d heard right.

Belle nodded. “Emilian Jean Hervé Verstappen.”

“No. No, you didn’t.”

Belle felt her own throat tighten. She nodded again. “After you.” Belle’s voice cracked, but she held steady. “Because Emilie,” she said softly. “Because I wanted him to carry someone kind. Someone who’s always been in my corner. Someone who’s family, even when the rest of mine… wasn’t.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then Emilie burst into tears.

Not dainty tears. Full, crumpled-face, hands-over-her-mouth sobbing. Belle leaned forward immediately, despite the soreness, and reached for her hand.

“You’ve always been there for me. Always. Through everything. You’re family. And he deserves the kind of people around him that make the world better. You saved me more times than I can count. You reminded me who I was when I thought I’d forgotten. And I want my son to know that kind of love exists in this world.”

Emilie looked like she wanted to say something but couldn’t get a single word out.

Belle opened her arms.

And Emilie broke.

She hugged Belle so tightly they nearly tipped sideways, sobbing into her shoulder while Belle stroked her hair. Max looked up from the couch, smiling gently, rocking their son just a little, like he knew this moment belonged to the two of them.

“I’m supposed to be the cool one,” Emilie said thickly, pulling back just enough to laugh through her tears. “This is—this is not cool.”

“It’s pretty cool,” Belle murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair.

Emilie turned to the baby next. Max shifted carefully, offering him out with the kind of reverence that made everyone fall silent again.

“Hi, Emilian,” she whispered, cradling him like he was made of stars.

And maybe he was.

Belle watched as her son blinked up at the godmother who’d earned her name in the shape of his.

Belle let her lean in, let her look at Emilian again through her tears, let herself feel everything.

Once Emilie had finally, finally handed Emilian back—after whispering something to him about his mama being the strongest woman in the world and threatening him (gently) not to break her heart—Belle looked up at the rest of the group and raised an eyebrow.

“Well?” she said. “Who’s next?”

Lando, who had been hovering like a polite but vibrating golden retriever, stepped forward, hands already out. “Me. It’s me. I’m next.”

Belle tried not to laugh. Max absolutely failed.

“Sit down first,” Belle instructed, nodding toward the armchair beside the sofa. “You drop him and you’re banned from Monaco for life.”

“She’s not joking,” Max added helpfully.

“I would never,” Lando muttered, carefully settling into the chair. “Give me the smallest Verstappen.”

Max rolled his eyes, but he stepped in to transfer Emilian with the solemnity of a knight handling a royal heir. Lando’s eyes went huge as he looked down at the baby now curled into his arms, making a soft huff of air like sleep was hard work.

“Hey, little guy,” Lando said softly. “You’ve got excellent timing, you know that? Born just after I won Abu Dhabi? Very considerate of you.”

Belle caught Emilie’s eye, and they both had to stifle their laughter.

“Mate…” Lando whispered. “He’s got so much hair.”

“I know,” Max said, collapsing onto the couch beside Belle with a tired but affectionate smile. “He’s already stronger than I am.”

“He’s…” Lando trailed off, eyes still fixed on Emilian. “He’s actually perfect.”

“You sound surprised,” Belle said dryly.

“No! I mean—he’s Max’s kid, so I expected like, mini fury. A tiny fist raised in rage. But this guy’s just… soft.”

“He’s sleepy,” Max said. “Give him two weeks. You’ll see the rage.”

“I’m not kidding,” Lando said, now rocking gently side to side in the chair without even realizing it. “He’s got your nose, Max. And your judgmental frown.”

“He does frown a lot,” Belle said with a laugh. “I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”

Oscar cleared his throat from behind them. “Is it my turn, or…?”

Lando scowled. “Can I hold him for like… another twenty years?”

“No,” Oscar said, already stepping forward. “Your bonding time is over. I’ve been very patient.”

Lando stuck out his tongue but carefully handed Emilian off, muttering “You better like McLaren, little guy,” under his breath.

Oscar took the baby with the quiet competence of someone who had already spent time around infants—and maybe done a little reading. He moved toward the opposite couch and settled in, Emilian tucked safely against his chest, Lily hovering over his shoulder. 

“Hi, Emilian,” he murmured. “You don’t know this yet, but your parents are two of the best people in the world.”

Belle blinked, emotion catching in her throat.

Oscar glanced up. “He’s gonna be okay,” he said softly. “With you two? He’s going to be more than okay.”

He rocked Emilian gently, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And if he ever wants to drive a kart… I know a guy.”

Belle laughed through the lump in her throat. “Not before he can walk.”

Belle smiled as she leaned her head against Max’s shoulder, watching the scene unfold.

Her people.

Her son.

This—this overwhelming, kaleidoscope joy—this was what healing looked like.

This was what love looked like.

Her life, full to the brim with love.

Family. Not the kind you’re born into.

The kind you build.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Belle: Hey—can you all come over for lunch tomorrow?

Charles: Tomorrow? Yeah, I think I’m free. What time?

Lorenzo: Same. Need me to bring anything?

 Belle: Just yourselves. I’m making pasta. Something simple.

Arthur: Suspicious. You never make “just pasta.” Is this a trap? Are you going to ambush us with an Architectural Digest feature again?

Pascale: Arthur. Be polite. I would love to come, ma chérie. Is 1pm okay?

Belle: 1pm is perfect. And no ambushes, I promise. Just… bring an appetite.

Lorenzo: Now I am suspicious. Do we need to dress up?

Belle: Casual is fine. And maybe… bring something sweet. Chocolate. Or lemon. Just a thought. 😉

Charles: You’re being weird.

Belle: Absolutely not. See you all tomorrow.

Arthur: This is definitely a trap.

***

Group Chat: Summer Sanity Squad

Members: Belle, Alexandra and Charlotte 

Belle: Okay. I’m trusting you both with a state secret. 🤐 The baby is here.

Alexandra: WHAT WHAT BELLE?! WHEN???

Charlotte: WAIT WHAT AS IN… here here?!?? As in Earth-side?!

Belle: As in Emilian Jean Hervé Verstappen is napping in his bassinet and Max is staring at him like he discovered fire. Yes. He’s here. He arrived yesterday. We’re already home. 🍼

Alexandra: I’m crying How are you this calm?? Do you need anything?? Soup? Pastries? A medal?

Charlotte: He has a name. Oh my god. How are you feeling?? How is Max?? Do you have photos?? Do I need to start sobbing now or later?

Belle: I’m good. Emilian was apparently in a hurry. Three hours. Calm. Very determined. Max was more jittery than I was. 😂 He cried more than the baby did, probably.

Alexandra: Of course he did. He’s been threatening to cry since October.

Belle: Anyway. I’m telling the Leclercs to come over for lunch tomorrow. No mention of Emilian. I want to surprise them. Please don’t say anything until after.

Alexandra: We swear on our handbags. 🤐

Charlotte: Mouths: sealed. Also we’re bringing cake.

Belle: Perfect. Bring tissues too. 😉

***

Charles hadn’t been expecting anything unusual. Belle’s text had simply said lunch tomorrow? Which was...normal. Softly worded. Exactly like her. He’d even double-checked with Alexandra if it meant just lunch or if there was something else planned. Alexandra had shrugged and said, “It’s Belle. Even if it is just lunch, it’ll be the nicest lunch we’ve had all year.”

So he brought a bottle of wine. He wore a button-down that wasn’t wrinkled. He even shaved. Alexandra teased him the whole drive over.

But nothing—nothing—prepared him for Max Verstappen opening the door with that grin. Soft. Secretive. Like he was in on something life-changing and barely holding it in.

“Hey,” Max said, stepping aside. “Come in.”

Charles stepped over the threshold, glanced around—everything looked normal. Smelled like something warm was baking. Familiar. The apartment was clean, soft music playing. Light pouring in from the balcony.

And then he saw her.

Belle. On the couch. Hair loosely braided, eyes soft with exhaustion and wonder and everything in between. A small bundle cradled in her arms. Wrapped in cream knit and a little hat with bear ears.

Time stopped.

She looked up. Smiled at him. “Charles,” she said, like nothing was different.

But everything was.

His throat tightened. He took a step forward and then froze.

“You didn’t—” he tried. “You didn’t say—”

“Surprise,” she said softly.

Charles looked from her to the baby. The smallest person he’d ever seen. A perfect little face. A tiny fist resting against Belle’s collarbone. He didn’t even know what hit him. The emotion rose like a wave and swallowed him whole.

He covered his mouth with one hand. “Oh my god.”

“Come sit,” Belle murmured. “You want to meet your nephew?”

That’s what did it. The word nephew.

Charles choked out a laugh that was actually a sob. He crossed the room in two unsteady steps and dropped to his knees in front of the couch, just staring. The baby shifted slightly, mouth opening in a quiet yawn. He was real. Tiny and pink and very real.

Belle adjusted her hold and leaned forward just a little. “Charles… meet Emilian Jean Hervé Verstappen.”

And that was it.

The tears came fast, hot, unstoppable. Charles couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. All he could do was reach out with trembling fingers and gently, reverently, touch the baby’s hand.

“Belle,” he whispered. “He’s perfect.”

Behind him, Alexandra slipped in quietly. Max handed her a tissue box and didn’t even pretend he wasn’t smug about it. 

“Do you want to hold him?”

Charles felt like the floor had shifted underneath him. “Can I?”

Belle nodded and leaned forward to guide the bundle into his arms.

And just like that, Charles Leclerc—Formula 1 driver, Ferrari star, certified good brother in progress—was holding his nephew for the very first time.

“Oh,” he breathed.

Max smirked from where he now leaned against the wall. “He’s heavier than he looks, huh?”

“I’m going to drop him.”

“You won’t,” Belle said gently.

“I could—”

“You won’t.”

The baby made a tiny, squeaky sigh, like he was unimpressed with Charles’ panic.

Alexandra took a photo.

Max laughed gently.

And Charles?

Charles just sat there, completely wrecked by a eight-pound miracle who blinked once at him and immediately stole his heart.

***

Arthur was late.

Not late-late. Just… Leclerc late. Which meant about fifteen minutes after the time Belle had asked him to come by, which wasn’t so bad considering Charles had left well ahead of him and taken Alexandra with him. 

Just “Lunch tomorrow?” from Belle. Casual. Low-effort. Vague in that “I’m not telling you anything but you should definitely come” way Belle had perfected.

He’d read it three times. Then shown it to his friend like does this seem suspicious to you? (The guy had no idea what to say.)

So now here he was, balancing a loaf of bread from his favorite bakery in one hand and a bottle of olive oil in the other, wondering if he should’ve dressed nicer. He hadn’t. He was still in jeans and a t-shirt, because Belle had said casual, and when Belle said casual, she meant it.

The front door opened before he even knocked.

Max.

Grinning.

That was never a good sign.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Lunch,” Max said, stepping aside. “You’re late.”

“I’m not—” Arthur started, but Max had already turned and disappeared back inside.

Suspicious.

Arthur followed, heart thudding for no reason he could name. The apartment smelled like fresh bread and something with butter, and—

“Hey, Arthur,” Belle called softly from the living room.

He rounded the corner.

Stopped cold.

She was curled up on the couch, her feet tucked beneath her, hair soft around her shoulders, and in her arms—

A baby.

A baby.

Tiny. Sleeping. Dressed in a little cream onesie with wooden buttons. Belle looked down at him with a smile that could only be described as quietly triumphant. Her eyes sparkled.

Arthur’s mouth opened. Closed. “Belle—?”

She tilted her head. “Want to meet your nephew?”

He didn’t move at first.

Then he set the bread and the oil down on the nearest surface and walked over slowly, like if he blinked the moment would disappear. Belle adjusted the bundle gently and Arthur dropped into the armchair beside her, breath catching.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

“His name is Emilian,” Belle said, voice still soft. “Emilian Jean Hervé Verstappen.”

Arthur made a noise that wasn’t a laugh or a cry, just pure disbelief and something dangerously close to awe.

Belle smiled and reached for his hand. “Do you want to hold him?”

He blinked, stunned. “Now?”

“Now,” Belle said gently.

She guided him through it with the same calmness she used to show him how to tie a tie back when he was sixteen. And suddenly—there he was. Holding him. Him. The tiniest Leclerc-turned-Verstappen to ever exist.

Arthur stared down at Emilian, whose tiny fingers flexed once, then relaxed again.

He was beautiful.

Arthur swallowed hard. “He’s so small.”

“He’s perfect,” Belle said.

Arthur couldn’t argue. His chest felt too full to speak.

Across the room, Charles was still sniffling into a tissue. Max walked past with two mugs of tea, caught Arthur’s shell-shocked expression, and gave him a single nod that somehow managed to say yeah, same without words.

Arthur looked at his sister, then at the baby, then back again.

“You really didn’t say anything,” he murmured.

Belle grinned. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“You did,” Arthur said, dazed.

And then, very quietly, he added, “I think I love him already.”

Belle’s smile turned warm and a little watery. “Good. He’s going to love you too.”

***

Lorenzo had known something was up the moment Belle asked them to come over for lunch.

Not because of the message itself—Belle was the kind of person who invited you for lunch just because the sun was out or she had leftover pasta she didn’t want to reheat. But because of the way she worded it. Simple. Almost too simple. No emojis. No sarcasm. No tiny passive-aggressive jabs at their ongoing “who brings the wine” debates. Just:

Lunch tomorrow? 

It had the quiet weight of something intentional.

He didn’t say anything to Charlotte or Pascale. Just kissed his girlfriend on the cheek and picked up his mother on the way, letting them chatter in the back seat while he tried to puzzle out what Belle might be up to.

By the time they reached Max and Belle’s apartment, the others were already there. Arthur’s motorbike was parked out front. He could hear laughter through the hallway.

He rang the bell anyway, out of habit. Max opened the door.

Grinning. Tired. Radiating the strange, warm joy of someone whose world had just shifted on its axis.

Lorenzo narrowed his eyes. “Okay. What did we miss?”

Max didn’t say a word. Just stepped aside and gestured them in.

The moment Lorenzo stepped into the living room, it hit him. The silence. Not the absence of sound—but that reverent quiet that follows something sacred.

Charles was sitting on the floor, his back against the couch, eyes soft. Alexandra beside him, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Arthur had the baby in his arms—a baby. And Belle—

Belle looked up and smiled. Glowing. Exhausted. Radiant.

“Surprise,” she said.

Pascale gasped behind him.

Charlotte was the first to move, rushing to Belle’s side with a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. “Oh my god, you—when—?”

“Three days ago,” Belle said. “This is Emilian.”

Lorenzo felt the wind leave his chest. Three days. She’d had a baby three days ago and invited them over for lunch like it was nothing.

He blinked. “You had a whole child and didn’t tell anyone?”

“We told some people,” Belle said, glancing toward Emilie in the kitchen. “But we wanted to surprise the family.”

Pascale stepped forward, hand to her mouth, eyes already misty. “Emilian?”

Belle nodded. “Emilian Jean Hervé Verstappen.”

Pascale froze.

And then she sat down hard on the nearest armchair, one hand on her chest.

Lorenzo moved to steady her, alarmed. “Maman?”

But Pascale just shook her head. “Hervé?” she whispered. “You named him after your father?”

Belle’s smile faltered—just for a moment. “I did.”

Tears spilled over Pascale’s cheeks before she could stop them. “Oh, ma chérie…”

“I wasn’t sure about it at first,” Belle said, her voice quieter now. “He wasn’t perfect. He… he did things that hurt. He sold Blanche. He didn’t always listen. But he loved us. He believed in us. And I—” Her voice cracked slightly. “I loved him.”

Pascale covered her mouth with her hand again, trying to muffle the sound she made.

“He would’ve been the best grandfather,” Belle added. “I think about that all the time.”

Lorenzo sat beside her, his hand on her knee. “He would’ve been proud of you.”

Belle looked down at the baby in Arthur’s arms. “I hope so.”

For a long moment, no one said anything.

Then Pascale reached out, and Belle leaned into the hug. It was brief, tear-soaked, and still a little fragile—but it was real.

Charlotte was already taking pictures. Charles was pretending not to cry again. Arthur was whispering something ridiculous to Emilian. And Lorenzo…

Lorenzo looked at his little sister.

At the home she’d built.

At the love she had.

And he realized something he hadn’t quite admitted before.

She’d found her place.

Not in their family’s shadow. Not in the space where the Leclerc name carried weight. But here. With Max. With the child in her arms and the glow on her face.

***

[sowerpatch]

terms of play [chapter 15 - pick and roll]

Summary: Azzi Fudd built the Golden Valkyries on a dare, but drafting Paige Bueckers was all strategy. Fresh off an NCAA title, Paige is everything the team needs—and everything Azzi shouldn’t want.

Officially, it’s all business. Unofficially, it’s glances that linger too long and touches that mean too much.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi owns the Golden State Valkyries and drafts Paige. Azzi's family are all original characters. Also, Azzi is three years older than Paige.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: With Paige out, the team adjusts. But the real shift happens between her and Azzi. They travel together, show up to family events, and move through each other’s lives in a way that feels new. There’s no label on what they are, but it’s there in how they act and in how people start to notice. Whatever this is, it’s real.

Author's note: How is everybody's all-star weekend? Are we still alive with all the contents?

Word Count: 6,772

Valkyries HQ, San Francisco. October 2025. 

The meeting room held the kind of atmosphere built from early starts and measured discipline. Neutral-toned walls framed a long rectangular table, where cups of black coffee and tablets lay beside printed packets and capped pens. 

Conversations had already narrowed to essentials. The usual morning chatter faded into focus the moment Coach Nakase stepped to the front. 

She tapped to the first slide, a diagram of ball movement and adjusted spacing. 

“With Bueckers out, the system changes,” she said.  

Her tone was even, but there was a current of intent behind each word. “We’ve restructured the starting unit. Leite will step into that guard slot. She’s earned the minutes. It’s going to be a different rhythm, but she reads pace well and has the composure we need to start sets clean.” 

She advanced to game tape from the previous week. The clip showed the ball swinging through the high post, Iriafen shifting the defense with a hard cut before Martin drove and kicked out. The possession ended with a made corner three from James. 

“Ball control stays the priority. Martin’s been solid with primary reads, and James is drawing more attention off screens. Leite gives us stability off the catch, especially with our second action. Thornton’s mid-range is opening floor space for Iraifen, and we’re getting better timing out of the horns set.” 

A chart appeared next, tracking defensive shifts. 

“Defensively, we’re late on some switches,” Nakase said, pointing to the gaps between Thornton and Iriafen on help coverage. “That has to tighten. Paige was a communicator. Without her voice on the floor, we need someone stepping into that role. I want more talk from our forwards. Iraifen especially, she’s got the vision.” 

She paused before continuing, her gaze moving across the room. 

“This isn’t about filling shoes. It’s about understanding who we are without Paige. The core holds. James and Martin are controlling tempo. Thornton’s spacing the floor. Iraifen’s ready to take on more. We’re not patching over something but we’re adapting with intent.” 

Her tone carried both direction and belief, a reflection of how she had always led this team. Firm, measured, and with an eye on the long view.  

She nodded toward the far end of the table, where the head of the medical staff had been waiting.  

Evina Westbrook stood, iPad in hand, and navigated to Paige’s treatment overview. 

“We’re working with a Grade 2 lateral sprain,” Evina began, her tone even but purposeful. “There’s moderate ligament damage, but no structural tearing beyond what we expected. Bruising is reducing, inflammation’s localized. She’s been diligent with therapy, responding well to treatment. Range of motion has improved significantly over the past seventy-two hours.” 

She clicked forward to a schedule. “She’s not cleared for court activity. No jogging or weight-bearing drills. But her pain threshold is manageable and consistent. Flight won’t interfere with recovery as long as we keep her ankle supported and she follows a strict icing and elevation routine during transit.” 

There was a pause. Evina gaze scanned the room once more before landing on Coach Nakase. “Medically, she’s cleared to travel if the team wants her in Washington.” 

“If she’s cleared to fly, I want her with us. Hoodie, walking boot, doesn’t matter. The locker room’s different when she’s there. This group holds together better with her in the mix, even if she’s just on the bench.” Coach Nakase said. 

All eyes shifted toward the end of the table, where Azzi sat with one hand resting over her phone.  

The light overhead cast soft shadows under her eyes, a quiet trace of the late nights she'd spent caring for Paige. Her attention drifted, half tethered to the conversation, half elsewhere. 

The pause grew long enough that she looked up, frowning faintly at the sudden attention. 

“Why is everyone looking at me like that?” Her voice was low, casual, though it caught slightly at the end. 

Nika leaned forward, her grin teasing but kind. “The team’s checking if Paige can make the trip. It’s a long haul to Washington. They’re waiting on your decision.” 

Azzi paused, her chest rising with a slow breath. Hearing Paige’s name spoken aloud always seemed to strike somewhere deeper.  

She glanced down, collected herself. “That’s Lisa’s call. If she gives the go-ahead, then it’s fine with me.” 

Lisa let out a short laugh. “You’re not as slick as you think you are, Miss Fudd.” 

The table responded with laughter that filled the space, the kind that made everything feel a little lighter. 

Then Lisa added, her voice warm, “Whatever’s going on, it suits you. That smile looks good on you, Azzi. You should let it show more often.” 

Azzi looked up, her mouth tipping into something soft. 

Coach Nakase cleared her throat, then glanced across the room.  

“If Paige is going,” she said with deliberate ease, “we’ll need you on that plane too, Miss Fudd.” 

“Me?” 

“It’s less about concern and more about foresight. She’s still recovering. The staff will manage, but let’s be honest, she listens to you.” 

Azzi sat straighter, eyes narrowing faintly as she weighed the statement.  

Before she could respond, Evina stepped in, tone calm but direct. 

“With all due respect, Miss Fudd, we’re not equipped to handle Paige if she decides to push herself too far out there. She’ll pretend everything’s fine, downplay the pain, skip her protocols when no one’s looking.” 

“She’s stubborn,” Lisa added quietly. “And more likely to make a mistake if she feels like she has something to prove.” 

Evina’s eyes settled on Azzi. “But she slows down when you’re around. If we’re taking her on the road, she needs someone she trusts to keep her grounded. That’s you.” 

Lisa gave a small nod, tone gentler now. “We’re okay with it, Azzi. We get it. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. What matters is she’s better when you’re there, and honestly, so are we. I know you have our back and we want you to know you have our full support as well.” 

Azzi held their gaze, the weight of their words landing with quiet force. 

She straightened, steadying the rise in her chest with a slow breath. “Alright, send me the itinerary.” 

- 

Paige’s apartment, Oakland. October 2025.  

Aziaha tested her balance on Paige’s crutches with a half-serious determination, pacing unevenly across the rug while muttering dramatic commentary under her breath. Each step exaggerated, she swung forward and landed with a stomp, earning a groan from Paige who lay stretched across the couch, her leg propped up on a stack of throw pillows. 

“You look ridiculous,” Paige said, her voice dry but fond. 

Aziaha ignored that. “I’m just saying. You’ve got arm strength now. Shoulder gains. This injury might’ve been a blessing.” 

“You want a turn with the boot too?” Paige shifted slightly, pulling the blanket higher on her lap. 

Aziaha leaned on the crutches and gave her a look that was more honest than teasing. “For real. How’s it been feeling?” 

Paige hesitated, caught in the weight of the question. “Better. Hurts like hell in the morning. But it’s better.” 

In the kitchen, Kiki tore open one of the takeout bags and peeked inside, pulling out three cartons and setting them on the counter.  

“Why is this place so... adult all of a sudden?” Her gaze swept across the counters, brow raised at the lineup of labeled containers and stacked dishes. “You always this organized or are we in the wrong unit?” 

Kate was crouched at the fridge, still studying the contents. She pulled out a clear box of sliced fruit and held it up. “Okay. Who the hell are you and what did you do with the real Paige Bueckers? These are raspberries. In glass. And they’re fresh.” 

“That’s new,” Kiki agreed. “Last time we were here, you were surviving off cereal and string cheese.” 

Paige tried to wave it off with a shrug, but her ears betrayed her before she could speak. A soft flush crept along her cheeks and she busied herself with adjusting the corner of the blanket. 

Aziaha didn’t miss it. She propped the crutches beside the wall and walked over, her grin widening as the pieces clicked. “Hold up. This you, or someone else making those grocery calls?” 

Paige rubbed at the back of her neck. “Miss Fudd has... strong opinions about nutrition.” 

That was all it took.  

Kiki let out a sharp laugh as she turned around, chopsticks still in hand. “Miss Fudd? Oh, we’re formal now?” 

Kate grinned as she returned the fruit to the fridge. “Miss Fudd sounds like the type to pack leftovers in labeled containers.” 

“She does,” Paige mumbled, barely audible. 

Aziaha let out a dramatic gasp and pressed a hand to her chest. “Devastating. Paige Bueckers, domesticated.” 

Paige let her head fall back against the cushion with a groan. “You’re all annoying.” 

But her smile lingered, soft and easy. Their teasing held no bite. It came with a kind of affection that settled deep in her chest—an unspoken way of saying they saw the change in her, and it looked good. 

- 

Fudd Holdings, San Francisco. October 2025. 

Nika set the pen down with a little flourish, then leaned back with the kind of grin that always meant trouble.  

“Now that I have your attention,” she said, drawing out the words as if they were part of a performance, “are we finally going to talk about your situationship with Paige?” 

Azzi glanced up from the last page, already half-expecting something like this. “It’s not a situationship.” 

Nika raised her brows, amused. “Alright. Then has she asked you to be her girlfriend?” 

Azzi paused.  

The question wasn’t meant to be sharp, but it landed that way. She turned it over in her mind, flipping through every conversation she and Paige had shared since the night they finally admitted what they felt. 

They had talked about everything—vulnerability, timing, wanting to be better for each other. But there hadn’t been a specific moment. No one had asked anything out loud. Her gaze drifted to the desk as she spoke.  

“No. She hasn’t.” 

The smugness on Nika’s face returned, soft but unmistakable. “Then I hate to break it to you, boss. That’s a situationship.” 

Azzi sat back, her fingers still curled near the edge of the folder they had just signed. 

She had been at Paige’s apartment nearly every day since the injury, cooking, organizing her meds, helping her shower when the pain got too bad. She had washed Paige’s hair in the kitchen sink with a plastic cup and her own hands, drying it with a towel she’d warmed in the dryer.  

Paige had let her in, fully and without ego, and Azzi hadn’t hesitated once. 

This wasn’t casual. It hadn’t been for a long time. 

“Do you think it matters? If we label it?” 

“With you two? After everything?” She gave a small shake of her head, more amused than disapproving. “You’ve been through every version of a relationship without actually naming it. Hookups, fallouts, the on-and-off stage, the weird terms and agreements you had on each other. Honestly, if you told me you were getting married next month, I’d just ask what you’re wearing so I can coordinate.” 

Azzi exhaled slowly, like the words had been waiting. Her hands drifted toward her lap, fingers drawing a line along the seam of her pants before she spoke. 

“I’ve been in relationships,” she said carefully. “I’ve dated people who were good on paper. People who made sense. I’ve had the structured thing, the safe version.”  

Her mouth lifted into something wry, but her eyes didn’t shift away from Nika’s. 

“This isn’t like that,” she went on, quieter now, more certain. “Whatever this is with Paige… it’s different. It makes me feel like everything I’ve built, everything I thought I understood about myself, has been completely undone in the best and most terrifying way. She makes me want things I never used to consider. Makes me question my choices. I used to walk into rooms full of CEOs twice my age and not flinch, and now I lose sleep wondering if I overstepped by asking if she took her meds.” 

Her voice cracked slightly before she caught it. She shook her head once, not to dismiss what she was saying, but to slow herself down. 

“I’ve got degrees. I’ve run entire firms. I was closing multi-million dollar contracts before I turned twenty-three. But with her…” Azzi looked down at her hands again. “With her I feel like a teenager who never learned how to do this part right. I feel ridiculous. Emotional. Vulnerable. And I’m scared out of my mind that I’ll mess it up.” 

Nika didn’t interrupt. She just sat with her, her posture relaxed, her presence steady. Azzi’s shoulders lowered a little as if saying it out loud released some of the tension she carried. Still, the weight of the confession settled deep in her chest. 

“She’s different,” Azzi repeated, softer now. “And I care about her more than I know what to do with.” 

Nika studied her for a moment, her expression hard to pin down. Then she reached into her bag, pulling out a slim folder that had clearly been packed with care. She ran her fingers along the edge of it, hesitating for only a second before placing it on the table between them. 

“I didn’t plan to do this today,” she said, her tone low but certain. “But after that speech? I think it’s time.” 

Azzi glanced down at the folder, brows pulling together. “What is this?” 

Nika sat back and gestured toward it. “Go ahead.” 

Azzi opened it slowly, flipping through the first few pages. Her brow tensed as her eyes moved down the lines. She shifted in her seat, reading faster now. Numbers. Legal terms. Corporate names she knew well. 

“I’m going to get chewed out for giving you this,” Nika said, almost like a warning, though her voice carried something gentler underneath. “But watching you lately, seeing how in love you are? You deserve this.” 

Azzi turned another page, her voice catching slightly as she read aloud. “Fudd Corp. J. Fudd Innovations. Muhl Ventures... These are my brothers’ companies. And your start up.”  

“Yup!” 

Azzi lifted her gaze. “What is this?” 

Nika gave her a look that landed without needing to be explained. “Last page.” 

Azzi flipped it. Her eyes locked on the bolded header near the top. Her lips parted slightly as she read, this time slower. 

“A letter of intent, filed jointly by Fudd Corp, J. Fudd Innovations, and Muhl Ventures, outlining a proposal to acquire the Golden State Valkyries from Fudd Holdings. Valuation is set at two billion dollars.” 

She looked up, stunned. “What?!” 

Then she stared down at the document again, her hand still braced on the folder like she needed to steady it. Her eyes moved across the lines again, tracking the language, the numbers, the names, but her focus fractured under the weight of what it meant.  

She lifted her gaze toward Nika, her voice low but sharpened with disbelief. 

“You and my brothers have been conspiring against me?” 

Nika laughed under her breath, the sound soft and almost affectionate. She reached for the edge of the desk, her fingertips brushing the worn wood as if grounding herself. 

“Not like that,” she said gently. “We talked, yes. But it wasn’t some master plan to cut you out. We’ve all seen what this has been doing to you. The pressure, the expectations, the way people watch everything you and Paige do like it’s a headline waiting to happen.” 

She paused, her expression open and careful. 

“We saw how much you care about her. And how hard you’re trying to hold everything together. I don’t think you even realize how close you are to breaking again. You love this team, Az. No one’s questioning that. But trying to be the owner, public face, protector, and whatever the hell you think you owe the league... it’s too much. You’re burning yourself out trying to keep Paige safe from something she already chose to walk into.” 

Azzi didn’t interrupt. Her fingers had relaxed over the folder, but her posture remained still, watchful. 

“We just want you to be happy,” Nika said. “That’s what we all want. So, we thought... maybe if the team wasn’t one more thing pulling you apart, maybe if you didn’t have to carry the weight of this alone anymore, then you’d have space to just be with her. Without all the noise.” 

Her voice held no pity. Only a kind of clarity that came from watching someone you love suffer for too long. 

“We’re offering you an out. A chance to breathe.” 

Azzi’s fingers skimmed the edge of the paper again, her gaze trailing over the signatures like she still couldn’t quite believe it.  

Her voice came softer this time, edged with something closer to disbelief than protest. “For two billion dollars?” 

“We know the team doesn’t actually hit that number, but figured we’d sweeten the pot a little. Call it a love tax. Maybe toss in a trip to Lake Como. Or Monaco if you’re feeling dramatic. Once your girlfriend’s ankle stops being the main character, maybe in the off-season.” 

A smile crept across Azzi’s face before she could hold it down. “She’s not my girlfriend.” 

“Right,” Nika said, drawing the word out with mock sincerity. “I forgot. Situationship. I meant your non-girlfriend girlfriend.” 

Azzi laughed, shaking her head as she picked up a paper pin from the desk and tossed it at her. It bounced harmlessly off Nika’s shirt, but the expression on Azzi’s face stayed bright, unable to dim. Her shoulders had lifted slightly, like something heavier than she realized had finally been set down. Her chest felt lighter. The kind of lightness that stayed. 

- 

Azzi’s condo, San Francisco. October 2025. 

The morning sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Azzi’s apartment, casting soft golden light across the furniture. Paige sat propped on the couch, her foot elevated on a pillow, one hand absently tugging at the hem of her sweatshirt as she stared toward the front door. Her expression was already halfway to annoyed.  

The man standing there looked entirely too comfortable for someone who was a stranger in the apartment. 

“Why is this necessary again?” Her voice rose slightly as she called out to Azzi, who was somewhere in the bedroom. 

Azzi emerged with her usual poise, adjusting the cuff of her blouse as she entered the living room with a steady, effortless stride. Her hair was pinned neatly, the clean lines of her outfit giving her that specific energy Paige had come to recognize—the kind that meant she had already made up her mind. 

“What are you whining about at nine-thirty in the morning?” Azzi asked, though her tone carried more amusement than irritation. 

Paige lifted a hand toward the stranger. “Who’s he? Where’s Tony?” 

Azzi’s gaze flicked toward the man in the doorway, then returned to Paige with calm assurance.  

“We talked about this. Tony works for me personally. We’re not sharing him.” Her brow lifted slightly. “Why are you getting attached to Tony, by the way?” 

“I’m not,” Paige said quickly, a little too quickly, folding her arms with a guilty shrug.  

The truth was, she liked Tony. Ever since Azzi had asked him to keep an eye on her while she recovered, they’d developed an easy rhythm. He brought her gummy worms and pistachio ice cream without asking, never judged her Netflix choices, and had surprisingly decent skills in Mario Kart. 

Paige leaned in a little, lowering her voice. “I just don’t like how he looks at me.” 

The room stayed still for a beat. Azzi huffed, brushing past the couch as she crossed toward the hallway. “Jake is harmless.” 

“Jake? As in short for Jacob?” Paige’s nose wrinkled, eyes narrowing. “You’re seriously telling me he has the same name as your ex?” 

Azzi paused at the edge of the hallway. Her expression stayed unreadable, somewhere between entertained and exasperated. “Yes.” 

“I don’t like him.” 

“Because he shares a name with someone I dated?” 

Paige stole another glance at Jake. He stood near the door, arms at his sides, expression neutral. He didn’t look offended. He didn’t look much of anything. Objectively speaking, he wasn’t bad-looking. And he wore a black button-down like someone who knew the importance of presentation. 

Paige shifted her weight on the couch, trying to double down. “It’s not just the name.” 

Azzi stepped forward with a more serious tone, though her voice remained even. “Jake has worked for my family for years. He knows exactly what to do when it comes to security and medical coordination. He’s coming with us to Washington to help you. That’s already settled.” 

Paige opened her mouth to argue, but Azzi’s gaze shifted into something firmer. It was the same expression she used in boardrooms and interviews. Controlled, exact, and unwavering. Paige watched her for a moment, then leaned back against the cushions in surrender. 

Azzi gave a slight nod.  

“That’s what I thought,” she said, then turned and walked back toward the bedroom. 

Once she was gone, Paige let out a breath and looked toward Jake, who was still standing patiently in place.  

She cleared her throat. 

“No offense, man, but I’m calling you Jay.” 

Jake (or Jay) gave the smallest nod. 

- 

CareFirst Arena, Washington. October 2025. 

The arena was loud, but Paige was louder. 

Crutches rested forgotten beside her as she sat on the edge of the Valkyries bench, shouting across the hardwood like she was still in uniform.  

Every steal, every rotation, every bucket earned a reaction—clapping, whistling, half-formed plays called out like muscle memory.  

When Aziaha stripped Brittney Sykes at the top of the key and dished it to Carla in transition, Paige was already halfway upright before Jake or “Jay" placed a hand near her elbow to stop her. Her right leg hovered a second too long. She hissed, dropped back onto the bench, then threw her hands up anyway when Leite buried the three. 

Up in the suite, Lisa Leslie leaned against the railing with a small smile. Her eyes followed the pace of the game, but her attention drifted to the sideline, to Paige’s voice cutting through every timeout. 

“She’s full of energy even when injured,” Lisa said. 

“You have no idea. This is just the tip of the iceberg.” 

Lisa laughed softly, folding her arms. “She’s your problem now.” 

Azzi’s smile was small but present. 

Below them, the game ramped up.  

Washington tried to push the tempo behind Brittney Sykes and Shakira Austin, crashing into the paint with sheer physicality. Sonia Citron hit a contested pull-up jumper to bring the Mystics within four late in the third.  

But the Valkyries answered with discipline. 

Kiki muscled her way into position, taking contact and finishing with her off hand. The next possession, James cut through two defenders, drew help, then swung the ball to Kate at the top of the key.  

Three more points.  

The bench exploded, Paige louder than anyone. 

As the fourth quarter tightened, Carla took control. She directed the offense with poise, slipping a pass inside to Kiki for an easy two, then coming right back to drain a long jumper off the high screen.  

Washington scrambled to adjust, but the damage spread quickly. Every rotation left someone open. James took advantage with a transition layup, then a corner three. 

The clock bled down. Washington fouled to extend it, but the Valkyries hit their free throws. On the final possession, Carla dribbled out the last few seconds before tossing the ball into the air. 

Game 1 belonged to the Valkyries. 

-  

Azzi’s condo, San Francisco. October 2025. 

The Valkyries pushed through the semifinals with grit and precision, following up their road victory in Washington with a commanding Game 2 win at home. The sweep earned them a break in the schedule, giving the team a few rare days off while the Indiana Fever and the New York Liberty battled it out on the other side of the bracket. 

Azzi used the downtime to prepare for her niece’s birthday. 

Paige stood in front of the full-length mirror, tugging at the knot of her tie for the third time. It sat crooked again. She exhaled sharply and tried once more, hands unsteady. The shirt clung too stiff across her shoulders, the collar too high. Every movement felt wrong, like the fabric was working against her. 

She paused, studying her reflection, and gave the tie one more pull. It only made the knot worse. 

Behind her, the soft sound of footsteps carried through the room. Azzi stepped in, already reading the tension in Paige’s shoulders, the way her jaw tightened in the mirror’s reflection. 

Without a word, she crossed the space between them, lifted her hands to Paige’s chest, and unknotted the tie with a slow, easy motion. Then she tossed it onto the bed behind them. 

“You look good without it,” Azzi said simply.  

Paige swallowed, still watching the mirror, her hands hovering uselessly in the air. 

Azzi’s fingers lingered at Paige’s collar, smoothing the edge before settling at the top button. She didn’t undo it, just brushed her knuckle lightly there, her gaze soft and amused. 

“You look good in anything,” Azzi said, her tone teasing. “Even better when you’re not trying to win a staring contest with your own tie.” 

Paige let out a frustrated sound. “Your family requested me. Like I’m some rare species.” 

Azzi smiled. “You are kind of rare.” 

“That’s not helping.” 

“You growling on the tie was not helping.” 

Paige narrowed her eyes in the mirror. “That tie was being disrespectful.” 

Azzi laughed, soft and warm, then leaned in just close enough for her lips to graze Paige’s neck. “Relax. It’s a birthday party. For a six-year-old.” 

“That’s what they want me to think,” Paige muttered, eyes narrowing dramatically. “Lull me into a false sense of security, then wham—sudden trivia round on caviar and yacht etiquette.” 

Azzi kissed her, slower, until Paige stopped pretending to panic and melted into it. Paige’s fingers drifted beneath the hem of Azzi’s blouse, thumbs brushing skin. 

“You’re distracting me,” Paige murmured against her lips. 

“I’m deescalating. Completely different.” Azzi smiled, hands skimming up Paige’s back. “You really don’t need to try so hard.” 

“Can I still try a little?” Paige asked, kissing her again before she could answer. 

She tugged Azzi in by the front of her blouse, mouth already chasing hers before she could make another comment.  

The kiss started soft, but it shifted quickly, teeth grazing, hands searching with more intent than restraint. Azzi’s fingers flexed at Paige’s waist, as if trying to decide whether to pull her closer or push her away. Paige tasted like mint and something warmer underneath, something familiar now, and Azzi let herself lean in for another second. 

Then she pulled back, just barely, her lips grazing Paige’s as she spoke. 

“You’re going to make me redo my lipstick.” 

Paige’s grin was slow, teasing. She leaned back only far enough to look her up and down. “Do you want me to make you redo your outfit too?” 

That got a laugh from Azzi, full and low in her throat.  

She shook her head and pressed one hand to Paige’s chest, easing her away. “You’re benched from sex, remember? Doctor’s orders.” 

Paige groaned like the world had ended. She tipped her head back with an exaggerated sigh. “God. You and my orthopedic team are really killing the vibe.” 

Azzi kissed both her cheeks before stepping back, hands lingering for a moment against Paige’s jaw. “Hurry up, rookie. We don’t want to be late and have Tony wait forever in the lobby.” 

Paige perked up instantly. “Tony’s here?” 

Azzi was already halfway to the hall, adjusting her blouse as she walked. “Wow. Replaced by my own driver.” 

“I love you though,” Paige called after her, grinning at the doorway. 

Azzi’s hand lifted in response as she disappeared down the hall, and Paige, still smiling, turned back toward the mirror—tieless, kissed breathless, and slightly more put together than before. 

- 

Fudd Estate, Northern California. October 2025. 

The Fudd Estate buzzed with late-afternoon warmth and the sound of children darting between garden tables.  

Paige stepped through with Azzi beside her, heart pacing faster than she wanted to admit. It looked more like a small wedding reception than a kid’s party. White umbrellas lined the patio, soft jazz played from somewhere near the pool, and pastel balloons floated gently against the breeze. 

James was the first to greet them, stepping away from a conversation near the grill. His shoulders were broad, and he was wearing a tailored short-sleeved shirt that somehow managed to look both laid-back and pressed. The resemblance was immediate, but there was something steadier about his smile, something older. 

“You made it, lil sis,” he said, wrapping Azzi in a hug before turning to Paige. “You must be the baller. I’m James.” 

His handshake was firm, but warm, and Paige relaxed a fraction. “Paige. Thanks for having me.” 

Before James could respond, a high-pitched squeal rang out across the yard. 

“AUNTIE AZZI!” 

Zuri Fudd barreled toward them, ponytail flying behind her, face lit up with pure joy. She crashed into Azzi’s legs and wrapped both arms around her, burying her face in Azzi’s hip. 

“There’s my favorite girl,” Azzi said, crouching to hug her back. “Look at this outfit. You look like a star.” 

“I saved you a cupcake,” Zuri declared with great importance.  

She looked up, grinning. Then her eyes landed on Paige. Her mouth dropped open. “Is that your girlfriend?” 

Azzi gave her a look. “Z!” 

Zuri tilted her head, undeterred. “But Daddy said you were bringing your girlfriend.”  

Then she turned back to Paige, beaming. “You’re really pretty.” 

Paige smiled, resting her weight on one crutch as she leaned in slightly. “I think you’re the prettiest one here. Are you gonna show me where the good snacks are?” 

Zuri stepped in front of Paige with the confidence of someone on a mission. “Do you want to see the unicorn cake? It’s got edible glitter.” 

Paige perked up. “That sounds like something I should probably investigate.” 

Azzi raised a brow. “Babe, you’re supposed to be staying off your feet.” 

“I’m not running laps,” Paige said, giving Azzi a boyish shrug. “I’m just doing some light cake research.” 

Zuri tugged at Paige’s wrist, careful not to pull too hard. “I’ll be your helper. You can hold my shoulder if your leg gets tired.” 

Azzi looked like she was trying not to melt. 

Paige smiled down at Zuri. “Thanks, partner. I like having backup.” 

Zuri beamed. “I saved you a cupcake already. It’s pink. That’s the best one. Daddy said Aunt Azzi’s bringing her girlfriend, so I picked it for you.” 

Paige looked over at Azzi with a crooked grin. “You hear that? She said it twice now. Official title and all.” 

Azzi met her eyes and felt something settle, low and certain. They never put a label on what they had, but hearing Paige say it out loud, proud and sure, filled her with something warm. She smiled, quiet and full. It felt right.  

Then, with a lift of her brows, Paige added, “Guess I just upgraded. Non-girlfriend girlfriend no more.” 

Azzi sighed, trying and failing to look annoyed. “Please don’t teach my niece any of your vocabulary.” 

“Too late. She’s already got great taste.” 

Azzi rolled her eyes, but she lingered, brushing a hand over Paige’s forearm before stepping aside to let them pass.  

Zuri marched ahead like she had a mission. Paige followed behind her slowly, steady on her crutch, glancing back at Azzi once with a look that said everything she wasn’t about to say in front of the birthday girl. 

And Azzi, standing there, found herself smiling. Again. 

