#F-4C | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

boyfiechan · 2 months ago

Text

[Between Blinds]

…or the one where you and your boyfriend move into the apartment across from a stranger who watches you like you're his religion.

Notes: I wrote this on the bus with a very christian lady staring at my phone, we should talk about the perks of speaking more than one language more often. And this got very filthy very fast. Voyeur!Jisung, Bang Chan x Reader Content Warnings: Male voyeur, AFAB reader, explicit sexual content, established relationship (Chan x Reader), implied Jisung x Reader, implied Chan x Jisung, implied threesome, masturbation (male), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, obsessive thoughts, oral sex (M&F receiving), edging, nipple sucking, overstimulation, creampie, jealousy, possessive thoughts, Jisung is both into you and Chan but no direct mention of his sexuality. [6.9k words]

At first, it was just the package. Just a plain cardboard box, unmarked beyond the usual scuffs of transit, awkward in Jisung’s arms as he stood outside his door staring at the label like it might rearrange itself into something that made sense. A minor error, meaningless on the surface, but he lingered there anyway, blinking at it, turning it over in his hands like it might confess a secret. He almost set it down on the floor, planning to forget it entirely, when the sound of footsteps came from the stairwell—steady, unhurried, a rhythm he’d come to know too well in time. That was the first time he saw him.

Chris. He remembered the name not because it was offered, but because of how it was delivered, on the tail end of a smile that was too casual, too intimate for a stranger, the kind of smile that made you feel like you were already part of something you didn’t ask to join. Chris had that unassuming warmth that drew people in without trying, a little breathless from the stairs, curls falling over his forehead beautifully, hoodie damp where it clung to his collarbone, the fabric of his t-shirt pulling faintly across lean muscle beneath and there was nothing theatrical about him, no arrogance, just a quiet ease that made Jisung feel off-balance in a way he didn’t like. Oh—yeah, that’s mine, he’d said, reaching out with one hand, scratching the back of his neck with the other, sheepish in the way people are when they’re used to being forgiven. The old owner mentioned the delivery guy keeps mixing the buildings up. Sorry about that.

His voice was sweeter than Jisung expected, not intimidating, but steady, calming, the kind of tone that could talk you down from a panic or pull you in closer just by dropping a few decibels. And then, before Jisung could process any of it—you appeared behind him, barefoot, quiet, wrapped in an oversized sweater that slid off one shoulder like silk, your eyes found his in the space of a breath, curious but unguarded, and he felt something catch low in his stomach, a flicker of heat he hadn’t braced for. Chris turned slightly, handed you the box without looking, and your fingers brushed as you took it. Jisung saw the way your lips parted to thank him, soft, polite, something like kind, and his mind emptied out. He smiled, maybe, nodded, said something automatic. He couldn’t remember.

What he did remember was the quiet afterward. The door shutting, the way the hallway felt empty in a different way now, like something had been pulled out of it. He told himself it was nothing, just a wrong package, a wrong building. Just a smile, just a look.

But after that, he started noticing.

He realized your apartment—also 4C, just like his—was directly across from his own. The street between the buildings wasn’t wide, barely more than a narrow passage of concrete, barely wide enough for one car to crawl through. Your living room sat in perfect alignment with his, like some architectural coincidence designed to feed obsession with large windows, flowing curtains always slightly parted, not wide open, but enough.

Enough for Jisung to see the way you moved through the space like you belonged there, like you'd always belonged there. The way you padded barefoot across the rug, sometimes with a mug cradled in both hands, sometimes with your hair twisted up and a pen tucked behind your ear, sometimes mid-laugh, phone to your cheek, your body swaying with the rhythm of a life well-worn into the walls around you. He noticed how you adjusted the pillows on the couch a certain way before sitting, how you always turned on the lamp in the far corner first, how you lit incense near the window and waved the smoke with your fingers like you were blessing the room.

And Chris—Chris moved differently. Deliberate, controlled, like every step, every gesture had already been measured out and accounted for before he even entered the room. He always took off his shoes the same way, lined them up neatly by the door, his coat went on the same hook every time, folded precisely at the collar and when he sat, it wasn’t just a boyish sprawl—it was a kind of quiet command, back straight, shoulders down, fingers steepled against his lips as he listened to you speak. There was no excess in him, no wasted movement as he poured tea without spilling and smoothed the blanket over the couch with an almost unconscious precision.