James slid in beside her, arms crossed, a knowing grin tugging at his mouth. “Guess she has a new favorite aunt now.” 

Azzi elbowed him lightly without looking away from where Paige limped after Zuri. 

- 

Zuri finished arranging her cupcakes on the plate with exaggerated care, like each sprinkle had its own storyline. Her masterpiece complete, she grabbed Paige’s free hand and tugged. 

“Come on. You have to meet Nana and Papa now,” she said, already marching them toward the far end of the garden. 

Paige shot Azzi a quick who they left at the dessert table, almost panicked look over her shoulder. Azzi’s smirk was subtle, and useless—there would be no saving her from Zuri’s mission. 

The little girl led with confidence, her curls bouncing with each step, one hand gripping Paige’s and the other pointing like a commander on a parade route.  

“This is Auntie Azzi’s girlfriend,” she announced when they reached the patio where Mary and Harvey Fudd sat. “You have to like her.”  

Paige froze for half a second, caught between the crutches beneath her arms and the weight of Zuri’s declaration. Her ears went hot.  

She glanced at Azzi again, half-expecting her to step in, but Azzi only raised an eyebrow like she was curious to see how this would play out. 

Zuri stood proudly in front of her grandparents, like she had just presented a science project.  

“She got hurt but she’s still super fast,” she added. “And she likes strawberry cupcakes best. And she’s funny.” 

Paige cleared her throat, shifting her weight slightly to adjust the crutches.  

“Hi. I’m Paige.” Her voice came out higher than usual, and she smiled a little too wide. “Uh… I play for the Valkyries. I mean, I’m supposed to. Once the ankle cooperates again.” 

Harvey gave a single, amused nod, studying her with the same look one might use to assess a game plan. “Good to meet you. I’ve seen you play. You move well off the ball.” 

“Thanks,” she said, and cleared her throat again. Her hands felt clammy against the grips of her crutches. “I’m, um—Zuri’s been showing me around. The cupcakes were impressive.” 

Mary smiled faintly, eyes tracking every detail, from the way Paige stood to the nervous energy humming just under the surface. “How’s the recovery going?” 

“Slower than I’d like, but getting there. Physical therapy twice a week. Ice baths and a lot of bad TV.” Paige gave a small shrug. “Azzi’s been helping with the good snacks part.” 

Zuri grinned. “And I’m helping with the fun part.” 

“You are,” Paige agreed, grateful for the opening. “Very helpful.” 

Harvey leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over the other. “Azzi mentioned you were competitive. Guess we’ll find out when Zuri starts that frosting contest she’s been hyping all day.” 

“Oh, I’m terrified,” Paige said, easing into the humor, though her hands were still tense. “I think she’s got a mean sugar streak.” 

“You’re gonna lose,” Zuri informed her cheerfully, hugging her leg. “But it’s okay. I like you anyway.” 

Before Paige could stammer out a response, Azzi finally made her way over. The sun catching the edge of her curls as she stepped onto the patio. She slid an arm around Paige’s back in a wordless gesture of support, then leaned in to press a quick kiss to the top of Zuri’s head. 

“Causing trouble already?” she murmured to her niece. 

Zuri shrugged. “Paigey likes it.” 

Azzi looked up and smiled at her parents, then stepped forward to embrace them both. Her mother’s hand rested at her back for an extra beat. 

“I figured I’d better come supervise before Zuri started planning the wedding,” Azzi said, and her voice held just enough warmth to soften the teasing. “I wanted to give her a fighting chance.” 

Paige just shook her head, laughing under her breath like she couldn't believe any of it. 

Azzi reached for Paige’s hand next and linked their fingers. “Mom, Dad, this is Paige Bueckers. She plays for the Valkyries... and she’s someone really important to me.” 

Harvey stood first. He gave Paige a long, considering look before offering his hand. His grip was firm but not showy, the kind of handshake that carried approval in its steadiness. 

“You’ve got a good game,” he said. “And I hear you’ve been showing even more heart off the court lately.” 

Paige managed a small smile. “Trying my best, sir.” 

Mary was already rising behind him. She didn’t wait for an opening or a formal cue. Instead, she stepped in and pulled Paige into a careful hug, arms wrapping around her without hesitation. 

Paige stiffened at first, caught off guard. Then she leaned into it, just enough to show she understood what was being offered. 

Mary stepped back with a soft smile.  

“We’re happy to meet you, Paige. Zuri’s been talking about wanting to meet you for weeks. And Azzi…” Her gaze lingered on her daughter, affectionate and a little knowing. “Azzi seems lighter when you’re around.” 

Paige looked over at Azzi, eyes warm. “That’s the best scouting report I’ve gotten so far.” 

From below, Zuri groaned dramatically.  

“Grownups are soooo slow.” She tugged at Paige’s hand. “Can I show you my presents now, pleeease?” 

Paige gave a helpless glance to the group, then started to follow as Zuri tugged insistently. 

“I’m sorry,” she called back. “Apparently, my new boss is six and a menace.” 

Laughter followed her across the lawn, warm and unforced. 

Azzi remained behind with her parents, who both looked at her in a way that made something settle deeper in her chest. 

“She’s lovely,” Mary said simply. “And you look good like this.” 

Harvey nodded. “Balanced. Happy. In fact, very happy.” 

Azzi glanced toward the yard, where Zuri was already shoving a sparkly bag into Paige’s hands. Paige grinned like she belonged. 

“She makes it easy,” Azzi said. 

Mary reached for her husband’s hand. “That’s how you know it’s real.” 

- 

Paige sat on a low patio bench, her injured foot stretched out carefully in its boot, resting on a small pillow James had thoughtfully placed beneath it.  

The afternoon warmth reached just enough under the umbrella’s shade, and her shoulders eased for the first time since the drive over.

Zuri had lined up several gummy worms on a paper plate between them, conducting what she called “the official candy taste test.” 

“This one’s red-cherry,” Zuri said, pointing with a licked finger. “This one’s red-watermelon. And this one’s red-but-actually-kinda-orange.” 

Paige popped the middle one into her mouth and nodded solemnly. “Advanced palate. I respect it.” 

Zuri grinned, wiggling in her seat beside her. “Which one wins?” 

“Haven’t decided,” Paige said, leaning back slightly as she shifted her weight. “But my ankle’s voting for whichever one lets me keep sitting here all day.” 

Zuri giggled and offered her another. “This one’s blue-sour. You have to make the face after.” 

Paige accepted it with a smirk. She was mid-chew when someone grunted—loud, dramatic, and carrying weight. She turned just enough to see a large, glittery pink-wrapped box making its way across the grass.  

“Zuri Faye,” The guy called out, puffing a little as he dropped the huge gift on the grass. “What did I tell you about birthday wishes that require two grown adults, a forklift, and probably a chiropractor?” 

Zuri’s head whipped around. Her eyes lit up. 

“Uncle Trey!” 

She launched off the bench at full speed, candy forgotten, legs pumping until she dove straight into his arms. He caught her on instinct, wobbling a step before locking her in tight. 

“Dang,” he said, hugging her. “You got heavier and bossier.” 

“I’m six now,” she declared proudly. 

Trey chuckled, then looked up—eyes landing on Paige. 

Their gazes met.  

“Oh,” Trey said, brow twitching. “It’s you.” 

Paige gave a half-smile and lifted a gummy between two fingers. “Uh. Hi again?” 

Before Trey could respond, Zuri’s head popped up over his shoulder, wild curls bouncing with the excitement of a new announcement. 

“She’s Auntie Azzi’s girlfriend!” she declared, beaming. “A real one! They kiss and everything!” 

Paige nearly choked on the gummy. 

Trey’s eyebrows shot up. His smirk returned instantly, slow and wicked, like he’d just stumbled onto a winning lottery ticket. 

“Girlfriend, huh?” 

He set Zuri down gently, then looked back at Paige with mock seriousness, nodding once like he was taking mental notes. 

“Well,” he said, stretching the word out, “I guess Auntie Azzi’s girlfriend and Uncle Trey need to have The Talk.” 

Paige swallowed hard, wishing the gummy would work its way on the wrong pipe so she could choke her way out of this. 

[kitkat13001]

OOOHHHH IM SO HAPPY FOR YOU CONGRATS ON 1K!!!!!!!!!!

may i pretty please get katsuki bakugou in a romcom + chef x CEO to 'sweet disposition' that ends with moving away and then falling back in love years later?

★ SOMETHING NEW

🎞️ STARRING: katsuki bakugou ! a moment, a love, a dream, a laugh a kiss, a cry, our rights, our wrongs

“we can do it together.”

everything is perfect

you’ve worked hard your whole life and have plenty to show for it — you’re a renowned chef, heading your own restaurant, great reviews coming in — it’s all perfect! 

until the day you get the news from corporate that the restaurant chain you’ve worked for your entire life is under new management — katsuki bakugou, the present ceo of his family’s enterprise, has apparently decided to venture into the culinary business

you’re upset at first, of course you are. you’ve known the owner forever, and you’ve worked so hard to manage your restaurant and the others in your area

you’re worried the new management is going to wreck everything — clean out your staff, change the branding, upend everything you’ve built

you’re surprised to find that katsuki isn’t a thing like you were imagining

“hm. so you’re the one who put this place on the map?” “i…yes, i guess so?” “interesting. well, looks like you were a good investment. your place is the best one out of the chain, so they say. think you can help me get the others in shape?”

his proposition surprises you — and so does his careful attention as he shadows you for the next couple weeks

you teach him everything you know about running your place, reluctantly at first 

you didn’t expect him to care so much. he shadows you dutifully, like you’re the one who’s in charge. his attention to detail is immaculate, he takes in-depth notes on your work ethic, and he works like an honest man, not some stuck-up ceo

things change between you one day you’re both working late, just the two of you in the big empty restaurant 

he tells you to take the night off, that he’s not a bad cook himself and to let him treat you for once and show off what he’s learned 

he makes you dinner (which is surprisingly good. not as good as yours, which you tell him and he snorts at, but still good)

and you begin to think this katsuki bakugou is okay, and that you trust him to take care of your restaurants

things are going great! eventually katsuki goes back to his normal business schedule once everything with the restaurants is settled, but you still see each other regularly

until one day, you’re made an offer to expand internationally — but you’ll have to present overseas to run the new places (for now at least)

“it’s a really great opportunity…but i’d be so far…” not just from katsuki (which is heartbreaking enough) but also from your original restaurant…

“go with your gut. it’ll be hard, but it’s the hard shit that’s worth pursuing. i’ll have your back no matter what.”

so you push your doubts away and decide fuck it, because when are you going to get another opportunity like this again? 

you just wish you wouldn’t have to leave katsuki to do it…

that’s exactly what you’re thinking as you’re about to board your plane when you hear your name in a familiar breathless shout

katsuki’s shoving through the line to meet you as you stand there stunned, toting a suitcase, a semi-wrinkled suit, and that half-devious half-earnest smile he does 

“what are you doing here?!”

“told you i’d have your back.”

“but the company!”

“i can run it remotely,” he scoffs, like it’s obvious. you can sense the sincerity underneath though, the effort he put into chasing your dreams with you. 

it’s that sentiment that lets you smile and take his hand as you both board the plane together, ready for whatever is to come

© kitkat13001 ★ do not copy/translate/repost dividers; sxmmerberries — event info + masterlist

SYDNEYYYY thank youuu <333 heh sorry this took like a million years but i like how it turned out!! hope u enjoy mwah ily <33

[sindumpster]

Accidentally logged into my old mistake blog and only notifs I had gotten in the past year were for that one post with almost 1K notes

And I remember absolutely hating it and now I have the reminder that I really don’t crave that kind of attention anymore

[shokocide]

LAW OF ATTRACTION - GOJO SATORU

summary. Newton said the smaller the distance, the stronger the pull. Gojo Satoru thinks that explains the way he feels when you’re close.

word count. 18.2k (i need help)

content. mdni, fem!reader, college au, nerd! gojo, simp gojo supremacy, fluff, banter, tensionnnn, pet names, he's so down bad it's actually pathetic, teasing, smut, male mast., oral (male + fem rec), cum eating, face sitting, p in v, mating press, slight hair pulling, praise, swearing, light dumbification (just a lil), tit play, overstim, creampie, aftercare, pillow talk

author's note. fashionably late (?) to the trend BUT HERE WE ARE

Gojo Satoru is already arguing with the professor.

The classroom smells like coffee and too-new textbooks, the kind of sterile atmosphere that clings to the first week of university. Half the students aren’t even paying attention yet, still easing into the rhythm of things. But not him.

Gojo stands tall near the front, hands in the pockets of his pressed slacks, sweater vest and button-up perfectly in place, thick-rimmed glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. His snowy hair is perfectly messy, his posture relaxed—almost bored.

“I’m just saying,” he drawls, voice smooth and annoyingly self-assured, “you can’t talk about general relativity without at least addressing gravitational time dilation. Not if you want to keep your credibility.”

There’s a beat of silence. Someone in the back stifles a laugh.

The professor straightens her notes. “We’ll get there, Gojo.”

“Sure,” he says, unbothered, but there’s a glint in his cerulean eyes. “But isn’t it a little irresponsible to feed undergrads simplified versions of reality? We’re not children.”

“You’re barely adults,” the professor mutters under her breath.

And just when it seems like he’s winding up for another volley—another casually devastating critique that’ll make the professor’s eye twitch—the door opens with a quiet creak.

“Sorry I’m late.”

The room stills.

You step inside, backpack slung over one shoulder, sunlight catching in your hair like some perfectly staged movie scene. You aren’t frazzled or apologetic—just calm, composed, like this is your class and everyone else is simply borrowing space in it.

Gojo turns. And forgets how to speak.

He doesn’t recognize you even though he’s memorized everyone’s faces during the orientation. But yours is unfamiliar. Distractingly so. And in that moment, standing half-turned at the front of the classroom, he is completely, totally, undeniably wrecked. His mouth parts slightly. No sound comes out.

The professor clears her throat. “Try to be on time next class.”

You nod easily. “Of course. Won’t happen again.”

Gojo’s eyes follow you as you make your way to an empty seat—his row. The one he claimed early on for optimal note-taking and strategic interruption placement. And of course, because the universe clearly enjoys watching him suffer, you pick the seat right beside his.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t sit. Just watches as you settle in beside him and flip open your notebook like nothing’s happened. Like you didn’t just reset the laws of gravity around his universe.

“Gojo?” the professor prompts from the front.

He startles. “Huh? Oh—yeah. I mean, yes. Sorry.”

Silence stretches as the lecture resumes. Gojo Satoru’s foot bounces beneath the desk. His fingers twitch like they want to scribble something but forgot how pens work.

He chances a glance at you from the corner of his eye. You’re taking notes, completely unfazed. Like you haven’t just walked into his orbit and thrown everything off-axis.

-

It’s quiet in the library. The kind of quiet that almost feels sacred, broken only by the occasional rustle of paper or the soft click of a keyboard. You’re tucked away at a corner table, head down, headphones in, completely immersed in your reading.

Gojo spots you the moment he steps in. He hadn’t meant to come here—physics homework was the last thing on his mind today—but the second he saw you seated, that changed. Suddenly, he’s very interested in gravitational lensing and quantum field theories.

He chooses the table diagonally across from yours. Not directly opposite—that would be too obvious. But just close enough that he can sneak glances without it being weird. Probably.

He flips open a textbook. Doesn’t read a single word. Just peeks at you over the top of the page like a little nerdy menace in disguise. Every time you adjust your hair or furrow your brows or smile faintly at something you read, it’s like he’s been hit in the chest. Repeatedly.

Then you look up.

He freezes. Straightens up. Pretends to be deeply fascinated by a diagram of a particle collider. You blink. Tilt your head a little. Then—you pull your headphones out. “Gojo Satoru, right?”

He almost drops his pen. “Uh—yeah. That’s me.”

“You’ve been staring at page fifteen for like… twenty minutes.”

He blinks. Looks down at his book. Flips it to page thirty-seven. “Right. Yeah. That’s, uh—intentional.”

You smile. “Sure it is.”

He wants to melt into the carpet.

You go back to your notes, sliding your headphones on again like it’s nothing. But that smile doesn’t leave your face. And Gojo’s certain he’ll be thinking about it for the rest of the week.

-

You're sitting under the tree near the physics building, nose buried in your laptop, headphones on, pretending you don’t feel someone staring at you. You do. Of course you do.

You glance up. He’s there.

Gojo, the cocky know-it-all from class. Still in that damned sweater vest, hair all floofy like he just rolled out of a nap and somehow made it fashion. He’s holding a coffee cup with one hand and awkwardly adjusting his glasses with the other, pretending like he just happened to pass by. He absolutely did not.

You blink. He panics.

“Oh. Uh—hey,” he says, and it comes out a little too loud, a little too fast, like his vocal cords staged a mutiny the second your eyes met.

You slide your headphones down. “Hi.”

There’s a long pause. He fidgets with the sleeve of his shirt, eyes flicking everywhere but your face now. “You, uh… You always sit here?”

You raise an eyebrow. “During this exact 30-minute window between classes? Yeah. Kinda my thing.”

“Oh,” he says, and laughs—nervously. “Coolcoolcool. I just—uh. I just thought you looked like someone who enjoys differential equations under tree shade.”

You squint. “You’re making fun of me.”

“What? No! I—I do that too. All the time. Big tree guy. Huge… leaf enjoyer.”

There’s a beat of silence. You bite back a laugh. “You good?”

“I was,” he mumbles, almost to himself, then louder: “Yeah! I’m totally—so good. Amazing, even.”

You give him a look. He clears his throat and tries again. “Listen, I didn’t get your name earlier, and that’s kind of a crime in several countries, probably. So…”

You pause, then finally tell him.

He repeats it under his breath like a prayer. “Pretty.”

You tilt your head at him, teasing. “So… was there a reason you were looking at me in class? Or is staring at people just part of your regular schedule?”

He flinches. Like, visibly. Adjusts his glasses again even though they’re already perfectly in place. “Staring is a strong word.”

“You choked on air.”

He groans, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “Okay—yeah, that… may have happened. But in my defense, I didn’t know I was capable of being that flustered until you walked in.”

Your eyebrows lift. “You were flustered?”

“Fatally,” he replies without missing a beat. “It was the most embarrassing moment of my entire academic career. And I once accidentally called a professor ‘dad’ in front of the entire cohort, so.”

You snort. “No you didn’t.”

“Unfortunately, I did. That man never looked at me the same again.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. There’s something kind of charming about the contrast—how sharp and smug he is in the lecture hall, then how weirdly dorky he gets the second he talks to you.

Gojo notices the smile. He lights up. “That’s a win, right?” he grins. “That counts as a win?”

You roll your eyes. “Barely.”

“Still counts,” he sings, rocking back on his heels. “You like coffee?”

You blink. “That’s random.”

“I just thought—maybe next time I bring one, I could bring you one too. You know. If we’re both going to be professionally loitering under this tree during our thirty-minute window.”

You pretend to think about it. “What kind?”

“Whatever kind makes you smile again.”

You pause. Okay. That was smooth.

You look away, just for a second, to hide the grin threatening to take over your whole face.

“You’re annoying,” you mutter.

He beams. “You’re not the first to say that.”

You part ways not long after, the building just a few steps ahead, and Gojo’s still standing where you left him—hands in his pockets, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, hair gleaming like spun silver in the sunlight.

You steal one last glance as you walk away, and—yep. He’s still watching you.

Still smiling like he knows something you don’t.

And just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed, you hear his voice call after you: “By the way, if you keep looking at me like that, I will ask for your number next time!”

You don’t turn around. You can’t. Your cheeks are already on fire.

But he laughs, bright and victorious, and you know he saw the way you tripped on the curb a second later. Cocky bastard.

And yet… you’re smiling the whole walk to class.

-

You’re seated a few rows back this time. Thought it might help with the whole not staring directly at Gojo Satoru like he invented astrophysics problem.

It doesn’t.

Not when he’s in his usual seat up front, one leg crossed over the other, sleeves pushed to his elbows like he’s here to work. Glasses low on his nose. A pen between his fingers that he keeps spinning—casually, like it’s no big deal he’s also kind of stupidly good at everything.

The professor drones on at the front of the room, explaining quantum field theory, but you’re only half-listening.

Because Gojo raises his hand. Again.

“Actually, that’s not entirely accurate,” he says, voice way too smooth for a know-it-all. “If you factor in the renormalization group flow, the outcome shifts entirely. I can show you if you want.”

She blinks. “I… well. That’s a fair point, Gojo.”

He grins, leans back like he didn’t just out-nerd a tenured physicist, and then—then—he looks at you. Like he knows you’re watching.

And you are. You so are.

Gojo tilts his head slightly, mouth curling into that infuriating little smirk as he mouths: Impressed yet?

You look away instantly.

You are. You’re very impressed. Unfortunately. But you’re not gonna let him know that. Not yet.

So instead, you raise your hand. And when the professor calls on you, you challenge his answer.

Gojo looks like you just proposed.

-

Class ends and students start filing out, a low murmur of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping filling the air. You’re casually packing up your things, pretending not to notice the way someone is lingering by the door.

He should’ve left already. But no—he’s leaning against the wall like it’s a conscious choice, not that he’s waiting for you or anything. Totally not that.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and head out. You don’t even get five steps into the hallway before you hear—

“So…”

You turn.

Gojo’s standing there, hands in his pockets, lips parted like he’s still catching his breath. His glasses are a little crooked. Probably because he’s been running that hand through his hair again. He straightens up when you face him.

“That was… impressive,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like, really impressive.”

You smile. “Thanks. You were good too, by the way.”

He blinks. “Good? I—good? That’s it?”

“Yup.” You start walking. “Try harder next time.”

There’s a pause. And then he jogs up beside you, looking equal parts offended and delighted. “Oh, okay. So that’s how it is?” he teases, grinning. “You’re one of those girls.”

“What girls?”

“The ones who enjoy crushing the academic dreams of sweet, helpless nerds like me.”

You give him a look. “Helpless?”

“Devastatingly,” he says, deadpan.

You snort. “You literally made a PhD cry last week.”

“She recovered.”

“You sent her a fruit basket.”

“See? I care.”

You try to hold back your laughter but fail miserably, and he lights up like you just handed him the Nobel Prize.

You turn the corner toward the next building, Satoru trailing beside you like a very tall, mildly wounded puppy.

He’s oddly quiet—hands still shoved in his pockets, eyes flicking your way every few seconds like he’s waiting for a verdict. It's kind of adorable.

You stop walking. “Come on,” you say, already veering toward the campus café. “I’ll buy you a coffee.”

Satoru blinks. Twice. “L-like… like a date?”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Woah there. Hold your horses, bud. I’m doing it so maybe you’ll stop moping around.”

He gasps—actually gasps—hands flying to his chest in mock offense. “I am not moping!”

“You literally sighed ten times during that walk.”

“I was brooding. It’s different.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You pouted when I said you were just ‘good’ in class.”

“I’m a sensitive soul!”

“You’re insufferable.”

“But charming,” he says quickly, catching up to walk beside you again, shoulder bumping yours. “Undeniably charming.”

You hum, lips twitching. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

He grins, all pearly teeth and pretty-boy smugness, practically floating now. And just as you're about to step into the café, you hear him mutter something behind you, half to himself—

“I’m so gonna make you fall in love with me.”

You turn slightly. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” he chirps, already holding the door open for you like a gentleman. “Ladies first!”

-

He watches you from the tiny round table by the window, chin propped in his hand, glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose. You’re standing at the counter, reading over the menu with a furrow between your brows like you’re solving quantum equations instead of choosing between oat milk or soy.

He could watch you forever. Not in a creepy way—okay, maybe a little creepy—but in that dumb, enamored kind of way where even the way you tap your fingers against the counter makes his heart do this weird flip.

You step up, voice soft but certain when you order. Vanilla latte, extra shot, light foam.

He files it away instantly. Vanilla. Extra shot. Light foam. He’s going to remember that forever. He could write a thesis on it.

Your name is called, and he watches the way your eyes crinkle a little when you thank the barista. When you turn around, drinks in hand, and start walking back toward him, he panics—because suddenly he’s hyper-aware of how dumb he must look just staring.

He quickly looks down at his phone screen, pretending to scroll through something important. It’s literally just his calculator app open from earlier. Nothing’s calculated. 

You slide his drink toward him when you sit. He doesn’t even care what it is. You could’ve handed him gasoline and he would’ve sipped it happily.

“Thanks,” he says casually—way too casually for someone whose brain short-circuited the moment you looked at him.

And then you take a sip of yours, and he blurts it out without thinking:

“You’re sweet.”

You blink. “Huh?”

He clears his throat. “The drink, I mean. It’s sweet.”

Smooth. So smooth.

You squint at him suspiciously. He hides behind his cup and takes a sip.

You're mid-sip of your latte when he says it—completely out of nowhere, eyes locked on you like he's trying to memorize your entire existence.

"You're kinda pretty when you’re annoyed, y’know?"

You almost choke. "What?"

He leans forward, resting his chin in his palm, grinning like he just cracked the code to the universe. “Just an observation. Purely academic.”

"You’re impossible," you mutter, eyes darting away—and he sees it, the blush creeping up your neck.

And that’s it. That’s his victory.

He leans back in his chair, smug as hell. “You're blushing.”

"I'm not."

“Oh no, don’t worry. I think it’s cute,” he says, like it’s a fact in a textbook.

You throw a sugar packet at him. He dodges with a laugh.

"You trying to kill me? And here I thought this was a date."

You give him a look. “It’s not a date.”

He shrugs, grabbing your drink and stealing a sip like it is. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You snatch your cup back, but it’s too late—he’s already smacked his lips like a wine critic.

“Are you always this annoying?” you ask, sipping your drink now.

He shrugs. “Only when I like someone.”

You freeze for half a second. And he sees that too.

Your voice is careful, teasing but cautious. “So you like me now?”

He hums, looking away dramatically, as if he’s pondering some great cosmic truth. “I don’t know… Maybe. You’re cute when you’re flustered. And when you’re mean to me. And when you roll your eyes. And—”

“Okay, stop.”

“Nope. You gave me coffee. I’m powered up now. Can’t shut me up.”

You groan, slumping in your seat with the most dramatic expression you can manage.

He grins wide, and that smug sparkle in his eyes softens, just a bit. “But seriously,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like talking to you.”

And that shuts you up for a beat.

You meet his eyes again, and this time, there’s no teasing, no cocky grin—just sincerity, wrapped in dorky charm. “…I like talking to you too,” you admit, soft.

And just like that, he lights up all over again.

-

You both exit the café, coffees in hand, the air warmer than before but still crisp. The sun’s out, and so is Gojo’s smile—until you stop at the sidewalk and glance down at your phone.

“Shit,” you mutter. “I’ve got class right now.”

His face drops instantly. “Wait—already? But I haven’t even finished annoying you yet.”

You laugh, nudging his arm with your elbow. “You’ve done plenty in the last thirty minutes, trust me.”

He exhales dramatically, shoulders sagging as he pouts. “This is tragic. A real loss for humanity.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“But I miss you already,” he says. “Who’s gonna listen to my unfiltered genius now?”

You raise a brow, backing away slowly. “I’m sure you’ll find a new victim. See you, Gojo.”

“Wait—wait, when do I see you again?” he calls after you, half-joking, half-not.

You shoot him a smile over your shoulder. “You’ll live.”

And as you disappear into the crowd, he just stands there for a moment, lips pressed together, watching you go.

“…No I won’t.”

-

You don’t think much of it when Gojo catches up to you outside the lecture hall again. He’s chatty as usual, teasing you about your keychain, dramatically proclaiming how he almost tripped over a squirrel on the way here, all while walking a half-step closer than necessary. Same old Gojo stuff.

You head toward your usual seat, a few rows back from the front—just enough distance to not get called on every two minutes. You’re used to watching him breeze right past, to the very first row, like he’s the poster boy for "overachiever of the year."

So when you slide into your seat and Gojo casually takes the one right next to you, backpack dropping with a thud at his feet, you do a double take.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

He only shrugs, flashing that annoyingly pretty smile. “Just felt like switching it up today.”

You’re not the only one caught off guard. A few students glance over and someone even nudges their friend like this is newsworthy.

Because Gojo Satoru doesn’t switch it up. He’s the guy who color codes his notes and brings a backup calculator. But now he’s here, sitting so close that his knee bumps yours beneath the table and stays there.

You try to focus when class begins—but it's hard when he's right there beside you, radiating warmth. Every now and then, his fingers graze your thigh beneath the desk—casual, like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

You don’t look at him. But you know he’s grinning. And just when you're starting to think this can’t get more distracting—

“Before we end today,” the professor says, “I’m assigning a group project. Pairs, selected at random.”

Your stomach sinks. You glance at Gojo, who’s already turned toward the front again, fingers drumming lightly on the desk. Like he knows.

You hear names being rattled off. A list of partnerships. Then—

“And lastly, Gojo Satoru and…” A pause. “You.”

Silence. You blink. Gojo leans back with a loud, satisfied sigh and stretches his arms behind his head.

“Oh no,” you mutter, already dreading what’s coming.

“Oh yes,” he says, grinning so wide it should be illegal.

-

You step out of the lecture hall with Gojo hot on your heels, practically bouncing with excitement. He’s still beaming about the professor’s decision like he just won the lottery.

“This is fate,” he says, catching up to walk beside you. “We’re gonna be the best pair in that class. I mean, you’ve got the brains and the beauty, and I’ve got the everything else.”

You snort. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” He adjusts the strap of his backpack with dramatic flair. “This is the beginning of a legendary academic alliance.”

You roll your eyes, trying to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “So, when do we start this legendary alliance of yours?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Thought you’d never ask. I was thinking… we could cash in that coffee date you promised me. Use the time to plan out our project. Very responsible. Very scholarly.”

You shoot him a look. “It’s not a date.”

“Sure,” he says easily, eyes twinkling. “A purely educational rendezvous at a cozy café where we might happen to sit close enough to accidentally brush knees again.”

You groan. “Fine. But we’re actually working on the project this time.”

“No promises,” he grins.

And you hate how you laugh at that.

-

You’re tucked into the booth of a café, a half-empty cup of coffee sitting forgotten as you scribble into your notebook. Across from you, Gojo’s talking a mile a minute—bouncing between theories, concepts, and potential outlines for your project with the kind of ease that only someone dangerously smart could pull off.

And the worst part? Every word out of his mouth actually makes sense.

You glance up at him, brows lifting slightly. “Okay, that last one? That’s actually… really solid.”

He beams. “Right? I knew you’d see the brilliance.”

You shake your head with a small laugh. “I hate to say it, but I’m impressed.”

Gojo leans forward, resting his chin on his hand with a smug grin. “Careful now. Compliments like that might go to my head.”

You ignore him, scribbling something down beside his last idea. The two of you work like that for a while—you writing, him throwing ideas around and occasionally sipping from his drink. And before you know it, you’ve got the skeleton of a full project mapped out.

He stretches his arms above his head, shirt riding up just enough to be distracting. “Whew. Honestly? I didn’t expect to get this much done.”

You close your notebook, tapping your pen against the table. “We could start putting together the first draft later this week.”

Gojo nods. “Yeah, sure. We could work at my place or someth—”

You cut him off, tone light. “You could come to mine.”

He freezes. Blinks. “Y-your place?”

You smile sweetly. “Mhm.”

He stares at you, cheeks tinged pink behind his glasses. “I—yeah. Yeah, totally. Your place. Great idea. Love that. Very efficient. Extremely platonic and professional.”

You laugh. “You’re cute when you malfunction.”

“I don’t malfunction,” he mumbles.

You don’t believe that for a second.

He’s trying so hard to play it cool, but his brain short-circuited the moment you suggested your place. His legs bounce under the table, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt like it’ll ground him somehow.

You lean back in your seat, arms crossed as you observe him with a smug little smile. “You alright there, genius?”

Satoru clears his throat, adjusting his glasses even though they’re not crooked. “Me? Totally fine. Just recalibrating. You know, like… spatially. Mentally.”

You blink at him. “Uh-huh.”

He runs a hand through his snowy hair, the tips poking out in every direction like even they are flustered. “I just wasn’t expecting that, is all.”

“You weren’t expecting me to suggest we work on the project?”

“No—I mean, yes—but at your place?” He lifts his hands, palms up like he’s holding the concept of your apartment in the air. “Do you even realize what that implies?”

You tilt your head. “That I trust you to not snoop through my things?”

He looks offended. “I would never snoop. I am a gentleman.”

“Okay, gentleman,” you say, standing and grabbing your bag. “Then bring snacks when you come over.”

That shuts him up real quick. He stares up at you, blinking as you sling your bag over your shoulder and give him one last little smirk. “Oh,” you add casually, “and maybe wear those glasses again.”

His jaw drops.

You don’t wait to see his reaction. You just turn and walk off with the smuggest little sway to your step, leaving Gojo sitting there—completely malfunctioning, heart doing gymnastics in his chest.

He presses a hand over it, eyes wide. “Oh god.”

-

[gojo]: hey. hey hey hey

[gojo]: when u said ur place… u meant like. like ur apartment right

[gojo]: like ur home. with walls. and couches. and stuff

[you]: i am aware of what my apartment contains, yes.

[gojo]: just checking 😇

[gojo]: do i need to bring a textbook? or will u be tutoring me using sheer intimidation alone

[you]: i thought i was the one taking notes last time?

[gojo]: yeah but you intimidated me into being smart. that’s powerful

[gojo]: anyway what’s ur address 👀

[you]: [sends location]

[you]: and bring snacks like i said. i’m not letting you in if you show up empty handed

[gojo]: what kind of snacks

[you]: surprise me

[gojo]: …

[gojo]: you have NO idea what you’ve just done

[you]: satoru it’s literally just snacks

[gojo]: and now i’m overthinking EVERYTHING. chips? chocolate? do i bring a charcuterie board???

[gojo]: i need you to know i’m taking this Very Seriously.

[you]: i’m sure you are.

[gojo]: 😤 just u wait. i’ll be the best study buddy you’ve ever had. 

[you]: is this your way of flirting or are you always like this

[gojo]: …yes

-

You open the door and there he is—standing on your doorstep. His arms are full: a tote bag slung over his shoulder, a drink carrier in one hand, and a plastic bag filled with snacks in the other.

“You said surprise you,” he announces, stepping in. “So I brought everything. Chips. Cookies. Gummy worms. Protein bars, because balance. And boba. I panicked.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You brought a buffet.”

“I wanted to impress you,” he says, dead serious, slipping his shoes off at the door.

You stifle a laugh and step aside. “Come on in.”

Your place is cozy, warm lighting humming softly. Gojo’s eyes flit around like he’s taking mental notes of every detail—your throw pillows, your bookshelf, the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air. You pretend not to notice how he seems ten times quieter than usual.

“Sit,” you say, motioning to the couch. 

He plops down next to you, thigh brushing yours, and pulls out his notes. “So. I was thinking we model the phase shift in the magnetic field using—wait—wait, are you actually listening or just staring at my mouth?”

You blink at him. “I was listening. You just talk a lot.”

He leans in, smirking. “But you were also staring.”

You swat his arm. “Focus.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles, hiding a very pleased grin.

As you two dive into the project, it’s surprisingly productive. He’s brilliant—he rattles off concepts with such ease that you’re genuinely impressed. You ask questions. He answers. You scribble notes while he paces your living room barefoot, gesturing wildly as he explains advanced equations like they’re children’s bedtime stories. He’s in his element. And kind of hot, too, in a completely nerdy, passionate way.

“You’re really smart,” you say eventually, mid-note-taking.

He freezes. Turns to you slowly. “Say that again.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I said you’re smart—”

“No no,” he says, dropping onto the couch beside you again. “Say it slower. Maybe into my ear this time.”

You laugh, shoving him gently. “God, you’re impossible.”

“And yet you invited me over.” His voice drops just slightly, eyes glittering behind those thick-rimmed glasses. “Kinda makes me think you like having me around.”

Your heart skips. “Maybe I do.”

He stares for a moment—really stares—and then gives you the softest smile. “Then I guess I’m not leaving until we finish the whole project. Top marks, remember?”

“Top marks,” you echo.

When your hands brush reaching for the same pen, you both freeze.

You recover first, pulling your hand back slightly. “You can have it,” you say, trying to keep your voice casual.

Gojo, stubborn as ever, immediately shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. You can have it.”

“No, seriously, take it.”

“I insist.”

“You’re being annoying.”

“You like when I’m annoying,” he says with a cheeky grin.

You roll your eyes and shove the pen towards him. “Just take it before I stab you with it.”

There's a beat of silence where you both just stare at each other—awkward, heated, too aware of how close you’re sitting. You can feel the air shift between you, something lingering and soft.

Gojo clears his throat loudly, leaning back against the couch with exaggerated nonchalance. “Uh—snack break?” he says, voice a little too high-pitched to be smooth.

You bite back a smile, grateful for the out. “Yeah. Snack break.”

He springs up like he’s been given a second life, muttering something under his breath about chips and cookies while you try very hard not to laugh.

Gojo rummages through your cabinets like he lives there, narrating dramatically under his breath. "Let's see... we have some chips, half a granola bar... oh-ho, instant ramen! A true feast fit for a queen."

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with an amused smile. "You're so dramatic."

He whirls around, holding the ramen packet in one hand like it’s a sacred artifact. "Dramatic? No, no, this is culinary excellence, sweetheart."

You snort, covering your laugh with the back of your hand. "You're about to microwave that."

"Precisely." He winks at you. "Modern problems require modern solutions."

You roll your eyes but grab a cup, filling it with water and handing it to him. Your fingers brush when he takes it, and maybe you’re imagining it, but he seems to pause for half a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing yours again on purpose.

"I'll make you the best cup ramen of your life," he declares proudly, tossing it into the microwave and punching in the time.

"Bold of you to assume I have low standards," you tease.

He leans an elbow on the counter, cocking his head at you with a lazy, smug grin. "Again. You invited me over. I'd say your standards are excellent."

Your cheeks flame immediately. "Shut up."

He just laughs, tossing his messy hair out of his eyes, looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the room.

The microwave dings and Gojo gasps. "It's time."

He pulls the ramen out like it’s a precious treasure, dramatically blowing on it before holding it out to you.

"Milady," he says in a terrible fake accent, "your meal."

You’re laughing too hard to even be annoyed. You take the cup from him, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

-

You both make your way to the couch after the world's most gourmet snack break (according to Gojo), slumping down with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls endlessly through your streaming options.

"Pick something," you say, poking his thigh with your toe.

"But it's so hard," he whines dramatically. "What if I pick something that doesn't match our vibe?" He flashes you a sly, boyish smile, the kind that makes your heart lurch even when you don't want it to.

You roll your eyes, tossing a throw pillow at him. "Just pick something, drama queen."

He catches the pillow effortlessly, still grinning, and finally settles on some random romcom—probably because he thinks it'll impress you with how emotionally available he is. Not even five minutes in, he does the whole exaggerated stretch and casual arm drop behind you. Textbook.

You give him a look. "Subtle."

He just beams, smug and utterly unbothered. "Thanks. Been practicing."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath, but you don't move away. Instead, you let the warmth of his arm hovering behind you linger there, like a secret.

You both slowly ease into a lazy sort of comfort, shoulders brushing every so often, knees bumping when one of you shifts. He’s fidgety, though—tapping his fingers against the cushion, sneaking glances at you when he thinks you won't notice.

You notice. You just pretend not to.

Time blurs, the movie forgotten as conversation picks up again. Dumb stuff. Stories about professors, weird classmates, Gojo ranting about a physics experiment gone wrong because "the equipment was stupid, not me," and you laughing so hard your stomach hurts. At some point you realize how late it’s gotten.

You glance at your phone. "Shit, it’s almost midnight."

Gojo pouts dramatically. "Nooo, don’t kick me out."

"You have class at eight tomorrow," you remind him, stretching your arms above your head. "Don’t you dare blame me when you fall asleep in class."

He sighs, long and exaggerated, standing up anyway. "Fine. But just so you know, leaving is painful for me. Agony, even."

You snort, pushing yourself off the couch. "You'll live, Satoru."

He lingers by the door, bouncing on his heels like he wants to say something. And then he blurts, all in one breath: "Do you wanna go on a date with me?"

You blink, caught off guard. "A coffee date?"

"No, no!" He waves his hands frantically. "Like—a real date. A good one. A fancy one. With food and everything!"

His voice goes a little desperate toward the end, as if you're seconds from rejecting him.

You cross your arms, fighting back a laugh. "Are you begging, Gojo?"

"Yes," he says instantly, with zero shame.

You tap your chin, pretending to think it over just to mess with him. He looks genuinely tortured, hands clutched in front of him like he's praying.

Finally, you shrug. "Alright. You can take me out."

The way his whole face lights up could rival the sun. "YES—YES, OH MY GOD—okay, okay, I won’t screw this up, swear on my honor—"

You laugh, pushing him lightly toward the door. "Text me the details, Romeo."

He’s still beaming when he stumbles out, waving giddily.

You shake your head, grinning to yourself as you shut the door behind him.

-

You stand in front of the mirror, arms crossed, glaring at the mountain of clothes on your bed.

It’s ridiculous. It's Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake—the same man who wears sweater vests unironically—so why are you panicking about what to wear?

You pick up a red dress, stare at it, and toss it aside. Too much.

A simple blouse and jeans? Too casual.

You want to look good. Scratch that—you want to make his brain short-circuit when he sees you.

Finally, after what feels like hours of spiraling, you settle on a black off-shoulder dress that hugs your figure flatteringly. It’s something that feels like you—simple but pretty, enough to make your heart skip when you catch your reflection.

Right as you’re fixing the final touches, your phone buzzes.

[gojo 💙]: here <3

[gojo 💙]: try not to fall in love with me too fast ok

You snort under your breath. Too late, you think, heart thudding faster than you’d ever admit.

You grab your bag and head outside, spotting him. 

You almost don't recognize him at first.

Gone are the thick-rimmed glasses and the nerdy sweater vest he usually sports in class. Tonight, Gojo Satoru is dressed in a simple white button-up—sleeves rolled up to his forearms—and black dress pants that cling just right to his lean frame. His snowy hair is still messy, like he ran his hands through it a million times, but somehow, it works. He looks effortlessly good. Stupidly good.

And when he spots you, he nearly trips over his own feet.

"Hey," you greet, a little breathless from how unfairly good he looks.

"Hey," he says back, voice cracking halfway through. He coughs, fumbling to form literal words, cheeks flushed. "You, uh—you look—wow."

You laugh softly as he practically skips toward you, offering you his arm with an exaggerated flourish. "Shall we, m'lady?"

You roll your eyes but take his arm anyway, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his shirt.

He leans down to whisper in your ear, cocky and sweet all at once: "Just so you know, I'm totally gonna brag about this to my future grandkids."

You elbow him lightly in the side, and he laughs, the happiest sound you've heard all day.

You laugh softly, letting go of him to get into the car, and he stands there for a second like he’s been shot.

When he finally gets himself together and slides into the driver’s seat, he sneaks a look at you. "You’re—" he starts, then cuts himself off, shaking his head like he can’t believe his own luck. "Perfect," he finishes under his breath.

You pretend not to hear it, hiding your smile as he pulls out onto the road—one hand casually on the wheel, the other fiddling nervously with his collar.

Neither of you says much at first. The radio hums softly between you.

But every few seconds, you catch him sneaking glances your way, grinning like this is already the best date ever.

-

You recognize the place immediately.

It’s a beautiful rooftop restaurant—one you’d mentioned wanting to try in passing, months ago, when a friend posted about it on social media. You hadn’t even realized he was listening.

The fact that he remembered makes your heart swell.

Satoru pulls into the valet line, hands slightly fidgety on the steering wheel. He throws a quick, nervous glance at you, like he’s scared you won’t like it.

"You, uh, mentioned it once," he says, almost shyly. "Thought it'd be better than, y'know... coffee again."

Your chest tightens in the softest, sweetest way. You open your mouth, ready to tease him, but the look on his face—the earnest hope in his eyes—makes you stop. You just smile instead.

"It’s perfect," you say quietly.

And the way he beams after that? God, you almost have to look away. Too much.

He practically leaps out of the car the second it's parked, sprinting around to your side to open the door for you. Except—he miscalculates the timing and almost slams it into his own shin.

"Ow—shit—" he mutters under his breath, recovering quickly and yanking it open like nothing happened. He straightens up, all suave-like, grinning down at you.

"Milady," he says dramatically, offering you his hand.

You roll your eyes but take it anyway, letting him help you out of the car. His hand is warm—so much bigger than yours—and he doesn’t let go right away. In fact, he keeps holding it as you walk toward the entrance, fingers intertwined like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And you don’t pull away. If anything, you squeeze a little tighter.

Inside, the restaurant is even more beautiful than you imagined—glittering fairy lights, soft music, a gentle breeze whispering across the rooftop.

Gojo glances down at you, smiling like you personally hung the stars. "Ready for the best date of your life?" he teases, but there’s a nervous edge to it—like your opinion actually, genuinely matters to him.

You bite your lip to hold back a grin.

"Lead the way, Romeo."

And he does. Hand in hand, heart thundering, wearing the dopiest smile imaginable.

Dinner with Gojo is…effortless.

For once, he isn’t tripping over his words or cracking half a dozen stupid jokes just to fill the silence. He’s confident—naturally confident—in a way that makes your heart stutter. It’s like all the nervous energy he usually carries around you has melted away tonight, leaving behind nothing but the real Satoru.

He leans back in his chair, the sleeves of his white button-up rolled up to his elbows, flashing the veins in his forearms as he lifts his wine glass to his lips.

There’s a lazy smirk playing on his mouth as he listens to you talk, bright blue eyes never straying from your face.

"You’re staring," you tease after a moment, pretending to inspect the menu like you’re not burning under his gaze.

"Yeah," he says simply, not even bothering to deny it. "You’re beautiful. I’m allowed to stare."

You nearly choke on your water.

Recovering quickly, you raise a brow. "Smooth," you deadpan, setting your glass down.

He chuckles lowly, the sound curling around your spine like smoke. "Only because it’s true," he says, and the sheer casualty of it has your cheeks heating up.

And the worst part? You can’t even pretend you’re unaffected—because he sees it. The way your lips twitch, the way your eyes flicker away for just a second.

"So," you say quickly, trying to regain control of the conversation, "when you’re not busy terrorizing professors and making girls swoon, what do you do for fun, Gojo?"

He hums, pretending to think about it, tapping his fork against his lip.

"Hmm...think about you mostly," he says airily.

You whip your napkin at him across the table, and he lets out a bark of laughter, catching it midair like a reflex.

The two of you fall into easy conversation after that—bantering, laughing, throwing subtle (and not-so-subtle) jabs at each other. It feels so natural that you almost forget this is your first real date.

There’s a moment—between courses, when you’re both picking at the remains of dessert—that you catch him just looking at you again. No teasing. No smirk. Just watching. Soft, and a little awed.

You shift slightly, suddenly aware of the intimacy stretching between you. "What?" you murmur.

He blinks, as if waking up. Shakes his head, smiling faintly.

"Nothing," he says, voice a little rough. "You’re just—really fucking gorgeous."

It’s so sincere that you don’t even know what to say back. You just look at him, feeling your chest tighten in that dangerous, dangerous way again.

-

The drive back is quiet—not uncomfortable. Just…full.

Full of things unsaid, full of that warmth that’s been simmering between you both all night.

Gojo parks in front of your place, turning off the engine, but neither of you make a move to get out right away. You just sit there, the hum of the night wrapping around you, the silence speaking louder than words ever could.

He turns in his seat slightly, arm draped over the steering wheel, looking at you with that soft, lopsided smile he reserves only for you now.

"I had a really good time," he says quietly, like it’s a secret meant only for you.

You smile back, feeling something sweet and dangerous unfurl in your chest. "Me too," you murmur, fingers twisting slightly in your lap.

The moment stretches—comfortable, a little electric—and you know you should say goodnight. You should.

So you finally reach for the door handle, pulling it open—And then, without thinking, you turn back.

Leaning in quick, before you can psych yourself out, you press a soft kiss to his cheek.

It’s light, barely a brush, but Gojo freezes like you’ve just electrocuted him.

You don’t wait for his reaction. Your face burning, you practically stumble out of the car, slamming the door shut behind you with a muttered, "Goodnight!"

Through the window, you catch a glimpse of him: Wide-eyed, stunned, a hand lifted dazedly to his cheek like he can't believe what just happened.

And then he laughs—a breathless, giddy sound that you swear you can hear even as you rush up the steps to your door, heart hammering like crazy.

Inside the car, Satoru slumps back against the seat, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. "God," he mutters to himself, still touching the spot where you kissed him, "I’m so fucked."

-

You’re lying in bed when your phone buzzes in your hand. Heart still racing from that impulsive kiss you planted on his cheek, you scramble to pick it up, thumbs fumbling.

[gojo 💙]: next time, you’re not getting away with just a kiss on the cheek.

You nearly drop your phone.

Oh. Oh.

Your stomach flips. Your face burns. And even though you want to play it cool, you can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. You bite your lip, thumbs hovering over the keyboard before finally typing back:

[you]: is that a threat, satoru?

The reply comes almost instantly, like he was waiting for you:

[gojo 💙]: no baby, that’s a promise.

You stare at the screen, heart hammering against your ribs. 

Baby. God, you’re so done for.

And like he hasn’t already made you melt enough tonight, he sends another message:

[gojo 💙]: get some sleep, pretty 

You bury your face into your pillow with a squeal, kicking your feet into the mattress. You type back quickly before you lose your nerve:

[you]: goodnight, satoru. try not to miss me too much.

And a few seconds later:

[gojo 💙]: too late.

[you]: careful, satoru. you're sounding real desperate rn.

You barely have time to smirk before he hits you with:

[gojo 💙]: desperate?

[gojo 💙]: for you? always.

And like he knows you’re losing it, he sends one more:

[gojo 💙]: sleep tight, gorgeous.

[gojo 💙]: dream of me.

[gojo 💙]: i'll definitely be dreaming of you. (and if i wake up hard, it's your fault btw)

You scream into your pillow.

Your hands tremble as you type your final text:

[you]: sweet dreams, toru <3

[you]: maybe next time you won’t have to just dream ;)

And the moment you send it, you shut your phone off and toss it across the bed because there’s absolutely no way you’re surviving if he replies. (He does. Five seconds later.)

[gojo 💙]: fucking hell.

-

Satoru’s still staring at your last text. Eyes wide. Mouth parted.

maybe next time you won’t have to just dream

He drops his phone onto the bed with a dull thud, dragging both hands down his face.

"Goddammit," he breathes, tipping his head back against the headboard.

You’re gonna kill him. You’re actually gonna kill him.

He sits there for a good minute, struggling to breathe normally, heart hammering against his ribs, cock already half-hard just from that one text. (Just from a text. He's so far gone it's not even funny.)

"Pull it together, Gojo," he mutters, raking a hand through his messy hair.

But the moment he squeezes his eyes shut, it’s you he sees—smiling up at him all coy, leaning in close, whispering things in that pretty voice you have, like you knew exactly what kind of mess you were leaving him in.

You did. You knew exactly what you were doing.

He groans, thunking his head back harder against the headboard, biting down a low, frustrated sound as your words loop endlessly in his brain.

You’re driving him insane.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he shoves his sleep shorts down just enough and wraps a hand around his cock, cursing under his breath when he realizes how hard he already is.

It’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong—you haven’t even properly kissed yet. But god, you're just so, so perfect. So effortlessly beautiful. 

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his hand moving slowly, pretending it’s you instead—your hand wrapped around him, your body pressed close, your breath ghosting over his ear as you whisper all the filthy things he can barely even let himself imagine.

"Fuck," he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up into his fist, desperate for more.

He can’t help it.

You’re in his head. You’re under his skin. And he’s not even sure he wants to be saved.

His thighs tense, muscles flexing as he fists himself harder, chasing that high like a man starved. The sound of his breath—harsh and broken—fills the room. Your name nearly falls from his lips like a prayer.

And when he finally comes, it’s with a soft, bitten-off moan, warmth spilling over his knuckles. 

His mind blanks for a long, dizzy second—nothing but the feeling of you filling every corner of him.

He collapses back against the pillows, breathless. Staring at the ceiling like he’s just been fucking wrecked. Sweaty. Panting. His hand sticky and his soul halfway out of his body.

He drags a hand down his face again, groaning. "...I'm so fucking screwed," Satoru mutters to himself, glaring uselessly at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible for his downfall.

-

The sunlight’s barely filtering through his blinds when Satoru stirs awake, messy hair flattened against his forehead, phone slipping from his chest with a quiet thunk onto the mattress.

Groaning, he blindly pats around for it, eyes still crusted shut from sleep.

When he finally blinks them open, he sees the last thing he remembers: your text. The text that ruined his entire night.

He slaps a hand over his face and drags it down slowly, mumbling, “I’m going to hell.”

But because he’s an idiot—an idiot in love—he still unlocks his phone, thumbs hovering nervously over the screen.

He needs to text you. Needs to act normal. Needs to pretend he didn’t almost cry last night over how fucking good it felt imagining you touching him.

He taps out a message, agonizing over every word:

[you]: good morning :) hope you slept well!

He stares at it for a second longer, wondering if he sounds too eager, then panics and deletes the smiley. Then retypes it. Then deletes it again.

Then sends it without the emoji because God forbid he looks like he’s about to propose or something.

He tosses his phone down and flops back against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the answers to his sins.

Not even ten seconds pass before his phone buzzes. Heart slamming against his ribs, he fumbles to read it:

[sweetheart 💖]: you too, toru. sweet dreams? ;)

He physically chokes. Coughs. Slaps his own chest like he’s trying to restart his heart.

“Sweet dreams—?” he sputters aloud, horrified, voice cracking. “SWEET—?”

The images from last night flash vividly in his mind: your lips, your breathy giggles, your hands sneaking lower—

He shoves his face into a pillow and screams.

When he finally peeks out, shame swirling in his gut, he types back with trembling hands:

[you]: sweetest dreams ever. totally normal. nothing weird about them at all.

And then he turns his phone face-down. Because he cannot. He cannot see what you’re going to reply.

He’s so down bad it's physically painful.

-

You stare at your phone, biting your lip to hold back a grin. 

Totally normal. Nothing weird about them at all.

Sure, Satoru. Sure.

You kick your feet a little under your blanket, giddy, heart thumping like crazy. You know exactly what you’re doing. You know exactly what you’re doing to him.

And you’re not done yet. You let him stew in his own panic for a few minutes—just to watch him suffer—before tapping out a reply:

[you]: sounds like someone’s overcompensating… ;)

You hit send and immediately burst into laughter, flopping back into your pillows. You can practically imagine him screaming into his hands right now, scrambling to figure out what to say without incriminating himself even more.

And because you’re a menace, you follow it up:

[you]: it’s okay, toru. you can dream about me whenever you want <3

There. You’ve officially ruined his whole morning.

You toss your phone aside and stretch, feeling like you just hit a home run. But then your phone buzzes again—multiple times—and you grab it, giggling.

First, from Satoru:

[toru 💙]: you’re evil. pure evil. i’m never sleeping again.

And then another, right after:

[toru 💙]: coffee today? my treat. i need to see your evil little face or i’m going to combust.

You roll over onto your stomach, kicking your legs up behind you, cheeks aching from smiling so hard.

Maybe you are evil. But god, it’s so fun when he’s this easy to tease.

You tap out your reply, heart light:

[you]: only if you promise not to die before you get here.

-

It doesn’t even take ten minutes before there’s a knock at your door. You blink in surprise—you hadn’t even changed yet.

Another knock, this time a little quicker, a little eager.

You pad over and crack the door open—and there he is.

Satoru, all messy hair, rumpled shirt, soft smile. Holding two coffees in his hands.

And looking at you like you hung the moon.

"Hi," he says, almost shyly. "Brought you a coffee."

You blink at him.

He fidgets, rocking on his heels. "I, uh... thought maybe we could, y'know, hang out a little. If you’re not busy."

Your heart melts a little at how hopeful he sounds.

"You’re impossible," you tease, swinging the door wider.

"And you're stuck with me," he chirps, stepping inside like he belongs there.

You take one of the coffees from him, fingers brushing, and he beams like you’ve just given him the greatest honor.

"Thanks," you say, smiling into your cup. "Even though you didn’t have to."

"I wanted to," he says simply, plopping onto your couch with zero hesitation. (And he leaves way too little space for you, thigh already brushing yours.)

You sit down beside him, your shoulders bumping. He hums under his breath, swinging his legs a little like a kid who’s gotten his favorite candy.

For a minute, it’s just the two of you, sipping coffee, the silence warm and comfortable.

And then, out of nowhere, he leans his head dramatically onto your shoulder.

You freeze for a second, heart skipping.

He sighs—loudly—against you. "You’re not gonna kick me out, right?"

You laugh, nudging him with your elbow. "Not if you behave."

"That’s asking for a lot," he grins, tilting his head up to look at you. His smile’s a little mischievous, a little boyish.

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your blush behind your coffee cup.

And because he’s shameless—and he knows he’s winning—he adds, voice low and teasing: "Maybe if you give me another goodbye kiss?"

You almost spill your coffee.

He sees it—the way your fingers fumble, the way your face flushes—and smirks.

"C'mon," he teases, nudging your knee with his. "Wasn't that bad of an idea, was it?"

You narrow your eyes at him, trying—failing—to fight your smile. "You," you say, poking his chest, "are way too full of yourself."

"And yet..." Satoru leans in, slow, eyes locked on yours. His voice drops to a whisper. "...you're not moving away."

Your breath catches. Because he's right—you’re not. If anything, you're leaning in too.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The room feels too quiet, too charged. You can hear his breathing, slow and steady, can feel the heat radiating off of him.

Satoru’s gaze drops to your mouth—and lingers there. "Can I?" he murmurs, so soft you almost don’t catch it.

Your heart thuds loud in your chest. You nod.

That’s all he needs.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he closes the gap, giving you every chance to pull away—but you don’t. You tilt your chin up, meeting him halfway.

When his lips finally brush yours, it’s gentle—barely a kiss, more like a breath, a promise.

You sigh against him, and that tiny sound seems to undo him. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss just slightly, just enough to taste you. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin so tenderly it makes your chest ache.

You kiss him back, slow and sweet, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.

It drags out—neither of you in any rush, savoring every second.

He kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops. And you kiss him like you’ve been waiting forever for this moment.

When you finally, reluctantly, pull apart, you're both breathless. He presses his forehead against yours, grinning like an idiot. "So..." he whispers, voice a little hoarse. "Can I stay a little longer?"

You pretend to think about it, biting your lip to hide your smile. "Maybe," you tease. "If you behave."

He groans, flopping dramatically onto your couch again, tugging you down with him so you land half-on top of him, laughing.

"Not a chance," he says happily.

You're warm against him, tucked into his side, your head resting on his shoulder like you belonged there. And for a moment, Satoru feels like the luckiest man alive.

Until his brain—traitorous, evil, rotten—reminds him.

Reminds him of how he spent last night fucking his fist like a deranged lunatic, thinking about you. Reminds him that you have no idea just how far gone he already is.

A quiet, horrified voice in his head: I'm a monster.

His throat goes dry.His hands twitch awkwardly where they rest on your waist, unsure if he should even be touching you like this—until you shift, just slightly, peeking up at him with this sleepy little smile.

And just like that, every coherent thought leaves him. All that's left is you.

"You're comfy," you mumble against him, snuggling closer.

Satoru lets out a weak, broken little laugh, hiding his burning face against your hair.

If you only knew. If you only knew what you did to him.

He doesn't know how long he sits there with you tucked into him, drinking in your warmth. He could stay like this forever, he thinks. Hell, he wants to.

But then his phone buzzes.

He barely registers it, ignoring it at first. Until it buzzes again. And again.

He groans, reluctant, fishing it out of his pocket while you shift sleepily against him. The screen flashes: a reminder for his evening tutoring session he totally, utterly forgot about. He slumps.

"Something wrong?" you ask, voice soft, blinking up at him.

"I gotta go," he mutters like he's being forced into exile.

You bite back a smile, stretching lazily. "Duty calls?"

"Yeah." He pouts, actually pouts. "Stupid duty."

You laugh under your breath, and it's so unfair how easily you knock the air out of his lungs without even trying.

He stands reluctantly, dragging his feet like a kid leaving recess early.

"Hey," you call out. "Aren’t you forgetting something?"

He turns around and blinks at you, confusion flickering across his face—but then you smile. Soft. Warm. Something just for him.

You step close, tiptoe a little to reach him. And Satoru swears, swears, his heart stumbles in his chest when you press a gentle kiss to his lips.

It's feather-light. Barely there. Sweet enough to make his knees almost buckle.

And when you pull back, a cheeky glint in your eye, he's just standing there. Frozen. Speechless. The stupidest grin pulling at his mouth.

"See you later, ’Toru," you say lightly, nudging him toward the door.

And all he can manage—voice cracking slightly, heart hammering out of his chest—is a dazed "Y-Yeah. Later."

You shut the door behind him with a little wave, and he stands there for a good ten seconds before he finally remembers how to move.

-

Class feels different today.

You’re hyper-aware of everything.

The way Satoru brushes his knee against yours under the table, all casual-like. The way his pinky keeps nudging yours on the desk until finally, finally, you relent and let your fingers curl around his. The way he keeps sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye—and every time you catch him, he just smiles, like he’s getting away with something.

It’s infuriating. It’s adorable. It’s Satoru.

You pretend to focus on the lecture. Really, you do. But it’s hard when you can feel the warmth of his hand ghosting over your thigh under the table, a barely-there touch that sends your heart skittering against your ribs.

By the time the professor starts wrapping up class, you’re halfway to combusting.

"Don’t forget," she says, tapping the whiteboard, "project updates are due next week."

You scribble the deadline in your notes, but Satoru’s already turning toward you, practically bouncing in his seat.

"Hey," he says, voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. "How about we work on it at my place today?"

You blink, startled. "Your place?"

He grins, bright and boyish. "Yeah! First time for everything, right?"

The way he says it—light, teasing, almost a little shy—makes something flutter wildly in your chest.

"It’ll be chill," he continues. "We can grab some snacks, order takeout, maybe actually get stuff done this time—"

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. "Are you actually suggesting a productive study session or trying to lure me into a trap?"

He gasps, hand clutching dramatically at his chest. "Me? Lure you? I’m offended." Then he drops the act, leaning in close, that mischievous spark lighting up his eyes. "But if you happen to end up in my lap or something, y’know... destiny."

You shove him lightly, cheeks warming. "God, you’re insufferable."

"Face it—you love this," he says, nudging your shoulder with his. 

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your head. Still...you find yourself smiling.

"Fine," you say, packing up your stuff. "But we’re actually working this time."

He pumps a fist in victory. "Yes! Bring that sexy brain of yours, princess. We’re gonna kill this project."

You throw a crumpled sticky note at him. He catches it midair, flashing a grin that practically glows.

-

You’re home, lounging on your bed, phone in hand.

The texting starts innocent enough.

[you]: what should I bring?

[toru 💙]: just that pretty little self of yours

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile.

[you]: be serious

[toru 💙]: i am. i’m dead serious. maybe a notebook too though lol

You roll your eyes, thumbs hovering over your screen. Before you can type anything else, another message pops up:

[toru 💙]: also… try not to look too pretty

[toru 💙]: kinda hard to focus when you’re around

You blink at the screen, heart skipping a beat. The sudden boldness makes you squirm a little under your covers.

Before you can even react, a third text follows:

[toru 💙]: here’s my address

A pinned location pops up. Followed by—

[toru 💙]: hurry over please

You stare at the messages, warmth blooming in your chest (and spreading lower, if you were honest).

You should probably be nervous. You should definitely be more cautious.

But all you do is grin, toss your phone onto the bed, and start getting ready.

-

You barely knock once before the door swings open.

And there he is.

Black tank top clinging to his chest, basketball shorts slung so low it should be illegal. Lean muscles on full display. Sleep-mussed white hair falling over his forehead.

You actually forget how to breathe. Your brain just... shuts down.

Satoru’s mouth twitches into a knowing smirk. He leans lazily against the doorframe, crossing his arms — muscles flexing, because of course they do — and tips his head at you.

“Well, well," he drawls, amusement dripping from every word. "Didn’t think you’d be that easy to stun."

You blink — once, twice — scrambling to find your voice. "I’m not stunned," you blurt out, way too fast to be convincing.

"Mhm," he hums, that smug little grin widening. "Sure. You just like standing on people's porches looking like you forgot your own name?"

You shove past him with a flustered scoff, cheeks burning. But you can feel his eyes trailing after you, slow and satisfied, as he shuts the door behind you.

"You didn’t tell me the dress code was..." you flounder, gesturing vaguely at his entire existence, "thirst trap casual."

"Aw, you think I’m a thirst trap?" he coos, stepping dangerously close — close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly.

"I think you’re an asshole," you snap — except your voice comes out all breathy, completely ruining the effect.

Satoru chuckles — a low, rich sound that vibrates all the way through you. "You can be honest, y'know. It's just us here." He leans down, dropping his voice into a whisper, "You like what you see."

You make a strangled noise in your throat and whirl around, pretending to inspect the living room like it's the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen. "Where’s your project stuff?" you demand, heart thundering against your ribs.

"Wow," he says behind you, tone all fake-hurt. "Use me for my brain and ditch me for my abs. Brutal."

"You have a brain?" you retort, finally finding a shred of composure.

He laughs again — easy, bright — and brushes past you, the barest graze of his arm against yours sending your nerves into a frenzy.

"Come on, nerd," he calls over his shoulder, tossing a wink at you that almost knocks you off your feet. "Project’s not gonna finish itself."

You huff, yanking your notebook out of your bag to try and hide the stupid, giddy smile pulling at your lips.

You’re just barely settled on the couch, notebook balanced on your lap, when Satoru stretches — arms over his head, tank top riding up dangerously — and says, “Actually... we’ll have more space in my room."

You blink at him, heart skipping a beat. "Your room?" you repeat, raising an eyebrow.

He flashes a wide, shit-eating grin. "Yeah. Bigger desk. Better lighting."

You narrow your eyes, pretending to be skeptical. "Oh? Already trying to get me in bed?"

Satoru stops dead in his tracks — but only for half a second. Then he tosses a look over his shoulder, cocky and wicked. "Don’t give me ideas," he says, voice low and playful.

Your cheeks burn so hot you’re surprised you don’t spontaneously combust. But you’re stubborn — so you just huff and follow him anyway, ignoring the smug little chuckle he lets out as he leads you down the hall. And then you step into his room — and freeze.

Because it’s... it’s not what you expect. Sure, it’s a little messy — loose clothes on a chair, half-done laundry — but what really grabs your attention is the shelf. More specifically: the shelf packed with colorful little figures. Posters. Framed prints. All of it instantly recognizable.

"...Is that—" you start, pointing.

"Digimon," Satoru says immediately, like he's bracing himself for judgment.

You stare. You blink. And then — you laugh. Loud, bright, uncontrollable.

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "I knew it. I knew you were gonna make fun of me."

You grin at him, unrepentant. "You? Cool, confident, six-foot-whatever Gojo Satoru... secret Digimon stan? Oh, this is gold."

"It’s not secret," he grumbles, crossing his arms like a petulant kid. "Digimon’s fucking awesome. Better than Pokémon. Better story arcs, deeper characters—"

"You sound so defensive," you giggle, stepping closer to inspect a particularly adorable stuffed Agumon perched on his bed.

He steps up beside you, bumping your shoulder lightly with his and picks up the plushie to toss it somewhere else. "You're lucky you're cute," he mutters, mock-threatening, "or I’d kick you out right now."

You bite back a smile, feeling that fluttery, giddy warmth bloom in your chest again. Because for all his teasing, all his cocky bravado — there’s something painfully endearing about how unapologetically himself he is. No hiding. No shame. Just... Satoru.

"You’re such a nerd," you say fondly.

Satoru smirks, eyes glinting mischievously. "Yeah? Still think I’m a thirst trap though?"

You sputter, flustered all over again — and he cackles, so pleased with himself it’s criminal.

God. You are so screwed.

You perch awkwardly on the edge of his bed, notebook in your lap again, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of how huge his bed is, how close he is, how the mattress dips slightly under his weight when he flops down next to you.

"Alright," he says, stretching lazily, flashing a sliver of toned stomach again. "Serious time. Project planning. Let's go."

You nod, throat a little dry. "Serious," you echo, flipping open the notebook. "No distractions."

"None whatsoever," he agrees solemnly.

You start brainstorming, scribbling notes in the margins, muttering ideas under your breath. For a few minutes, everything’s fine. Normal. Until you feel it — the slight brush of his knee against yours. At first, you think it’s an accident. You shift slightly to the side.

But then it happens again. And again.

And then — Satoru leans closer, peering over your shoulder, his breath warm against your cheek. His hand rests casually on the bed behind you, fingers curling ever so slightly around the edge of your shirt.

You pretend to ignore it. Pretend so hard it almost works.

But then he hums low in his throat — a thoughtful, lazy little sound — and lets his hand slide up, fingers brushing lightly against your lower back, and your entire body tenses.

"'Toru..." you murmur, trying for stern, but it comes out way too breathy. You don’t even look at him — you can’t — because you already know what you’ll find: those blue eyes, lazy and half-lidded, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Focus," you manage, tapping the notebook for emphasis.

He leans in, so close his nose almost brushes your temple, and murmurs in a voice so low it makes your stomach flip:

"You make it hard to."

His hand is bold now — fingers tracing slow, idle patterns over the dip of your waist, so gentle it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. Your breath stutters in your throat. You feel your heart hammer against your ribs.

You finally — finally — dare a glance at him.

And he’s looking at you like he’s starving.

For you.

The tension is a physical thing now, heavy and thick in the air between you. You swear you can hear the blood rushing in your ears.

"...You're unbelievable," you whisper, the notebook slipping from your fingers.

His smirk deepens, shameless. "You like it."

God help you — you do.

You scramble, trying desperately to recover your sanity, to remember why you’re even here in the first place. The project. The project, dammit.

You slap your palm over the notebook, pushing it toward him. "W-We should really— really focus," you stammer, voice wobbling embarrassingly.

He just grins, slow and easy, that grin that makes you forget your own name.

"I am focused," he says, voice dropping into that low, teasing rasp. "Focused on you."

And before you can react, he shifts — the bed dipping under his weight as he gently crowds into your space.

Your breath catches.

He cages you in with a hand planted firm beside your hip, his other hand curling loosely around your wrist like he’s giving you the option to pull away — like he’s daring you to.

You don’t. You can’t.

You’re frozen, wide-eyed, heart thudding like crazy.

His forehead presses lightly to yours, and you feel the whisper of his breath against your lips.

"You drive me crazy, y'know that?" he murmurs, voice impossibly soft. Every word vibrates through you.

You open your mouth — to say what, you’re not sure — but no sound comes out. You’re too busy trying not to melt.

And then he moves. Sudden but gentle, he presses you down against the mattress, his body hovering above yours, careful not to crush you.

Your hands instinctively fly up to his chest — oh, God his chest — and you feel the steady pound of his heartbeat under your palms.

He’s close now, so close you can see every detail of his face — the slight pink flush on his cheeks, the playful crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way his pupils are blown wide with something between affection and hunger.

"You’re so cute when you're flustered," he teases, and you want to hate him for it, you really do.

But you don’t. You can't.

Instead, you fist your hands in the soft fabric of his shirt and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will your racing pulse back to normal.

He chuckles, low and smug. Then — so lightly you almost think you imagined it — he brushes his nose along the side of your jaw, breathing you in.

"You’re killing me," he whispers.

You whimper — actual, real, humiliating whimper — and he grins.

But he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

He just stays there, letting the tension thicken, letting you squirm, savoring it.

It’s agony. It’s perfect.

You feel it — the exact moment his lips almost touch yours.

It’s a whisper of a moment, barely-there, the ghost of contact that makes your whole body tense up in anticipation.

He’s so close. So close you can taste the heat radiating off him, the sweet, addictive scent of his cologne, the lazy tilt of his grin as he leans in—

And that’s when you snap out of it.

At the very last second, you slip a hand between your bodies, planting your palm firmly against his chest to stop him.

His eyes fly open, confused, slightly wild.

You smile — sweet, smug — up at him.

"Uh-uh," you say, your voice still a little breathless but steady enough to make him narrow his eyes suspiciously. "Project first."

The sheer betrayal on his face.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he groans, dropping his forehead dramatically onto your shoulder like you just mortally wounded him. "I was so close, baby, c'mon—"

You cackle. Gojo finds it beautiful.

He lifts his head, leveling you with the most pathetic pout you’ve ever seen. "You're evil," he accuses.

You just wiggle your eyebrows at him, smirking. "Should've thought about that before trying to seduce me in broad daylight, Gojo."

He collapses beside you with a dramatic huff, flopping back against the bed like his soul has been snatched from his body.

"It’s almost 7. Unbelievable," he mutters. "This is harassment. I should sue."

You reach over, patting his chest twice, condescending and sweet. "There, there."

He turns his head, glaring at you — but the slight twitch of his lips gives him away.

"You owe me later," he says, pointing a finger at you like a solemn oath.

You hum, pretending to think it over, before shooting him a wicked little grin. "We'll see if you're good."

His groan is loud enough to rattle the bed.

You're absolutely thriving.

You’re trying so hard to focus. You really are. Project notes scattered across the bed, laptop open, a half-written paragraph blinking at you like it's taunting your lack of progress.

And then—

"Break time!" Satoru declares, already tugging you off the bed by your wrist before you can even protest.

You stumble after him, laughing breathlessly. "Satoru, we barely got anything done!"

"Exactly why we need a break," he grins, dragging you toward the kitchen like a man on a mission. "You’ll thank me later."

You roll your eyes but let him haul you along, too curious (and maybe a little too charmed) to resist.

He lets go of your hand once you reach the kitchen and dramatically cracks his knuckles, looking far too proud of himself.

"Watch and learn, sweetheart," he says, shooting you a wink. "You're in the presence of greatness."

You snort, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter. "Oh yeah? You gonna burn the house down, master chef?"

He gasps — actually gasps — clutching his chest like you mortally wounded him. "You wound me."

You just laugh, watching as he rummages through the fridge with entirely too much flair, pulling out random ingredients and setting them on the counter.

"You're literally just making instant ramen," you point out dryly, but there's a smile tugging at your lips.

"Gourmet instant ramen," he corrects, wagging a finger at you. "With egg. And scallions. And a lil’ bit of love."

He tosses you another wink and you lose it, doubling over in silent laughter.

You lean back against the counter, arms folded, trying — and failing — to look unimpressed as he hums to himself, clattering pots around. He’s in a black tank top and low-hanging shorts, muscles flexing casually with every movement, hair messy from dragging his hands through it.

And it’s... distracting. Way too distracting.

Especially when he starts cracking an egg one-handed like a cocky asshole.

"Show-off," you mutter under your breath.

"Don’t act like you’re not impressed," he sing-songs, peeking at you from under snowy lashes, smug as hell.

You flip him off lazily. He just grins wider.

The kitchen fills with the scent of broth and spices, steam curling in the air. He moves with this effortless, chaotic sort of confidence — a little reckless, a little messy — but somehow everything comes together perfectly.

When he turns to you again, ramen bowl in hand, he looks so goddamn pleased with himself you want to laugh.

"See?" he says, stepping closer. "I'm basically husband material."

You tilt your head, raising a brow. "You make instant noodles and think you deserve a ring?"

"Handmade. Special edition. Enhanced with love." He winks, holding up the bowl like an offering. "You should be honored."

And even though you roll your eyes, you can't help the smile tugging at your lips — can't help the way your stomach flips stupidly as he steps even closer, towering over you with that lazy, confident grin.

-

You set the now-empty bowl down on the counter, nudging him with your elbow. "Since you whipped up such a gourmet meal, I guess the least I can do is the dishes."

Satoru leans back against the counter, grinning so wide it's almost embarrassing. "You spoil me."

You roll your eyes but start gathering up the dishes anyway, rinsing them under the tap. The warm water and simple task are oddly comforting, your movements easy, natural.

And from behind you, you can feel it — his gaze, warm and heavy, drinking you in like he's memorizing this moment.

Before you can even finish rinsing the second bowl, you feel him — long arms sliding around your waist, pulling you back into him, chest pressed against your back.

You huff a soft laugh, not bothering to fight it. "Needy much?"

He just hums, nose nudging into the crook of your neck, his hair tickling your skin. "You smell good," he mumbles, voice low and content.

"Why, thank you," you say, but it’s half a smile.

"I could get used to this," he murmurs, squeezing you a little tighter.

You finish up the dishes like that — his arms around you, his weight solid and comforting at your back, his soft little praises murmured into your ear in between.

"You're pretty," he says at one point, completely unprompted. "So pretty I don't know how I'm supposed to concentrate when you're around."

You duck your head, smiling to yourself, feeling your cheeks burn.

When you finally dry your hands and turn around to face him, he's already looking down at you with stars in his eyes, a little breathless like he can't believe you're real.

You loop your arms around his neck without thinking, tugging him a little closer, and he leans into it easily, lazily, like he's been waiting for this exact moment. "Can I kiss you yet?" he asks, grinning like an idiot, voice all hopeful and teasing.

You laugh, soft and fond, brushing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "Sure, loverboy."

And he doesn't waste a second — swooping down to finally, finally claim your lips in a kiss that's sweet and warm and a little clumsy with excitement, like he just can’t hold it in anymore.

The moment your lips meet, it’s like something clicks into place.

At first, it’s a gentle brush of mouths, shy and smiling. He kisses you once, then twice, like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. But then you tilt your head just a little, arms tightening around his neck, and he groans — a low, helpless sound that rumbles against your chest.

And just like that, the kiss deepens.

His hands, which had been resting innocently at your waist, slide down — gripping your hips with a little more urgency, pulling you flush against him. You gasp softly into his mouth, and he takes full advantage, slotting his mouth over yours in a way that leaves your knees just barely holding you up. You feel it when his fingers flex, pressing you closer, when his body shudders lightly against yours.

God, he’s starving for you. You can feel it in the way he kisses — slow but hungry, like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.

When he pulls back for just a breath, his forehead presses to yours, and his voice is ragged, wrecked. "You’re gonna kill me," he whispers, before diving back in, more desperate this time.

You whimper into his mouth without meaning to, clutching at the front of his shirt, feeling the heat of him seeping into your palms.

Satoru groans again, hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your shirt, skin to skin.

It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s slow — simmering — like he’s savoring every second, like he wants this moment to stretch on forever.

And it’s only when his teeth gently tug at your bottom lip — when your breathing turns shallow and desperate against each other — that you finally, finally break away.

Both of you stand there for a second, breathing hard, faces flushed.

You feel dizzy. He looks completely wrecked.

You’re both breathless when you pull apart, foreheads resting together, lips tingling.

Satoru’s hands are still on your waist, holding you close like he’s not ready to let go. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours — shallow, like he’s trying to calm himself down.

He gives a short, breathy laugh. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You smile, dazed. “Pretty sure that’s mutual.”

There’s a beat of silence — heavy with everything unsaid — before he leans in again.

Hungrier. Rougher. Like he’s been holding back all night and can’t anymore. His mouth moves over yours with unfiltered need, hands pulling you closer like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You make a soft noise into his mouth, and it only spurs him on. The way he kisses you — it’s not perfect. It’s messy and fast and desperate, teeth catching on your lower lip, hands gripping tight like he’s scared you’ll slip away.

Your fingers wind into the fabric of his tank top, pulling him even closer until you’re practically wrapped around him.

He breaks the kiss just barely, lips brushing yours as he breathes out, “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You shake your head. “It’s not. I—” You swallow. “I want this. You.”

His expression softens for a split second before that heat comes rushing back. His mouth is back on yours, slower this time but no less intense — like he’s trying to memorize how you taste.

When his hand slips under your shirt and settles on the small of your back, warm and firm, you shiver.

He kisses you like he means it. Like he feels it.

And when you finally pull back again, breathless and flushed, he just smiles — eyes glassy, voice low.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s kissing you again.

No warning, no hesitation — just the searing press of his mouth against yours like he’s starving for it. Like he needs more. And you give in without thinking, letting him pull you closer until there’s not a sliver of space left between your bodies.

His hands are on your waist, fingers tightening like he’s trying to anchor himself. And when your hands slide up his chest, over those broad shoulders, he groans into your mouth — low and wrecked.

It’s dizzying, the way he kisses you. Every time you think he’ll stop, he comes back for more — messier, deeper, rougher. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his lips trail down to your jaw, then your neck, slow and hot and reverent.

And then suddenly, he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.

His voice is breathless, raw. “Hold on.”

Before you can ask what he means, he lifts you — effortlessly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You let out a startled gasp, arms wrapping around his neck as he carries you through the apartment. Your heart’s hammering so hard you’re sure he can feel it.

He’s grinning now, cocky and breathless all at once. “I warned you I’m husband material.”

“Shut up,” you mutter against his neck, flustered beyond reason.

But there’s no hiding the way your legs tighten around his waist.

He nudges his bedroom door open with his foot, stepping inside, and the second you’re both in, he sets you down gently. And just like that, he’s on you again — kissing you like he’s waited his whole life for this.

His mouth is still on yours when he shifts forward, slowly pressing you back until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You stumble slightly, gripping his arms for balance—and the second your weight tips back, he goes with you.

The two of you collapse onto the mattress in a tangled mess of limbs and breathless laughter, but he’s quick to recover. Quick to pin you there beneath him, hands braced on either side of your head, his hips snug between your thighs.

He looks down at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

And then that glint returns—dangerous and wicked and so unlike the stammering nerd you met on day one.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes, voice low and rough in your ear.

You shiver.

His lips find the side of your neck again, and this time they don’t linger—they devour. Hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your back arch, that pull quiet, helpless sounds from your throat. His hands wander too, slow at first, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, every line and dip he can find.

You reach for him, needing more—but he grabs your wrists, pins them gently above your head with one hand.

“Nuh-uh,” he smirks. “I’m in charge now.”

You’re just about to sass him when he dips down again, this time trailing kisses down your collarbone. Then lower. He peppers slow, aching kisses across your chest, teasing the hem of your top with his free hand.

And then he sits up, straddling your hips, eyes practically burning.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks, and it’s a loaded question.

You nod.

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I jacked off to the thought of you the other night.”

Your breath catches—your whole body burns.

“After that text you sent,” he goes on, voice like velvet laced with sin. “You have no idea what you did to me. I read it once and couldn’t stop imagining it. You—whispering in my ear like that, all sweet and smug and filthy.”

He moves again, kisses dragging hot and slow down the slope of your neck, and then your chest, until he’s tugging your shirt up and over your head.

“I was in bed,” he murmurs. “One hand on my phone. The other…” He lets the implication hang, but his hand slips down your thigh, then up again, teasing, until your breath comes in sharp gasps.

“I was thinking about you,” he says. “About your voice. About what you’d look like straddling me, telling me what you wanted while I fucked up into you so slow.”

Your hips buck at that—and god, the smirk that pulls at his lips should be illegal.

He starts undressing you slowly, worshipping, like every piece he reveals is a treasure.  “I need you,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse, eyes searching yours like he needs you to understand. 

The kiss that follows is devastating—open-mouthed and hungry, a collision of breath and teeth and need. You’re clawing at his clothes like they personally offended you, yanking at the hem of his shirt with fumbling fingers and a frustrated groan.

“Off,” you hiss against his lips.

He laughs, breathless, tugging it over his head and tossing it aside, revealing smooth skin and defined muscle, the dip of his waist disappearing into those loose shorts you suddenly despise.

You push at them with impatient hands, and he grins—cocky, flushed, wrecked and loving every second of it. “Desperate, huh?” he teases, voice still husky from the kiss.

“You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, dragging your nails down his sides. “You’re not exactly subtle, loverboy.”

He’s all hands again then—roaming your body, trailing heat in their wake as he presses you down into the bed, lips never far from your skin. Every motion is frantic and reverent all at once, like he’s starving but determined to savor every inch of you.

You push at his chest gently, and he lets you, eyebrows raised in surprise as his back hits the mattress.

“Oh?” he breathes, propping himself up on his elbows. “Taking control now?”

“Didn’t you say I killed you the other night?” you murmur, crawling between his legs with a sly smile. “Figured I should finish the job.”

His eyes darken immediately—heat blooming in them so fast it’s dizzying. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You do—because the second your hands slide up his thighs, he’s already sucking in a breath, already biting back a groan. His abs tense under your touch, his head tipping back as he watches you through lidded eyes, gaze glazed over with anticipation.

“You been thinking about this, ’Toru?” you ask softly, dragging your nails lightly along the waistband of his shorts.

He swallows thickly. “Every night.”

And when you finally tug his waistband down, your breath catches.

He's thick, long and heavy, flushed a pretty pink at the tip, and already straining toward you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever. Your mouth parts without thinking. You don’t even realize you’re staring until he lets out a shaky, nervous laugh. Your hands wrap around him and his hips instinctively buck upwards.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” he mutters, voice gravelly.

He’s already gone—chest rising and falling in short, sharp breaths. His hands clutch the sheets when you lean in, letting your tongue flick across the swollen head, tasting him. 

“Oh fuck—”

You take your time. You don’t give him all of it, not yet. You swirl your tongue around the tip, teasing the slit until he hisses between clenched teeth. He jolts when you lick a slow stripe along the underside, right at the base where it’s most sensitive, your fingers cradling him, gentle and thorough.

He groans—loud and raw—and you feel his hands fist the sheets tighter.

“You’re killing me,” he pants, head tipping back, voice nearly wrecked.

And still, you don’t rush. You bob your head slowly, steadily, sinking down deeper with each pass until his abs tighten and he moans—loud, desperate. You feel him twitch on your tongue, hear the soft, breathy curse that falls from his lips as you wrap your hand around him and roll your wrist just right. You squeeze his balls and he nearly sobs.

You glance up through your lashes, and the sight of him—head tossed back, jaw clenched, face flushed, his entire body shaking with restraint—is seared into your memory.

You don’t take your eyes off him, not even as you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper. He’s so close—you can feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way his breath stutters, the broken sound he makes when you moan around him.

“Fuck—baby, I’m gonna—”

You don’t stop. You want it. Want to see him fall apart. And he does, with a choked groan that rips out of his chest as he spills into your mouth, hot and thick. His hand flies to your hair, not to pull you away—but to keep you there, his hips giving the slightest jerk as he rides it out. You swallow it all only pulling off when he starts to twitch. And when you finally draw back, lips slick and chin damp, he looks completely undone. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, dazed. 

You just smile sweetly and wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb.

He’s still catching his breath when you go to pull back fully, smug and satisfied. “Mm-hm,” he hums, voice rough and curling with mischief. His hand catches your wrist, firm but gentle. “My turn, sweetheart.”

You blink. “Oh?”

Before you can tease him back, he moves—effortlessly. One arm wraps around your waist, the other plants on the bed, and in a single fluid motion he’s pulling you up, flipping you like you weigh nothing and settling you inches away from his face. You squeak—actually squeak—as your knees plant on either side of his head.

“Satoru—”

“Shh.” He grins, that ridiculous confident smirk plastered across his flushed face. “Sit, baby. Be good for me.”

He gives your ass a squeeze, encouraging, eyes gleaming up at you. You hesitate for half a second and he adds, voice dipped low and sinfully sweet,

“You got to have your fun.”

Then he pulls you down.

His mouth is on you immediately—hot and unrelenting. Tongue flicking, lips sealing around your clit as he groans like you taste better than anything he’s ever had. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh, holding you there like he’s starving and you’re the feast. And when your hips twitch, instinctively trying to lift off—he drags you right back down.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, voice muffled and vibrating through your core, “I said sit.”

You’re braced against the headboard now, knees shaking, thighs clenched tight around his head as you grind down—slow at first, then faster, chasing that high with ragged breath and trembling limbs.

He’s not just letting you. He’s encouraging it.

Big hands grope your ass, fingers digging in, guiding you against his mouth like he wants you to lose it. His tongue moves with practiced precision, sucking and flicking, drawing soft whimpers and broken gasps from your lips as your body arches.

You glance down again and the sight nearly finishes you—his eyes half-lidded and dazed, cheeks flushed, hair a total mess from how many times you’ve tugged on it.

He looks wrecked. But he’s moaning like he’s in heaven. Like this is exactly where he wants to be.

And then he says it—muffled, half-choked, voice thick with lust and absolutely feral. “So fucking sweet.”

You grind harder, hips rolling, and he groans into you.

He doesn’t care if he can’t breathe. Doesn’t care if he’s dizzy. Doesn’t care if you’re seconds from suffocating him. He’s already decided this is how he wants to go out.

Buried between your thighs, mouth full of you, hands holding you down like you’re sacred.

And when you finally break—back arching, eyes fluttering shut, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm crashes through you—he doesn’t stop. Not for a second.

He rides it out with you, tongue still moving, swallowing every sound you make.