Yet, with you, something in him changed. Not slackened, he was still crisp around the edges, but softened, like the sharpness of him bent inward when he touched you. Jisung saw the way Chris brushed your hair back from your face, the way he pressed a kiss to your temple like a ritual, not routine, he watched Chris hold you with a quiet thoroughness, a kind of intentional care that never once looked performative, never rushed, never careless, always with a kind of reverence that made Jisung feel like he was intruding on something sacred.

At first, he kept his distance, just watched casually, leaned an elbow on his windowsill with headphones on, pretending not to be paying attention. Until it became routine. A quiet ritual of sorts, he’d turn the lights low in his apartment when the sun dipped below the skyline, phone forgotten on the floor as he curled against the frame, sometimes with tea, sometimes just with silence. He watched as Chris came up behind you at the stove, arms winding around your waist, lips brushing your neck, watched you curl into him on the couch, your body tucked against his like a second skin, watched the way Chris would tip your chin up when he kissed you like he couldn’t stand the distance of even an inch.

It wasn’t dirty, not at first, not really. It was fascination. Jisung liked watching how you lived, how you existed together, like the world didn’t press on you the way it pressed on everyone else. There was ease in the way you laughed, grace in how Chris followed you with his gaze like he never wanted to miss a single moment of you being you. That was the part that haunted Jisung the most, that gaze, that silent hunger in Chris’s eyes every time he looked at you, like he couldn’t believe he got to touch you, talk to you, love you.

At first, Jisung envied him—envied the way Chris moved through your world like he belonged there, thinking he wanted to be Chris, to have his steadiness, his place beside you, but that wasn’t it, it just wasn't. He didn’t want to be him, instead, he wanted to be there, in that space between you, with you, be part of the golden, honey-drenched world behind your windows, where everything looked softer, quieter, warmer than anything that lived in his own dim apartment, not just watching from the outside like some ghost of a boy stuck behind glass, half-alive in the flicker of someone else's intimacy.

He knew it wasn’t healthy. Knew it crossed a line, maybe several, but every time he told himself to stop, every time he pulled the curtain shut and tried to turn away, some small part of him whispered to look just a little longer, just until the lights turned off, just until the sound of your laughter faded, just until the window went dark again and he could pretend, for a few seconds longer, that he belonged to the world inside it.

It got worse by the second week.

That was when the heat really began to coil in his stomach—slow, molten, thick with something he didn’t want to name, something wrong in a way that didn’t stop him. It curled low and deep, anchored itself inside him like a hook, tugging every time he looked too long, every time he told himself he wouldn't and then did anyway. Jisung told himself he wasn’t a voyeur. That he wasn’t the type to press his fingertips against the glass like a starving thing just to get closer to something he could never touch, never deserve, but by the second week he had already memorized the slope of Chris’s spine when he walked out of the bathroom towel-draped and steaming from a shower, the way water clung to his shoulder blades, glistening in the hallway light as he stretched his arms overhead and cracked his neck, fluid, unselfconscious, clean in a way Jisung felt filthy just for witnessing. Unaware, or maybe indifferent, to who might be watching.

And Jisung watched. God, he watched.

It wasn’t like Chris paraded around naked, he was discreet at first, but there were slivers, glimpses. Moments when he moved from the bathroom to the bedroom with nothing but a towel slung low across his hips, droplets carving paths down the thick lines of muscle across his chest and stomach, skin pale, smooth, firm. There was a kind of animal grace in the way he moved, tense but lazy, like he could snap into motion at any moment but chose not to. And Jisung found himself staring—frozen, breath shallow—when Chris ran a hand through his wet hair and wiped at the back of his neck, exposing the hard cut of his jaw and the veins that ran like subtle roads down his forearms.