When he finally lets go you collapse beside him, completely spent, your body still trembling in the aftermath. Your cheek presses into the pillow, breath catching in your throat as you try to come back to yourself. Satoru shifts next to you, propping himself up on one elbow. He brushes your hair back gently, eyes soft, and asks quietly,

“You okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah. Just—holy shit.”

He huffs a small laugh and leans down to kiss your shoulder, warm and unhurried. “Good.”

You feel him watching you for a second longer, like he’s making sure you’re really alright. You stretch out, boneless and warm, assuming this is the part where you both wind down.

But then his hand slides down your back.

You feel him shift behind you, and when you glance over your shoulder, his expression’s changed. Still gentle—but focused. Hungrier.

“You done?” he asks softly, voice right at your ear now.

You blink. “I… thought we were.”

He smiles, and it’s a little crooked, a little smug—but not cocky. Just him.

“Not even close.”

Before you can respond, his hands are on your hips, guiding you forward. You let him, moving onto your knees again, bracing your hands against the headboard as the mattress shifts beneath you. He settles behind you slowly, fingers trailing up your sides. The air changes—more intimate now, more intense.

“You okay like this?” he murmurs.

You nod.

“Good.” He kisses the back of your neck. “Hold on to something.”

He settles behind you again, one hand steady on your hip, the other guiding himself down. You feel the slow drag of him through your folds—warm, thick, and deliberate. You suck in a breath, hips twitching slightly. But he doesn’t press in. Just rocks forward enough to slide himself through you again. And again.

Your fingers curl tighter around the headboard. “…Satoru,” you breathe.

“Mhm?” His voice is low, calm. Way too calm for what he’s doing.

You try to push back into him, but he keeps you where he wants you—just a firm, gentle grip at your hip keeping you still.

He’s quiet for a moment. You glance over your shoulder and catch the look on his face: focused, a little tense, clearly feeling it—but taking his time anyway.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you mutter.

A breath of a laugh leaves him. “Yeah. Kind of.”

Your forehead drops forward. “’Toru…”

He groans softly—just a little, like he’s trying not to—but doesn’t stop. Just drags himself over you again, slower now. “God, you feel good,” he mutters. “I just… give me a second.”

You shift again, needy and frustrated, and he finally stills behind you, tip resting right where you want him. You both freeze.

“…You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod, exhaling hard. “Please.”

There’s a beat. And then he leans forward, lips brushing your shoulder, voice quiet and serious against your skin. “Yeah. I got you. Just spread ‘em a bit for me… yeah, that’s it.”

He eases in with that first, deep stroke—slow enough to feel every inch of him push through your walls. The stretch burns just a little, but the heat in your core blooms even hotter. He’s thick, heavy, and you feel every vein drag along your inner walls, textured and pulsing, making your whole body clench around him without thinking.

Behind you, Satoru groans—low and raw, like it’s dragging out of his chest. “God… you feel unreal,” he mutters, breath shaky.

He holds still once he’s fully inside, his hips pressed against the swell of your ass, his hand flexing on your waist like he’s trying not to move too fast. His cock twitches inside you and you gasp at how full you feel—your body stretched and throbbing around him, nerves lighting up from the inside out.

“Okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing the back of your shoulder.

You nod, voice barely there. “Yeah. Just—fuck, Satoru.”

He pulls out slow, almost all the way, and you feel every ridge of him drag against your soaked walls. Then he sinks back in with a soft grunt, and you swear you feel him throb again—your body squeezing around him on instinct.

The pace he sets is slow but deep, grinding into you just right, the friction steady and maddening. Your thighs are trembling already, your hands gripping the headboard like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Every time he pushes in, his cock presses against that spongy spot deep inside you, and every time he pulls out, it’s this slow, deliberate scrape that leaves you gasping. There’s no space left between you—just wet heat and tension, pressure building with every stroke.

And then—his hand moves. Slides down from your waist, slipping between your legs, fingers finding your clit with no hesitation. The first pass is light, almost teasing.

You jolt. “Satoru—!”

“I got you,” he says quietly, like a promise. His thumb circles you, slow and tight, while his other hand braces your hip steady against him. And all the while, he keeps fucking into you—deeper now, rhythm starting to slip, strokes a little rougher, his breath coming harder against your skin.

“You feel so good around me,” he murmurs, thumb pressing down just a little harder. “So warm. So tight. You keep squeezing me like that, baby—fuck.”

Your whole body is shaking now, moaning helplessly as his fingers keep working your clit, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. Every stroke is slick, deep, devastating. You can hear the wet sounds of him sliding in and out of you, the soft slap of skin, his strained breathing—your own whimpers growing louder with every thrust.

The pressure builds sharp and fast, your body locking up as your orgasm crashes toward you—

And Satoru’s still going. Still thumbing your clit, still grinding his cock into you like he can’t get enough.

Your body tightens around him without warning, breath catching as the pleasure crests—sharp, blinding, unstoppable. You cry out, head dropping as your orgasm rips through you, muscles clenching so hard around his cock that it knocks the air out of both of you.

“Oh my—fuck, that’s it—” Satoru groans, stuttering inside you as your walls flutter and squeeze around him.

You’re still shaking, coming down from the high, when he slows—lets you ride it out, then carefully pulls out, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. You barely have time to blink before he’s flipping you onto your back like you weigh nothing.

He spreads your thighs open, throws your legs over his shoulders, and lines himself up again with a low, strained breath. His eyes meet yours—still soft, but blown wide, jaw tight with restraint. There’s nothing teasing left in him now.

He doesn’t ask this time. Doesn’t wait. He thrusts back in hard—deep—and keeps going.

No more slow buildup. No more holding back. Just relentless, steady drive—his hips snapping into yours over and over, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the room.

You gasp, fingers flying to his forearms as he leans over you, caging you in. His pace is brutal now, almost punishing, but it never stops feeling good—the angle perfect, the pressure hitting deep with every stroke.

“Satoru—” you sob, voice cracking.

He groans through gritted teeth, muscles tense, hips moving like he’s possessed. “You’re so—fucking—tight.”

You can barely think. Your legs tremble over his shoulders, body arching with every thrust, your orgasm still making aftershocks ripple through you.

He reaches down between you again, hand slipping to your clit like it’s second nature—his thumb moving in tight, fast circles that make your back arch off the bed. “You gonna give me another one?” he pants, voice rough and shaking. “Come on, sweetheart—I know you can.”

You don’t even answer. You can’t. The pressure’s already building again—too fast, too much, your body barely holding on as he keeps fucking into you like he’s been waiting for this all night.

You feel him twitch inside you, hear his breathing hitch—but he still doesn’t come. He’s chasing you again, driving into you like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

You don’t know how he keeps going like this. His pace is ruthless, hips pistoning into you like he’s been starving for it—but it’s the focus that kills you. He’s watching every twitch in your body, every gasp, every time your walls flutter around him like he’s memorizing it.

Then he shifts—leans in until your knees are almost pinned to your chest, folding you in half under him. The new angle makes you cry out, his cock hitting impossibly deep, your body arching beneath the weight of him. “You feel that?” he breathes, voice rough and close to a growl now. “So deep inside you, baby. Just like this.”

And then—his mouth is on your chest. You gasp when he takes your nipple between his lips, tongue circling, sucking slow and steady while his hips never stop. The hot pull of his mouth makes your toes curl, especially when his free hand moves to palm your other breast—thumb brushing over the sensitive peak, fingers squeezing just enough to make you whimper.

It’s too much. You’re overstimulated—his cock still driving into you, thumb still tight and unrelenting on your clit, his mouth sucking, teasing, biting gently down before soothing with his tongue.

Pleasure spikes sharp and fast, and it’s not building—it’s crashing. Your entire body locks up as the heat inside you explodes again, white-hot and shattering, a sob wrenching out of your throat. “Fuck—Satoru—!” Your cunt clenches tight around him, waves of pleasure ripping through you, and he feels it. You feel him falter, his rhythm breaking as he groans like you’ve just knocked the wind out of him.

“Shit—fuck—fuck, I’m—,” he doesn’t even finish the sentence before he’s coming too, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a choked moan. You can feel him pulsing deep inside, every twitch of his cock matching the aftershocks still tearing through you.

He holds you tight through it, arms wrapped around your back, forehead pressed to your shoulder as you both shake through the comedown—nothing but breathless curses filling the room.

You don’t even realize your eyes have fluttered shut until you feel him shift, just a gentle repositioning of his weight as he carefully pulls out—slow, like he doesn’t want to hurt you. You wince, breath catching at the sting, and immediately his voice is there, low and warm in your ear. “Hey, you with me?”

You nod faintly, your body boneless, brain melted, heart still pounding. He kisses your shoulder—once, twice—and gently lowers your legs from where they’re still draped over him, massaging your thighs like he knows they’re trembling.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right back, yeah? Don’t move.”

You can’t even laugh at that. He gets up anyway, grabbing the closest towel and heading to the bathroom, still totally naked, completely unbothered. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror across the room—hair a mess, chest flushed, thighs shaking—and you groan, flopping back against the sheets.

By the time he returns, you’re still half out of it, and he just smiles, fond and lazy as he nudges your legs apart again. “Easy,” he whispers, wiping you down gently, taking his time like you’re made of glass now. “You did so good for me, baby. So fucking good.”

You sigh as he finishes, and the second he’s done, he tosses the towel and climbs back into bed with you—pulling you against his chest, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s anchoring himself. You melt into him, cheek pressed against his collarbone and he grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

A pause. Then—“You’re unreal, you know that?” he murmurs. “I mean, I already knew, but—Jesus.”

You roll your eyes, lips twitching. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I made you come so hard you forgot your own name.”

“Sweetheart,” he says solemnly, “Don’t be mean.”

You laugh—tired, soft—and he smiles at the sound.

Then quieter: “You’re incredible.” He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead.

You bury your face in his chest, heart warm and too full. “Stop being sweet,” you mumble.

“Never.” He grins.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just breathe—slow and steady—as his hand runs gently along your back, grounding you. The room’s quiet now, save for the soft hum of the city outside the window, and the faint rustle of sheets as you both settle into the aftermath. He shifts just enough to pull the blanket higher over the two of you, tucking you in without saying a word.

Your eyes are heavy, but you blink them open to look at him. He’s already watching you—messy hair, flushed cheeks, the ghost of a smile on his lips like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“What?” you murmur, voice rough with sleep.

He shrugs a little, eyes soft. “Nothing. Just… you’re kinda perfect, y’know?”

You snort under your breath, too tired to fight it. “Don’t start.”

He chuckles, nose brushing your hair as he tucks you in closer. “I won’t. Promise.”

There’s a pause, just the two of you breathing in sync, his thumb stroking slow circles into your hip. “Stay here tonight,” he whispers.

“But ’Toru… we have class tomorrow.”

He groans dramatically into your skin. “Let’s bunk.”

You snort. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s the right answer every time.” He lifts his head enough to look at you, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes still heavy-lidded but shamelessly clingy. “C’mon. It’s late. Just stay.”

You hesitate, even though you’re already leaning toward yes. He catches that and nudges his knee between yours, coaxing you closer.

“I’ll set an alarm,” he adds. “You can wear one of my shirts. I’ll even make you coffee in the morning.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think I had to.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already settling in again, your cheek resting over his heartbeat. “Fine,” you murmur. “But if we oversleep, I’m blaming you.”

He hums, content. “That’s fair.”

So you stay like that—comfortable and a little too in love to care about anything. And with Satoru’s arms around you—his breath steady against your skin, his presence anchoring you—you drift off. No words needed. Just safe. Just held.

Perfect.

author's note. whoever started the nerdjo agenda, i owe you my firstborn child

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

[thebarneschronicles]

Nine Lives

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 9.4k

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.

You can keep pretending. Keep fighting him. But Bucky isn’t one to back down—especially when he knows you don’t really want him to.

Trigger Warnings: Bullet wounds, unprotect sex (wrap it before you tap it!), p in v, dirty talk, BUCKY BARNES (he needs his own warning)

Author’s Note: I had been tinkering with a few scenes in this and the Thunderbolts trailer made me finish it. Hope you like it! B x

-- Bucky Barnes was going to be the death of you.

Whether it was because he got on your last nerve or because you were desperately, irrevocably, undeniably in love with him—either way, he’d be the reason your heart stopped beating.

And honestly? It might happen in the next five minutes. Because God help you, the man was insufferable.

The room smelled like burnt coffee and bad decisions.

Sam stood at the front, gesturing at a holographic map as he laid out the mission plan, his voice steady and patient—too patient, the way a parent speaks when they know their kids are about to cause problems.

You were paying attention. You really were. But out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky leaning against the wall, arms crossed– and looking bored out of his mind.

Every once in a while, he flicked his gaze to you, not saying anything. Just watching.

And you knew that look. That I’m about to do something reckless and you’re going to yell at me for it look.

You gritted your teeth.

“—we’ll go in through the east entrance,” Sam continued, pointing at the building layout. “Stealth is key. No unnecessary attention.”

Bucky made a quiet sound. It wasn’t quite a scoff, but it was close enough.

Sam’s jaw flexed. “Got something to add, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugged, like the whole thing was barely worth his effort. “I just think you’re overcomplicating it.”

Your brows shot up. Oh, here we go.

Sam closed his eyes, visibly counting to ten. “What part is complicated?”

Bucky shifted, pushing off the wall. “The part where we’re tiptoeing around like we’re on a damn field trip. We go in, take out the threats, get what we need. Done.”

You turned in your chair, slowly. “Take out the threats?”

Bucky smirked. “What?”

“What?” you repeated, voice rising. “You mean brute force? Like some kind of rabid raccoon?”

Sam sighed deeply, rubbing his temples.

Bucky grinned, which somehow made it worse. “I’d say more wolf, but sure.”

Your grip tightened on the edge of the table. “Barnes, if you go off-script, I swear to God—”

“Relax, doll,” he said, casual as anything. “I’ll mostly follow the plan.”

Your eye twitched. “Mostly?”

Sam exhaled sharply, muttering to himself. “I should start charging overtime for this.”

Bucky wasn’t done, though—he turned that damn smirk back on you. “You do love bossing me around, don’t you?”

And that? That was the last straw.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, planting your hands on your hips. “We are sticking to the plan, Barnes. No improvising. No wandering off. No turning this into some solo hero death mission.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through gritted teeth as you fought for patience you absolutely did not have. “Why is your solution to everything brute force? Sam has a plan. A good plan. A plan that does not involve you punching your way through every obstacle.”

Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, looking completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed amused. “First of all, rude. Second of all, my way works.”

“You mean it works when it doesn’t get us killed?” you shot back, voice rising. “Which, by the way, is not a guarantee.”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin. “C’mon, doll, you’re overreacting.”

And there it was. That goddamn nickname.

You felt it like a spark in your bloodstream, a rush of heat you refused to acknowledge. Instead, you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Don’t ‘doll’ me, Barnes. I’m serious. We are sticking to the plan.”

“I am sticking to the plan,” he said, far too casually. “I’m just… modifying it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Modifying it?”

“Enhancing.”

“You mean ignoring it?”

He shrugged and you had never wanted to strangle and kiss someone in equal measure more in your life.

God, this man was going to be the death of you.

You took a slow, deep breath, curling your fingers into fists at your sides. “Bucky. No modifications. No enhancements. No Barnes-ifying the plan.”

He tilted his head, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “Barnes-ifying? Huh. I kinda like that.”

You threw your hands in the air. “Of course you do.”

Sam, who had been observing this entire exchange with the long-suffering patience of a saint, let out a loud sigh. “Are you two done? Or should we clear the room so you can work out all that tension?”

Your head snapped toward him. “There is no tension.”

Bucky, the absolute menace that he was, had the audacity to murmur, “Oh, there’s tension.”

Your entire body went rigid. Your face felt hot. You whirled back to him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “I will kill you.”

His lips twitched. “I’d love to see you try, doll.”

You weren’t sure what infuriated you more—the way he said it— doll —like it was his own private joke, or the fact that you liked it. Loved it, even. That it sent a pulse of something traitorous through you, something that made you want to either punch him or grab him by the collar and—

No. Focus.

You squared your shoulders, planting your hands on your hips. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Barnes. You’re going to follow the plan. No making things up as you go along. Got it?”

His blue eyes glinted with something unreadable. “And what if I don’t?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then I’ll personally make sure you regret it.”

Bucky grinned, slow and wicked. “Kinda looking forward to that.”

Your breath hitched. Your brain short-circuited. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because there was absolutely nothing appropriate to say to that.

Oh. Oh, that son of a—

Bucky chuckled, clearly enjoying the way he’d just rendered you speechless. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something low and smug.

“Face it, doll,” he murmured. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”

You scoffed, even as your stomach flipped. “I’d miss arguing with you. That’s it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

The knowing look on his face made you want to smack it off. But more than that, it made you want to—

Nope. Not going there.

You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel. “I’m done. Sam, let’s go before I change my mind and let him get himself killed.”

Sam snorted, giving Bucky a pointed look. “See what you did? Now you’ve pissed her off.”

Bucky only smirked, watching you walk away. “Nah,” he said, mostly to himself. “She likes it.”

—

You didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

And do you know why? Because you knew—knew—he wasn’t lying.

Bucky Barnes didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He wasn’t the type to play games with words, wasn’t the type to tease just for the hell of it. If he said there was tension, if he said you’d miss him, then he meant it. He knew.

He knew before you did.

And that was the worst part.

You had no idea when your constant bickering turned into something else, something deeper, something dangerous. One day, you thought you hated him—the next, you realized you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.

It had terrified you.

So you fought.

You fought harder, argued louder, refused to let him see just how deeply he had burrowed into you. You clashed over the stupidest things—his reckless plans, his stubbornness, the way he called you doll like it was a secret between you. Because if you didn’t fight, if you let the walls slip for even a second, you weren’t sure what would happen.

And it infuriated you.

How dare he?

How dare he make himself at home in a corner of your heart you didn’t even know existed? How dare he take up permanent residence there, until that tiny space expanded into the whole damn thing?

How dare he make you want him when you were supposed to be angry at him?

How. Dare. He.

The memory took over before you could stop it…

It had been a disaster from the start.

The mission was supposed to be a simple recon—go in, get intel, get out. No unnecessary engagement. No close calls. No getting shot.

But Bucky Barnes? He didn’t believe in simple.

You were fuming as you dragged him into the safe house, your grip tight on his arm, ignoring the way his blood seeped through your gloves. He was bleeding all over the place, but of course, he still had the audacity to smirk at you.

“You’re manhandling me, doll.” His voice was rough, teasing. “If you wanted to get handsy, you could’ve just asked.”

You pushed him down onto the rickety cot in the corner, none too gently. “I swear to God, Barnes, if you don’t shut up, I will make your injuries worse.”

Bucky groaned dramatically as he flopped back, far too casual for someone who had just taken a bullet to the shoulder. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—should I be nice to the guy who just got himself shot?” You tore open the med kit, grabbing a pair of scissors and snipping at the sleeve of his tactical suit. 

Bucky’s smirk vanished. “Hey, whoa—this is a perfectly good jacket.”

“You’ve bled through half of it, Bucky!” You glared at him, slicing the fabric open with zero hesitation.

Bucky scowled. “Still wearable.”

“Still ruined.”

“You’re ruining it more.”

“Oh my God—do you wanna keep arguing, or do you want me to keep you from bleeding out you reckless, metal-armed asshole?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, because of course he did, the sound painfully casual. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Your hands shook as you tore open the med kit, fingers fumbling over the supplies. “Shut up.”

“Oh, come on, doll, it’s just a—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘scratch.’”

Bucky sighed, dropping his head back onto the cot. “I’m not bleeding out.”

“You got shot, you dick,” you snapped, peeling the fabric away to get a better look at the wound. Through and through, just above his bicep. A clean hit, but it would scar if you didn’t take care of it properly.

Bucky peered at the wound like it was barely an inconvenience. “It is just a scratch.”

Your eye twitched. You gritted your teeth, pressing an antiseptic wipe to the wound with zero mercy.

Bucky hissed, body tensing as he glared at you. “Jesus—are you trying to kill me?”

“Oh, now you feel pain?” You didn’t let up, pressing a little harder just for good measure. “You didn’t seem too concerned when you ran into a hail of gunfire like a rabid golden retriever with a death wish.”

Bucky scoffed. “Golden retriever?”

“You just charged in, Bucky! What part of ‘stealth mission’ do you not understand?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I had to.”

“No, you didn’t!” You grabbed a fresh gauze pad, pressing it against the wound. “Sam and I were handling it just fine before you decided to be stupidly heroic.”

“Doll, you were cornered,” Bucky argued.

“No, I was waiting for backup.”

Bucky gave you a pointed look. “You were outnumbered and had a jammed weapon.”

You locked your jaw. Because okay, maybe that was true.

But he didn’t have to jump in front of a bullet for you.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound unimpressed. “I was fine.”

“You were two seconds away from getting shot.”

“I know, Bucky!” You slammed the antiseptic wipe against his skin, not caring when he hissed. “But you didn’t have to—you didn’t—you— I told you not to do it!” you cried out. “But no, you just had to go full Terminator and jump in front of a goddamn bullet for me—”

You stopped.

Because suddenly, your throat was too tight, and your breath was coming too fast, and you hated that the panic was winning, that it was spilling over.

You weren’t just mad.

You were terrified.

Bucky blinked at you, actually looking concerned now, which only pissed you off more.

“Doll—”

“You think you’re indestructible, don’t you?” You threw the used gauze aside, grabbing another one, your hands shaking as you pressed it to the wound. “Just because you have the serum, you think you can—can take all these stupid risks—”

Bucky sighed, clearly exasperated. “I heal faster than you do, sweetheart. It’s not that deep.”

Something inside you snapped.

“Oh, fuck you, Bucky!”

His eyebrows shot up at that.

“You think the serum makes you invincible?” you seethed, eyes burning. “Is that why you keep throwing yourself into danger? Why you never hesitate before taking a hit? Why you jump in front of bullets like it’s your damn job?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.

“Guess what, Barnes? The serum doesn’t make you immortal! One day, your dumbass luck is going to run out! And what then?”

Bucky stilled, blue eyes searching yours.

But you were unraveling too fast to stop now.

“I swear to God, Bucky, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep—” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice cracking. “I can’t—I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

Something changed in Bucky’s face. The teasing, the smirking—it all vanished.

You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes.

You dropped your gaze, fingers moving on autopilot, taping the bandage down over his shoulder. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but you pretended not to notice.

You felt him watching you.

For the first time since the mission, Bucky was quiet.

The weight of it pressed against your chest.

You swallowed hard, clearing your throat. “Just—just try not to die next time, okay?”

Bucky let out a slow breath, something almost amused slipping into his voice. “Not really my style, doll.”

You snapped your head up, narrowing your eyes at him. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve got a real stubborn track record of coming back from the brink of death.”

Bucky grinned, slow and lazy, like he couldn’t help himself. “What can I say? I’m persistent.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to be the one watching you zero out your nine lives.”

The smirk disappeared.

A flicker of something serious passed through his eyes—so fast you almost missed it.

For a second, you thought he was going to say something that would change everything.

But then, as quickly as it came, he shoved it away.

He exhaled a soft chuckle instead, shaking his head. “You worry too much.”

You clenched your jaw, standing abruptly. “And you don’t worry enough.”

Bucky watched you, his expression unreadable.

You grabbed the med kit and turned away, before he could see just how badly your hands were still shaking.

Because the truth was—

You weren’t sure what scared you more.

The fact that Bucky Barnes kept coming back from the brink of death—

Or the fact that, one day, he might not.

–

You exhaled sharply, shoving the memory aside.

No. Not thinking about that.

You couldn’t.

Because if you let yourself sit with it for too long—

If you let yourself acknowledge how much he meant to you—

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to breathe through it.

Bucky must have sensed the shift in you, because as you stalked ahead, fuming, he was suddenly there—keeping pace beside you, his presence entirely too much. Too close, too solid, too him.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Maybe I just ran out of things to say,” you snapped, not looking at him.

He made a low sound, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “That’ll be the day.”

You whirled on him before you could stop yourself, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you enjoy driving me insane, Barnes? Is it, like, a hobby for you?”

His lips twitched, that damn smirk already forming. “I mean… yeah. Kinda.”

You let out a frustrated noise, turning on your heel, ready to put as much distance between you and that insufferable smirk as possible. But before you could take two steps, his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent a jolt through you. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t forceful, but it was steady, intentional. And for a split second, you couldn’t breathe.

When you looked up, his blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, intense.

“I’m not trying to drive you insane,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with something heavier, something that made your chest feel tight. “I’m just trying to figure out why you won’t admit it.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Admit what?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was searching for something, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to let him see. His gaze dragged over your face, lingering—too long—on your lips before flicking back up.

Your breath hitched.

He was going to say something else. You knew it. Could feel it. But whatever he saw in your expression made him change his mind at the last second. His features shifted, the quiet determination giving way to something smug, teasing. A deflection.

“That it’s a good plan.”

Your pulse stuttered.

This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.

But he was giving you an out. Letting you pretend, letting himself pretend, like this was still just another argument. Another round of your never-ending bickering instead of… whatever the hell this was becoming.

And that? That scared you more than anything.

“It’s not,” you shot back, seizing the escape he’d handed you. You took a step back, yanking your wrist free of his grasp. “It’s stupid. It’s reckless, and it’s going to get one or all of us hurt if we do it.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed, his smirk faltering for the first time. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them before he asked, voice quieter, but rougher—”Why do you never take my side?”

The question hit like a sucker punch.

It knocked the breath from your lungs, left you reeling in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I—” The words caught in your throat.

He wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t throwing out some cocky remark just to get under your skin. This was something real, something raw, and it left you woozy.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Second time I’ve got you speechless today, huh? Must be a new record.”

His voice was light, teasing again, but the look in his eyes said something else entirely.

Then, before you could recover, before you could shove something sharp and defensive between you, he turned and walked ahead—leaving you standing there, heart racing, breath unsteady.

Completely, utterly furious at him.

And even more furious at yourself.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t let him get to you.

Except he had. He always did. And the worst part? He knew it.

You glared at the back of his head as he walked ahead like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just thrown you completely off balance and left you scrambling for solid ground.

Why do you never take my side?

You hated that the question still echoed in your head. That it stung in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.

You stormed after him, your boots crunching against the pavement. “Barnes, we’re not done talking about this.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. “Seemed pretty done to me.”

Your jaw clenched. “God, you are infuriating.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his eyes? His eyes were still sharp, still waiting.

You caught up to him in two quick strides, grabbing his arm to yank him to a stop. “Don’t walk away from me.”

Bucky arched a brow, glancing down at where your fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket. “Thought you couldn’t stand being near me, doll.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at the nickname. Ignored the way your traitorous hand lingered for a second before you let go.

“That plan of yours?” You crossed your arms, tilting your chin up. “It’s reckless. And you know it.”

His smirk faded, just slightly. “And what if reckless is the only option?”

“That’s bullshit, and you know that too.”

Bucky let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You think I’m some idiot who just punches his way through problems—”

“I know you are,” you shot back.

He glared at you, jaw ticking. “But maybe—just maybe—I actually know what I’m doing this time.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but something in his expression stopped you.

There was no smugness, no teasing. Just raw frustration, something worn down underneath.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the words dying on your tongue.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “Should’ve known better than to expect you to trust me.”

The words weren’t loud. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said them. But they landed like a slap.

Your breath caught. “That’s not—”

“Forget it.” 

— 

Shockingly, Bucky had followed Sam’s plan.

And—even more shockingly—it had gone wrong.

In the end, brute force had been the only way to get all three of you out alive.

You weren’t sure when the dust had settled, when the ringing in your ears had finally faded enough for you to hear your own breathing again. But when your vision cleared, Bucky was still standing.

Standing over a pile of bodies, bloodied and exhausted, his chest heaving with exertion.

There was a split in his lip, a gash across his forehead, and a bullet graze along his ribs, the fabric of his tactical suit dark with blood.

And you hated it.

You hated how your stomach twisted at the sight of him hurt. Hated the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides to stop yourself from running to him, from touching him, from grabbing his face and checking.

Most of all, you hated that you had doubted him.

Bucky Barnes had a century of combat experience. He had spent his entire life surviving fights he shouldn’t have walked away from, and still, you had dismissed him. Still, you had refused to listen.

And now? Now all of you were bleeding. All of you were shaken.

But the worst part—the part that made your throat tighten and your breath shudder—was that Bucky wasn’t even gloating.

No smirk. No I told you so.

Just silence. Just his sharp, assessing gaze, scanning the aftermath like he was still bracing for another fight.

By the time Torres had you all back on the plane, you were shaking.

The adrenaline should have worn off by now, but the weight in your chest only grew heavier. You knew—you knew—Bucky would heal faster than you or Sam. Logically, you understood that.

But logic wasn’t stopping the tightness in your throat when your eyes landed on the bruising around his temple.

It wasn’t stopping the way your fingers trembled as you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down in front of him, against every warning screaming in your head.

Bucky exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the seat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” you shot back, voice sharper than intended.

“So are you.”

You ignored that. “Just—hold still.”

For once, he didn’t argue. But when you reached for him, when your fingers ghosted over his skin, his gaze flickered—just for a second—to your hands.

He noticed.

Noticed the tremor in your fingers, the way they weren’t steady.

His brows drew together, just slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his stare, felt the question lingering on the tip of his tongue.

Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers tighter around the antiseptic wipe, focusing too hard on dabbing at the cut on his forehead.

When he flinched, you huffed. “Big bad super soldier can take on twenty guys at once but can’t handle a little stinging?”

His lips twitched, but the teasing was half-hearted. “Not my fault you’re rough.”

You shot him a look. “I wonder why.”

His jaw flexed. “You do like making things difficult.”

“Oh, I make things difficult?” You shook your head, pressing a little too firmly as you cleaned the wound. “I don’t remember me running in headfirst with zero regard for a plan.”

Bucky scoffed. “Right, because your plan went so well.”

You froze, fingers stilling against his skin.

His voice hadn’t been sharp, but the words still landed heavy in your chest.

“You didn’t have to follow it,” you murmured.

Bucky let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Well. I did.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted.

You forced yourself to move again, forced yourself to focus on the cut rather than the way his eyes lingered.

Your throat was dry when you spoke. “You were right.”

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air.

“We should have done it your way,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s fingers curled over the edge of the seat. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you knew he was watching you.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice quiet. “Didn’t do us much good, did it?”

You pressed your lips together. “Would’ve gone a lot worse if you hadn’t stepped in.”

His eyes flickered. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy for it.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.

“I do.” Your voice wavered, but you swallowed hard, pushing through it. “Because I was wrong.”

Bucky was still. Unreadable.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped lower. “That an apology?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real fire behind it. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”

But his eyes? His eyes told a different story.

—

The hum of the jet was steady beneath you, the vibrations deep in your bones, but it did nothing to ground you. The cabin lights were low, throwing long shadows across the metal walls. Sam was already passed out in the back, his breathing even, the tension from the mission finally easing from his shoulders.

You should be doing the same. You should be closing your eyes, letting exhaustion take over, shutting out the memory of the chaos you’d just escaped from.

But you couldn’t.

Because Bucky was still watching you.

He sat across from you, silent and unreadable, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. He hadn’t spoken since you finished patching him up, but he hadn’t stopped looking, either.

It wasn’t his usual sharp-edged irritation or teasing smirk. No playful bickering, no cocky remarks about how he’d been right. Just this.

Something softer. Something heavier.

Something you weren’t ready for.

“You should get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

You shook your head, fingers curling into your palms. “I’m fine.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, like he didn’t believe you. “Yeah? You don’t look fine.”

You hated that he could see it. The tremor in your fingers, the tension in your shoulders, the way you were still breathing too fast, like your body hadn’t realized the fight was over.

You hated that he noticed. That he cared enough to notice.

And then—because you were tired, because you were furious, because he had almost died and you were still trying to claw your way back from the sheer panic of it—you snapped.

“You could have died, Bucky.” Your voice was sharper than you meant, thick with something you didn’t want to name.

His brow twitched, but his expression didn’t change. His voice stayed infuriatingly even. “Yeah. That’s kinda what happens when people shoot at you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing out there?”

“That’s not—” You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

The question hung between you, thick with unspoken things.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched you—his gaze steady, patient, like he was giving you the space to say it.

And God, you wanted to.

But the words sat like stones in your throat, impossible to force out. You clenched your jaw, tried to shove them back down, but they wouldn’t go away.

Because the truth was, you weren’t just shaken by the mission.

You were shaken by the way seeing him bleeding had made your stomach drop, by the way his pained groans had made your hands shake, by the way you had wanted—needed—to run to him, to wrap yourself around him and never let go.

You were terrified.

Because this wasn’t just anger or frustration or a heated argument in the middle of a mission.

This was Bucky.

And you couldn’t lose him.

So instead of answering, instead of trying to put words to the panic still rattling inside you, you did the only thing you could do.

You reached for him.

It wasn’t sharp or defiant, wasn’t out of frustration or anger.

You just—needed to touch him.

Your fingers brushed over his wrist, barely there, hesitant. A point of contact. Something to anchor you.

Bucky stilled.

For a second, he just stared at your hand, at the way your fingers curled against his skin like you weren’t even sure if you had permission to hold on.

Then, slowly, he turned his wrist under your palm, letting your fingers slide over his pulse point. His skin was warm, his pulse steady. Alive. Here.

Your throat went tight.

Bucky’s voice was quieter this time. Rougher. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t let go.

Your thumb ghosted over his pulse, barely a whisper of touch, but it still wasn’t enough.

You didn’t know what you needed, what you were searching for beneath your fingertips, but the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat wasn’t easing the raw ache in your chest.

Your eyes flickered around the cabin.

Sam was still dead to the world, Torres nowhere in sight. The only two people awake on this jet were you and Bucky.

Something inside you snapped.

One second, you were gripping his wrist, tethering yourself to him like that alone would make this feeling go away. The next, you were moving before you could stop yourself—sliding out of your seat, crawling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him like holding on tighter would somehow keep him safe, keep him yours.

Bucky made a sound—something low, something confused—but his hands came up anyway, large and warm and steady as they settled on your hips, instinctive.

His breath hitched, and you felt it against your temple, the subtle shudder of his inhale.

You buried yourself closer, curling into his chest, fingers winding into the hair at the nape of his neck. His scent was everywhere—gunpowder and metal and something distinctly him—and you could have drowned in it.

“If you ever tell anyone I did this,” you muttered, voice muffled against his neck, “I will find ways to kill you.”

There was no bite to it. No real threat.

Just you—raw and exposed in a way you didn’t know how to take back.

Bucky let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t shove you off like he should have.

Instead, his arms shifted, wrapping around you fully, pressing you into him like this was what he had been waiting for, like this was something he had been needing just as badly.

Like he wanted to.

His metal fingers flexed at your waist, pressing against the fabric of your suit, a steadying grip. His other hand flattened against your back, tracing over the curve of your spine as if he was committing the shape of you to memory.

His touch burned.

His warmth was everywhere.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers sliding from his hair to his cheek, brushing over the stubble there, the still-healing cut on his temple. And then—before you could stop yourself—you were tilting his face toward yours.

For the first time since the mission, since the gunfire, since you watched the blood dripping down his temple and felt your entire world tilt on its axis—you met his eyes head-on.

Bucky swallowed.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips.

It was enough.

Your resolve snapped like a frayed wire.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could remind yourself that this was Bucky, before you could convince yourself that you didn’t love him like this—

You kissed him.

It was desperate, messy—nothing like the slow, sweet build-up you had imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.

Your lips crashed against his, your hands fisting in his suit, pulling yourself closer, closer, closer, needing more, needing everything.

Bucky froze.

Didn’t move when your lips parted against his, when your tongue flicked against his bottom lip, when your teeth caught the cut there, tasting blood.

Didn’t react when you kissed him again, soft and searching, when your nose brushed against his, when you sighed against his mouth, the sound fragile and aching.

Didn’t kiss you back.

The realization hit slow, creeping in at the edges of your desperation, sinking its claws into your chest.

He wasn’t—

Oh, God.

The sting of rejection burned hotter than the wounds littering your body.

You tried to breathe, tried to steady yourself, but your lungs felt too tight, your hands shaking as you forced yourself to pull back, to put distance between you before you shattered entirely.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, a shaky breath washing over his lips. Your throat was tight, your vision blurring at the edges. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Your voice broke.

Bucky was still silent.

And that was somehow worse.

It took a second to register the weight of what you’d done, to catch up to you.

You had kissed him.

You had kissed him and he hadn’t—

Your stomach plummeted.

“I’m—” Your breath hitched, panic clawing at your ribs. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

You tried to untangle yourself, tried to scramble out of his lap, to preserve whatever dignity you had left, to put distance between you before you completely fell apart in front of him—

But then—

God.

Then his hands tightened on your hips.

Hard.

Before you could even get further, Bucky dragged you back against him, fingers digging into your skin, like he wasn’t about to let you go. He maneuvered you until your legs were astride his hips, your arms around his neck, your chest pressed to his.

Your breath stilled, eyes wide, heart hammering against your ribs.

His expression had changed.

The shock, the hesitation—it was gone.

In its place was something darker.

Something heated and unrelenting.

Something like want.

Bucky’s breathing was uneven, his lips parted, his pupils blown wide as his gaze flickered between your eyes, your mouth, back up.

Then—

Then his fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His metal hand trailed over your ribs, up your arm, curling at the back of your neck, tipping your face toward his.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low. “Can you do that again?”

Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering against his fingertips. “You didn’t—”

“I froze,” he cut in, jaw tight. “I won’t now.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your lips parted, heart stumbling over itself.

Bucky let out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. His grip on your hips flexed, strong and sure, and for a split second, all he did was look at you.

Like you were something he didn’t know how to handle.

Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to devour you or worship you.

Then—slower this time, more sure—he leaned in.

And kissed you.

You had been right.

Bucky Barnes would be your undoing.

He’d kill you with the way he kissed, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to ruin you, like he wanted to take you apart with nothing but the sweep of his tongue and the heat of his mouth.

You felt it—every glide of his tongue against yours, every careful press of his lips, every sharp inhale between kisses—like a spark lighting up your spine, sinking deep, settling between your legs with a heat so intense you could barely breathe through it.

You shook on top of him, the way he touched you sending shockwaves through every nerve ending in your body. His hands were everywhere—tight, possessive squeezes against your hips, reverent drags of his fingers down your back and thighs, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

A whimper escaped you, completely unbidden, and Bucky groaned, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrated against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, his lips left yours.

You gasped at the loss—until you felt him move.

Felt the warm brush of his breath against your throat, felt his nose skim along the sensitive skin there before his mouth followed.

“Bucky—” His name left you in a sharp breath as he kissed down your neck, slow, teasing, his lips dragging over every inch of exposed skin he could reach.

The problem was—there wasn’t enough.

Your suit covered too much, kept him from truly touching you, and it was driving you out of your mind.

You arched into him, restless, desperate. “Take it off,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Bucky stilled, his lips pausing against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. Didn’t continue.

“Take it off,” you begged, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit, tracing over the zippers, tugging uselessly at the buttons, trying to feel more. “Please, take it off.”

His breath was uneven, ragged. “Doll, there are people—”

“I don’t care.” You tugged at his collar, leaning in, pressing another desperate kiss to the corner of his mouth. “They won’t see.”

Bucky’s hands flexed against your waist, like he was warring with himself.

You kissed him again, lips parting over his, trying to convince him, trying to make him understand, to feel just how badly you needed this, needed him.

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to yours, his chest rising and falling unevenly beneath you.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please, before you change your mind—I need this. I need you.”

That did it.

Something snapped in him.

The hesitation vanished.

And then, suddenly, you were weightless.

Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky was standing, lifting you effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist as he carried you toward the back of the jet, moving with a singular, determined focus that made your breath catch.

Your back hit the cool metal wall of the jet, the impact sending a shiver down your spine, but you barely had time to react before Bucky was kissing you again—hot, rough, devouring.

You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on for dear life.

His hands roamed down your back, over your thighs, squeezing, gripping—and then, finally, finally, he found the zipper of your suit.

“I’m not changing my mind,” he murmured, his voice thick, edged with something raw that made you shiver. His fingers curled around the fabric, tugging just enough for you to feel the weight of his words. “And you’re not changing yours.”

You nodded without thinking, without hesitation, without fear.

There was a faint awareness of the reality around you—the steady hum of the jet beneath you, the wall of gear shielding you from the others, the knowledge that Sam and Torres were mere feet away. The fact that you were both bloodied and bruised from the mission, that maybe this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place.

But then Bucky moved, and all of that faded.

The zipper came down in a slow, deliberate slide, the rasp of it against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, but gentle, pushing the suit down your arms until you could shake it off completely. The moment it was gone, he pulled your arms around his shoulders, guiding them to hold onto him, like he needed you to keep him close.

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost reverent, before dropping to his knees.

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering as his hands gripped your hips, firm and unshakable, guiding the rest of your suit down your legs. His head dipped, his lips grazing the fresh bruise blooming along your hip. He kissed it once, then again—soft, lingering. Worshipping.

You swallowed hard, your fingers threading into his hair as he nuzzled along your thigh, your knee, before rising back to his full height.

“Not getting these off,” he muttered, his fingers ghosting over your soaked panties. You’d be ashamed if it weren’t for the way his lips parted, like he was desperate to get back on his knees, get his mouth on you, There was also something else. The look on his face - regret, you thought - like he wanted to take his time with you, but was disappointed he couldn’t.

His hands moved up your body, skimming over your waist, tracing along your ribs. You shivered at the sensation of warm and cold, flesh and metal. His eyes darkened at the sight of you trembling under his touch.

“We have to be quick.”

You nodded, obedient, but there was something clawing at your chest, something making your breath catch, making your hands shake as you reached for his belt, undoing it with frantic fingers.

“This—” You took a breath, sliding the zipper down, pushing his pants and underwear down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already slick with pre-cum. You ached at the sight of him. Ached to drop to your knees and taste him.

Instead, you swallowed hard and met his eyes. “This isn’t how I imagined doing this with you.”

Bucky let out a low, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Me either.” His voice was rough, wrecked, breaking apart at the seams. His lips brushed your ear as he groaned, deep and ragged, when you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him slow, teasing. “Fuck, sweetheart—”

A shudder rolled through him, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“But I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, voice thick with something dangerous, something devoted. “I promise.”

His arms wrapped around you again, lifting you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your hips rolling forward to grind against him.

“Bucky—”

“You want this?” he asked, pressing you back against the cool metal wall, the contrast making you gasp. His mouth was everywhere—dragging down your jaw, across the swell of your breast, open-mouthed and hungry.

“I do. I—”

The words faltered on your tongue.

Your heart was hammering, your chest was aching. This was reckless. This was insane.

This was everything.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressed your forehead to his, your lips brushing his with every ragged breath. “I want you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “All of you.” Your fingers twisted into his hair, tugging just enough for him to feel it. “Please.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. “You have me.”

His words were iron, unbreakable, true.

Something cracked inside you.

And then—there was no more hesitation.

His lips crashed into yours again, raw and consuming, leaving no space between you, no air, no room for anything but him. His free hand slid down, tugging at your panties, dragging them to the side. Your own hand moved between you, wrapping around his cock, guiding him to where you needed him.

“Jesus, doll—”

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was one full thrust, his cock pressing inside you inch by inch, filling you completely, stretching you to the edge of pain. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your head falling back against the wall as a gasp tore from your throat.

You felt full. Too full.

Your legs shook around him, your walls clenching tight around his cock, the overwhelming stretch making your eyes slam shut, your mouth parting on a silent moan.

Bucky groaned, deep and wrecked, his forehead pressing to your temple. His body was shaking too, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps against your skin.

“Fuck,” he ground out, metal hand locking around your thigh, keeping you open for him. His other hand tangled in your hair, his grip tight, desperate. “Fuck, you feel—Jesus, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, your arms trembling as you clung to him. “I can’t believe you’re inside me,” you whispered, voice barely there, overwhelmed and ruined. “Oh my god, Bucky—”

He snapped his hips forward, and your world split apart.

The pleasure was sharp, blinding, a lightning strike surging through your veins. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned against your neck, his rhythm faltering for a beat. His hands tightened on your hips, metal and flesh both possessive, both desperate to hold on.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he choked out, voice strangled, roughened with something close to reverence. He thrust deep, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you, every sensitive place that made your stomach coil so tight you thought you might shatter.

“For you,” you confessed, arching into him, letting him feel it, letting him know. “All the time. Every time you look at me—”

Bucky snapped his hips forward, harder, deeper, tearing a cry from your lips.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice breaking, cracking at the edges. “Shit, shit—”

“You’re so deep,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. Your nails raked down his back, desperate, pleading, needing. “Bucky, I—I can’t—”

“I’ve got you, doll,” he groaned, pressing his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound you made as he ruined you completely.

Every thrust was a curse, every breath a kiss, and you were careening toward the edge so fast it was dizzying.

The pleasure ripped through you before you could warn him, before you could even process it. Your walls tightened, pulsing around his cock, body shaking so violently that he had to pin you to the wall with his hips, burying himself to the hilt, his hand cradling the back of your head, shielding you as you contorted in his grasp.

His mouth devoured your cries, catching every broken, pleading gasp as the orgasm tore you apart. It was an explosion that didn’t stop, that kept rolling through you, wave after wave.

You rocked against him, desperate for more, still chasing, still needing, barely hearing the way he rasped your name, telling you to slow down, telling you to look at him, warning you that he was—

“God, you’re heaven,” Bucky breathed against your ear, grinding deep inside of you, his voice wrecked, every syllable tinged with something broken, something beautiful. As you slowly came down, you could feel how close he was, how tightly he was holding on, trying to keep himself from falling over the edge. “I can feel you—fuck me, I should pull out.”

“No.”

It came out fast, urgent, a whisper laced with something dangerous. Your legs locked around his hips, keeping him trapped in your hold.

His entire body went rigid. His breathing stilled.

“Baby.”

Bucky’s voice was low, frayed at the edges, filled with disbelief. The word hung in the air between you, unspoken until now.

You froze.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t have given that away. Shouldn’t have let it slip, shouldn’t have handed him something so fragile, something you couldn’t take back.

But what was a drop to someone who was already drowning?

Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. If he wanted to, he could have pulled you off of him without lifting a finger. You had always been painfully aware of how much stronger he was, how easily he could overpower you.

And yet, he stayed still, locked in your hold. Completely at your mercy.

You swallowed, your fingers shaking as they curled into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let him run.

“C’mon, doll,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, stealing a kiss that felt like it was more for him than for you. “Let go.”

His hips rolled, his pelvis grinding against your clit, making you whimper. Your body was still trembling, still oversensitive, but fuck, if he kept going just a little longer—

“I want you to cum inside me,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, your nails digging into his skin.

Bucky froze.

The words echoed between you like a shot fired into the silence.

His hips stilled. His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they held you.

You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to move.

“Doll,” he rasped, warning in his tone, his forehead pressed to yours. He looked wrecked, as undone as you felt.

“Stop arguing with me,” you shot back, voice shaky, grinding against him, dragging your soaked, sensitive heat over him, pulling a moan from his throat so deep it made every hair on your body stand on end.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his grip on you bruising.

“I want this.” You tightened your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer, wrapping him in you, cocooning you both in the moment. “I’m begging you, Bucky. Please.”

“It’s—” He swallowed thickly, voice strangled.

“Irresponsible, yes, but what’s a little irresponsibility?” A breathless laugh escaped you, but your voice broke at the end, too raw to keep up the teasing. You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m on the pill.”

His jaw clenched.

“I need this,” you whispered, the truth clawing up your throat before you could stop it. “I need you.” Your voice cracked, your breath hitched, emotion swelling too fast, too much. “You don’t get it, I—”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he softened.

Something in his eyes clicked, something changed, and suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you tighter, his hands cradling your face like you were precious, like you were fragile, like he had to hold you together before you broke apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

His thrusts were slower, deeper, his lips brushing yours between each movement. His hands wandered, soothing, worshipping.

“Giving you exactly what you want, yeah?”

You nodded frantically, breath labored, losing yourself in the way he felt, the way he surrounded you, consumed you.

“Don’t pull out,” you begged, voice barely there, a whisper of devotion, of desperation.

Bucky let out a shaky breath, forehead pressed to yours. “I won’t, baby,” he promised, voice breaking. His pace picked up, hips rolling against yours, pushing deeper, harder, dragging against your oversensitive clit in a way that had you whimpering. “Gonna fill you up like you wanted.”

Your toes curled at the words, at the image, your walls fluttering around him.

“Oh, please don’t stop,” you gasped, rolling your hips, needing, aching.

Bucky groaned, his head dropping back as his rhythm faltered, as he snapped his hips harder, chasing the end, giving you what you wanted, giving you everything.

“Fill me up, baby,” you pleaded, your voice a broken, desperate thing. “Make me yours..”

And that—

That was what finally broke him.

Bucky snapped.

A curse tore from his throat, his grip on you bruising, unrelenting as his hips slammed into you, chasing the inevitable, giving you everything. His rhythm turned frantic, needy, his body demanding what you had just offered.

And you took it.

You craved it.

Your body tightened around him, coaxing him deeper, begging for more. Every thrust was an answer to a question neither of you had spoken aloud, a declaration in the language of skin and breath and longing.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he gritted out, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot against your mouth. His hand slid down between you, his metal fingers finding your clit and pressing, rubbing tight circles, dragging you back to the edge with him.

Your body shook, every muscle tensed, the pleasure sharpening into something unbearable, something deadly.

“Bucky—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, his voice cracking at the edges, his own body trembling as he held himself back, as he waited for you. “Give it to me.”

You did.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, knocking the air from your lungs, blinding in its intensity. Your body locked around him, your hands clutching desperately at his shoulders as the pleasure ripped through you in violent, unrelenting waves.

And that was it. That was everything.

Bucky followed, slamming into you one last time before breaking, burying himself as deep as he could go, a shuddering groan torn from his chest as he spilled into you, filling you like he promised. You felt it as his warm cum Costas your walls, so much of it you weren’t sure there wasn’t some spilling out.

His body trembled, his arms locked tight around you, holding you close as he gave in, as he let go, as he let himself have this.

For a moment, there was silence.

Just the sound of your breathing, labored and uneven. The quiet, lingering shock of what you had just done.

Bucky’s forehead pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart hammering so hard you could feel it through his suit.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed like that—wrapped around him, his cock still twitching inside of you, his arms cradling you like you might disappear if he let go.

You let your eyes drift shut, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the back of his neck, the weight of him comforting, grounding, even as reality started creeping back in.

You should let go.

You should move.

You should say something.

But when Bucky finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones—

The words died on your lips.

Because he was looking at you like you had just ruined him. Like you had just changed something fundamental inside of him.

Like you had just made him yours.

And you had.

Slowly,, Bucky eased his grip, his arms still wrapped around you, his hands still mapping the shape of you, like he needed to memorize every curve, every ridge, every place he’d touched.

His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, tender kisses that made your heart clench, made something deep inside you ache.

It felt too big.

Too much.

But you couldn’t stop touching him.

Your fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your touch. You pushed damp hair out of his face, ran your knuckles down the slope of his nose, his cheekbone, memorizing him the way he was memorizing you.

A hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheek, his expression unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his eyes were soft, but serious.

“You meant it,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed, lips parting, breath hitching.

“Bucky—”

His other hand was still pressed to your lower stomach, like he could feel himself inside you, like he could brand this moment into your skin.

“I felt it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The way you—” He exhaled sharply, like the words were too heavy to get out.

You closed your eyes, trying to give yourself some kind of reprieve from the enormity of it all.

“Don’t run from this.” His voice was so calm, but it cut through you like a knife. “Please, doll.”

Your throat tightened.

You weren’t sure if it was the aftershocks of pleasure or the overwhelming emotion of it all, but your body was still trembling—and Bucky felt every bit of it.

His arms tightened around you, securing you to him, anchoring you.

“I’m not running,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to search your face, like he didn’t quite believe you.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe yourself.

Because what came next?

What happened after this?

There was you before Bucky Barnes.

There was you after Bucky Barnes.

And they weren’t the same.

[kooklovee]

Hold on to me (m) - JJK

Your husband forgets your second anniversary. What starts as disappointment and heartbreak soon spirals into doubt- about your love, your marriage & whether he even sees you anymore. But when Jungkook realizes his mistake, he’s willing to do anything to prove that his love has never wavered..

Can he make it up to you, or is it already too late?

Pairing - CeoHusband!Jungkook x Wife!Reader

Genre - 18+, established relationship au, angst, fluff, smut, some more angst MDNI

ONESHOT - 11k words

Warnings - angsty ride, hurt/comfort, workaholic Jungkook, miscommunication, crying, deep emotional intimacy, slow build, Jungkook is an idiot but trust me he's sweet alright😭, Explicit smut- unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), soft dom Jk, nipple play, lots of kissing, love-making, creampie, pet names <3, praises, happy ending (sad ending's not in my veins🫸)

a/n- snsjkqkw It's my first fic (well more like I've taken the courage to actually post it)🥹 do let me know your thoughts on it <3 n consider a reblog if you like it, thank you for reading! 🫶

Masterlist kofi☕

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The soft glow of the overhead light casts long shadows across the dining room. But its warmth does nothing to chase away the cold emptiness creeping into your chest.

You sit in one of the dining chairs, fingers idly tracing the gold band on your ring finger, the once-familiar weight of it.. feeling heavier than ever. The house is silent, except for the distant hum of the city beyond the huge windows.

Jungkook is late. Again.

You’ve lost count of how many nights have passed like this, curled up alone in bed, the space beside you growing colder with each passing hour.

He always has a reason. A meeting that ran overtime, a last-minute project, something urgent that demands his attention more than you do. And you’ve always understood. Until now.

Your second anniversary is just around the corner, and for the first time in weeks, you have something to look forward to. Something that, surely, he wouldn’t forget.

You let out a slow breath, staring at the untouched dinner on the table. It’s the third time this week you’ve set two plates, only to eat alone. The food has long gone cold, but you still can’t bring yourself to clear it away. Some foolish, desperate part of you still hopes Jungkook will walk through the door, pulling you into his arms, murmuring apologies against your skin.

But the door stays closed. Your phone stays silent.

You check the time—almost midnight.

He used to call. Even when he was busy, he always found a way to let you know he was thinking about you. A quick text. A voice note. Something. Now, hours pass without a word, and you’re left wondering when exactly you started feeling like a ghost in your own marriage.

You clench your fists, blinking back the sting in your eyes. This isn’t you. You don’t doubt him. You don’t overthink things. But these days, love feels a lot like waiting, and waiting feels a lot like breaking.

And you’re so damn tired of breaking.

You close your eyes, trying to remember the Jungkook from before, before work took over, before the distance set in. The man who, despite his quiet nature, always found a way to make you feel cherished. He wasn’t one for grand speeches, but his words had always carried weight. Small, simple confessions once meant everything. Now, silence is all you get.

It wasn’t always easy with Jungkook. Back in college, he was cold, reserved, a storm you could never quite predict. But little by little, he let you in. His love had been careful, deliberate, whispered promises in the dark, stolen glances across crowded rooms, fingertips brushing against yours like a secret only the two of you understood.

And now, it feels like you’re losing him.

The thought sends a sharp ache through your chest. You tell yourself it’s just work, that the weight of being CEO is heavier than either of you expected. That he still loves you, even if he doesn’t say it as often.

But love isn’t supposed to feel like this.

The clock hits midnight.

You don’t know what you were expecting. A text? A call? Maybe the sound of the front door unlocking, Jungkook stepping in, exhausted but still managing to hold you close?

But there’s nothing.

Your throat tightens as you stare at the small cake sitting on the dining table, the frosting slightly uneven, the decorations a little clumsy. You were never a good cook. Jungkook knew that better than anyone. But in the early days of your marriage, you had tried. Because back then, cooking together had been something special. Flour-dusted fingertips, shared laughter over burnt pancakes, stolen kisses between stirring batter.

So tonight, with him too busy and too stressed, you thought a quiet, cozy celebration would be enough. Something small, something just for the two of you.

But now, looking at the untouched dinner, the unlit candle, and the cake that no longer seems worth eating, you realize how foolish that hope was.

You glance at your phone—no messages, no missed calls.

You put away the plates. You put the cake in the fridge, even though you know it’ll probably stay there, forgotten.

And then you crawl into bed alone, wrapping your arms around yourself because if Jungkook won’t hold you, who else will?

----

You stir, feeling the warmth of an arm lazily draped around your stomach. The weight is familiar, and for a moment it feels like everything is okay.

Jungkook is still asleep. Shirtless, his toned chest rises and falls in steady breaths, his face soft in the morning light. His dark lashes cast faint shadows on his skin, and his lips parted just slightly, making him look so much younger, so much more at peace.

You take your time looking at him, memorizing the exhaustion on his face, the faint crease between his brows even in sleep. He must’ve come home late—so late that you hadn’t even heard him.

Still, he’s here. Beside you. And that alone is enough to make something flicker in your chest.

Maybe he’s planned to stay home today.

Of course he remembers.

You can’t help but lean in, pressing a soft, loving kiss against his cheek. His skin is warm beneath your lips, and for a fleeting moment, everything feels like it used to.

Jungkook mumbles something incoherent, his brows knitting slightly before relaxing again. A small, sleepy noise escapes him, and the sound makes you giggle softly.

He stirs, his grip on your waist tightening just a little before his lashes flutter open. His dark eyes, still hazy with sleep, land on you, and for a second, there’s nothing but quiet warmth in them.

"You're up early," he murmurs, his voice thick with drowsiness. His thumb absentmindedly brushes over your waist, a touch so familiar yet so foreign all at once.

You smile, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead. "Couldn't sleep much," you admit softly.

Jungkook hums in response, his eyes falling shut again for a moment. He nuzzles into the pillow, his grip on you still firm like he has no intention of letting you go. And for a brief, fragile second, the weight of last night, of the distance, of everything, seems to disappear.

Maybe he really did plan to stay home today. Maybe this morning means something.

Your heart clenches with the smallest trace of hope.

Jungkook lets out a long breath and shifts onto his back, stretching his arms above his head before blindly reaching for his phone on the nightstand. His warmth leaves your side, the air turning cold almost instantly.

You watch as his expression shifts, sleep slipping away as his screen lights up. His brows furrow, jaw tightening ever so slightly.

Then, with barely a glance in your direction, he mutters, "Shit, I need to get to the office."

The hope you held onto so desperately?

Gone.

You blink, your mind scrambling to catch up.

Maybe he's kidding. Maybe this is just one of his teasing games, the kind where he acts all nonchalant just to catch you off guard later. That’s how it used to be. Him pretending to forget something important, only to turn around and surprise you in a way that left you breathless.

So you wait.

You wait for the smirk to tug at his lips, for him to toss his phone aside and pull you into his arms. You wait for him to kiss you insane, to murmur a husky "Happy anniversary, baby," against your skin.

You wait for him to prove you wrong.

But he doesn't.

Jungkook swings his legs over the bed, rubbing a hand down his face before standing up. He moves through the motions—grabbing a fresh shirt from the dresser, checking his notifications again, already half-immersed in whatever work emergency is pulling him away.

The realization settles in. suffocating. He’s not playing. He’s not pretending. He really forgot.

And with that, the last flicker of hope inside you dies.

----

The sound of the bathroom door clicking shut barely registers in your mind. The faint rush of water follows soon after, but you’re still frozen in place, staring at the empty space where Jungkook was just moments ago.

Your fingers grip the sheets as you try to process it, try to make sense of the ache settling deep in your chest.

He forgot.

The thought circles endlessly, refusing to fade. It should be simple, just a mistake, something easily fixed with an apology. But it doesn’t feel simple. It feels like another crack in something that’s already been fragile for weeks.

Your gaze drifts to your phone, the screen lighting up with messages from friends and family. Warm wishes, sweet texts. All reminders of the day that Jungkook should have been the first to acknowledge. And of course, they must have messaged him too.

But you know the answer before you even have to question it. Jungkook has two phones—one for work, one for personal use. And these days, his personal phone sits untouched, collecting dust somewhere in the house while his work phone never leaves his side.

Your throat tightens.

Even if someone did remind him, would he have even seen it? Would it have even mattered?

You swallow hard, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes.

Maybe you should say something. Maybe you should remind him.

But a part of you, one that you don’t want to acknowledge—wonders if it even matters anymore.

You push yourself up from the bed, the weight in your chest making it harder than it should be. You don’t want to sit here, waiting for him to remember, waiting for an apology that might never come.

So you move. Just as you step toward the bathroom, the shower turns off. The door opens a moment later, as Jungkook steps out, towel slung low around his waist, droplets of water trailing down his toned chest.

For a brief second, your eyes meet. He looks at you, blinking away the last remnants of sleep, his expression unreadable. There’s no sign of realization, no flicker of guilt or hesitation. Just the same tired, distracted gaze you’ve been seeing for weeks.

You say nothing. Instead, you walk past him, entering the washroom to go about your usual routine. brushing your teeth, washing your face, anything to avoid the tightness in your throat.

The sound of the sink running is the only thing filling the silence between you.

By the time you step out of the washroom, Jungkook is already dressed for work. His tie is slightly loosened, one hand adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves while the other holds his ever-present work phone. He looks like he’s in a hurry, but that isn’t surprising. He’s been having breakfast at the office for weeks now—always rushing out, always too busy.

Still, you can’t grasp that he’s actually forgotten.

Some part of you still expects him to pause, to turn around and say something. But he doesn’t. He’s focused on his screen, scanning through emails like today is just another ordinary morning.

Your chest tightens. You need to look away before the emotions creeping up inside you spill over. So, you pretend.

You settle at the table, opening your laptop like it’s just another workday. Since you’ve been working from home for the past couple of months, this isn’t unusual—but today, it’s not about work. It’s about avoiding him. About keeping your head down so he doesn’t see the way your hands tremble slightly.

If you act normal, maybe it’ll hurt less. Maybe you won’t break in front of him.

And maybe, just maybe, if you pretend hard enough, you can fool yourself into believing it doesn’t hurt at all.

“Baby, can you help me with the tie?”

His voice is smooth- like every other morning before this one. Like today isn’t supposed to mean more.

You hesitate for half a second before standing up, walking towards him. Your fingers move automatically, looping the fabric, tightening the knot, straightening it against his crisp shirt. You should pull away the moment you’re done, return to your seat, to your laptop, to pretending like everything is fine.

But just as you step back, Jungkook’s hand catches your wrist.

Before you can react, he tugs you closer, his warmth enveloping you as his large hand cups the side of your face, fingers splayed against your skin like he’s memorizing the feel of you. His touch is tender, his thumb tracing slow circles against your cheek, his dark eyes holding yours for a beat too long. like he’s seeing you, really seeing you, for the first time in days.

Then, he kisses you.

Warm & lingering. Like he actually means it. Like he actually feels it.

“Need it for good luck,” he mumbles lovingly against your lips, his voice deep, hushed.

You blink up at him.

Jungkook pulls back slightly, offering a small smile. “Big deal with the Kims today.”

And just like that, reality crashes back in.

Your mind struggles to process, to understand how he can be like this. How can he kiss you like this and still not remember.

His mind is somewhere else. His thoughts, his focus—none of it is here. None of it is with you.

You force a smile, nodding wordlessly. Because what else is there to say?

----

Jungkook moves around the house, gathering his things- his wallet, his keys. You stay where you are, settled on the couch with your laptop open, pretending to be busy, pretending that your heart isn’t sitting heavy in your chest.

Just as he’s about to leave, he steps toward you, bending down to press a quick kiss to your forehead.

“Love you,” he murmurs.

Before you can even respond, he’s already halfway through the living room, his focus elsewhere, his steps hurried.

A bitter chuckle escapes your lips before you can stop it.

You remember a time when things were different. When he used to whine, pout, and nudge you relentlessly if you didn’t say it back right away, just to tease him.

Flashback

The movie playing in the background had long been forgotten, the dialogue drowned out by the soft moans slipping from your lips. The purple neon glow cast dreamy hues across the living room, painting Jungkook’s skin in shades of violet as he moved above you.

His fingers laced tightly with yours, grip tightening slightly as his thrusts grew more desperate.

“J-Jungkook…” you moaned softly, nails digging into his hand.

He groaned against your neck, his breath hot, voice wrecked. “Fuck, baby…”

Your body arched beneath him, pleasure building to something uncontrollable. “I—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me, baby,” he urged, voice deep and rough, sending you tumbling over the edge.

You both unraveled together, gasping, shaking, holding onto each other like the world outside didn’t exist.

Jungkook pressed lazy, loving kisses all over your face, his lips brushing over your cheeks, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. “You alright?” he whispered.

You nodded, a sleepy, satisfied smile tugging at your lips. But then he just stared at you. A little too long. A little too intensely.

And then, barely above a whisper, like a secret meant only for you—he said, “I love you.”

Your eyes widened slightly, a playful grin tugging at the corner of your lips as you bit down on them, trying to contain your smile. He’d been saying it more often lately, slowly getting used to voicing what he felt.

But when you took a second too long to respond, he groaned dramatically, dropping his head into the crook of your neck like a kicked puppy.

“Say it back,” he grumbled.

“What?” you teased, laughing.

Jungkook huffed, then playfully bit down on your shoulder, just enough to make you squeal.

“Say it,” he demanded, his voice muffled against your skin.

Still giggling, you cupped his face and pressed a soft kiss to his nose. “I love you, you big baby.”

His grin was instant, arms wrapping around you as he pulled you even closer, like he could never get enough.

End of Flashback

Now, he just says it in passing. quick, thoughtless, already moving on.

The front door clicks shut, and just like that, Jungkook is gone.

You sit there, fingers motionless on your laptop’s keyboard as the weight of what just happened settles deep in your chest. He forgot. He kissed you, held you, told you he loved you, but none of it was because he remembered.

Is this what your relationship has become?

Work, work, work. Always work.

It’s not that you expect Jungkook to run behind you all the time, to ditch his responsibilities just to shower you with affection. Hell, you supported him through everything- through college, through late nights chasing his dreams, through every stressful moment leading up to him becoming CEO. You believed in him.

But what about your love? Your marriage? Communication?

You’ve been patient. Too patient. more understanding than any normal wife would be. And you know Jungkook. You know he loves you, would bring you the whole damn world if you asked. But then why—why are you beginning to question it all?

Jungkook stepped into the CEO position a few months ago. At first, things were fine. He handled it well, still made time for you. But then… everything became about work. Slowly, then all at once.

You can’t even remember the last time you had truly loving sex. Not that Jungkook doesn’t love you but it doesn’t feel the same anymore. There’s tension in his touch, frustration in the way he moves against you. It’s not the warmth, the desperation to be close to you like it used to be.

Is this how life is going to be from now on?

Sure, you could talk to Jungkook about your feelings. Tell him that the distance is starting to feel unbearable.

But when?

When he’s always checking his phone? When he barely even looks at you in the mornings? When you feel like you’re living with the CEO rather than your husband?

Well, happy anniversary to you.

----

Your gaze drops to your hand, to the delicate band wrapped around your finger.

Your wedding ring.

For the first time in a long time, you really look at it- tracing the intricate details, the subtle shimmer in the morning light. And suddenly, it feels… heavier. Like you’re only noticing the weight of it now, as if it’s trying to remind you of everything it once meant.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, your fingers slip beneath the band, sliding it off. It’s only when the cool air brushes against your bare skin that it hits you.

Your breath catches, eyes widening at the sight of the ring resting in your palm. You hadn’t even thought about it—you just did it. And now, staring at the small, beautiful piece of jewelry, something inside you cracks. Tears gather before you can stop them.

Jungkook had spent weeks searching for this ring. Dragged you to countless jewelry stores, analyzing every cut, every design, obsessed with finding the perfect one. And no matter how many times you had told him that anything would make you happy, he had refused to settle for less.

"It has to be special," he had murmured against your temple the day he finally found it, slipping it onto your finger with the softest smile. "Because you’re special."

A broken sob escapes your throat as you clutch the ring tightly in your palm.

How did you end up here?

----

Jungkook leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he watches the final contract details appear on his screen. The deal with the Kims had gone smoothly, better than expected, actually. It should’ve been a moment of satisfaction, of relief.

Instead, he just drowns himself in more work.

The hours blur together, his coffee going cold beside him as he moves from one task to another. Another meeting. Another report. Another email. The same routine, the same cycle.

It’s later than evening when a familiar voice interrupts the quiet hum of his office.

“So you’re really here.”

Jungkook glances up, his fingers still typing as Taehyung steps into his cabin, arms crossed, a deep frown on his face.

“Hey, hyung,” Jungkook greets, barely looking away from his screen.

Taehyung scoffs, shaking his head playfully. “I really didn’t believe it when Yuna said you were still in your cabin.”

Jungkook blinks, confused. “Why?”

Taehyung gives him a look like he’s the biggest idiot in the world. “Y/N must really love you to let you work even today. My wife—dude, she would’ve killed me.”

Jungkook hums absentmindedly, still typing, still lost in work. “Mmm.”

Taehyung clicks his tongue, watching him for a second before letting out a chuckle. “Anyways, you’re still an asshole for working on your anniversary.”

Jungkook’s fingers freeze over the keyboard. The realization crashes into him all at once, like a punch to the gut, like ice spreading through his veins.

Fuck.

Jungkook’s fingers hover motionless over the keyboard.

His mind races to catch up with Taehyung’s words, but they don’t make sense. Not right away.

Anniversary?

No, that can’t be right. His brows furrow slightly as he glances at the date on his laptop screen.

November 22.

His wedding anniversary.

For a second, he just stares, as if the numbers might shift into something else, something that doesn’t prove what an absolute idiot he’s been. His heartbeat picks up, but his body doesn’t move. It’s like his brain refuses to register it fully, like if he doesn’t react, it won’t be real.

He’d forgotten.

Completely.

No hints, no reminders, no last-minute realization before heading out this morning. Just an entire day of emails, meetings, and a deal he had been so damn focused on that he hadn’t even spared a single thought for you.

His wife.

But—no, that can’t be right. He would’ve remembered. He should’ve remembered.

His jaw tightens, his mind scrambling for some excuse, some reason. anything to justify how this happened. But no matter how many ways he tries to twist it, the truth doesn’t change.

You had expected something. Of course you had. And Jungkook had given you nothing.

Taehyung’s voice barely registers now, his casual teasing just background noise to the way Jungkook’s pulse is starting to hammer against his ribs.

His wife. His love. His anniversary.

And he had let it pass him by like it was just another day.

How the fuck is he supposed to fix this?

Taehyung squints at Jungkook, waiting for some kind of reaction. When Jungkook stays quiet, his fingers frozen over the keyboard, Taehyung lets out a sharp laugh.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” He leans forward, palms flat on Jungkook’s desk. “You just realized, didn’t you?”

Jungkook inhales deeply through his nose, his jaw tightening. “Hyung, not now.”

“Oh, no. Especially now,” Taehyung shoots back, shaking his head. “Damn, man. Y/N must really love you to put up with this shit.”

Jungkook doesn’t reply, his mind already spiraling. He checks the time—late. The entire day is gone. He’s spent hours sitting here, drowning himself in work while you—

Fuck.

He pushes his chair back abruptly, grabbing his phone and shoving it into his pocket. His coat is next, yanked from the back of his chair as he moves on instinct.

“Whoa, whoa.” Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “So now you care?”

Jungkook levels him with a glare, his voice lower, sharper. “Hyung.”

Taehyung lifts his hands in surrender, though his smirk lingers. “Go. Try not to get divorced on your second anniversary.”

Jungkook doesn’t wait for another word. He’s already out the door, moving faster than he has all day.

And for the first time today, work is the last thing on his mind.

----

Jungkook’s mind races as he grips the steering wheel, his fingers tightening with every passing second. The city lights blur past, but all he can focus on is the suffocating weight in his chest.

How the fuck did he forget?

His phone vibrates in the passenger seat- probably another work email but for the first time in months, he ignores it. Instead, he swipes through his contacts, pressing the first name that comes to mind.

“Pick up, pick up,” he mutters, jaw clenched as the dial tone rings.

“Yes, Mr.Jeon?”

“Yuna.” His voice is rushed, urgent. “I need you to get me something. Flowers. A gift. Something big—just—fuck, anything.”

A pause. “Sir?”

“Now,” he snaps.

There’s a shuffle on the other end before his assistant hesitantly speaks again. “I…Mr.Jeon, it’s almost 10 p.m. Most places are closed.”

Jungkook exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. Of course they are. Because he’s too fucking late.

His grip tightens around the wheel. “Just—check. Call whoever. I’ll pay whatever.”

“Understood,” Yuna replies before hanging up.

What the fuck is he even doing?

No expensive gift, no overpriced bouquet, no last-minute grand gesture can erase the fact that he forgot. That he spent an entire day drowning in work while you—his wife, his love, the woman who has stood by him through everything—sat at home, waiting for him to remember.

His hands clench the wheel.

How much had he missed? How much had he ignored?

And the worst part—the part that makes his pulse spike, that has panic clawing at his ribs is the question he doesn’t have an answer to.

What if you’re done waiting?

Jungkook slams his foot down on the gas.

He’s not losing you. He won’t.

----

Jungkook steps into the house, and immediately, something feels off. The air is still. The silence stretches, suffocating, pressing against his chest. Almost all the lights are off, the space eerily empty, like no one has been here for hours.

His throat dries. “Baby?”

No answer.

He frowns, dropping his keys onto the counter with a sharp clink. His feet move quickly, checking the kitchen, the living room, even the hallway leading to the bedroom. nothing.

A weird feeling starts creeping up his spine. His heart beats faster as he strides toward the bedroom door, only to find the bed untouched, the sheets exactly the way he had left them this morning.

You’re not here.

His pulse spikes, a cold sweat forming at the base of his neck. His hands tremble as he yanks his phone out, immediately dialing your number.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three.

Straight to voicemail.

His stomach drops. A shaky breath escapes him as he stares at his screen, the call log mocking him with the lack of response. His fingers tighten around the device, his mind spiraling.

Where are you? At this time of night, alone- where could you have gone?

The walls feel like they’re closing in on him. His lungs strain for air.

Then, another thought claws its way in, violent and unwelcome.

Did you leave?

No. No. His chest tightens, his breath coming faster now. That’s not—that’s not possible. You wouldn’t just leave him. You wouldn’t—

He swallows hard, shaking his head. Don’t go there, Jungkook. Don’t even fucking go there.

But the panic is already curling around his ribs, suffocating, unrelenting.

You’re not here. And right now, that is the worst fucking thing in the world.

Jungkook’s fingers tremble as he redials your number.

Voicemail. Again.

“Fuck.” His breath comes out uneven, panic clawing at his throat. His hands are clammy, his chest tightening with every passing second. Where are you?

His mind is spiraling now, every worst-case scenario flashing through his head. His jaw clenches as he swipes to his contact list calling your friends.

Each time, the same response.

No, I haven’t seen her.

Did you check with—

Wait, what’s going on?

Jungkook grits his teeth, his hand tightening into a fist. His breathing is shallow, his pulse out of control. You weren’t with your friends. You weren’t picking up. You weren’t home.

And he still had no idea where you were.

Jungkook grabs his car keys with shaky hands, his mind racing. He doesn’t know where to go, doesn’t have a plan. All he knows is that he has to find you.

His feet move on instinct, carrying him toward the door. But just as he reaches for the handle, something catches his eye.

A small glint.

His breath stills. His gaze shifts toward the couch, and that’s when he sees it.

Your wedding ring.

Sitting there. Abandoned.

For a moment, everything stops. The pounding in his chest, the rush of his movements. Everything.

The air in the room feels heavier, suffocating. His fingers twitch at his sides as he stares at the delicate band, his stomach twisting into something painful.

You never took it off. Never.

Jungkook swallows, his throat suddenly dry. He steps forward, slowly, almost cautiously, like touching it will somehow make this nightmare real.

His hand trembles as he picks it up, the cool metal pressing into his palm..

Jungkook stares at the ring in his palm, his vision blurring as a lump lodges itself in his throat. Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, his chest tightening painfully.

You wouldn’t just leave him like that… would you?

The thought alone knocks the air from his lungs. His grip on the ring tightens as his mind spirals, drowning in questions that only make the ache worse.

Were you thinking about this before today?

How long have you been feeling like this, so alone, so unloved that taking off your ring even crossed your mind?

A sharp breath escapes him, shaky and uneven. His knees buckle, and before he can stop himself, he’s sinking onto the floor, the weight of everything crashing down at once.

The ring feels heavier than it should, pressing into his palm like a cruel reminder of everything he’s neglected, everything he’s taken for granted. He squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling a slow, trembling breath.

He needs to find you. He needs to fix this.

Before it’s too late.

Jungkook exhales shakily, forcing himself to move. His legs feel unsteady, but he pushes through, gripping the wedding ring so tightly it bites into his skin.

Somehow, he manages to stand, his entire body tense with desperation. He stumbles toward the door, his heart pounding, his mind racing with every possibility of where you could be.

But just as his fingers reach for the handle—

The door swings open.

And there you are.

Jungkook freezes, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, everything stills. His panic, his thoughts, his entire world narrowing to the sight of you standing in front of him.

In the blink of an eye, he moves.

He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. His grip is desperate, his hands fisting into your clothes, his entire body pressing against yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You stand there, stunned, your own arms hovering slightly, unsure of what just happened.

"…Jungkook?” your voice comes out confused, hesitant.

But he just clings to you, burying his face into your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin.

You don’t know what’s going on.

But Jungkook?

He feels like he just got his heart beating again. You feel the way his body trembles against yours, his grip impossibly tight, like he’s holding onto you for dear life.

Then, the sound reaches you. A broken, uneven breath, followed by the unmistakable hitch of a sob.

Your heart clenches. “Kook…” Your voice is soft, laced with worry as you try to pull back, just enough to see his face. But he doesn’t let you. His arms only tighten, his body curling into yours, as if letting go would physically hurt him.

Panic bubbles in your chest, your hands instinctively reaching up to cradle his face, your fingers threading into his hair. “Hey… what happened?” Your voice wavers slightly. “Are you okay? You’re scaring me.”

But Jungkook just shakes his head against your shoulder, another quiet, shaky breath leaving him.

You don’t understand.

But whatever this is, whatever’s breaking him like this—your own heart aches just watching him fall apart. Your concern deepens with every shaky breath that leaves Jungkook. He’s still clinging to you, his body trembling slightly, his face buried against your shoulder like he’s afraid to let go.

You don’t know what’s wrong, but seeing him like this—Jungkook, your Jungkook—completely unraveling, is enough to make panic rise in your chest.

Gently, you pull back, your hands cupping his face. His skin is warm, slightly damp from his tears, and when his glassy eyes finally meet yours, your stomach twists painfully.

“Come inside,” you whisper, your voice softer now, coaxing. “Please.”

He swallows thickly, nodding ever so slightly, but his grip on you doesn’t fully loosen. You guide him inside anyway, one hand wrapped around his wrist as you lead him toward the couch.

He sits down heavily, elbows resting on his knees, fingers threading through his hair as he exhales shakily. His shoulders are still tense, his whole body radiating something raw and unspoken.

You kneel in front of him, reaching for his hands, but he doesn’t lift his head.

Your worry deepens. “Jungkook… please tell me what’s wrong.” Silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating. His fingers twitch against his temples, his breath uneven.

“I—” His voice is hoarse, cracking slightly. He swallows hard, gripping his knees. “I thought you left me.”

You blink, his words settling in, but it takes you a moment to fully process them.

He thought you left him?

Your brows furrow slightly as you shake your head. “Jungkook, I was babysitting Hanuel.”

His breath is still uneven, his hands gripping his knees like he’s trying to ground himself. His eyes flick up to meet yours, confused, searching.

“Hana and Seokjin had a date night,” you explain gently. “They asked me to watch him for a few hours.”

Hanuel, your neighbour's son. Jungkook stares at you, his body still tense, like his mind hasn’t caught up yet. You watch as his lips part slightly, his gaze flickering between you and the ring still clutched in his hand.

His fingers tighten around it, his knuckles paling. A beat of silence passes before he swallows thickly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“…Then why was this on the couch?”

The question hangs heavy in the air, fragile and uncertain, as if he’s afraid of the answer. And for the first time tonight, you don’t know what to say.

“I…” The word barely escapes your lips before you stand up, turning away from him. You can’t meet his eyes, not when your emotions are still raw, not when the weight of everything is pressing so heavily on your chest.

Jungkook notices immediately. Panic flickers across his face, and in an instant, he’s scrambling up after you. “Wait—baby, please.” His voice is desperate now, thick with emotion, his hands reaching out like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, stepping closer, his tone cracking under the weight of his own guilt. “I—fuck, I forgot—I don’t know how, I don’t even have an excuse, but—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head, his eyes glassy as they plead with yours.

“I never meant to make you feel like this,” he whispers. “I swear, I didn’t.” But you still don’t look at him. And that alone is enough to make his heart sink.

You swallow hard, your arms wrapping around yourself as you stare at the floor. His words, his desperation, his guilt—they all swirl around you, but they don’t erase the ache in your chest.

“Do you even realize how much this hurt?” Your voice is quiet, but the weight of it makes Jungkook flinch. “I spent the entire day thinking—hoping—that maybe you had something planned. That maybe you were just pretending to forget.”

Jungkook’s throat bobs as he steps closer, hesitating before reaching for your hand. You don’t pull away, but you don’t hold onto him either.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know I fucked up, baby. I—I was so caught up in work, I just…” He trails off, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “That’s not an excuse. Nothing is. I should’ve remembered. I should’ve been there.”

You let out a hollow laugh, finally lifting your gaze to meet his. “Jungkook… this isn’t just about today.”

His brows furrow, but he doesn’t interrupt.

You take a shaky breath. “It’s been weeks..maybe even longer—since I felt like your wife instead of just… someone waiting for you to come home.” Your voice wavers, but you push through. “And it’s not that I don’t understand. I do. I’ve always understood. But at what point do I stop being understanding and start being invisible to you?”

Jungkook’s breath catches, his grip on your hand tightening like he’s afraid to let go. “You’re not invisible,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “You never could be.”

“Then why do I feel like I am?”

Silence.

Jungkook shakes his head, his jaw clenching as he exhales unsteadily. “I never wanted to make you feel this way,” he murmurs. “You are everything to me, baby. Everything. I don’t even know who I am without you.”

Your eyes sting, but you force yourself to hold his gaze. “Then show me, Jungkook. Because I can’t keep being the only one fighting for us.” The vulnerability in your voice nearly breaks him.

He’s been losing you, piece by piece, for a while now. And he hadn’t even noticed.

Jungkook feels his stomach drop, the weight of your words hitting harder than any argument, any fight you could have thrown at him. His grip on your hand tightens, but you don’t squeeze back.

He’s losing you.

And it’s not because of one forgotten anniversary—it’s because he hasn’t been here.

He swallows hard. “Baby…” His voice cracks, his free hand reaching up to cup your cheek, but you step back before he can touch you.

The distance, however small, is enough to make his chest ache.

“Tell me, Jungkook,” you whisper, your voice barely holding together. “When was the last time we sat down and had breakfast together? When was the last time you really looked at me—not just kissed me on the forehead before rushing out the door?” You shake your head, a bitter chuckle escaping. “When was the last time we made love without it feeling like you were trying to release your stress instead of loving me?”

Jungkook’s breath hitches.

You let out a slow exhale, your voice calmer now but even heavier with hurt. “I don’t need grand gestures. I don’t need fancy gifts or a picture-perfect romance. I just… needed you to see me.”

His entire body feels cold. Because the truth is—he doesn’t have an answer.

He’s been so caught up in his responsibilities, his work, his stress, that he’s let the one person who has always been there for him slip through his fingers.

And the worst part? He didn’t even realize it was happening until now.

“Fuck.” His voice is raw, his hands running through his hair as he looks at you, really looks at you. At the exhaustion in your eyes, the way your lips tremble slightly like you’re holding back everything.

His heart clenches painfully. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you hold his gaze for a long moment before whispering, “I don’t know, Jungkook. Did you?”

Jungkook's breath is unsteady, his chest rising and falling too quickly as he stares at you, at the distance between you, the weight of your words suffocating him.

He moves. Before you can react, his hands are cupping your face, his touch desperate, almost shaky. His forehead presses against yours as he exhales a trembling breath, like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I see you,” he whispers, his voice raw, strained. “I swear to god, I see you, baby. I just..I lost myself somewhere along the way, and I didn’t even realize I was dragging us down with me.”

His thumbs brush over your cheekbones, a silent plea laced in his touch. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you.”

Your heart clenches, but you don’t push him away. You should- you should make him sit with this, make him feel what it’s been like for you all this time. But then his grip tightens, his voice breaking.

“Please, baby.” His lips hover just above yours, not quite touching, his breath warm against your skin. “Tell me it’s not too late.”

His vulnerability shakes you to your core.

You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to steady yourself. “I don’t want to lose us either, Jungkook,” you whisper. “But I can’t keep being the only one holding on.”

Jungkook shakes his head instantly. “You’re not. You won’t be.” His lips ghost over your forehead before he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “Let me prove it to you. Please.”

His desperation is tangible, seeping into every word, every touch. And for the first time tonight, you wonder if maybe, just maybe—he really does see you now.

Jungkook watches you, searching for something—anything in your eyes that tells him he hasn’t completely lost you.

Before doubt can settle in, he takes your hand, pressing it over his chest, right where his heart is hammering wildly. “Feel that?” he whispers. “That’s what you do to me, baby. Always.”

Your fingers twitch against his shirt, but you don’t pull away. You don’t move at all, just staring up at him, your expression unreadable.

He swallows hard. “I know I don’t say it enough. I know I don’t show it enough, but fuck, Y/n—” His hands tighten around yours, his voice barely above a breath. “There is nothing in this world that matters more to me than you.”

You let out a slow exhale, your gaze flickering, like you want to believe him. like a part of you does, but the hurt is still too fresh. So he gives you more.

“I’ll fix this,” he promises, his thumb brushing soft circles over your wrist. “Not with flowers, or gifts, or some last-minute bullshit—but with me. With us.”

His voice drops lower, thick with emotion. “Just tell me it’s not too late.” Your lips part slightly, but you don’t speak. Instead, you finally—finally press your palm flat against his chest, feeling the way his heart beats erratically beneath your touch.

It’s enough to break something inside Jungkook. His grip tightens as he leans in, his lips brushing against your temple, then your cheek—slow, hesitant, as if he’s still afraid you’ll slip away.

And when you don’t, when you let him, he exhales a shaky breath, his forehead resting against yours once more.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Like if he says it enough, he can make up for all the times he didn’t. And maybe, just maybe—you’ll believe him again.

Jungkook’s breath is warm against your skin, his forehead still pressed against yours, his grip on you unwavering. His words linger in the air between you. raw, desperate, filled with a love that had always been there, even when he’d failed to show it.

You swallow hard, blinking against the tears clouding your vision. He’s waiting—watching you so intently, so hopelessly, as if your next words will either put him back together or completely shatter him.

You take a shaky breath. “Jungkook…” Your voice wavers, and his grip tightens instinctively. “I love you too.”

A sharp exhale leaves him, his entire body sinking slightly in relief. But before he can say anything, you continue. “But this hurt,” you whisper. “More than you realize.”

Jungkook stiffens, nodding quickly, his hands cupping your face again, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slip down your cheeks. “I know, baby. I know. And I hate myself for it.” His voice cracks, his jaw clenching before he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead.

You let your eyes flutter shut for a second, exhaling slowly. “I don’t want promises, Jungkook,” you murmur. “I just… I need to feel like I matter to you again.”

His hands tremble slightly as they slide down, wrapping around yours. He lifts them to his lips, pressing gentle, reverent kisses to each of your knuckles, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

“You do,” he whispers. “More than anything. And I’m going to spend every damn day proving that to you.” His voice is steady now. no hesitation, no doubt. Just quiet, determined love. And though the ache in your chest hasn’t fully faded, something shifts.

Because this time, you don’t just hear him. You believe him. Even if just a little.

Jungkook presses another lingering kiss against your knuckles, his touch reverent, as if grounding himself in you. But before he can lose himself completely, you gently murmur, “Have you eaten?”

The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He shakes his head, gaze still searching yours. “No… I—"

“Go freshen up,” you say softly, stepping back just a little. “We’ll eat together.”

His fingers twitch against yours, hesitating to let go, but eventually, he nods. With one last glance—like he’s making sure you’re really here, he pulls away and heads toward the shower.

While he’s gone, you move to the kitchen, setting out dinner in quiet contemplation. The ache in your chest hasn’t completely faded, but there’s something else now- a warmth that wasn’t there before.

----

By the time Jungkook emerges, hair damp, dressed in a fresh t-shirt and sweatpants, you’ve already placed the food on the table.

He hesitates for only a second before joining you, sliding into his chair. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice softer now.

You nod, offering a small smile as you take a seat. The conversation is light, effortless. Jungkook fills the silence, stealing glances at you like he’s still memorizing you all over again. And through it all, his hand never leaves yours, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles against your skin.

After dinner, he helps with the dishes, working beside you in quiet understanding. The air between you feels lighter, yet still fragile, like something delicate being pieced back together.