He wasn't sure if you were as innocent. Maybe you didn’t know you were being watched, maybe you did, there were nights Jisung couldn’t tell—nights when the way you moved felt too careless to be entirely unknowing, too precise to be accidental, but not deliberate enough to be certain. You would drift barefoot through the apartment wearing only that thin robe, the one that clung to your body like it didn’t quite belong to you, like it might slip off at any second if you breathed too deep, the one that fell just barely long enough to be decent, and even then, barely, he could see the shadow of your thighs through the fabric, the line of your collarbone catching in the lamplight, the slow bend of your body when you set something down and the way the robe shifted with you, slipping at the chest or parting just enough to make his throat go dry. As if none of it mattered, as if no one was watching.

There were nights when the distance between you and Chris seemed to vanish completely, when the gentle undercurrent of touch and glance gave way to something heavier, something Jisung could feel humming through the glass. It would start small, Chris brushing a strand of hair from your face, his hand lingering a moment too long against your cheek, your eyes would soften, your body would lean into his just slightly, almost imperceptibly, like gravity had a preference. And then you’d kiss him. Slow at first, like a secret, like you needed him to breathe.

Like every part of you had been made to fit into his hands, and he touched you like he knew it, kisses that started soft but deepened fast, turned hungry. Sometimes Chris would press you up against the wall near the window, mouths locked together, and Jisung would sit there, transfixed, pulse hammering in his ears, so hard and aching he couldn’t even look away. He knew it wasn’t polite, knew it was a kind of sickness, this yearning, but he couldn’t help it, it wasn’t just lust—not really. It was the way you fit. The way you moved around each other like you’d rehearsed it for years, the kind of chemistry that radiated off you both like heat from a fevered body.

He wanted it. Not just to see it—he wanted to be part of it, a hand on your thigh, your mouth on his neck, Chris’s voice, low and strained, in his ear, telling him where to go, how to touch you. He thought about it more often than he admitted, hand wrapped around himself in the dark as he imagined the weight of Chris’s body above him, the sound of your breath in his mouth, soft and sweet and desperate. And It scared him a little, how vivid the fantasies became, how natural it started to feel, like your apartment wasn’t across the street, but just on the other side of a thin wall. As if he knocked, really knocked, you might open the door and invite him in with a crooked smile and a whisper of, we’ve been waiting for you. He wanted you both, wanted to taste the way you kissed, wanted to feel Chris’s hand pressed firm to the back of his neck, grounding him, wanted to sink into your warmth and never come back out.

But the curtains always closed just before it went too far, always. Right when hands started sliding beneath clothes, right when your body arched into Chris’s touch and his mouth found the curve of your throat, the curtains would draw, soft and deliberate, and the golden light would fade, leaving only the outline of movement behind linen. A tease, a dream, a punishment that Jisung would sit in for long minutes, heart beating too fast, forehead against the glass, hands clenched white in his lap.

He’d never hated anything the way he hated those goddamn curtains. Those thin, useless things always hovering in that maddening in-between, whispering just enough of what he couldn’t have. They taunted him, soft, drifting folds, fluttering like breath against glass, like a veil over something sacred. Every time they shifted, they gave him just a sliver, a glimpse of skin, a shadow moving, the curve of a shoulder, a mouth half-parted, teasing, withholding, smirking in silk. He wondered how could a man hate fabric and yet, he did, viscerally, with every inch of him.

Until that night, were the curtains didn’t close.

It was past one, well past, the kind of hour where the city outside had gone quiet, even the neon signs dulled with exhaustion. The streets emptied like something sacred had settled over them, ans Jisung hadn’t meant to be awake. He’d told himself he wouldn’t look tonight, not again, not after how raw he’d felt the night before, sitting there in the dark with his chest heaving and his hands shaking, guilt eating at him like rot. But something tugged at him anyway, something that lived in the soft meat of obsession, that whispered just check, and he did. You were there.

The lights were dim, just the kitchen ones casting a low amber wash across the apartment, warm and hushed, like a secret, and Chris was home again. He must have been gone for a few days—Jisung had noticed the difference, the quiet vacancy in the space, the way you moved slower, like the air around you had thickened in his absence, but now he was back, standing in the kitchen barefoot, his shirt discarded somewhere out of view, damp curls curling over his forehead like he’d just stepped out of the shower or maybe the rain. His jeans were slung low on his hips, unbuttoned like he hadn’t gotten around to finishing undressing, like he didn’t need to. And you were against him.

Jisung stopped breathing.

You had your back to the counter, perched slightly on the edge, legs parted around Chris’s hips, your robe was gone—just a tank top now, one of his maybe, nearly sheer with wear, clinging to your body like it belonged there. No bra. He could see the soft press of your nipples through the thin fabric, and Chris had his hands on your thighs, fingers gripping just under the hem of your shorts, dragging you closer, slotting himself between your legs like it was the most natural place in the world.

And it wasn't much, not really, just kissing. But it was that kind of kissing, the kind that made heat pool low in Jisung’s stomach, that made his skin burn beneath his clothes and his throat tighten with something ugly and sweet. Chris moved one one hand to the back of your neck, tilting your head just right, the other braced against your hip as he kissed you slow, deep, filthy, like he was trying to taste the days he’d missed, like he was going to fuck you with his mouth before he ever touched anything else.

Your hands roamed across his back, dragging fingernails lightly over muscle, down his spine, anchoring him to you and Jisung could see the subtle roll of your hips against him, the way Chris groaned, actually groaned, into your mouth and pulled you in harder, as if he couldn't stand to leave even a sliver of space between you.

Jisung sat frozen, air barely moving in and out of his lungs. He felt fevered, too hot in his skin, like something shameful and electric was crawling through him knowing he should look away, should close the curtain, turn the lights on, snap himself out of it. But he didn’t, he couldn’t and he was hard, of course he was, but he didn’t touch himself just yet telling himself he wasn't like this. Just clenched his jaw, fists white-knuckled in his lap as his gaze stayed locked on the scene playing out behind that golden window like it had been staged just for him.

Chris’s lips were at your neck now, biting soft and slow, and your head tilted back with a gasp. Jisung could practically feel it. The heat between you, the way your bodies pulled at each other like magnets, like gravity had nothing to do with it. His eyes burned from not blinking, chest tight with the ache of it.

He should stop, this was the line he promissed he wouldn't cross, but when Chris dipped his head lower, mouth ghosting over your chest, and you arched into him with your hands tangled in his hair— Jisung’s breath hitched, and he leaned forward, so close to the glass now his forehead almost touched it. The curtains stayed open.

You slid off the counter like you’d done it a hundred times, thighs brushing Chris’s hips, your mouth still clinging to his like it couldn’t bear to let go. Jisung watched your fingers curl into the waistband of his jeans, slow, teasing, deliberate. You said something—he couldn’t hear it, but the words were pressed close to Chris’s mouth, your lips brushing his jaw, and whatever it was made Chris huff out a broken, desperate sound that cracked through Jisung’s ribs like a fault line.

Chris leaned back against the counter now, his hands braced on either side, chest rising and falling in hard, uneven pulls. He looked wrecked already, barefoot, shirtless, eyes half-lidded and lips swollen from your kisses. And you were looking at him like he was something to be devoured.

Jisung’s whole body tensed when you dropped to your knees.

It was slow, intentional, like something sacred, like worship. Your hands slid up Chris’s thighs, pushing the denim lower, revealing more skin inch by inch. Jisung could see the muscle twitch in Chris’s abdomen, his head tipping back with a soft shudder, eyes fluttering closed as your mouth trailed kisses along his hip, just above the waistband of his boxers. You were taking your time, drawing it out. Making him feel every second of your mouth on his skin. And Chris let you—he stood there, shaking slightly, hands tightening on the counter behind him, letting you have him.

Jisung’s breath caught hard in his throat, his whole body rigid with heat. His cock throbbed beneath his waistband, aching, pulsing. He still didn’t touch himself—couldn’t—but his legs pressed together unconsciously, his breath stuttering as he stared, helpless and hungry and burning.

Chris finally looked down at you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, not pushing, just there, tender and possessive. You looked up at him as you kissed the inside of his thigh, your mouth so close now, breath warm against him. And he nodded—just once, slow, reverent, whatever passed between you in that moment, Jisung could feel it. The intimacy of it, the trust, the unbearable heat of knowing you were about to wreck each other in ways no one else ever could.