Jungkook sets the last dish onto the drying rack, wiping his hands on the towel before turning to you. There’s a soft, almost hopeful look in his eyes, like he’s clinging to this moment.

You step away, hesitating for just a second before opening the refrigerator. Jungkook watches in silence as you carefully pull out the cake, placing on the counter, your fingers grazing the edges of the plate, before finally speaking.

“I…I’d made this.”

The words are quiet, but they hit harder than any raised voice ever could. Jungkook’s entire body stiffening as guilt crashes into him all over again. His eyes flicker to the cake- to the careful details, the effort, the thought you had put into it, for him. And suddenly, it feels like the walls are caving in.

His throat tightens. His fingers curl at his sides. He can’t look at you. He doesn’t deserve to. Tears gather in his eyes, blurring his vision, his heart breaking all over again, not just because he forgot today, but because he had broken you in so many ways without even realizing it.

And that? That’s something he doesn’t know how to forgive himself for.

“Jungkook..”, your voice barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the heavy silence like a knife.

He wants to look at you, wants to say something—anything, but he can’t. His head remains bowed, his hands gripping the edge of the counter, as if holding himself together takes everything in him.

You take a small step forward, the space between you feeling larger than it actually is. His silence is deafening.

“Jungkook,” you say again, a little firmer this time.

His lips part, a shaky breath slipping through, but no words come out. He wants to speak, to apologize again, to tell you how much he loves you, to somehow fix this- but his throat feels tight, his chest heavy.

He doesn’t know if words are enough.

“I… I’m so fucking sorry, baby,” Jungkook chokes out, his voice trembling as he finally speaks. His hands shake at his sides, his eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I’ve been an asshole—a terrible husband. I don’t even know how to make this right.” His breath stutters, his words spilling out faster now, raw and desperate.

“I wouldn’t even be surprised if you left me,” he continues, shaking his head. “You should’ve. You deserve better. I—I can’t believe I—”

“Jungkook.”

You don’t let him finish.

Instead, you reach up, cupping his face with both hands, your thumbs brushing away the tears that have already begun to fall. His lips part in surprise, his rambling cut off as you rise onto your toes.

A gentle kiss on his lips.

Soft. Loving.

Tear-streaked and real.

Jungkook exhales shakily against your lips, his whole body melting into yours. His hands find your waist, holding onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

The kiss is slow, there's no desperation, no urgency. Just you and him, emotions bare. Tears continue to slip down your cheeks, mixing with his, salty and warm, but neither of you pull away. Because in this moment, there’s no need for words.

Just this.

Just love.

When you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his, both of you breathing heavily, your tears still wet against each other’s skin. Jungkook’s grip on your waist is firm, like he’s grounding himself in your touch, afraid to let go. His lips part, like he wants to speak, but before he can, you whisper,

“You’re not a terrible husband, Jungkook.”

Jungkook’s eyes glisten with more unshed tears, his lips pressing into a thin line, unable to speak. You wipe his tears away with your thumbs, offering him the smallest smile. “Just… love me better, okay?”

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, nodding again, more determined this time. “I will.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but you believe him.

You press one last gentle kiss to his cheek before stepping back, glancing at the cake still sitting on the counter. “Come on,” you say, nudging him lightly. “Let’s cut this before it melts.”

Jungkook lets out a breathy chuckle, wiping at his face as he nods. He steps beside you, his hand instinctively finding yours again as you both move toward the small cake. The two of you cut into it together, Jungkook’s fingers lacing through yours around the knife handle. He doesn’t let go, even as you both take small bites in comfortable silence.

Once the plates are cleared, you tug at his wrist, nodding toward the bedroom. “Come to bed?”

Jungkook exhales, relief washing over his features as he nods. “Yeah.”

A few minutes later, you’re both under the covers, warmth surrounding you as Jungkook pulls you against his chest. His arms wrap tightly around you, his breath fanning against the top of your head as he whispers,

“I love you.”

This time, you don’t hesitate to say it back.

“I love you too, Jungkook.”

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep in his arms, where you’ve always belonged.

Jungkook’s fingers still tremble against your skin. Even as he holds you, his grip is laced with hesitance, a silent fear lingering beneath the warmth of his touch. It’s in the way his hands press into your back yet remain careful, as if he’s afraid of holding on too tightly.

You can feel the erratic thud of his heart beneath your palm, his breaths uneven, his chest rising and falling as if he’s struggling to keep himself steady.

And something about that, about him—makes your own heart ache.

Slowly, you lift your head from his chest, your eyes locking onto his in the dim glow of the room. His lips part slightly, his gaze unreadable, but the moment you lean in, his breath catches.

You kiss him.

It starts soft, so gentle, full of longing. Filled with everything you can’t put into words.

Jungkook melts into it instantly, his grip on you tightening, pulling you impossibly closer. The warmth of his lips, the slight hitch in his breath when you press harder. It sends a familiar heat curling through you.

The kiss deepens, your fingers gripping his t-shirt with urgency, needing to feel more. It’s desperate, heady, the space between you charged with something deeper than just want—something raw, something that had been missing for too long.

Jungkook pulls back gently. His forehead stays pressed against yours, both of you panting softly, but his hands shake slightly as they hold you in place.

His lips part, his breath uneven. “I… we shouldn’t…” He swallows hard, voice thick with hesitation. “I mean… I don’t want you to think I’m gonna fix this with sex.”

His words cut through the haze of warmth between you, grounding you both back in reality. You understand. Because even now—even now, he’s afraid. Afraid that this isn’t enough. Afraid that he isn’t enough.

Your eyes soften as you take in his hesitance, the uncertainty in his gaze, the way his breath trembles against your skin.

You reach up, your fingers threading gently through his hair. “I’m never gonna think like that, Kook,” you murmur, your voice quiet but sure.

His lips part slightly, his brows still knitted in concern, but before he can say anything, you lean in again. This time, the kiss is softer, filled with nothing but love.

You linger for a moment, your lips brushing against his as you whisper, “I just… I need you.” Another soft kiss. “Please.”

Jungkook exhales sharply, his entire body shuddering under the weight of your words.

And just like that, whatever hesitation he had left—it’s gone.

Your breaths grow uneven as your lips move against his, the heat between you intensifying with every passing second.

Jungkook shifts, his body hovering over yours, his weight pressing down just enough to make you feel him. His hands slip beneath the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing, his touch still hesitant, fingertips ghosting over your waist like he’s memorizing the feel of you all over again.

But you don’t want hesitation.

You tug at his shirt, a silent plea, and Jungkook obeys without question, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. Before he can think, you pull him back in, capturing his lips in another deep, hungry kiss.

A quiet groan escapes him, his hands finally exploring freely, pressing against your skin, feeling the warmth beneath his palms. His lips leave yours only to trail down your neck, his breath warm as he presses soft, lingering kisses there.

You shiver when he reaches the collar of your shirt, your own hands moving to help him remove it. Dark, love-filled eyes roam over every inch of your skin, his lips parting slightly, as if he’s trying to find the words but nothing he could say would ever be enough. Still, he tries.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. “So fucking perfect.”

Your breath catches when he lowers himself again, his lips planting soft, reverent kisses along your collarbone, trailing lower over your shoulder, your chest. Your husband's mouth mapping you like you’re something sacred.

His lips slowly wrap around one breast, his tongue flicking teasingly before sucking softly. A moan escapes you, your fingers tangling into his hair, tugging lightly as he hums against your skin. His other hand moves to your neglected breast, his thumb brushing over the sensitive peak as he keeps mouthing sweet nothings against you.

“You’re everything,” he whispers between kisses, his voice muffled against your skin. “I love you so much, baby.”

And as the heat between you builds, his touch grows bolder. A desperate whimper escapes your lips as your fingers tangle deeper into Jungkook’s hair, your body arching toward him, silently pleading for more.

He groans against your skin, the sound low and warm, vibrating through you. “Patience, baby,” he murmurs, pressing another lingering kiss to your chest before trailing lower, his lips tracing the curves of your body. “Let me take my time… let me make love to you.”

The way he says it, love—makes your stomach tighten, your heart aching as much as your body craves him. His hands glide down your waist, slow and purposeful, before slipping between your legs. His fingers find the damp fabric of your panties, pressing just lightly enough to make you gasp. Your hips lift instinctively, chasing his touch, and Jungkook groans at the feeling.

His dark eyes meet yours, silently asking for permission. You nod, unable to form words, and that’s all he needs.

Hooking his fingers into the waistband, he tugs your panties down, dragging them slowly along your legs before discarding them somewhere behind him. His gaze never leaves you as he lowers himself further, trailing kisses down your stomach, over the sensitive skin of your hips.

He settles between your legs. You feel completely bare under his intense gaze, the way his lips part slightly, his eyes darkening as he drinks you in.

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice filled with something reverent, something devoted. His hands spread your thighs wider, his thumbs brushing along your skin in slow, soothing circles.

“My wife.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, making your core clench in anticipation.

Finally, he closes his mouth around you. One long, slow stroke of his tongue, and you fall apart instantly, a breathless moan slipping from your lips as your head tilts back against the pillows.

Jungkook hums against you, pleased, his hands gripping your thighs as he licks another slow, teasing stripe through your folds. “So fucking sweet,” he groans, the heat of his breath against your slick skin making your body tremble. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby.”

He isn't just making love, he's devouring you.

Jungkook hums against you, the vibration sending a shockwave of pleasure up your spine. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as his tongue moves with slow, deliberate strokes. learning you all over again, savoring every little gasp and shudder that escapes you.

“Jungkook—” Your voice is breathless, almost pleading, your fingers tightening in his hair, tugging him closer.

He groans at that, the sound reverberating through your core as he laps at you with more purpose. His tongue flicks over your clit, teasing, testing, before he sucks gently, making your back arch off the bed.

“Fuck—” You whimper, your thighs threatening to close around his head, but his strong hands keep you spread wide, completely at his mercy.

His lips brushing your sensitive skin as he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are slick, his dark eyes burning with desire.

Your cheeks burn, he dives back in, this time with more urgency. His tongue moves in tight circles, alternating between slow, teasing strokes and deeper, firmer licks that have your breath hitching.

One hand slides up your stomach, fingers splaying across your skin before reaching your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers. The combined sensation makes your thighs tremble, a moan tearing from your lips as your hips buck against his mouth.

Jungkook groans, clearly enjoying how responsive you are, his grip on you tightening as he eats you out like it’s his last meal. He flicks his tongue over your clit again, then sucks, harder this time, sending sparks shooting through your body.

“-fuck, Jungkook—” Your head tilts back, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure builds, coiling tight in your stomach.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against you, “You gonna cum for me, baby?”

The heat inside you is unbearable now, hot and consuming. You nod desperately, your moans spilling freely as you grip his hair, your body teetering on the edge. Jungkook doesn’t stop. He pushes you closer, his mouth working you over with expert precision, his hands holding you steady as your body starts to tremble.

“Come for me, baby,” he whispers against your heat. “Let me taste you.”

And with one final flick of his tongue, you shatter. Pleasure crashes over you, your back arching, thighs trembling as you moan his name like a prayer. Jungkook groans, drinking in everything you give him, his hands stroking your body as he helps you ride it out.

Only when your body goes slack does he finally pull away, pressing soft kisses against your inner thighs, his voice thick with pride and adoration. “You’re so perfect,” he breathes between kisses, his voice thick with adoration. “My love. My wife.”

Jungkook moves up, trailing kisses along your body, over your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone. When he reaches your lips, he captures them in a deep, languid kiss, his hands cradling your face like you’re something fragile, something cherished.

Your fingers roam over his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles before moving lower, brushing over his abdomen until you reach the hardness straining against his sweats.

A groan rumbles from his chest at your touch, his hips twitching into your palm as you cup him, feeling just how ready he is.

“Baby…” he breathes against your lips, voice thick with want. You tug at the waistband of his pants, wordlessly asking for more. Jungkook obliges, sitting back just enough to push them down, kicking them off entirely.

He’s fully hard, the sight of him making your stomach tighten, heat pooling between your legs again. But before you can even reach for him Jungkook takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. The intimacy of it overwhelming.

His other hand moves between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance, his eyes locked on yours, searching, making sure-

With a final nod from you, he pushes in, slow and careful, stretching you inch by inch.

A soft moan escapes your lips, but Jungkook kisses you instantly, swallowing the sound, his own groan muffled against your mouth as he sinks deeper. The moment he’s fully inside, he stills, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing you in. And as he holds you close, as your bodies mold together so seamlessly, you realize- this isn't just sex.

This is home.

Jungkook moves slowly, each roll of his hips deep and deliberate, as if he’s trying to make up for every moment he let slip away. His body is pressed flush against yours, warmth seeping into every inch of your skin, his breath shaky against your lips as he kisses you between each movement.

Your fingers dig softly into his back, nails pressing just enough to ground yourself in the overwhelming sensation of him. One hand moves to his hair, your fingers threading through the strands, tugging gently as his lips travel from your mouth to your jaw, down your neck, planting soft, lingering kisses that make your heart ache.

It’s slow, it’s deep, it’s love.

And then, suddenly, you feel it.

A faint tremble against your body.

Something warm and wet against your neck where Jungkook has buried his face.

Your breath catches as realization dawns- he’s crying. Tears gather in your own eyes without warning, the sheer weight of the moment crashing over you all at once.

You tighten your hold on him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as you press a soft kiss into his hair. “Kook…” you whisper, your voice barely holding steady.

He shudders at your touch, at the way you hold him, like you’re not just letting him fall apart but falling apart with him.

“I—” His voice cracks as he exhales shakily, his thrusts faltering for a moment. “I’m so sorry, baby.” His lips find your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he presses kisses there—apology after apology, praise after praise.

“You’re everything to me,” he murmurs between kisses, his words thick with emotion. “You always have been.” A tear slips down your cheek as you cup his face, guiding him up until his forehead rests against yours.

“I know,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I know, Jungkook.”

His lips crash against yours again, the kiss slow and deep, his movements resuming, gentle but full of something raw, something unspoken. His hands grip your waist tighter, his body moving in perfect sync with yours, as if this moment is rewriting everything.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, voice laced with love. “I’ll always have you.”

Jungkook shudders, gripping you tighter, his lips pressing against your shoulder, his movements slowing but never stopping. You can feel the love in every touch, every kiss, every whispered breath against your skin.

And when the pleasure builds to its peak, you come undone together, your bodies melting into one as waves of warmth crash over you. His name spills from your lips, his deep groan following right after, his arms holding you so tight you swear he never plans on letting go.

Silence lingers, only the sound of heavy breathing filling the space. Then, Jungkook shifts, lifting his head just enough to press the softest kiss to your lips.

“I love you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse but full of devotion. “I don’t deserve you… but I swear, I’ll spend my life proving that I do.”

You cup his face, your thumb brushing away the remnants of dried tears. “Just love me like this, Jungkook,” you whisper, voice steady. “That’s all I need.”

His hands tightening around you as his forehead presses against yours. “I’ll love you more,” he vows, his voice breaking slightly. “More than this, more than anything. Always.” His words settle deep in your chest, warm and real, and when he pulls you impossibly closer, tucking you into his arms, you believe him.

His heartbeat is steady now, no longer frantic with fear. Just warm, solid, home.

As sleep begins to pull you under, you hear him whisper one last thing against your hair.

“Happy anniversary, baby.”

---------------------------------------------------

[mephisto-reporting]

Husband?

About: How does he react when you accidentally call him your 'husband'? Pairing: Reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus (Seperate) Note: Reader and the men are in a relationship. My inbox is open for prompts and requests :)

RAFAYEL

The evening was going smoother than expected, considering Rafayel had dragged you along to one of his many gallery showings. He had made a big deal about how you should be the one showing off his work to the public, claiming he didn’t want to deal with the “art-snobs." Yet, the second you both arrived, he quickly preoccupied himself on his phone, leaving you to handle most of the small talk.

One of the visitors, a curious older woman, was admiring a painting of his, a chaotic burst of color with soft hints of golden light. You were discussing Rafayel’s "creative process" (whatever that was—he hadn't told you much before retreating to his phone), when she asked how long you’d been working with him.

“Oh, it’s been a while now. It’s honestly amazing seeing him grow like this—my husb—” You froze mid-sentence, realizing the slip just as it left your mouth.

"Husband?"

The word hung in the air for barely a second before you felt Rafayel’s presence shift. His head shot up like a bolt of lightning, his playful, cunning eyes locking onto yours. You could practically feel his grin before you even dared to glance over. You didn’t even need to turn around to feel his gaze burning into you, practically shouting, Oh? Husband, you say?

“Husband, huh?” Rafayel drawled, pocketing his phone and sauntering toward you with that signature smirk of his. “I didn’t realize we were making things official tonight. If I’d known, I’d have worn something even more dazzling.”

You flushed, attempting to stammer out a correction, but he was far too pleased to let you off the hook that easily. He leaned casually against the gallery wall, one arm crossing his chest as he dramatically placed a hand over his heart.

He gently took your hand in his, his dramatic flair dialed up to maximum as he pressed an exaggerated kiss to your knuckles, clearly relishing the moment. "I mean, I can’t say I’m surprised. Who wouldn’t want to marry someone as charming as me?"

The visitor chuckled awkwardly, clearly not sure whether to stay or go, but Rafayel was already having way too much fun. “Of course, as your loving husband,” he continued, drawing out the word in a singsong voice, “it’s only fitting that I’m showered with even more attention now, isn’t it? I expect lots of praise, darling. I mean, just look at me." He struck a faux thought-provoking pose, tilting his head and flipping a lock of his perfectly tousled hair.

You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment, but at the same time, his antics made you laugh. “I didn’t mean to—"

"Oh no, no,” he interrupted, wagging his finger playfully. “You can’t take it back now. The word’s out, Miss Bodyguard. You’ve called me your husband. That means you’re stuck with me. Forever.” There was a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Does this mean I get to cheat at board games forever too?”

You groaned, rolling your eyes as you playfully swatted at his shoulder. “As if you needed a reason to cheat more!”

Rafayel laughed, that familiar bratty grin plastered across his face. “Well, if I’m your husband now, I think it’s only fair I get first dibs on everything. Cards, claw machines—oh, and don’t forget, I demand the comfiest seat when we binge-watch our shows.”

Despite his teasing, the warmth in his eyes made your heart skip a beat. You could see the genuine delight he took in your slip-up, how pleased he was at the thought, even if he’d never admit it outright.

“Fine, fine,” you sighed dramatically, playing along. “But don’t expect me to let you win at everything, ‘husband.’”

Rafayel beamed, and for a moment, that bratty, carefree mask of his slipped, just a little. He tugged you closer, his voice softening as he murmured, “Deal.” Then, just as quickly, he switched back to his usual, cheeky self. “Now, let’s go, wife. You’re required to be by my side while I survive this boring night. ”

Shaking your head, you laughed, unable to hide the smile creeping onto your lips. “You’re impossible.”

The woman, watching the scene unfold with a warm smile, laughed. “You two make quite the pair.”

“Oh, we do, don’t we?” Rafayel quipped before lowering his voice just enough for only you to hear, leaning in ever so slightly. “You’ve really outdone yourself, calling me that in front of witnesses. Now they’ll all expect a wedding invitation.”

Your face burned as you tried to shush him, but he was loving every second of it. He tilted his head, his hair catching the light as his smile softened into something more genuine, the bratty exterior fading just a bit. “Still… I can’t say I hate the sound of it,” he murmured, brushing a finger lightly under your chin before pulling back with a playful wink. “I might just get used to hearing it.”

You could only manage a huff of exasperation, but deep down, you couldn’t help but feel a flutter at the way his teasing had just a hint of sincerity behind it.

Rafayel, always dramatic, and yet somehow, just when you least expected it, a little bit sweet.

ZAYNE

You and Zayne were in the middle of your usual weekly grocery run, efficiently dividing and conquering your list to save time. He’d taken off towards the produce section while you headed for the rice aisle. As you browsed the different varieties, a middle-aged man beside you struggled with lifting a heavy bag of rice.

"Need a hand?" you asked, stepping in to help. The man smiled gratefully as you hoisted the bag into his cart with ease.

"Thank you, young lady," he said, rubbing his wrist. "My arthritis is flaring up today. Getting old’s no fun."

You offered him a sympathetic smile. “No problem at all. My husband’s a doctor, actually. I’m sure he’d tell you to take it easy on that wrist."

The man nodded in agreement, offering you one last thanks before heading off. You turned back to your cart, completely unaware of the word you had just let slip—husband—or the fact that Zayne had returned in time to hear it.

You felt him step up behind you, his presence calm yet undeniably magnetic. When you finally glanced over, he was standing there, hands in his pockets, a small, amused smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"Husband, hmm?" he said softly, his tone more curious than teasing. "That's... new."

You froze for a second, eyes widening as you realized what you’d said.  You opened your mouth, the words tripping over each other in a rush. “I didn’t— I mean, it just—slipped out. We’re not actually—I mean, obviously, we’re not—” You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, and no amount of backpedaling was helping.

Zayne didn’t seem in a rush to let you off the hook. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining with an ease that made your heart stutter. “You know,” he said, voice as calm as ever, “if this is your way of bringing it up, there are smoother ways to do it.” His teasing was subtle, barely perceptible if you didn’t know him well, but it was there in the gentle tug of his smile.

You groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Zayne, I didn’t mean to—”

But Zayne, ever level-headed, merely took your hand in his, his thumb gently brushing against your knuckles. “Relax,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “It’s not like I mind the idea.”

Your heart skipped a beat at that, and you looked up at him in surprise. There was a softness in his usually stoic gaze, the kind that made your stomach flip. He continued, his voice measured but affectionate, “Seems like the next logical step, doesn’t it? My parents have been asking me when I’m going to take that step with you for a while now.”

His calm tone made the statement feel both casual and monumental at the same time. “Wait, your parents…?” you started, blinking as your brain processed this new information.

“Mhm,” Zayne replied, still holding your hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “They’ve been pretty vocal about it, actually. But I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”

The right moment. Those words hung in the air, and you could feel the weight of what he was saying. He was serious—calm and casual, as always, but serious. Your breath caught, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fade into the background. It was just you and Zayne in that grocery aisle, hands linked, talking about a future you hadn’t even realized you both wanted.

“Only if you wanted to, of course,” he added, his thumb still tracing soft circles on your hand. “I wouldn’t do anything unless we both agreed.”

You stared at him, a smile slowly spreading across your face despite the initial shock. “You’re really suggesting this now? In the middle of a grocery store?”

Zayne smirked, his usual pragmatic self. “Well, we’re already talking about it. Might as well make use of the time.” He glanced down at your joined hands, his tone softening again. “Besides, I think it’s worth discussing what our future looks like, don’t you?”

Your heart swelled at his words, and the warmth of his hand in yours was enough to make you feel grounded, no matter how your emotions were spinning. “Yeah,” you said, smiling as you squeezed his hand gently. “I think it’s definitely worth talking about.”

Zayne leaned in closer, his lips brushing your temple in a rare public display of affection. “Good,” he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet kind of affection that made your chest tighten. “We’ll talk more later.”

He pulled away just as smoothly, picking up the cart with a practiced ease, as though he hadn’t just suggested the two of you start planning your future together. His eyes twinkled, a subtle tease hiding behind that usual calm exterior of his.

“And for the record,” he added, as the two of you moved on to the next aisle, “I wouldn’t mind hearing you call me ‘husband’ again.”

Your cheeks heated again, but this time, you didn’t bother trying to hide your smile. “Guess you’ll have to earn it first, doctor.”

Zayne chuckled softly, that familiar, grounded confidence in his voice. “I’ll be sure to work on that.”

SYLUS

The desert sun was relentless, and you could feel its heat pressing down on you as you stood beside Sylus, waiting to be seated inside the restaurant. He had dragged you out of Linkon on one of his mysterious ventures—no explanation, no warning, just the two of you thrust into the desert with little more than his cryptic directions. And while Sylus might have thrived in the N109 Zone's shadowy world, he was decidedly out of place here in the glaring sunlight,already starting to show hints of discomfort.

You glanced over at him, squinting slightly under the bright light. His expression was carefully controlled as always, but you noticed how his hand twitched subtly as if annoyed by the heat. The two of you had been waiting to be seated inside for a while now, and you decided it was time to speed things up.

Catching the attention of a passing waitress, you waved her over, putting on your best expression of concern. “Excuse me, my husband and I were hoping to be seated inside. I’m feeling a little faint under the harsh sun,” you said smoothly, the lie of you feeling faint rolling off your tongue with ease.

The word husband had slipped out so naturally, you didn’t even realize your mistake until the waitress nodded sympathetically and promised to get you a table indoors right away. As she walked off, you felt a cold gaze slide over you, and you turned to see Sylus staring down at you, one brow raised, a slow, dangerous smile creeping across his face.

“Husband?” His voice was smooth, but there was a teasing lilt beneath it. “Did I miss a wedding, wife?”

Your breath caught in your throat. "Wait—no, I didn't mean—" You started to stammer, heat rising to your cheeks, but before you could backtrack any further, Sylus’ arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer to his side. His grip was firm, possessive, and you could feel the smug amusement radiating off of him.

“I like the sound of that,” he murmured, leaning in just close enough for you to catch the scent of the desert air still clinging to his clothes. His lips ghosted near your ear, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Maybe this is a sign I should make it official.”

You swallowed hard, heart racing as you tried to keep your composure. “Official?” you echoed, your voice coming out a little more breathless than you intended. “What—what are you talking about?”

Sylus’ smirk widened, his amber eyes gleaming in the sun. “Oh? Cat got your tongue, Sweetie?” he teased, his tone dripping with amusement as he let his fingers trace a light circle on your hip. “You seemed so sure a moment ago, wife. But now? Speechless.”

You blinked, trying to gather your wits, but the sheer cockiness in his tone was making it hard to think straight. “I…I was just…helping us get a table,” you protested weakly, trying to pull away from his grip, but his hold only tightened.

“Oh, I’m sure you were,” he drawled, clearly reveling in your flustered state. “But now that you’ve set the bar so high, don’t tell me you’re going to back out on me. After all, you made quite the declaration back there.”

“I wasn’t—” You huffed, narrowing your eyes at him as you regained a sliver of your usual confidence. “You know it was a slip-up, Sylus. Don’t start getting ideas.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Ideas? Sweetie, I live for ideas.” His grip loosened just enough to let you step back, but the way he looked at you made it clear he wasn’t about to let you wriggle out of this one easily. “But let’s be honest, you didn’t hate it. Calling me your husband.”

Your face flushed again, but this time, you managed to meet his gaze without faltering. “I didn’t hate it,” you admitted, folding your arms, “but don’t go thinking you’ve won. I’m not about to sign any papers just because you liked hearing it.”

Sylus tilted his head, the playful smile never leaving his lips. “We’ll see about that, kitten” he said, the threat—or promise—hanging in the air between you as the waitress returned to guide you inside.

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach. “Please, Sylus. You couldn’t handle being married to me.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning in with that infuriating smirk. “Oh, I think I could handle you just fine, sweetheart. You’re the one who might need to keep up.”

You shot back, “Keep up? I’d be carrying you the whole way.”

“Careful, Sweetie. That sounds an awful lot like a challenge.” He chuckled, his hand brushing against yours again. “Now that’s a tempting thought.”

“Tempting? Try exhausting,” you quipped.

As you walked beside him, you felt his arm brush against yours, and the sensation lingered far longer than it should have. Sylus, of course, said nothing, though the smug expression never quite left his face.

This was clearly far from over. And judging by the glint in his eye, Sylus was going to make sure you never forgot your little slip-up.

XAVIER

The café was quiet, filled with the soft murmur of patrons and the comforting smell of fresh pastries. You and Xavier had settled in for a peaceful afternoon, your table already adorned with a delightful array of treats. He had requested a simple drink—no whipped cream. The barista returned, placing his drink in front of him with an impressive mountain of whipped cream on top. Xavier, as calm and indifferent as ever, simply blinked at it, showing no signs of complaint. He wasn’t going to say a word about it, but that didn’t mean you were going to let it slide.

Excusing yourself, you raised a hand and called over a passing staff member. “Excuse me,” you began, with a polite smile. “My husband asked for no whipped cream on his drink, but it looks like there’s some here by mistake. Would it be alright for us to get it changed?”

The words tumbled out so smoothly that you didn’t even realize your slip-up until the staff member nodded apologetically and hurried back to fix the order. It was only when you turned back around that you saw Xavier sitting there, looking unusually... stunned.

He was blinking slowly at you, his expression softened by a hint of confusion and—was that amusement? “Husband?” he repeated, his soft voice barely more than a murmur.

Your face flushed as you fumbled for an explanation. “Oh, no, wait—! I didn’t mean—” You stammered, desperately trying to backtrack. “That just slipped out! I meant to say…uh my boyfriend? Partner? Date? Not—well, not husband, obviously…”

Xavier continued to blink, his face now showing just a little more expression than usual. The faintest curl of a smile played on his lips, and he tilted his head, considering your words. “I must’ve missed that chapter in the 'Guide to a Healthy Relationship,'” he said in that calm, unruffled way of his. “I didn’t know we’d moved on to the husband-and-wife stage.”

You groaned inwardly, burying your face in your hands. “I swear, it was an accident. Just ignore what I said.”

But Xavier was clearly in no mood to let it go. “So, dear wife,” he continued, completely unfazed by your protests, “do you think we’ll have matching mugs in our future? Maybe get a nice house, with a small garden and a picket fence?”

You shot him a playful glare, but the way he was looking at you made it impossible to stay annoyed. “Very funny,” you muttered, though your lips were twitching at the corners, betraying your amusement.

“I think it has a nice ring to it,” Xavier said, leaning back in his chair, clearly enjoying this far more than you expected. “I wonder how long it would take for people in the association to start sending us wedding gifts. Or perhaps they'd just send weapons... you know, as a gesture of goodwill.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think wedding gifts are really their style, Xavier.”

“Hmm, you’re probably right,” he said thoughtfully, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But you did call me your husband in public. Shouldn’t we at least play the part now?”

Your cheeks were burning, but you couldn’t resist playing along with his ridiculousness. “Fine,” you said, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. “But just so you know, dear husband, you’ll be the one doing the dishes.”

Xavier chuckled softly, the sound rare and surprisingly warm. “As long as you take care of meals. A fair trade.”

You were about to retort when the waitress returned with Xavier’s newly corrected drink—this time, free of whipped cream. She set it down with a smile, glancing between the two of you as if she’d picked up on the playful atmosphere. “Here you go,” she said. “No whipped cream this time, sir.”

Xavier’s eyes glinted as he thanked her with a nod, and after she left, he looked back at you with a satisfied expression. “See? Husband perks,” he teased, taking a sip of his drink.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide the smile spreading across your face. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he said, the teasing lilt in his voice gentler now. He took your hand under the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “But... thank you,” he added after a beat, his voice softer and more sincere. “For speaking up for me.”

You blinked at him, momentarily thrown off by the gratitude in his tone. “Of course,” you said, squeezing his hand in return. “That’s what wives do, right?”

Xavier let out a soft laugh. “I suppose so,” he murmured, his lips quirking into a rare, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat.

In that moment, with his hand in yours and the gentle teasing in the air, it was easy to forget the world outside the café. Just the two of you, playing pretend—but maybe, just maybe, something more.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

[squipa]

let me shatter into you

— aka jason knows better than to let anyone get away with hurting you

———

your eyes trace the brown-yellow bruise forming on your wrist, the consequence of some asshole on the street too drunk to remember it isn’t polite to grab pretty girls. you would’ve let it go, really, it’s gotham, this kind of thing happens. unfortunately for the poor bastard, he had the misfortune of forgetting his sense in front of jason todd.

you try to hide the bruise before your boyfriend can see it, sliding the tarnished patch of skin under the sleeve of your jacket with haste— but he catches it anyways. of course he does. you can faintly see shocks of green lightning crackling in his ocean blue eyes, a precursor to the white hot rage stemming from his chest to the rest of his body.

you gently squeeze his arm, noting how tense the muscles in his bicep are. you know jason. you know he loves you differently— like you’re something fragile. he worships you, taking care of you like you’re a marble statue and he’s terrified of finding cracks. so something as small as a bruise, no matter how tiny or how minor, it makes him lose control.

he gently removes your hand from his arm, pressing a chaste kiss against your bruise. “why don’t you go back to that café, yeah? i’ll join you in a minute.” he says, looking down at you with a soft smile. if you didn’t know him any better, you’d think he’d completely gotten over the situation, happy as a clam.

but you do know him, and you know that the way his shoulders are tensed and his free hand is fisted in the pocket of his jacket means that he’s enraged.

“jay—“

he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, giving you a gentle smile. “please, baby. i don’t want you to see this.”

you should stop it. you should try. but he’s looking at you like that and your morals suddenly become incredibly loose. you hesitate, remembering the waves of repulsion you felt moments ago when that idiot bastard yanked you towards him. “just… don’t hurt him bad.”

jason nods, turning you around and guiding you forward, watching until you turn towards the cafe before he focuses his attention on the man, who is still too piss drunk to comprehend how badly he had fucked up. you hear jason before the door fully closes behind you, an echo of “so you think that’s how you should treat a woman?”

he’s terrifying. that drunk idiot must be terrified.

and he’s yours. scary dog privileges and all that. it makes you feel warm, safe, loved, protected— you’re irrevocably in love with that. with him.

he comes back in a few minutes, maybe fifteen? the wait stretched on for hours in your mind. his knuckles are bloody, but none of it is his. he cleans up in the bathroom before sliding next to you on the cushioned side of your half-booth, wrapping an arm and your shoulder, breathing you in like a man starved.

“he’s fine.” he says quietly, so only you can hear it. “just made sure he learned to keep his hands to himself.”

you close your eyes, leaning into him, into his warmth. you don’t say anything— you don’t have to, the way you bury yourself against him is admission enough. his arms wrap around you and the bruise fades back into your skin. your heart beats with more love than you thought it capable of producing, your chest swelling like it’s about to burst.

you press a gentle kiss against his chest and everything makes sense again.

———

it’s always when i say i’m not gonna write that inspiration strikes

[sunniques]

— 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞

the one where heeseung spirals into a twisted obsession after meeting his lovely stepdaughter.

➺ PAIRING: lee heeseung x female reader

➺ GENRE: stepdad au, a/b/o au, smut

➺ WORD COUNT: 9.2k

➺ CW/TW: alpha!heeseung, omega!reader, stepcest, infidelity, age gap, obsession, possessiveness, grinding, begging, spanking, spitting, fingering, biting, daddy kink, breeding kink, size kink, hand job, pussy slaps, oral sex (f), squirting, unprotected sex, multiple creampies, knotting

NOTE: don’t like, don’t read.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Heeseung has always had obsessive tendencies.

Ever since he was a kid, he would fixate on something (or someone) until it became his or until he grew sick of it. His parents had brushed it off as a normal alpha disposition. They claimed he was territorial like any other alpha, so there was nothing to really worry about. Even back then, Heeseung knew that obsessive was a better word to describe him. Either way, because of this enabling, he never tried to correct his behavior despite knowing it wasn’t entirely normal.

As the years passed, Heeseung was able to control himself better (for the most part). After college, nothing really grabbed his attention the way it used to, and he mistakenly thought it was because he had finally grown out of his obsessive tendencies.

That undesirable part of him lay dormant for so long that he was able to lead a normal life. He even found a nice beta to settle down with. She was older than him and willing to placate him in every way. Even though Heeseung didn’t love her, she gave her entire heart to him. His selfishness allowed him to accept everything she was willing to give him, and he never once felt bad about it. After all, his wife wanted nothing more than to support him and make him a better man. Which she sort of did. At some point, Heeseung was convinced that he was slowly shedding the obsessive part of his personality completely thanks to his wife.

That illusion shattered the moment he met his wife’s daughter.

Heeseung always knew his wife had a daughter that was in college because she told him about you on their second date. Honestly, he’d put the information in the back of his mind because his wife made it clear that you had your own life and weren’t all that interested in hers. According to her, you deviated from the typical omega because you weren’t affectionate or clingy. She made the offhand comment that your unnatural disposition is the reason you haven’t gone through your first heat despite being well past the age for it.

Even though he thought that was beyond strange, he didn’t care enough to ask more. After all, he would probably only ever see you a few times a year.

It’s a hot summer day when Heeseung meets you. His wife isn’t all that thrilled about you coming over, but apparently you need to get something from her that can’t wait for another time. There are no secrets in his marriage, but for the first time ever, his loving wife refuses to tell him what it is that you need so badly.

Heeseung comes downstairs when he hears his wife open the door. Her greeting is unenthusiastic, and he manages to catch the tail end of an awkward hug. At first he thinks it’s because of your supposed aversion to affection, but when he watches his wife shove a small bag in your hands like it’s some big inconvenience, he thinks maybe you’re not the problem.

Once he gets closer, he’s hit with an unnaturally sweet scent at full force. It’s mouth-watering and dizzying in the best way. The beast inside him wants nothing more than to bury its nose in the source and never come up for air.

“Honey!” His wife exclaims as she leads you to the living room. “Come here. I want you to meet someone.”

The second he lays his eyes on you—a pretty college girl that has yet to go through her first heat—he’s unable to control the familiar dark feeling building in his chest. His pulse starts to race, and right then he realizes that his wife hadn’t helped him break his obsessive streak at all.

Your alluring eyes and bashful smile are completely entrancing. They radiate an intense beauty he didn’t believe existed in this world. Somehow, Heeseung is able to hide the dark desire consuming him as he introduces himself. Your voice is soft and gentle when you say your name as if you’re still wary of him. He finds it adorable, and so damn tempting. Already, his cock is twitching and coming alive.

“Why didn’t your little boyfriend come with you?” Your mom’s voice yanks Heeseung out of his trance.

A sickening feeling pinches his gut. Boyfriend?

“Jake and I aren’t together anymore, mom.” You say it so indifferently that Heeseung has to hold back a sigh of relief. “I told you that last time we talked.”

Not that you having a boyfriend would have posed too much of a problem, but it definitely would’ve made things more difficult for him.

“Are you staying for dinner, Y/N?” Heeseung wonders, hoping you’ll say yes.

You tilt your head slightly, eyes shifting beside him to exchange a look with your mom. Whatever you see on her face makes you shake your head. Your pretty lips pull down slightly in genuine regret. “No—Sorry. Maybe next time.”

Heeseung resists the urge to shake off his wife’s touch when her hands snake around his arm. He can feel her smile against his bicep. It’s revolting and puzzling. Why wouldn’t she want her own daughter around?

“That’s okay, sweetie. We’ll have dinner some other time whenever you’re free.”

She sounds smug, but you don’t offer her any reaction. All you do is politely say your goodbyes before hastily leaving the house.

If Heeseung were any other man, he would’ve been happy to have his wife all to himself again. However, all he can think of is you now. His hidden stepdaughter who evoked emotions from him that are intense enough to fuel the sprouting of an obsession.

“Classes start soon,” Heeseung mentions casually the next morning. “Does Y/N usually stay on campus?”

The sour look on his wife’s face is quickly masked when she takes a sip of her coffee. “She started living with that Jake boy after she graduated high school. He has an apartment near the university.”

Heeseung tries not to sneer at the mention of the boy who had clearly been an important part of your life. “It didn’t bother you that she ran off to live with some boy so soon after finishing school?”

His wife scoffs. “She was already an adult when she decided to live with him. It’s not like I could stop her.”

More like she didn’t want to.

“Invite her to stay with us.”

The words are casual and could be seen as considerate to anyone who didn’t know of the dark intentions looming in Heeseung’s mind. His wife almost chokes on her drink when she hears his suggestion. Her eyes widened the slightest bit. An unsettling amount of rage swims in her irises as his suggestion sinks in. It’s gone within a few seconds, but he caught it.

“Honey,” her voice is tight. “That’s very nice of you, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Heeseung challenges, raising an eyebrow at the fumbling woman.

“I– She—She probably won’t want to,” his wife clears her throat to cover up how flustered she feels. “I’m sure she already made plans to stay with one of her friends instead.”

“Call her.” It’s not a suggestion anymore. “Tell her to come stay with us.”

And that’s the moment his obsession began to spiral out of control.

It’s obvious that your mother isn’t thrilled about having you around, but Heeseung feels the exact opposite. Unlike his wife’s malicious description of you, you’re so unbearably sweet and polite to him that he can’t help but be completely endeared by you. He’s not sure if it’s his natural instinct or the inappropriate feelings he has, but he basks in the emotions you evoke from the depths of his heart.

You’re a sweet girl through and through, always offering to help around the house, or keeping him company when your mom’s working late. Heeseung can tell you genuinely like to help him and spend time with him which makes him all the more crazy for you.

This is incomparable to how he feels when he realizes how comfortable you’ve gotten around him. When Heeseung told you to treat his home as your own, you took him up on the offer (much to his pleasure). You sometimes walk around in a tiny nightie that barely covers anything or tiny sleep shorts and a thin tank top that does nothing to hide the fact that you aren’t wearing a bra.

“Good night, Hee,” you’d call from the door sweetly, leaning against the doorframe with an alluring smile.

His cock would spring awake, loving how you slowly started to use cute little nicknames for him. Heeseung can tell it bothers his wife. Her face twists the tiniest bit any time she hears you call him Hee. Not that he cares. In fact, he was quick to put her in her place when she scolded you for not calling him Mr. Lee. Much to her displeasure, Heeseung made it clear to both of you that you can call him whatever you want.

Making his wife upset was the last thing he cared about because nothing was more important than you and your happiness.

Heeseung usually doesn’t get up so early, but ever since he’s gotten used to sleeping next to his wife, he always notices when she’s not in bed next to him. He looks at his phone to see that it’s four in the morning. Just before sleep can claim him again, he hears faint voices. Even through the sleepy haze, he can tell it’s an unfriendly conversation.

Immediately, his mind goes to you. The thought that something might be happening to you or upsetting you has him springing out of bed. He speedwalks down the hall to your room. You have the second biggest one in the house not only because he wanted you to have the best, but because he wanted you close to him.

“—being serious. Don’t bother Heeseung while I’m away.” His wife’s harsh voice makes his stomach turn unpleasantly. “He’s a busy man, and I don’t want you getting on his nerves.”

“I won’t, mom.” You sound tired.

“Good,” she snaps. “And be grateful that he’s letting you stay here for free. Remember he can change his mind any time.”

Never.

“I know that,” you sound so down that Heeseung wants to gather you in his arms and reassure you that he’d never do something despicable like that. “I won’t get in his way”

“You better not,” your mom hisses. “I mean it, Y/N. We better not get back to find the house smelling like all your little friends.”

Now Heeseung wishes his business trip didn’t fall at the same time as your mother’s. She wouldn’t be berating you so much if he was staying behind. It’s especially infuriating because he explicitly told you it was okay to have friends over, just no boys. You laughed sweetly and promised him just that there would be no one over at all. It made him a bit sad because he didn’t want you being overly cautious.

“I’m not that irresponsible, mom. Like, I’m obviously not going to bring random people to a house that’s not mine.”

That feels like a punch to the gut. Heeseung had worked so hard to make you feel like this was your home, and it pisses him off that your mom is destroying all that work. Never in a million years would he have thought that his biggest obstacle in making you see this house as your own would be your own mother.

“Good. Also, don’t go into my room while I’m gone. I don’t need it smelling like you—”

Heeseung has to walk away. He can’t stand listening to his wife anymore. It makes him sick to his stomach to think that this is what you used to put up with all the time. No wonder you ran off to live with your ex as soon as you were able to.

His wife leaves in a few hours for the airport, and he decides right then and there that he’s going to show you the love you deserve.

Later that morning, Heeseung goes down to the living room to wait for you to wake up. He plans to spend the day with you and make sure you know that he doesn’t mind having you around. Luckily for him, he doesn’t have to wait long. You come downstairs shortly after in a pair of sweats and a large shirt, looking unbelievably cute. 

“Good morning, Hee,” you say with a sleepy smile.

“Morning,” he says in a strained voice. It takes everything in him not to call you a cute pet name like he desperately wants to. “Come watch TV with me.”

Heeseung pats the spot next to him with a pretty smile that makes your heart jerk. You can’t deny that the invitation excites you. And so, in spite of the nerves you feel, you go sit by him.

“I’m happy we can spend some time together,” Heeseung hums as he leans back against the cushions, stretching an arm over the back of the couch. “Come here.”

You’re such a good girl that you don’t hesitate to snuggle up under his arm. Heeseung feels completely alive when you make yourself comfortable against him. This is what his life should constantly be like. He drapes his arm across your shoulders and squeezes you against him. Heeseung can’t resist the temptation and presses a gentle kiss on the side of your head. You whimper softly when you feel his lips graze your ear.

Heeseung smirks into your hair and presses another gentle kiss to the tip of your ear. His cock twitches when he sees you press your thighs together but make no attempt to move away. He lets out a pleased hum and starts to press more kisses on the side of your head. Eventually, those sweet pecks start to trail down your neck. Now you can’t hold back your soft sighs of pleasure.

“You feel good, baby?” He wonders against your skin before he starts to bite and suck on it.

You tilt your head to give him more access. “Y-Yeah.”

It’s wrong, but your nipples get hard under your shirt, and you’re starting to feel hot all over. 

“Fuck. You have no idea what you do to me.”

You let out a quiet moan, mind swimming. “God, Hee.”

Heeseung nips at your neck. “Be a good girl for daddy, baby. Give me a kiss.”

As if you’re in a trance, you turn to meet his dark eyes before leaning in. Your eyes close when his lips meet yours. His lips are impossibly soft, and you moan when his tongue runs across your bottom lip before he forces it in your mouth. He kisses you with an urgency that makes you feel dizzy. Heeseung groans, cock throbbing as he tastes you to his desire. You’re just as sweet as he thought you’d be.

You whine when your stepdad reluctantly pulls away.

“You want more?” His smile is sweet yet teasing.

The way you nod has his cock twitching in his pants. He gives into your silent request, groaning as he kisses you again. Your tongues tangle together as he devours you, acting like your lips are the sweetest things he’s ever tasted. Every movement is passionate and is making your pussy pulse with need. Once again, it ends too quickly for your liking.

“Another one,” you demand cutely. “Please.”

Your stepdad’s smirk is so attractive, and it matches the heat in his eyes. Heeseung raises his eyebrow at you teasingly before he’s leaning back in to give you what you want. He groans into your mouth again when he feels one of your hands rest on his thigh.

Heeseung kisses you with more need as he slowly guides your hand to his very prominent bulge. He smirks when you gasp into his mouth after feeling how hard he is. You don’t fully pull away, so he uses that to playfully bite your bottom lip. Your cunt clenches at the action as your wide eyes look where your hand is cupping his dick.

“Look how hard you made me, sweetheart,” Heeseung whispers as he presses a gentle kiss on your temple. “Be a good girl and pull my cock out.”

Arousal is clouding your mind, which is why you don’t hesitate to do as he says. You unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants until you see his underwear. Licking your lips, you pull on his waistband while your other hand pulls his dick out.

Heeseung groans deeply as soon as your soft hand touches his hot skin. You’re gawking at it so cutely, and it’s obvious that you can’t look away. He smirks as his cock throbs in your hand.

Your stepdad’s dick is long and girthy. It’s also really fucking pretty—the prettiest one you’ve ever seen. Your mouth waters as you realize that it’s way bigger than Jake’s. The thought of taking it makes your pussy clench in anticipation. Your fingers slowly trail up the prominent veins to tease the leaking head. Fuck. You know it’s going to feel amazing.

“Shit, baby,” Heeseung groans. “Touch me as much as you want. Daddy’s cock is all yours.”

As if to prove his point, his dick twitches in your hand and more precum oozes from his fat tip. You run your fingers through the sticky mess, smearing it along the length as you start to caress the soft skin.

“It’s so big,” you whisper in awe as your clit pulses with need.

Heeseung groans and squeezes you into his side. The hand that’s hanging off your shoulder slowly trails down your body until it’s slipping inside your loose sweats. Heeseung’s cock leaks steadily as he goes to cup your hot cunt. Your stepdad shoves his face into your neck and groans. His lips drag against your skin as you use your hand to work his dick.

“Is this all for me, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you whine as you start to roll your hips into his hand to get some friction. “Never been so wet before.”

Heeseung almost cums from your words alone. He pulls back to watch you grind your needy pussy into his palm. Your nails dig into his bicep as he presses his hand against you harder. Thet soft moans you’re letting out are driving him crazy. He bucks his hips into your hand, and you take the hint and move your hand faster.

“That’s it, baby. Ride my hand like a good little girl. My good girl,” he growls.

“Daddy,” you whine as your juices start to wet his hand.

“God, you’re perfect,” he grunts after kissing your cheek sweetly. “So fucking good for me.”

Slowly, he slips his hand out of your sweats and orders you to pull them off. Your core burns with need as you get off the couch to do as he says. 

“Come here.”

Heeseung pulls you into his lap so your back is against his chest. He holds your hips as his soft lips brush against your ear. 

“Take your panties off.”

You arch your hips up and slide your underwear down your legs until they’re all the way off. Heeseung groans when he sees your bare pussy. Your stepdad hooks your legs over thighs so your pussy is spread and on display for him. He whispers a quiet be good before he slaps his hand on your sensitive clit. You cry out when he spanks your cunt again.

“You like getting your pussy slapped, don’t you, little girl?”

Your toes are curling in your socks as you arch back into Heeseung, grinding down on the dick you feel against your ass. He starts to fuck it between your plump cheeks, groaning at how filthy you are. He fucking loves it.

“Yes, daddy,” you gasp out wantonly. “I love it when you slap my little pussy.”

Heeseung smirks and gives your swollen clit another stinging slap. Your body jerks like you’ve been electrocuted, and you moan loudly from the tingling feeling coursing through your pussy. The smacks keep coming, each harder than the last. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as your stepdad keeps spanking your throbbing pussy. At this point, you can’t do anything other than moan. 

Heeseung stops his movements to slip his middle and ring fingers into your tight hole. You’re completely submerged in pleasure as you feel his wedding band glide against your slick walls.

“Fuck, little girl,” Heeseung laughs delightedly. “Even your mom doesn’t get this wet for me. You’re just a perfect little slut, aren’t you?”

You clench hard around his fingers at those words. Your hips are rolling, grinding your ass into his wet cock while you fuck his fingers deeper into your pussy.

“Oh?” Heeseung’s voice gets deeper. “You like hearing that your stepdad likes you better than your mom?”

You’re moaning again as you dizzily nod your head. “Yes, fuck. Tell me how you like my pussy better than hers, daddy.”

Heeseung moans, fucking his cock faster against your plump ass. “Shit, baby. You know you’re better than your mom. Ever since she introduced me to you, I knew you were better.”

“Daddy!” You moan loudly as his fingers continue to plunge into you at a quick pace.

Heeseung feels you tightening around his fingers. Your cunt is so hot and tight, and he knows it’ll feel better wrapped around his cock. He starts to plant wet kisses on your neck, wanting to push you over the edge.

“You gonna cum for daddy, baby?”

Those words are enough to get you to do just that. The coil in your stomach snaps as you cum around your stepdad’s long fingers. 

Seeing you cum on his lap helps Heeseung reach his own climax. He cums with a groan of your name, grinding his cock into your soft ass as he releases his thick cum on your lower back. Your stepdad slowly pulls his fingers out of your pussy with a lewd wet sound before bringing them to his mouth and sucking on them. His moan makes your core throb all over again.

“So fucking sweet.”

Before you can say anything in response, Heeseung’s ringtone cuts through the silence. He tugs you closer as he goes to answer the phone. You’re too distracted to listen to what’s being said, but you come to your senses when Heeseung grumbles something about heading to the airport right away.

“You’re leaving?”

It kills Heeseung to hear how vulnerable you sound. He buries his face in your neck again, scenting you to reassure you that him leaving has nothing to do with what just happened.

“The clients want to meet sooner than planned. I have to go.”

You can feel his pout against your skin, and your heart thrums with fondness. Heeseung has always been unexpectedly cute in your eyes. That’s why it was so easy for you to give into him.

“Okay,” you relax against him. “I understand.”

As always, you’re a perfect angel through and through. Heeseung presses a soft kiss to your neck before he helps you stand. Immediately, he helps you clean up before going upstairs to shower. He really doesn’t want to leave, but he can’t act irresponsibly no matter how badly he wants to. And now that he knows you want him just as much as he wants you, he’ll have plenty of time to make you all his.

Once Heeseung has all his things, he goes downstairs to find you waiting for him. He gathers you in his arms, not really wanting to let you go. When he pulls back, he gives you a passionate kiss to remind you that he doesn’t regret what’s happened between you two.

“When you get back, can we play some more?” You ask hopefully.

Heeseung grunts softly at the imagery he’s creating in his head. “Of course, baby. I’m all yours now.”

Coming back home from a long and tiring business trip isn’t anything new for Heeseung. What is new is the excitement he has to get home. He knows you’ll be waiting for him, and he can’t wait to show you how much he’s missed you.

The excitement he feels is ruined completely when he gets off his plane and finds his wife waiting for him. It’s an unpleasant surprise, but she doesn’t realize just how badly she ruined the day. Heeseung almost wishes he would’ve asked for a divorce before he boarded the plane. At least then he wouldn’t have had to deal with her right when he got back home.

“How was the trip, honey?”

“Fine,” Heeseung’s voice is curt, but once again, his wife seems impervious to his obvious attitude.

He doesn’t ask about her trip, but she tells him anyway. She talks all the way back to the house as if Heeseung is actually listening to her. In reality, he’s an expert in blocking her out at this point. This time is way easier since all his thoughts are filled with nothing but you.

The house is quiet when they arrive, and Heeseung barely holds back from calling your name. Your mom is obviously not interested in seeing you because she suggests going out for dinner after they go upstairs and put their things away. He doesn’t feel bad for turning down her suggestion with the excuse of being jet lagged.

As soon as Heeseung and his wife get on the second floor, the overwhelming scent of an omega in heat hits them. Heeseung’s cock comes alive instantly, getting completely hard in less than a minute. Without waiting for his wife to follow, he goes directly toward your room where the pungent smell is coming from.

Heeseung throws your door open without bothering to knock. What he finds is devastating to him. You’re laying in the middle of the large bed in nothing but a large shirt, eyes screwed shut as you tremble in pain. The thin sheen of sweat lining your forehead is evidence that you’ve been in heat for a while now.

Your eyes slowly open and settle directly on your stepdad. They stare at him before slowly trailing down to the large bulge in his pants. You lick your lips, and it takes everything in Heeseung not to rip your clothes off and take you right then and there.

“Y/N!” His wife’s angry voice brings him out of his debased fantasy. “Why the hell are you in heat?”

Heeseung looks back at his wife with an incredulous glare. So many things are going through his mind, but one question keeps coming up. Why is she so angry over something that’s natural?

“Sorry, mom,” you say through a pant. “I ran out of the suppressants you gave me.”

Before you can continue, Heeseung turns to your mother with a murderous look on his face. “You gave her suppressants?”

An omega taking suppressants is practically unheard of since they cause so many health issues. The drugs are practically poison, and the fact that your own mother was giving them to you made him sick to his stomach. It makes him think back to the first time he met you. Now he understands why she was so determined to hide what she was so insistent on giving you.

“They help her,” his wife says frantically. “But that’s not the point right now. She has to leave so her heat doesn’t affect you.”

Heeseung growls under his breath. Over his dead body will you leave his house looking and smelling how you do.

Your mom turns her nasty glare back on you. “Call Jake and have him pick you up. I’m sure he won’t have any problem helping you through your heat—”

“Get out,” Heeseung spits, barely controlling his rage.

How dare his wife suggest that you ask another man to help you through your heat? No one except him is ever going to see you like this.

“What?” His wife’s stunned expression only makes him growl impatiently.

“I’m going to help Y/N through her heat.”

Your mom’s eyes widen in anger, and she glares over at you like what’s happening is your fault. Normally, you’d feel guilty or anxious about upsetting your mom, but the pain isn’t letting you think straight. You need Heeseung’s cock, and you don’t care if it’s going to hurt your mom in the process.

Heeseung ignores his wife and goes to you. He sits down on the bed next to you before pulling you on his lap. A soft moan of relief cuts through the tense silence as his hard bulge presses up right against where you need him the most. You feel so hot all over, and your head is clouded with such potent arousal that you forget your mom is still standing in the room until Heeseung looks at her over your shoulder.

“I told you to get out,” he growls. A mean smirk takes over his face. “Unless you want to watch me knot your daughter.”

You whimper and roll your hips into Heeseung. The fact that he’s saying he’s going to give you his knot is making you gush with more slick. It excites you that he’s going to help you, and to think he doesn’t care to hide it from your mom makes a deep satisfaction settle inside you.

His wife is looking on with tears in her eyes. She’s disgusted and enraged, but she knows no matter what she says or does, Heeseung isn’t going to change his mind.

“It hurts, daddy,” you whine as you grind your pussy on his clothed dick, no longer thinking to spare any of your mom’s feelings. “Want you to make me feel better.”

You swivel your hips and press down harder onto his hard cock. With a throaty groan, Heeseung grabs your ass to help you bounce on his bulge. “Don’t worry, baby. Daddy’s going to give you exactly what you need.”

His voice dips into a low moan when you lean forward to lick and bite at the sensitive spot on his neck. You feel his cock twitch and kick against your panty clad pussy, and it makes you whine.

Your mom flinches when she sees Heeseung’s glare from over your shoulder. It’s a silent command for her to get out, and she finally does. She doesn’t get far, only being able to take a few steps out of your room before she collapses on the floor with a quiet sob.

“Fuck, little girl. Couldn’t wait until your mom was out of the room, huh?” His laugh is cruel, but it only turns you on.

“Don’t care,” you whine before leaning in to smash your mouth against his. “Just want your cock.”

You gently nip his bottom lip before messily forcing your tongue into his mouth. There’s a desperation you’ve never felt before as you grind down on his thick cock. The fact that he’s leaking with enough precum to stain his pants is driving you more insane. You keep rocking your hips so your clit rubs against the rough material of his jeans.

“Yeah?” Heeseung groans when you pull away. He continues to help you grind your messy pussy on his bulge. “You need daddy to stuff your little pussy?”

Your eyes roll back when he dry humps your pussy slowly. He’s grinding the thick outline of his cock right against your wet slit to get you more riled up than you already are. 

Eventually, Heeseung decides he needs to prep you. Because as badly as he wants you, he can’t forget that this is your first real heat. So, he pulls you off his lap and tosses you back on the bed.

“I need to taste you properly, sweetheart. Last time wasn’t enough.”

A tingle goes straight to your pussy when he pulls your large shirt off and tosses it across your room. Heeseung buries his nose between your legs, sniffing across your soaked panties. The fabric sticks to your pussy lips, allowing your stepdad to lick at your clit easily. 

“Oh, daddy!” you moan, hands reaching down to tangle your hands in his hair.

He grunts and laps up the slick leaking down your thighs before roughly rips your underwear off to lap at your leaking hole. 

“You taste so fucking good, little girl,” his muffled voice causes vibrations that make your toes curl. “Fuck. I could eat your little cunt all day.”

“Daddy, please,” you grind against his mouth, eyes locked on his blown out gaze.

He hums and the vibrations make your clit tingle as more slick drips onto his tongue. The thick muscle slides in and out of your hole before he licks his way back up to your clit. You cry out wantonly when your stepdad softly sucks the swollen bud into his mouth. Your thighs tremble as his tongue swirls around your pudgy clit before he starts to gently suckle on it.

“It feels so fucking good,” you moan loudly, thighs falling open as far as they can go.

Heeseung growls, tongue fucking your pussy until sloppy wet sounds fill the room. His hands trail up the underside of your thighs to push your legs to your chest. You moan when he pulls back to spit on your cunt. He quickly dives back in, burying his face in your soaked pussy. Another loud cry tumbles out of you when he starts to lick and suck on your sensitive nub.

“Such a sweet pussy,” Heeseung moans.

His tongue languidly laps at your wet folds, eyes locked with yours from where he’s lying between your legs. Your stepdad’s hands come up to the inside of your thighs and press down, leaving you spread open for his hungry mouth. The sight of his beautiful face buried in your cunt makes you drip with more slick. Heeseung keeps licking into your slick hole like a starved man, desperate to not waste one drop of your sweet essence. You’re crying out for him as your hips roll into his mouth. He pulls away slightly to spit into your pussy again before fucking his spit into your clenching hole.

You moan and pull on his hair. The dark strands are wrapped around your fingers to help guide his face to where you want it most. Heeseung smirks against you and starts to press wet, open mouthed kisses on your throbbing clit. He sucks the swollen bud into his mouth and flicks his tongue against it over and over again. Your stepdad hums into your pussy, suckling on your clit softly as he indulges in your sweet taste.

“I’m gonna cum! You’re gonna make me cum, daddy!" you moan loudly.

“Cum all over my face, sweetheart. Show daddy how good he makes you feel,” your stepdad says before he presses his face between your folds to suck your clit back into his mouth.

“Daddy!” You moan loudly as you cum.

You jolt as your slick completely coats his lower jaw and slowly starts to drip down his chin. He looks so hot covered in your juices that another wave of arousal hits you with full force.

“Messy fucking girl,” Heeseung grunts as he starts to take off his clothes.

Your mouth waters when you see his big cock slap his lower abdomen. Since he’s been gone, you’ve been dreaming about that pretty dick every night. 

Heeseung goes to kiss you roughly, eagerly shoving his tongue into your mouth. Tasting yourself makes you arch up into his body. Fuck. You’re so turned on and desperate that you feel like you might die if he doesn’t shove his cock inside you soon.

Seeing you so needy makes Heeseung pull back slightly to stroke his cock. Your eyes follow his movements, and you lick your lips when you see the amount of precum beading at the tip. With a deep groan, your stepdad notches his leaking tip against your clenching hole. Heeseung groans as he glides the fat head up your slit to smack it against your clit.

The feeling of the hot skin of his cock pulsing against your pussy makes you whine desperately. He keeps dragging his dripping cock against your throbbing cunt repeatedly, loving how you’re squirming against him. Teasing you is everything he imagined it would be, and he makes a note to do it often from now on. Heeseung thrusts his hips to rub his cock through the slick dripping from your cunt, moaning at how easily it coats the length of his cock.

“Look how deep daddy’s cock is gonna go, baby.” His voice is deeper than you’ve ever heard it.

Heeseung uses his thumb to press his tip down against your skin as your unfocused eyes take in how far his cock will reach inside your needy cunt. It pulses and throbs, and more slick leaks out of you.

“Oh god, daddy. It’s too big,” you mewl even though the thought of having his monster cock inside you turns you on to no end. 

With an endeared chuckle, he pulls his cock back to slide it across your pudgy bud. The bulbous head grinds against your sensitive clit until you’re whining and dripping more slick onto your sheets.

“Your pretty pussy’s just small, sweetheart,” he coos softly before he licks a broad stripe up your neck. “But don’t worry. Daddy’s gonna stretch out your cute little cunt so you can take my knot.”

Those filthy words make you whine and buck your hips desperately.

“Ready to take this cock, little girl?”

Without waiting for an answer, he slips the head of his dick inside your clenching hole. He presses into your pussy slowly, and it makes you moan wantonly as you instantly feel some of your pain fade. Your moan breaks off into a gasp when you feel the burning stretch.

“Fuck, you’re gonna be tight,” he laughs in delight. “A tight little pussy for daddy.”

You dig your nails into his back, eyes rolling into your skull as his girthy cock stretches your cunt. “It’s too big, daddy.”

“Too big?” Heeseung repeats as he gently bites your neck. “I guess daddy’s just going to have to train you to take his big cock then, huh?”

With that, he sinks his cock another inch into your clenching hole. Your walls clench down on his dick and make his hips stutter. His veiny cock feels so fucking good that you that the unbearable pain fades instantly. You feel so full and stretched out, but you want more. Your body reacts by getting wetter, easing the way for Heeseung to bully his cock further into your pussy until he bottoms out.

“I’m gonna spend all week training you, little girl,” he promises. “Daddy’s staying buried in this cute little pussy until you’re all nice and bred.”

You moan high in your throat, walls clamping down around Heeseung’s thick cock as you cum hard.

“Oh, fuck me,” he laughs, extremely pleased. “You like that? Like that I’m gonna breed this sweet pussy all week?”

He pulls his cock halfway out then slowly sinks back into your wet and willing body. You mewl as your cream coats his cock. 

“Yes, daddy! Want you to stuff me full all week long!”

Heeseung starts fucking his cock deeper into your pussy, eager to give you what you want. He reaches between your bodies and begins to rub and pinch your clit. “I’m gonna fuck you through your heat, sweetheart. Gonna cream this pussy over and over again.”

You’re letting out filthy moans like your mom isn’t right outside your room crying her eyes out because you’re fucking her husband. Not that you care. All you can think about is the mind-numbing pleasure you’re receiving.

“Cum on my cock again, baby,” Heeseung groans as he spears his cock into your sloppy hole. “I want you to squeeze me with that hot little cunt while I cum in you.”

You cry out loudly as his leaking tips rams into your g-spot. Your stepdad’s girthy cock is rutting into your squelching cunt mercilessly, heavy balls slapping against your ass with every thrust. Heeseung’s fingers circle your clit until your pussy is clenching and spasming around him again.

“Are you gonna give me your cum, daddy?” Your eyes shine with anticipation. “Your knot?”

“Of course, sweetheart. Daddy’s gonna give you a nice hot load. Then, I’m gonna knot you so it takes. That’s how much I love you.”

His words make you gush more slick, eyes rolling back as the musky scent of sex fills the room. You cry out, feeling feral all over again.

“Fuck yes!” You scream in pleasure. “Cream my little pussy, daddy! Want it so fucking bad!”

“Yeah? Then let’s make it easier.”

Without letting you answer, Heeseung pulls out of you with a lewd squelching sound and flips you onto your hands and knees. One of his hands presses down on your back while the other grips your hip to raise your ass up. Your stepdad’s big cock slides into your hot cunt much easier in this position. He bottoms out with a loud groan as you claw at your sheets.

Mewling, you press your ass backwards, working more of Heeseung’s big cock into your dripping pussy. You feel your slick dripping down your thighs and coat his heavy balls.

“Want you to knot me,” you slur, nails digging into your plush bedding. “Want your knot, daddy!”

He growls and starts to slam his cock into your sloppy pussy, making you cry out from the rough movement. Your walls clamp and pulse around his fat dick as he keeps spearing you open. The way you moan and mewl for him only makes him fuck you harder.

“Good girl,” he groans loudly, making you shiver all over. “My good little girl.”

“Daddy,” you whimper as your pussy walls flutter around his thick length.

Heeseung’s cock throbs inside you. He pulls out halfway before roughly slamming his dick back into your sopping wet hole. 

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says as he squeezes the globes of your ass. Your eyes roll back as his fingers dig into your skin. “This perfect pussy was made for me. Isn’t that right, baby?”

“Yes!” You gasp out in agreement as Heeseung pounds your cunt hard. “This little pussy is all yours, daddy!”

Heeseung moans loudly and spanks your bouncing ass. You scream, pussy fluttering and pulsing around his dick as your third orgasm takes you both by surprise. 

“Good girl,” he coos, grabbing the fat of your ass with both hands again. “Such a good fucking girl. Gripping me with your tight pussy and working for my knot like a good little slut.”

Your body trembles as Heeseung keeps thrusting his fat cock right against your g-spot. His fat tip slams against your cervix, and you can’t stop crying out in pleasure.

“Cum one more time for me, pretty girl,” your stepdad roughly spanks your ass again, making you whine. “Just give me one more, and I’ll knot this pretty pussy so you’re nice and full. Don’t you want that? For your hot cunt to be bred until you’re stuffed to the brim?”

“Please, daddy!” You cry out, ass bouncing back against his rough thrusts. “Want your knot! Want it so fucking bad!”

One of his hands slides down your body to circle the swollen bundle of nerves coated in your slick. Your pussy clamps down on his dick as he softly teases your clit. 

“That’s it, baby.” Heeseung hunches over your back to kiss your neck. His tongue laps against your sweaty skin right over the sensitive spot that’s meant to take his mark. “I feel you getting tighter, baby. Cream all over my cock.”

As Heeseung keeps hammering into your pussy, his fingers circle and tease across your pudgy bud until one last thrust has your orgasm whiting out your vision. Your ears ring so loud you don’t even hear as your stepdad curses against your neck while he snaps his hips against your ass before burying his cock deep in your spasming pussy.

“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m gonna cum,” he pants into your neck. “Take my knot. Fuck. Take it.”

You cry out loudly. That desperate noise has Heeseung fucking his cock deep inside you until he cums.

“That’s it,” he’s groaning and panting as he licks at your neck. “Milk my cock, little girl.”

You wail when his knot locks you together, stretching your cunt even further as you feel his hot thick cum spill inside you. Ropes and ropes of his hot seed spill into your pussy, and you love that his knot is keeping it stuffed inside you.

“So good for me,” Heeseung groans, hands smoothing over your sides and back. He starts to scent you. “Such a perfect omega. So fucking perfect.”

You sigh in content, body going limp as Heeseung continues to fill your pussy with load after load. You’ve heard that alphas cum more than usual when helping an omega in heat, but you didn’t expect it to be this much. Not that you’re complaining. You’re taking every drop he gives you with a blissful smile on your face

Your stepdad grinds his dick inside your pussy until the steady stream of cum stops filling you. He slowly shifts your bodies until you’re both able to lay on your sides comfortably. Heeseung buries his nose in your neck as his hands start to caress your body. 

“Feels nice,” you mumble, relaxing even further against him.

“Good.” He says before he kisses your neck.

You mewl when he keeps pressing soft kisses on your neck and dragging his teeth over a sensitive spot that no one else has dared to touch. Heeseung keeps you two in the same position until his knot slowly deflates.

You whine when he slowly pulls out. Heeseung watches with dark eyes as his cum leaks out of your pussy. He uses two of his fingers to scoop it up and smear it across your clit. You mewl as slick starts to drip out of you again. Heeseung takes the opportunity to shove your legs open and rub your clit until your body arches off the bed. A mix of slick and cum gushes from your pussy as you climax again.

“Let me lick that pussy, baby,” Heeseung murmurs as he starts kissing his way down your body. “Want to suck on that swollen little bud until you’re creaming my tongue.”

“Fuck,” your whine is high-pitched and needy. “Do it, daddy. I want your mouth on my pussy.”

He groans and sloppily kisses your slit in thanks. When he pulls back a bit, you see his lips coated with your juices. Your pussy pulses and clenches in eagerness.

“So messy, sweetheart.” 

With that, your stepdad pushes your thighs against the bed to keep you spread for him. He repeatedly plants wet kisses on your pulsing clit, worshipping you until you’re writhing against him. His teeth scrape and nip your pudgy nub as his dark eyes watch you carefully. 

Heeseung spanks your pussy when you keep squirming. He smirks when you jolt with a loud cry. Slick pours out of you, filling the room with your lovely scent. It’s your body’s way of signaling that it’s ready to be knotted again. 

“What a needy little girl,” he coos as he blows air on your soaked cunt. “Just desperate for me to clean up this sloppy pussy, hm?”

“Yes, yes!” You moan, pussy throbbing with need. “Eat my pussy, daddy. Lick me clean.”

“Dirty little slut,” Heeseung groans before he slaps your wet cunt again. “I’m gonna stay here with you all night. Keep my tongue buried in your tight hole until you squirt all over me.”

“Fuck. Yes, yes!” you moan as you arch your hips up to entice him. “Let me cum all over your face, daddy!”

Heeseung smirks and buries his face in your cunt to give you what you want.

You lose complete track of time as Heeseung makes you cum on his tongue over and over again. After the second orgasm, you start squirting like he wants. He’s so delighted that he keeps fucking his tongue into you, indulging himself in your addicting taste. You’re happy to lay there and let him eat your pussy until you’re nothing more than a gushing mess.

“Good girl,” Heeseung moans into your cunt, his face completely drenched in your slick.

You mewl in response, hoping he’s had enough fun playing with your pussy to give you his cock. He flips you over and arches your back so your ass and pussy are on full display for him. He groans when he sees your soaked pussy and thighs. 

“Hee,” you whimper desperately. “Want your cock.”

“Spread those legs for me, baby. Show daddy that sloppy pussy.”

With a loud whine, you bend forward more and spread your thighs apart further to give him a better view of your holes. Your pussy is dripping with slick, and Heeseung commits the filthy sight to memory. 

“Daddy,” you whimper. “Please.”

Your stepdad lets out a deep laugh before his hands slide down your back to cup your ass and spread you open even more. Heeseung groans deeply.

“God, baby. I’m never gonna get tired of seeing this hot cunt gushing for me,” he tells you with a pleased hum. “I’m gonna breed this little pussy all night.”

“Please,” you beg through a moan, pressing your ass back against him. “Want it so bad, daddy.”

Heeseung rubs his cock against your soaked pussy lips, gathering your wetness all over his length. He licks his lips, loving how you feel against him. His cock throbs because he can tell how badly you’re aching to be fucked and knotted and stuffed full of cum.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re gonna get my knot. I’m gonna stuff your little pussy to the brim.” Heeseung promises before he slams his cock into your clenching heat.

Your moan is loud as he completely bottoms out into your needy pussy. Heeseung doesn’t let you adjust and pulls all the way out before slamming back inside. Your stepdad’s instincts completely take over, his only goal being to knot and breed your pussy. 

You cry out when you feel your cunt stretching around his dick. He groans and drapes his chest across your back, hips slamming against your ass. The lewd sounds of skin slapping and the wet squelching of your pussy fills the room. You whine loudly, turned on from the fact that your mom can hear all the filthy noises.

“I’m gonna keep you knotted for hours, make sure it takes,” Heeseung groans before he starts to nip at your jawline, 

“Fuck!” You mewl wantonly. “I want it, daddy! Want you to breed my pussy so fucking bad!”

Your legs start to shake when Heeseung reaches around to play with your clit. He bites down on your neck and starts spearing his fat cock into your clenching hole. He fucks you deep and fast, his slowly expanding knot brushing your entrance with every rock of his hips. You can only lay there and take it, moaning and whining in pleasure as he fucks your pussy. His cock pounds your soaked cunt, thick head knocking against your cervix. 

“Good girl,” he groans, biting at your ear. “Good girls deserve to have their cute little pussies bred, don’t they, sweetheart?”

“Yes!” you cry as he rubs your clit faster. “I’m gonna cum, daddy. Gonna cream your fat knot.”

“That’s it, little girl,” he keeps rubbing fast circles on your swollen bud. “Cum all over me. Show me how much you want me to fill your pretty pussy.”

Heeseung starts to bite and suck on your neck as you moan for him. His hips snap against yours as he roughly fucks you into the mattress. With every thrust, his balls slap against your slippery clit until he’s pulling another orgasm from your exhausted body. 

“Best fucking pussy I’ve ever had,” Heeseung groans, pulling out to slam back in, dick bullying into your swollen, fluttering walls. “Goddamn. You’re so fucking tight. My little girl just loves her stepdad’s dick so much.”

“I fucking love it, daddy!” You cry out. “Love your big cock so much!”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as your orgasm overtakes your senses. Heeseung groans as your cream stains his cock. Your body trembles as your pussy milks his dick. His hips piston against your ass, dragging your orgasm out until you spiral into a second one. Your stepdad groans, hips pumping his cock into your dripping cunt harshly.

Heeseung buries his cock deep in your spasming hole, knot locking you together as his cum floods your cunt, breeding your pussy full. He groans your name as he cums, walls milking him to shoot hot rope after rope of hot cum inside your little pussy. Pleasure consumes your entire body as you feel each spurt of his thick cum pumping into your cunt. 

“Taking it so good, baby,” he murmurs against your neck, tongue licking the sweat beading at your skin. “Such a perfect little slut.”

You hum dazedly, body sinking down across your bed as you feel each spurt of his thick seed filling your pussy. 

“So full, daddy,” you mewl, legs shaking as he softly ruts his knot further into you.

That’s how you spend the rest of your night. Being knotted by your stepdad over and over again until you can’t handle anymore. 

It’s almost dawn by the time your mom hears all the filthy moans and groans from your room stop. By now, she’s ran her tears dry, and she thinks she might not be able to cry for a long time. With a heavy heart, she gets up from her bed and walks to your room. The heartbreaking sight of you laying on her husband’s chest, sleeping peacefully as he caresses your head is like a breaking point.

There’s a blanket draped over your bodies, but she can te you’re both still naked. She feels sick at the thought of her husband’s cock still being lodged inside you.

Heeseung turns his dark eyes on her, not at all affected by her puffy, bloodshot eyes. Her pitiful face only makes him feel disgusted.

“You’re not coming to bed?” Her voice is hoarse and weak.

“I’m still knotted to your daughter.”

A lone tear slips down her cheek.

“Heeseung—”

“You should leave. Y/N’s heat is more intense because of how long it was suppressed.” Heeseung’s voice is cold. “We can discuss the divorce after I finish helping her through it.”

His wife sobs, but he doesn’t feel sorry. He can’t. Especially not now that he’s finally had you in the way he wants. She turns and walks away from him like a zombie. He groans when you shift against him in your sleep. Your movements tug gently on his knot, and it makes his cock throb and twitch in need.

Heeseung hums in content. When you get up, he’s going to knot you all over again. Except this time, he’ll do it on his own bed since that’s where you’ll be sleeping soon.

As soon as your mom gets out of his house, he’s going to have you take her place. No matter how badly she begs, Heeseung won’t change his mind because he knows that there’s no getting rid of this feeling he has for you, and he doesn’t care what he has to do to keep you at his side forever.

[makingsenseofwhathappened]

What To Do When It Happens

Write it down. The date. The time. What they said. What you said. What you couldn’t. This isn’t overreacting. It’s documenting.

Tell someone you trust. Not the one who explains it away. The one who believes you.

Save everything. Emails, DMs, texts. Rename the folder something boring.

Find the policy. It’s probably buried under “Respect in the Workplace.” Highlight it like your job depends on it—because it might.

Pay attention to what happens next. The silence. The cold shoulder. The missed invites. That counts too.

If it gets worse, you're not imagining it. Retaliation is common. It’s also illegal.

Don’t quit just to make it stop. Not before you talk to someone. A lawyer. A hotline. A friend who’s been there.

Crying in the bathroom is not unprofessional. Neither is dissociating. Nor surviving.

It’s okay to stay. It’s okay to leave. Either way, you’re strong.

What happened to you matters. Even if you stayed quiet. Even if you laughed. Even if you stayed quiet for a long, long, time.

NOTE: I wrote this on paper first (pic above) but realised my handwriting is mostly indecipherable trash. Didn't want to put you through that. Also, can people born after 2000 even read cursive nowadays? I truly have no idea.

😇😌🫨

[queen-of-signs]

💗Venus in the 12 Houses - Love, Marriage, Desires, and Red Flags Revealed💗

Note: These are all my personal observations and patterns I've noticed over the years. Take what resonates with you more and leave the rest. Lemme know in the comments if it hits home!

There are general interpretations. The signs on the house can make things different. Look at your Western chart!

Venus in 1st - crushes hit hard and fast, fantasizes off the smallest detail, addicted to being wanted, loves touch and attention, needs compliments to feel alive, sex is passionate and ego-driven, mirror sex, teasing, being watched, dominant but gets turned on by someone who takes control, wants it rough but romantic, flirty even when not trying, love language is touch and constant attention, gets bored if it’s too quiet or routine, chases chaos, confuses lust with love, pulls away when not admired, overthinks if not being noticed, takes care of themselves by dressing hot, posting selfies, shopping, changing their hair or look, hides sadness by turning up the charm, isolates when it really gets bad, won’t admit they’re spiraling, still needs to feel wanted even when numb.

Venus in 2nd - slow burn attraction, crushes build over time, wants safety before sex, needs to feel stable to open up, fantasizes about long-term partners not flings, sensual over sexual, big on physical comfort and routine in bed, loves touch, food, cuddling, cozy sex vibes, neck kisses, earthy and slow, love language is quality time and gifts, sex has to feel earned, doesn’t rush into anything, loyal but possessive, confuses comfort with love, stays too long in dead situations ("dead bedroom"), jealousy hides under chill energy, needs control to feel secure, takes care of themselves by eating something good, shopping, staying in bed, numbs out with comfort habits, avoids talking when low, isolates but still wants to feel cared for without asking.

Venus in 3rd - crush starts in the mind, turned on by voice, texts, banter, flirty and clever, fast talker fast lover, fantasizes about late-night convos turning into sex, loves sexting, curious and experimental in bed, love language is words and constant communication, can talk someone into bed or out of love, gets obsessive with overthinking, mind games, emotional detachment masked as charm, gets turned off if partner isn’t mentally stimulating, sex can feel empty if connection lacks depth, when low they spiral mentally, overthink everything, plays it cool but breaks down alone, tries to distract with social media or hookup energy, sending nudes, hard time sitting with emotions, uses words to deflect feeling.

Venus in 4th - soft crushes that sneak up, feels everything but doesn’t say much, drawn to people who feel like home, emotional connection before sexual, touchy but private, into secret love affairs or deep soul-level sex, love language is nurturing and silent care, fantasizes about being protected and emotionally understood, needs to feel safe to open up sexually, sex is intimate, slow, sacred, emotionally unavailable but expects you to read their mind, holds on to past lovers, avoids confrontation, shuts down when overwhelmed, when low they disappear, sleep a lot, rewatch comfort shows, isolate but still crave someone checking in, too much in their head to ask for what they need.

Venus in 5th - falls for people who make them laugh, shows off when they like someone, flirts like it’s second nature, big into playful teasing, sends thirst traps for attention, wants sex to feel fun and wild, obsessed with being desired, fantasizes about being irresistible, likes when someone’s a little obsessed with them, love language is compliments, showing off together, constant attention, gets dramatic when they feel ignored, picks fights just to feel something, jealous if you look too happy without them, acts super confident when sad, flirts harder when they’re down, celeb crushes, jokes through feelings, needs attention like air eve when they say they don't want.

Venus in 6th - crush starts slow, catches feelings from daily convos, notices your habits, flirts by being helpful, lowkey obsessed with consistency, sex is steady, focused, quietly intense, needs trust to open up, fantasizes about someone showing up every day for them, love language is acts of service, small helpful gestures, doing things without being asked, attracted to routines, stability, and loyalty, over-gives to feel needed, gets stuck in people-pleasing, hides hurt by staying busy, shuts down when drained, acts fine but quietly pulls away, zones out into work or chores when depressed, struggles to ask for love directly, wants to be chosen without having to say it.

Venus in 7th - crushes feel like romantic daydreams, wants a partner not a fling, flirts by being graceful, composed, knows how to pull people in with quiet charm, sex is soft but deep, wants balance and emotional connection, fantasizes about being chosen fully, love language is loyalty, quality time, mutual effort, loves being in sync with someone, obsessed with "the one" energy, avoids conflict to keep the peace, can settle just to not be alone, overthinks everything in silence, shuts down when things get unfair, goes cold when hurt, acts distant but still wants closeness, isolates when sad but checks your socials, self-soothes with routines, soft music, and staying emotionally guarded.

Venus in 8th - crushes feel like obsession, can’t stop thinking about them, picks up on hidden vibes fast, drawn to intense people, flirts through eye contact and emotional depth, sex is emotional, consuming, wants to fully merge, fantasizes about secret love, taboo, power play, love language is emotional loyalty, deep talks, full vulnerability, needs to feel like it’s all or nothing, jealous, controlling, tests people without saying why, creates drama to feel secure, stuck in past betrayals, overthinks every interaction, when low they spiral in silence, disappears to process, won't leave even though it's toxic, sexually frustrated, abstinence, plays it cool but feels everything too much, numbs out with fantasies or sex, craves intensity even when it hurts.

Venus in 9th - crushes hit fast and ends fast, falls for people who feel different or exciting, loves foreign accents and deep convos, flirts through humor, big ideas, eye contact, sex is spontaneous, wild, full of movement, fantasizes about road trip hookups, long-distance lovers, teacher-student energy, love language is freedom, sharing knowledge, exploring together, gets turned on by minds and new experiences, red flag: runs when things get too real, says they want love but craves escape, romanticizes unavailable people, talks a lot but avoids emotional depth, when low they disappear, book trips, change everything, chase distractions, attracted to exotic places or people, pretend they’re fine by staying busy, needs space but secretly wants to be missed.

Venus in 10th - crushes on successful people, older partners, boss vibes, celeb struck, drawn to people with money or status, flirts through achievements, style, showing off wins, sex is intense, dominant, about control and slow tension, can be super sexual or fully abstinent if it doesn’t feel “worth it,” fantasizes about secret hookups with powerful people, being worshipped behind closed doors, love language is consistency, financial support, public respect, wants to be admired and shown off, into sugar baby/sugar daddy dynamics, uses love to climb ladders, may marry for money or image, mixes love with ambition, needs validation to feel loved, when low they shut down emotionally, obsess in silence, chase work over love, secretly wants someone who sees past the image but still spoils them.

Venus in 11th - crushes on friends first, celeb crushes, online obsessions, loves brains over looks, flirts through sarcasm, memes, long convos, sex is experimental, mental, needs a strong connection first or else it feels empty, fantasizes about futuristic love, forbidden hookups, secret relationships, love language is shared interests, inside jokes, late-night talks, drawn to detached, mysterious types, emotionally unavailable, ghosts then watches your stories/status, acts chill but overthinks everything, lies to avoid confrontation, confuses flirting with friendship, when low they detach fully, scroll endlessly, disappear into daydreams, pretend they’re too “logical” for love but want to be chosen without asking.

Venus in 12th - secret admirer energy, hidden feelings, loves people they can’t have, crushes feel like fate, drawn to artists, addicts, loners, or people who seem broken, flirts without realizing it, emotionally seductive, soft touches, dreamy eyes, sex is emotional escapism, loves dim lights, silence, and emotional closeness, fantasizes about being rescued, soulmate sex, karmic lovers, dramatic love stories, love language is intuition, emotional sacrifice, being there even when unasked, gives without expecting much back, gets stuck in secret or toxic love, self-abandons, falls for unavailable types on repeat, confused between love and fantasy, ignores red flags to protect the dream, when low they isolate, over-romanticize pain, disappear into fantasies, live in old memories, lack of self-care when depressed, inexperienced, cry over what never even happened, wants love to feel like a movie but forgets to live it.

🌙💬 For readings, check out my pinned post for pricing and more info 💫💸

[boyfhee]

박성훈 、COMPATIBILITY TESTS

there is a fault in your names.

featuring ⋆ rich boy ! sunghoon x fem reader

genre ⋆ fluff, skinship

note ⋆ brought the HOON back. not the best work in the series but hope you enjoy it nonetheless ><ㅤ SERIES

“sixty-three,” your boyfriend looks at the phone screen condensingly, his lips jutting out in a pout as quickly as his brows furrow at the number. “try it with just hoon and your name,”

“sunghoon, it’s—” you try to reason with him for the seventh time this morning but it’s of no use. you barely even get to finish your sentences because of his stubbornness.

“no! no. i’m not letting this go until we get that hundred percent,” he’s almost whining now, half frowning and half pouting.

he’s stubborn, he’s adamant. you figure there isn’t much to argue about when you are head to head with sunghoon.

“it’s just a compatibility test,” you refresh the page, shaking your head as if to surrender.

he clicks his tongue. “and we are very compatible,”

sunghoon fell for you because you were a little mean to him over a project. your words were laced with exhaustion and a drive to achieve perfection. as for him, he had already found it in you.

you can smack his butt in front of the council and he would probably gaze at you longingly. he lets you play with his hair even if it means he has to redo it. you can document your entire day in his phone and post his silly pictures on your account and he would not bat an eye.

your parents don’t get along but he still asked you for a dance in the charity gala hosted by his family, and you had gladly given your hand to him even though it was half out of spite.

sunghoon truly thinks there is no one as compatible as the two of you, and would take it up with the heavens if he had to.

you enter your names on the website again, making sure to add just ‘hoon’ instead of his full name— he is sitting wide eyed and anxious as if this decides this entire life ahead.

well, for sunghoon, it probably does.

“sixty-seven percent,” you add with an exasperated sigh, giving him a look that clearly spells ‘let’s stop.’

“are you sure you’re spelling our names correctly?” you scowl at his words but his expression is nothing like he is giving up. sunghoon would fight for you, even if it’s really not that serious at this moment. “let me try,”

and your boyfriend thinks something will change if he keeps trying. it has to— the two of you are a match made in heaven.

cruising amidst family rivalry and the good for nothing guys that try to get your attention, sunghoon’s love has found its way to your heart. he feels like a warrior, the luckiest person alive to be the one you had given your heart.

he is the happiest person alive to see his name next to yours. although right now, it’s everything that is stressing him out.

your head rests on his shoulder as he types your names with proper care before pressing ‘calculate’ and you click your tongue when you notice a small blunder. “it’s sunghoon and not seunghoon. you’re spelling your own name incorrectly,”

there’s a quiet pause while he goes over the letters, and then his eyes zoom in on the number.

his brows burrow and his heart skips a beat, not sure if it’s in dread or delight.

“yeah, but why is it ninety-eight percent compatible?” his eyelids squint at the screen, contemplating the biggest decision of his life. “should i change my name?”

and you slap his arm playfully while a huff falls off your lips. “don’t be silly,”

“i mean, it’s not—”

and with the slide of the door across the frame, his words are cut short. sunghoon watches the new student that walks right behind the teacher.

he listens, sees, jaw dropped and eyes blown open.

choi seunghoon, as the guy introduces himself.

sunghoon’s entire world shifts a little to the left.

this has to be a joke, your boyfriend tells himself. why would you be more compatible with the guy who is literally just sunghoon’s name spelt wrong?

hell, he is not changing his name. sunghoon despises the idea of you being ninety-eight percent compatible with every other seunghoon that exists.

he wants you all to himself.

sunghoon shifts a little closer to you, a bit quiet, a tad bit more irrational— he takes the phone from you and kisses your hand. “we need to change your name, baby,”

[hoshigray]

˙⋆✮ FIRST PERSON SQUIRTER.ᐣ.ᐟ ✮⋆˙ | jjk men

꩜ᯅ꩜ choso, nanami, gojo, geto, sukuna & toji × how they deal with a squirter!?

contents: JJK men x afab/fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - size differences (true form! kuna) - kissing/making out - thigh-riding - [anal] fingering (f! receiving) - oral (f! + m! receiving) - sqůirtǐng (ofc) - facesitting - Daddy kink - 69 + doggy style + full nelson positions - overstimulation - clitoral play (grinding + swiping + pinching) - praising - cervix fucking - pet names (angel, baby, cutiepie, good girl, little thing, etc.) - degradation + humiliation - mention of blood and drool/spit.

word count: 5.3k

a. note: goin on a trip next week, so i leave y'all with this until the next one ☆ enjoy !!

ᯓ꩜ Chōsō Kamo

You giggled. “You ready, baby?”

He smiles back. “Bring it on, sweetheart.”

Having a partner willing to try new things with you is undoubtedly a blessing. Wouldn’t you want to try anything and everything with your partner—learning new things and sharing experiences with the person you love and cherish the most in this globe? 

It adds to your trust in one another – an exchange enhances the companionship…even if it’s in the bedroom!

“Okay, Choso, get ready.”

Your boyfriend nods from below you, watching from between your thighs as you descend your lower half where his face is, and the two of you moan once the lips of your labia land on his awaiting tongue.

This was all your idea, by the way: you’re the one who pulled on Choso’s shirt as you two watched the television from his bed, his caramel eyes drifting to you after grabbing his attention. It was difficult to ask at first, stumbling with your words as this embarrassing request isn’t something you make regularly. Once you got your words out, it wasn’t surprising to see your boyfriend a little flustered as you were. 

However, that didn’t stop him from accepting it – albeit bashfully – confidently, igniting a colossal quirk of happiness to affect the glow of his bedroom. So, here you two are, putting this new experience to the test. 

“Mmmm, oh God,” you purr with chewed lips, fighting the urge to swing your hips as Choso mouths you. 

Choso has his hips on your waist to keep you steady as he does his work, using his lips and tongue to please you in this new position. His tongue swims around your inner labia, the folds coated with your wetness mixed with his saliva. You exhale through your nostrils, your thighs sluggishly move to have your man attend to the surface, and you mewl at the flick of your clitoris. Oh shiiit…!

Having you on top of him like this was not something the brunet expected, thinking this would be a lazy day to hang out with his cute companion on this slow Friday. However, to have easy access to taste your fluids within his vicinity in this erotic position...he’s starting to like it a little too much. 

“Ohhh, my God, Choso,” you shrill with a gasp. “You’re so good…Feel so good.”

“Yeah, baby?” He questions below your waist, poking your clit with his tongue. “You like riding my face?” 

He can’t see it, but you nod impetuously. “Yessss! Yees—Shhaaah! Fuck, your tongue…!” You lick your lips and bite as you bring your waist lower, his nose bumping on your clit. “More, give me moreee…!”

“Heh, sure thing,” he titters at your enthusiasm as his hands curl to your buttocks, bringing you further down to his level. You whimper as he sucks on your vulva with purpose, lapping his tongue around to tease your entrance before he pushes it in. Here is where Choso changes the atmosphere, fucking you with his tongue and collecting more of your essence to drink. All you can do is wail and swing your hips faster, and your boyfriend quickly catches the rhythm. Shit, tastes so good…!

“Uhhgg, feels so fucking good—Mmmaa!” Holy hell, this was too much! There’s so much going on underneath you outside your control, only having the command of your waist to influence. Your thighs jiggle as you resort to bouncing on your boyfriend’s face, and your hands ball on the comforter the two of you lay on. 

Choso’s tongue goes frantic, wiggling the wet muscle around your insides and pulling you in to sink more into your overwhelming taste and smell. The more you bounce on his face, the more his nose hits your clitoris, your bud sending shocks up to your head to enlighten the exhilaration! Faster and faster you go, the same for the tongue lapping all over your vulva and sucking on you purposely. 

“Choso..!! Cho—shiiiit—Chosooo!!” You cry out with trenched brows and closed eyes, electric shocks spiraling all over your body with all the growing pressure. 

Your body then gives in, and you let your essence out of your system. Your fluids shower all over Choso’s face as you come on his tongue; your boyfriend is not swayed by the liquid hitting his face, just focused on slurping your wetness covering your cunt. Quivers force your thighs to jolt, jerking your whole frame as you let the waves of your orgasm hit until everything relaxes.

And when it does, you sigh heavily and lift your ass. Choso watches the sight before him, his spit blended with your come all within your inner thighs. The heat from his face spreads to his ears — oh, he hopes he doesn’t get addicted to this.

“Oh my God, Choso,” your boyfriend snaps to your call. “Your face, it’s all wet!”

“Hm? Oh!” It takes a second to realize that he is utterly drenched with your satisfaction, scoffing with a smile. “Guess we both got a bit too excited.”

You chuckle as you leave to grab a hand towel from his bathroom. “I’m sorry about that!”

“It’s okay,” Choso takes off his shirt, which was damp on his collar, and accepts the towel you give him. “As long as you’re feeling good up there, I don’t mind drowning a bit for you, sweetie.”

You shake your head with a smile. “You’re not funny.”

ᯓ꩜ Nanami Kento

Nothing puts the cherry on top of a hard day at work for Nanami than coming home and being pulled into your arms.

“Nnnmm, Kento, you feel so good…”

…And loving on him more affectionately.

You practically dragged your man into the living room, peppering him with smooches in your glee that he had returned home safe and sound, and he chortles as you beckon him to sit on the couch with you. The two of you winding down while watching the television, Nanami relaxing with a nice cold beer and taking off his necktie and blazer.

However, he’s unaware of you glimpsing through your peripheral, looking intently, sliding his tie off his collar and unbuttoning his shirt. You notice the sneak of his exposed collarbone, drifting your gaze to something else only for it to land on his pants. Lips flatten at the sight of his thighs; his hand patting on it makes you stare longer than intended, swallowing thickly to quench a dry throat. 

He was taking a swig of his beer, watching the motion of his Adam’s apple with intent. Your fingers fiddling with the bottom of your sundress can’t jurisdiction your thoughts anymore, wanton desires stacking up and soon to fall like dominoes. 

And when it does fall, you silently stand and walk in front of Nanami, the blonde noticing you come around to obstruct his view of the TV. “My love?” You don’t answer. “Something’s wrong?” No words yet…but you lift your dress, mocha eyes pinpointing to the cute design of your cotton thong. “Sweetheart…” you move to sit again, but not back on the couch—nope—instead, his pant-clad thigh, straddling the firm muscles, and your arms come around to cup his cheeks.

“Kento,” you finally speak, whispering for only his words to pick up. “I missed you.”

If there was one thing that could pull Nanami’s heartstrings, it was you – his pretty wife. So, when you express your love for him, of course, he has to reciprocate tenfold.

“Ooooo, yesss, Ken…please, go faster…Mmmph.”

You stay atop Nanami’s thigh, grinding your labia on his pants to the point that a damp spot is prominent in the tan color. The blonde doesn’t seem to mind, though, as he’s the one who slid your thong for his fore and middle finger to swipe on your clitoris. The touch is pleasant, fueling your waist to keep moving. With your back to his chest, he kisses you passionately from behind. Your sweet tongue meets his, influenced by the taste of alcohol, a strange combination that surprisingly gets the kiss steamier. 

Nanami chews on your bottom lip, having you whimper so sublimely that shivers crawl his spine, sucking on your tongue as your hips go faster. Jesus Christ, the friction from grinding on the material of his pants feels so good, nestling in between your folds nicely and faintly bumping on your clit. However, that is for your husband’s fingers, tweaking the bud you perk to your tippy toes. Hahhh, so good!

“Mmmm, shit,” the golden-haired man curses under his breath before taking your lips into his again. “Come here, angel.” He slams his lips to yours, and you don’t plan to leave his taste as you throw your head back. One arm lifts your legs by the knees, the free hand having more access for him to stick his middle finger into your wetness.

You moan into his mouth, allowing your husband to please you with his fingers rubbing your inner texture. It starts slow until he adds the ring finger, dialing the pace for his fingertips to scratch onto places you could never reach. A hand finds his hair, his neat locks now getting disheveled because of you. 

“Puhaah, ohhh, shit!” You shrill with puffy lips while Nanami kisses your cheek and chin, all the while his digits are brushing up on the upper wall of your vagina — you almost lose balance. “I’m close…!”

The magic words let Nanami know to keep doing what he’s doing, sucking the skin of your neck while shoving his fingers until his very knuckles. The clamp of your walls is sensational, addicting to the point that he doesn’t want to get his digits out yet — not until your high comes to an end.

And that doesn’t sound impossible; you scream as if you don’t have neighbors between your apartment, a watery liquid ejecting out of your glands and showering all around. Sprinkles of your clear juices hit the palm of Nanami’s hand and thigh, adding more stains to his pants to worry about.

 Your heaving body slowly relaxes as your orgasm rattles your bones, Nanami laying more pecs on your beautiful skin as he permits your quaking legs to touch the floor again. Yet, you jerk when your toes feel something wet, snapping out of your daze and realizing what a show you made.

“O-Oh, my—“ you try to stand, but Nanami’s quick to catch you as your body is still under the shocks of your crescendo. “Ugh, I’m sorry, Kento, I messed up your work clothes.”

“No worries, I need to do laundry tomorrow anyway.” The blonde chuckles to your ear and kisses you again, massaging your waist. 

“In that case…would you mind if I dirty your clothes some more?” Your butt presses up on the tent of his groin — which has been getting firmer and firmer once the man stuffed his fingers in you. “I’m sure you’d get some fun out of it.”

He raises a sandy brow with a smile. “Would I, or would you, since you’re the one who came onto me?”

“…A bit of both.” You both share a laugh as Nanami carries you bridally to the bedroom.

“Then I don’t mind at all.”

ᯓ꩜ Gojō Satoru

“Mmmm, can never get over this view~.”

“Can you stop commenting about it?!”

“Whaaat? I can’t say I admire my cutie’s beautiful ass in front of me?”

“You’re so annoying…” you grumble as you sigh and begin to lick the tip of his cock.

It’s been a while since you and Gojo had a good 69 session. He is busy being the strongest sorcerer of the modern era and being a full-time teacher, and you go through your day-to-day life swarmed up with work and routine. Lack of time to spend together is an onerous task to execute outside of sleeping and snoring in your shared bed.

But alas, when you two are finally resting and enjoying each other’s company this weekend, it’s a no-brainer that you two will end up skin-to-skin action sometime today. 

You straddled atop Gojo, your ass facing him while his lower half was to your front, your hand stroking his length cock, following the curve up to the pink tippy top. The sight of precum starting to pool and spill over down your fingertips makes your cheeks hot, and the heat between your legs causes a twitch.

Gojo, however, grins before he kisses your labia, welcoming his tongue that invades the space between your folds. You moan as you stuff your mouth with his cockhead, treating him with peppered licks and sucks as you keep jerking him off. Fucking hell, his dick is just so lengthy, hitting the back of your throat with ease that you have to remind yourself to relax to not gag.

Lazy licks are dawned on your wet chasm, lapping from the clit up to the other end. He notices the subtle quakes of your thighs as he tongues you down and has him chuckle as he pushes his face into your frame more, his hands curling to cup your ass so he can fondle the flesh.

You mumble on his dick after he flicks your clit. “Mmmph…! Hmmmm…” Sucking on his shaft, you bob your head up and down to get accustomed to the limb. Climbing back up to the tip where you suck on it roughly with hallowed cheeks after drizzling it with saliva. 

“Oh shiiit,” the white-haired man’s head hits the headboard of his bed, moaning at the attention you’re giving his cock. “So good at this, angel,” he coos as his hands curl to the front to massage and lightly pat your asscheeks like drums. “Missed this.”

“Mmmm, mmmahh…!” The tip leaves your lips, and you’re quick to keep stroking him as you lick around his crown. “Fuck, so big…”

“Well, thank you, baby,” he knows you’re probably rolling your eyes at that comment, chortling to himself. “Means a lot hearing that from someone who keeps winking at me over here.”

“Pfft, you’re so gross,” you top his cockhead to the flat of your tongue, blowing on it to make your tall partner shiver under you. “So full of yourself.”

“Mmmm, maybe so,” you whine as Gojo blows and sucks on your inner labia. “But you can’t blame me for that, right?”

“What…ever,” your feet come around and pulls his face back to your ass. “Just shut up and use that tongue—since you’re so confident.”

“Heh, so pushy.” But the thing is, Gojo is confident – narcissistically so. You saying that only probed him to flip a switch, and you’re unfortunately on the receiving end of his wrath. 

Gojo’s tongue goes erratic, swishing around your vulva as if you can’t keep up with one lap after the other. Your waist goes to lift your ass away — fat chance, as his hands return behind your butt to keep you on him the entire time. The vibrations of his humorful laugh are felt in the very nerves of your folds.

You whimper aloud, the hand jerking his cock, straying off its rhythm as your body submits to the pleasure going around your lower half. He inserts his tongue into your opening, fucking your slit with pushes and pulls. He sucks your wetness with his mouth, and the hands placed on your ass grip on the flesh that has you standing on your very palms.

“—Khhh..! W-Wait, Satoruu, stop!” You cry, but the tall man only smacks your ass mischievously, having you clamping on his tongue without your conscience. “I-I said waaait!!” No signs of waiting as he stuffs his face further between your thighs; noises of him slurping your vulva sound so wrong!

Oh, my fucking God! Your legs tremble, a sign that you’re trying everything you can to alleviate. However, Gojo’s grip on you doesn’t make it an easy battle, latching onto you with vigor. No, wait, wait, stop i—“Ahaa—ahhhnn!!”

It’s no use; the fluid you release slips past your control, spraying out of the urethra and showering all over your thighs and Gojo’s lower jaw and neck. Your body yields, losing balance and slumping your whole body on top of your boyfriend as you come on his tongue and drizzle all around the space of your lower half. Shocks and quivers travel up your spine to your head to pound, leaving Gojo to keep lapping and swishing on your wet slit in victory. 

“Mmmm, aahhhshit, so good…!” He blinks with hooded eyes as he licks his lips and spits on your vagina to lick slowly. “Taste so good…”

“Hahhh, ahhh, I..I told you to,” you stand on your elbows and look behind. “To…wait, dummy!”

“You told me to shut and use my tongue!” He backfires, not relenting even after sending your half-lidded glare. You groan and turn back to suck on his pink tip in defeat. “Fuck, love it when you’re all wet like this…and lucky me for being in the splash zone as you—Oww!”

You smack on his nuts. “You’re so annoying!”

ᯓ꩜ Getō Suguru

“Suguruuu…! Don’t do th–Ahhht!”

“Ahhhh, you sound so cute, baby.”

Geto plows you from behind, watching you grip the armrest of the couch as your butt is propped up and your face buried to hide yourself…Quite a futile attempt, if he says so himself, but adorable nonetheless. 

Fucking in the living room wasn’t part of the daily routine today, yet here you two are. His hands grab hold of your waist as he conceals his girthy cock inside your tight cunt, stuffing every inch of him till the very hilt meets the lips of your outer lips. 

Your breath is shaky as Geto’s hips move to and fro, sighing at the sensation of your tensed walls around him. You always felt way too fucking good, biting his lip to fight the urge to let his waist fly and piston himself right into you. And he enjoys the way you act as he teases you, the position giving him ideas on how to torment you idly. 

Like now, as he skims a thumb around your asshole. The action of having you contract on him even more. “Nnnn! Nnooooh, don’t play with my ass…!”

“You sure? It’s been winking at me for a minute.” He chimes with a sly smile, licking his finger and switching his thumb to lather your hole with his saliva. Holy shit, the way you’re twitching around him is driving him nuts, as he hasn’t even put anything in yet. 

“Do-Don’t say it like that!” You peer over your shoulder with furrowed brows, meeting the purple eyes that catch you. His hips go excruciatingly slow, your vagina feeling like a void as he pulls for absence before fulling you back as he pushes. “It’s em…barrassin—Ghhhh!”

He pushes the thumb inside while you’re distracted, and both your holes pucker in haste. “Awww, don’t be like that, my love,” his mellow voice doesn’t match the crudeness of his actions, throwing unpredictable snaps of his hips to throw you off. “Nothing about your body is embarrassing….God, your ass looks so sexy from the back—“

Another twitch of your slit—God, you’re too fucking cute. “What are you—Don’t say stuff like that…!” Your flustered reaction didn’t make it any better as Geto pushed his thumb inside until the dent and knuckle, wiggling it inside and pushing and pulling to toy with your rear. Your teeth clench onto the couch pillow while he increases the cadence of his ruts. “Mmmmm, ohmyGod…Suguu, please—“

“Hmm, you want me to stop?” He asks and observes for a cue to stop what he’s doing. You don’t say anything, though, just your hips swaying. It makes Geto scoff, “I get the feeling you don’t want me to; look at you moving your hips on your own, pumpkin. Your body’s so honest for me.”

“Haaahh, you’re soo…mean, Sugu…”

“Only when I know it makes you feel good,” he moves his bangs out for a bit. “Which is why,” then Geto slithers that same hand down to where your chasm is linked to his wet cock, and his fingers go erratically fast on your clit. “I wanna tease this a bit, too.”

Eyes widen as you shriek at the touch, moaning aloud once he removes his thumb from your ass to keep your butt onto him as he jackhammers his cock into you. Your frame is propelled with every push, the pokes on of your cervix knock you out like the wind, and the hard rubs on your clit have you seeing stars.

“—Ohhooo, oh–hoooo!! Sug’ruuu, waaiitt!!” It’s useless; he doesn’t stop, and more hits to your womb have you wailing uncontrollably. The fingers on your clit don’t let you rest, having you unable to speak a proper sentence and resort to letting your boyfriend pound into you. A few more pinches have your legs jerking, and you can’t help but let the wave smash onto you.

As your orgasm claims over your body, you squirt out, liquids falling onto the couch beneath you, point blank. Your eyes are sewn shut as your slit flutters on Geto’s penis, your substance leaking out of your glans and dirtying your thighs and legs. Oh God, no!!

Geto hisses at the feeling of you spasming on him, tilting his head to see what you’ve done. “Oh my, would’ya look at that~.”

“Shooop, don’t loook…!!” A hand moves to the side to “try” and stop him, but he catches it with his palm, intertwining his fingers with yours. “Don’t look at iiiit…”

“But you did so well!” Geto kisses your hand. “Maybe I should play with your ass more—“

“Suguru, stop!”

“Kidding~,” he was not.

ᯓ꩜ Ryōmen Sukuna

Sukuna relishes the feeling of you like this — your back to his front, your legs held up by his solid upper arms while the lower hands hold your buttocks, and your holes accommodating to his two girthy cocks — like the good pet you are. 

He entirely suspends you, your entire frame contorted for your arms to grip the futon sheets below. Sweat and warmth are exchanged by bare skin, the glow of the candles highlights the unioned figures within Sukuna’s quarters, and your anus and vagina are full of nothing but the two cocks stretching you and rubbing your insides.

Sukuna bucks his hips with might, and his every push makes you dizzy. Toes curl as your ass is pulled up and down to meet his hefty balls, his dicks venturing further to torture your insides with satisfaction. Your vision gets a bit hazy as the heat gets to your head, and your head begins to pound.

“What’s wrong, little thing,” your lips flatten to hinder the moan wanting to escape as he speaks behind you, feeling his breath brush the hairs of your back. “You’re silent this time around.”

“Haaaah, my Lord…” The tongue of his stomach licks your lower back with a lazy kiss. “Y-You’re…too biiig.”

He hits you with a sudden rut and purrs at the clench of your entrances. “You say that, yet your lewd body seems to accustom pretty well.” Another hit of his hips causes the tips of his cock to brush up against your sweet spots effortlessly, and you finally unclench your lips to let a wail escape. “Your body only good for taking cocks like a real good whore, huh?”

“I’m so—Mmmph…! S-Shooo fuuuull…” 

“No, you’re not,” he snickers as his lower left-hand sneaks around to cusp your clitoris, your precious pearl engulfed by the sheer thickness of his digits. “Not until I fill you with my seed like a sow in heat.”

The salmon-haired man picks up the pace to drill his cocks, churning your vagina and rear like toys. Your cries fly out quickly at the point, puffy lips losing ground to stay locked. Hands balled into fists as you’re threatened by the sheer mass of Sukuna, unable to fight out of this—forced to submit to him and his persistence.

Your slit and butt are so busy with his cocks, the length of your vagina grazing your G-spot by its underside, the walls fluttering involuntarily around him. The dick inside your butt feels so utterly good; the size of him is never something you can get fully habituated to. And the hand on your clit doesn’t stop playing with it, roughly pushing and grinding on it to the point of babbling and choking on spit. 

“—Hnnngh, fuck. So tight,” Sukuna licks your back and nibbles on your skin, teasing to tear your skin to taste just a hint of blood. “Feel so good…”

“Ahahhh, I caaan’t…!” Your eyes begin to water as you shut them close, lack of vision enhancing the sense of touch where it has your nerves overly stimulated. Everything is happening all at once, and you can sense the climb once the tip hits your womb. “I can’t do iiit! You’re gonna break meee!!”

“Keheh, wouldn’t be the first time.” It’s probably for the best because you can’t see the smug-ass grin on his oddly comely face. More kisses are placed on your back. “Shut up and take it, dove,” he commands you, not leaving you any room to retaliate as his thrusts increase without warning. 

Your mouth is agape, and your cries are unwillingly bouncing around the shoji-paneled walls. A bit of spit comes down your lips, your hands only finding Sukuna’s waist for your nails to dig into. The grumble of his stomach traversing to your core to rumble with the vibrations. Oh, God, noo!! You can feel it – the worse of the worse. Just when you thought your humiliation wasn’t enough at this moment, it was about to skyrocket in three…two…one.

Feverish ruts to your ass, have the reins slip out of your hold, all the restraint in your body withering with every harsh push and pull. Your head pounds like crazy, nothing but a blur can be seen in your eyes, and the clear substance expels out of your urethra, leaving out of your system along with your dignity. 

And Sukuna doesn’t have to see it to believe it, grinning from ear to ear as he playfully smacks on your vulva to create more of a mess. The watered-down liquid sprayed out to his thighs and the futon sheets and sticking to your inner thighs and sliding down the crack of your ass. Tiny pinches to your clit help you jerk out more to ruin yourself, your body losing strength entirely and letting the cursed man keep you in your distorted position. 

“Hmph, what a bad little toy,” he criticizes you like always, the tears beckoning to leave your watery eyes. “Look at you causing a mess on my bedding; who told you to do that?”

“I’m sorry, Lord Sukuna,” your expression borderline fucked out, yet the embarrassment keeps you humble. “Forgive me…my Lord.”

Sukuna slaps onto your clit with his palm; you pucker onto his girths immediately. “You dare ask for forgiveness after the fact—I should just throw you out in the cold with these wet sheets you’ve caused.”

“N-Nooo! I’m so sorry!!” Fuck, he loves it when you plead, so desperate for his word, his submissive and breakable dove. “Pleaseee, fill me up with your seed, and I will clean it up…! I-I won’t do it again…”

“Says who?” He finally lets your legs go briefly before he spreads them over with his lower arms. His upper hands find your chest to grope. “You’ve stained my sheets with your essence; you aren’t sleeping anywhere else tonight except here with me in this exact puddle you made for yourself, you dirty pet. Am I clear?”

His final words have your skin crawl as he nibbles on your nape, and you nod.

“Good.”

ᯓ꩜ Fushiguro Tōji

“Gahhh!! Ahhhhh!!”

“Yeah, baby, that’s it; keep clenchin’.”

Toji’s fingers are stuffed inside you, stretching your poor hole with pushes and pulls that take your breath away with ease—quite literally as your arms come around his neck to keep him close.

His bedroom is filled with nothing but you: your shorts and panties decorating his bedroom floor, the smell of your lotion on your now-sweaty skin intoxicating his senses, and your damp towel laid underneath you as you lie on your back.

Toji sits right beside you, near as you keep him from leaving. Not that he planned to — of course not. When he has his ring and middle finger shoved inside your vagina and grazing your inner skin with a mediocre pace, there’s no way the older man would want to stop now. Fuck, he loved how tight your cunt was, so snug to the touch and tender to his fingertips. It drove him crazy, just like you always make him. He can never get tired of you, honestly. 

“Hahhhh, Tojiii, ahhaaa…” Your whimpers get louder and louder by the second, and your back jerks to the blunt of his fingertips, poking deep inside your chasm. “Gooohh, ohhhshit…!”

“Yeah, sweetie?” His forehead touches yours, skin-on-skin increasing intimacy. “Ya like it when I fuck you wit’ my fingers, huh?” You answer with a whine as he slows his digits down, teasing the walls of your entrance while pressing on your clit with his thumb. He scoffs, “So nice and tight fr’ me, huh…”

“Ahhhh..! Bu–But I just…finished taking a showerrr!!” You wail with pleading hooded eyes that are instantly locked with intense viridian ones. “You’re making me—mmm!—dirty again…!”

He raises a brow. “That doesn’t mean anythin’ to me,” more push to your clitoris causes your body to jolt closer to Toji, and he sneers. “Getting all ready and clean fr’ me, what a good girl…all the more fun fr’ Daddy to make ya all dirty and cryin’ all over again.”

A hand grips his shoulder, exposed by his black wife-beater. “Pleasee, Daddy, it’s too—Aghahh!” He sneaks his fingers back inside knuckle-deep; the deep chuckle you hear from him causes your ears to melt. 

“C’mon, mama, I know you have it in ya,” he coos with a kiss to your forehead that has you dissolve under his scarred lips. “Wring my fingers up, make a mess fr’ me.”

Another kiss to your forehead makes you whine, the gentle atmosphere only lasting for mere seconds before the pace of his hand returns to a rhythm that has you screaming instantly. Jesus Christ, those thick fingers are no joke, the stretch enough to overwhelm your senses, along with how deep they reach inside. 

Every push to your cunt has you breathless, and every dig is knuckles-deep and too fast to catch up with one after the other. “Ohoooo, D-Daddyyy, n-nooo!” Yet there’s no point in begging now—once Toji is deadset on something, it’s challenging to swade him off. Especially when it comes to you, his little sweet thing… “I’m gonna—ohfuuck!—I’m so clooose…!”

Your words only egg Toji on to keep fingering you as much as he can, ravaging your delicate insides with his hand alone. He purchases his face to your neck, sighing deeply at the alluring whiff of your lotion. He licks your skin before a kiss, and the pace between your legs becomes unforgivingly faster.

Eyes roll up to the ceiling as your body shuts down without your knowledge, completely taken aback by the climax that clenches around the thickness of Toji’s fingers. Also, the water liquid is excreting projectively from the continuous knock-kneed-worthy pleasure. You let loose with a howl, your back arching with every subtle buck of your hips. 

Toji looks down with a salacious grin, taking in the sight of you spraying all over his bed. The towel is doing nothing but getting damper because of you, and he can only chortle at the sight and, lowkey, thank his intuition for wearing a wife-beater so you can coat his forearm. Dazed with euphoria, your body slumps down to the sheets, sweaty and sticky from the excretions and panting heavily. So much for a shower, huh?

Toji whistles and courses his free hand atop your head while besmearing your vulva with your juices. “Good girl, mama, good fuckin’ girl.”

© HOSHIGRAY2024 ✮ reblogs and comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ⊹ header art by hyocorou + dividers by @cafekitsune.

[twilightofthesandwiches]

So Kris as we know them is a pretty quiet, deadpan and stoic person. It’s one of their main identifying features that the game constantly draws attention to via both comedic and serious moments.

But like with everything we think we know about Kris, it is always worthwhile to consider how much of their behavior is natural or real, and how much of it is a result of our influence as a possessing entity, or simply colored by our biased and partial look into their life.

First things first, it’s important to remember Kris isn’t quite as quiet as they might seem to us, because we’re incapable of hearing them talk. We can only really gleam when they said something from the reactions of the other characters around them. So there’s plenty of times we can’t quite judge how much Kris was actually talking.

And that also extends to their emotional reactions to some degree there are plenty of times times where other characters note how Kris is smiling, laughing, shouting, looking scared or having another kind of reaction that is not conveyed by their still and stoic Sprite.

The thing about not being able to hear Kris is actually very curious, cause it’s also consistent with the Humans of ‘Undertale’. Frisk and Chara’s voices were also imperceptible to us, only gleaned from the reactions of the other characters. Even when it comes to a recording of Chara’s voice.

The only exception is our little ‘conversation’ with Murder-Route Chara, but this is when they became something not-quite-fully-human beyond our control and it still lacked voice-bleeps for the text, which might indicate that we’re still not quite able to hear them.

So… not being able to hear a character’s dialogue might be a side-effect of possession/sharing a body (since one could say we’re kinda controlling both Frisk and Chara throughout Undertale)…. Or it might be a feature of Humans in the Toby Fox Multiverse? That their voices are imperceptible to Unkillable Body-Snatching Time Gods? After all, we can’t hear Kris even when we’re outside their body.

Whatever it is, their lack of visible emotional reactions might be connected to it as well. Although, it is a lot less… absolute. While we never hear (read?) their voice, there are a few times where Kris’ sprites do have facial expressions and body language that clearly convey an Emotion. And there seem to be more and more of them in later Chapters.

Maybe these are just moments that are… so extremely expressive that they shine through the general obscuring mask of stoic-ness that usually hides Kris’ expressions from us? Are the expressions that are imperceptible to us just too subtle to show up on their Sprite? Or is it because these actions were technically taken totally independent of our possession?

...But also, despite it being sometimes hard to determine how much Kris is really talking and how expressive they seem to the characters in-universe, there are a few indications that they are seen as a generally quiet and stoic person from the other characters' perspective as well. Even if it’s not as exaggerated as it seems to us.

And if you combine that with the few more-expressive Sprites they have, and how these only occur as part of actions Kris takes of their own will, and they’re more frequent in recent Chapters as Kris’ independence from us is growing… it’s not unreasonable to assume their laconic deadpan-ness is purely a result of our influence, and without us they’d be a lot more emotional and expressive.

But… hmmm… the thing is that others do notice that Kris is kinda acting Out-Of-Character, but never really point out their quietness or lack of expressiveness as the reason for it. If anything, the SOUL’s possession of Kris makes them come off as uncharacteristically social and talkative.

Folks who have known Kris for their entire life (like Noelle), do seem to characterize them as a quiet person who does not show their emotions easily. The "Newest Girl Girl" shows us pre-Chapter-One Kris barely reacting to Susie's bullying, annoying her by not speaking before demolishing her with just a well-placed softly-said word and both it and the other Noelle Blog Post about Kris repeat the sentiment that 'who can tell what Kris is thinking'.

Most notably, I think, is how Weird Route Noelle describes Kris’ Real Voice (specifically contrasted against the SOUL’s ‘voice'), as ‘deadpan and mumbly’ - and that’s the thing that makes it feel real and familiar and authentically Kris for her. The SOUL’s voice was weird and unnatural because it wasn’t deadpan enough to be the Real Kris.

Also, in the Normal Route, when Noelle is trying to talk to Susie about Kris acting odd, which Susie doesn’t understand cause she hasn’t known the pre-possession Kris all that well, we have this exchange…

The implication, especially paired with Noelle’s Weird Route dialogue, is that ‘yelling’ is the default for the SOUL’s voice, while mumbling is generally for when Kris is saying things of their own volition, because deadpan mumbling is the honest expression of Kris' free will.

All of this does seem to paint a picture of Kris as a generally withdrawn and quiet sort of person with an air of Edgy Teen Apathy to them, albeit when they do allow themself to show their feelings openly, they can be very expressive and emotional. It’s just a rare occurrence even without the whole possession problem.

But… the complicating factor about that interpretation is Tenna. And specifically his secret bonus dialogue in the second Board of the Sword Route.

Which adds a lot of context to some his other dialogue aimed at Kris and his general anxiety about whatever they’re enjoying his games.

I said before that most characters talking about Kris acting ‘weird’ generally will not talk about their stoicism, but Tenna is the exception to that. He is extremely troubled by his inability to make Kris ‘laugh and cry’, seeing it as a failure on his part. If his Games were truly fun and engaging, Kris would've been more reactive.

This conversation with Susie especially, feels very much like a mirror of Susie and Noelle’s conversation in Chapter 4.

Someone who has known Kris since childhood is bothered by their behavior, while Susie, who has only really gotten to know Kris while they’re under our control, can’t understand what the problem is cause that’s just what seems normal to her with Kris.

Tenna thinks Kris should have a more emotional responses to their show, and that their stoicism demonstrates that they’re just not having fun. For Susie, Kris is just kind of emotionally withdrawn by default and has no reason to assume that they’re not enjoying themself just because they’re not expressing it as openly as she or Ralsei do.

So that makes me think, like… if Kris’ deadpan reactions are normal for Noelle but concerning for Tenna, that might still be a relatively recent development?

Well, if that's so, then Kris’ lack of expressiveness might still be related to their peculiar situation with the SOUL, and the reason why no one’s saying that they’ve only gotten really unresponsive recently is that….

Something has been going on long before we came in.

Or it could be just something totally mundane. Maybe they just became withdrawn and kinda emotionally-numb due to their parents’ divorce, or Asriel moving to college, or Dess’ disappearance or the mental exhaustion of following Evil Phone Voice's instructions all the time or some sort of combination of these factors? So for anyone who sees Kris every day and saw them gradually close themself off to the world, that is their normal behavior now… but Tenna still thinks of them as the happier and more expressive child who used to watch him regularly.

Or maybe this is some sort of a mix of the two options?

[0scarp1astr1]

Wax Appointment

જ⁀➴ Desc: || In which you tell them about your brazilian wax appointment, they just have one problem, your waxer is a man. ||

ᯓ★ Featuring: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris, Carlos Sainz, Fernando Alonso.

ᯓ★ 2x Genre: Fluffy (slight humor)

ᯓ★ Warning: Suggestive humor/themes

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: First official writing, remember inbox is open! I hope you all enjoy. And if you want another part of this, you can just tell me what drivers you would like to see in this same scenario. My pinned tells you all the drivers I write for.

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Max Verstappen

It was halfway through the day when Max caught you freshening yourself back up. At first, he brushed it off, assuming maybe he worked out while he was gone and needed a shower. He was never the type to press you on the matter unless it was something that caused you discomfort, and he needed a reason to beat up someone for you. He was sweet in his own way, but a kind, gentle soul when he needed to be.

"Alright, I'm leaving," you said, reaching for the keys. Max had looked over from his spot on the couch, raising a brow. "You're leaving? "I didn't know you had plans?" he questioned. He knew deep down he would be safe. He trusted his friends, plus most of them were other wags. You always got along with Alexandra.

Letting a soft chuckle slip from your lips, you shook your head, looking at him. He looked even more confused before you explained. "I'm going to my Brazilian waxing appointment." You smiled at him. Max's brain took a moment to process. "And that is what exactly?"

You sighed, figuring you would have to explain the basics to your lovely boyfriend. "It's waxing, they do everything, front, back, and everything in between." You winked playfully. He blushed for a moment before nodding his head. "Have fun!" he replied, eyes adverting back to the television.

"I will. "I have to go, or he's going to make me pay extra! "If I’m late,” Before you have the chance to prance out the door, your boyfriend was right behind you. "He? "It's a GUY?!" he said rather loudly, moving to block the door. You looked at him, almost offended. “Yeah? "It's a wax, this is his job," you tried to reason.

Max shook his head. "No, I can do it!” he said as his eyes widened at his suggestion. "Max, you can't wax me down there" you shook your head in protest. Max scoffed. "Schatje! I've seen every inch of you naked. I know my way around your body. In fact, I know my way in! "I'm waxing you! End of story!" he picked you up, throwing you over his shoulder.

"his job? I'm your boyfriend. this is MY job."

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Charles Leclerc

The crazy thing about Charles is that you told him about your Brazilian wax appointment, but it seems he forgot. Which isn’t a surprise considering he wasn’t paying much attention when he was spoken to, but you loved him regardless.

Opening the door, your eyes landed on Charles, who was playing his sim racing, giving a soft smile towards him as you spoke up. “Okay, I’m heading out for my Brazilian wax” you said as Charles hummed with a soft smile. “Enjoy yourself mon amour, give her a tip I like when she does your waxing” he stated.

 “Ah. "Amy’s out of town, I have a new waxer, but he said he knows what he’s doing” you assume, with a shrug. Charles forgot everything at that point, his head turning fast with an expression of disbelief. “He? Mon amour! It’s another man! He can’t see what’s mine!” 

“Charles, it’s just his job. "If I was uncomfortable, I’d never book this waxing” you shook your head, he let out a sigh. “I know that, trust me I know” he assured, silence falling over before he hummed to break the tension forming. 

“Just don’t get a waxing at all..personally, I don’t need this guy investigating you like some temple”, he said, causing you to chuckle, “It’s nothing like that.” Let me get my wax so you and I can have a good time. "I feel it ruins the mood if I’m not up-to-date with my self-care!”

Charles shook his head. “Fine…but let me fuck you first before you go. "I need to leave behind something,” he said as you slapped his arm. “Charles!” You shook your head, he shrugged.

“What? I don’t want anyone seeing what’s mine! At least let me label it before you go mon amour!”

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Lewis Hamilton

Fairly respectful guy, so you honestly have no issue with him, and he knows half the people you see anyway. He pays for your hair, nails, anything really. He just didn’t realize you had a man doing the waxing instead. 

Lewis casually lounged on the couch, Roscoe resting next to him and the TV playing some random film he found when channel surfing. When he saw you walk towards the door, he finally spoke up.

"Brazilian waxing, right?" he asked, wanting to double-check as he nodded your head in response to him. “You should be back in time before our date tonight. I know it’s not far from here,” he smiled softly. 

"Actually, it’s a new place I'm trying. They have me booked with some guy," you said as he nodded his head. "So how much did they-wait a guy?" he looked at you as if you had just insulted Roscoe himself. Which only caused you to giggle in response to his reaction. “Yes. A man is doing my waxing.” 

Lewis raised up from the couch as Roscoe looked over, his rest now disturbed. “I can live with you not waxing, you can just shave” he said as you cringed. “I hate shaving. "I need to be nice and pretty” you said as he groaned. “I’ve eaten it before! "Why does it matter now?” he said as he shook his head, Roscoe barking. “Lewis! "Roscoe is right there!” You gestured. 

“Excuse me baby doll, you know I love Roscoe but I’m more worried about the man waxing you!”

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Lando Norris

It was a pretty simple day with Lando playing games with his best friend Max and you rummaged through the bathroom and digging through makeup. “Lando!” You shouted from the bathroom. He excused himself from the game, walking to the bathroom. 

He opened the door as you looked at him with a frustrated expression. “Have you seen my makeup brushes?” You asked, earning a headshake from him. “I haven’t. "Where are you going anyway?” he asked. Lando didn’t mind you dolling up, but he also knew you rarely did. “Brandon is waxing me today. I scheduled my Brazilian wax for noon.” 

Gears turned in his head as the bathroom door was fully open now, his weight leaned against it. “Excuse me? Brandon? "What kind of womanly name is that?” He asked as you snickered, shaking your head. “Not a woman,” he said as he gasped. “You’re cheating on me?!” He shouted. Earning a rather offended expression on your part. “That’s not cheating!” 

“Letting him see MY woman’s elegant body is cheating!” He said as you groaned. “It’s a wax!” You scoffed. “Same thing.” My eyes only. "He’s going to try to steal you from me. "I know this because you’re absolutely sexy in my eyes and everyone will try.” He bickered back. A small smile broke out onto your face. “Are you sweet-talking to me?…” She smiled. 

Lando sighed. “Yeah. "Is it working?” He raised a brow, hating to admit how it was working, you caved in. “Kinda yeah,” You said as he grinned. “Excellent.” "You are going to get that waxing, cause now I feel bad.” He said as you, awed at his sudden change. 

“Thank you, Lando…” you smiled softly. “Of course.” "Now where are the wax strips you use?” He asked, scooting you out the way to rummage for them. “What?” he asked as he sighed, his eyes speaking for him. “Not happening Lando.”

“Do you want the wax or not? You don’t even have to pay me. You get a free Brazilian wax and I get to see you naked. It’s a win.”

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Carlos Sainz

The crazy thing is, Carlos looked into the booking since he was fine paying for it and just wanted a basic booking list to look at. It lined up perfectly with the vacation he booked for you two for the anniversary on the way. Everything was a miracle for him. 

“You sure you want to come to the room?” he asked as Carlos chuckled, nodding his head. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before cariño”, he smiled softly. You kissed his cheek, gave a soft sigh and walked into the room, knowing exactly what to do already. 

Overtime, Carlos had been texting on his phone and waiting, so when the door opened, he looked up and his smile dropped as he looked at the guy rather closely. “Who are you?” He asked suddenly, causing him to side eye his sassy tone given. “Ah, I’m doing the waxing today, my name is-“ Carlos had quickly moved from his spot.

“You? "No offense, but you can’t wax my woman,” he said. You glanced at him for his boldness. “Carlos-“  "No! I want a woman! I don’t exactly trust this process.” He glared at the guy. The man clears his throat. “I can assure you it’s a fast process,” he said. 

Carlos crossed his arms. “I want a woman to wax. If not, "We’ll be taking our leave.” You looked at the guy, trying to give him a reassuring smile. “I’m sorry about that,” You said as the guy walked out of the room. 

Your gaze shifted to Carlos, who looked more relaxed and comfortable, only giving you a silent shrug in return. “You scared him away…” you said, but you smiled lightly. “Not that I’m complaining, but you can’t scare away people I need for my wax”, you said as Carlos kissed your forehead. 

“Dios mío, relax. I’ll make it up to you during our anniversary vacation. In the best way possible”

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Fernando Alonso

Dramatic, you knew how dramatic he was capable of being when you first started dating, and he damn near scared the waiter away. So with the waxer, you knew it was no different. 

It was the usual morning of you both lounging around the bedroom, wrapped in the warmth of your cuddle session. “I don’t want to get up, but I can’t miss my wax either” you said as Fernando hums, his arms still around you. “Schedule it another time” he suggested, and you figured maybe it wasn’t a bad idea, so you did it. 

Sadly, you lost track of time and when you finally got up two hours later, you internally screamed at yourself. Fernando only propped himself up on his elbows, watching you move around the bedroom in a panic. “You’re only a bit late,” he said. “A bit?! Fernando, I’m hours late! I had to call to make sure I could go!” 

“And?” he sighed heavily. “The original waxer is out. Luckily, this one guy made time to squeeze me in today for a Brazilian wax”. At the moment when you said that, Fernando was well awake and jumping out of bed. “No! Absolutely not! "Do you hear yourself, Mi amada?” he asked, eyes wide. A part of you was aching to laugh just because of how dead serious he was. 

“Who needs a wax anyway? "I can manage” he shrugs, causing you to snicker. It’s not funny! "He’s going to see you! "Every bit of you! "I can wax you! "I’m your husband!” He said as you giggled. “Boyfriend.” You corrected. “Soon to be husband! "My point is, you’re laughing, and I’m offering to wax!” He pointed out. “You’re such a drama queen Alonso,” You said. He stood in front of you, silence taking over, who was going to cave in? Only time was capable of telling. 

Now here you are, lying down at home. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into letting you wax me at home,” You said as he shrugged. “I was helping you”, he said as you rolled your eyes playfully. “You’re lucky the world loves you.” He gave a satisfied smile. 

“Happy to help, I’d be a fool to allow another man to touch you. Call it dramatics but you love it.”

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