And then your mouth was on him.

Jisung’s whole body jerked. He couldn’t see everything—Chris’s hips blocked the view—but he saw the way Chris reacted. His fingers clenched in your hair. His head hit the cabinet behind him with a soft, stunned thud, lips parting around a moan Jisung couldn’t hear but felt. His hips bucked once, instinctive, and your hands smoothed up his thighs, grounding him, controlling him. You were working him slow, deep, obscene—and Chris looked like he was barely holding it together.

Jisung’s throat was dry. His heart beat like it was trying to claw its way out as he didn’t dare move, afraid that if he blinked, it would all vanish. That the curtains would snap shut, and he’d be left with nothing but the echo of Chris’s face, tilted toward the ceiling, lips parted in silent pleasure. He wanted to look away.

He couldn’t.

Jisung’s hand moved without conscious thought—palm pressing down hard over the bulge in his sweatpants, grinding slow, just enough pressure to take the edge off the sharp, aching tension coiled in his gut. It was shameful, disgusting, and he hated how good it felt, how right, like his body had been waiting for permission, like it had known from the start this was inevitable. Across the narrow stretch of night, in the golden-lit window, you were still on your knees. Still unhurried, still devastating.

Chris’s hand was in your hair now, holding you there—not rough, not demanding, but trembling with restraint. His chest heaved with every breath, shoulders taut, head tilted down just far enough to watch you. His lips moved—murmuring something, maybe your name, maybe a string of curses—and you moaned around him, the vibration making his hips jerk forward against your mouth.

Jisung’s hand pressed harder, grinding the heel of his palm against himself with a low, shuddering breath. He didn’t pull his cock out—wouldn’t let himself—but the friction was unbearable. It felt like his whole body was drawn tight around that single point of contact. His thighs were tense, jaw locked, forehead slick with sweat as he imagined what your mouth felt like, imagined the way your lips stretched around Chris’s length, the soft glide of spit down your chin, the obscene wet sounds echoing in the warm hush of your kitchen. Imagined kneeling beside you, your hands guiding him toward your mouth, your eyes glittering with invitation.

Chris pulled you off with a gasp. Not harsh—desperate,as if he let you keep going he’d lose control too fast. His cock glistened in the low light, thick and flushed and heavy between his legs, and Jisung made a sound low in his throat, breath catching. He palmed himself harder now, head tipping back against the air, thighs spread wider as his hips rolled into the pressure.

Then you were standing again, your mouth red and shining, your eyes half-lidded as you leaned in to kiss him. It was messy now—hot, gasping, sloppy, Chris gripped your waist and hauled you into him, your legs wrapping around his hips as he lifted you onto the counter. The tank top slipped higher, and Jisung caught a flash of bare skin beneath, the soft underside of your breast dragging against Chris’s chest. He pressed himself between your legs again, grinding against you through the thin fabric of your shorts, your hips rolling to meet him with a rhythm that was building, dangerous. Chris’s mouth moved down your neck, his hand sliding up your thigh, thumb tracing maddening circles along the edge of your underwear and you let your head fall back, baring your throat, moaning something soft that Jisung imagined was abreathless plea.

Jisung’s hips bucked, his hand was moving now, slow and firm through the soft fabric, trying to muffle the twitch of his cock and the spiraling tension clawing up his spine. He was barely breathing, completely still except for that rocking grind, that pulse of shame and hunger that had fused in him like something alive. He wanted to be between your thighs, wanted Chris’s hands on him, wanted to be crushed between you, used by you, owned by you. The image burned into his brain, red and bright and holy.

And still, the curtains stayed open.

Chris's hand slipped beneath your shorts, and Jisung saw it—saw your body jolt, your thighs twitch around his hips, your mouth part on a gasp that never made a sound but looked like it could’ve shattered glass. Chris didn’t rush. His fingers moved with purpose, with a confidence that told Jisung this wasn’t new—this rhythm, this need—but that it never got old, either, he knew you, knew every inch of you and he touched you like a man possessed.

Jisung pressed his palm harder over his cock, the pressure maddening, frustrating, almost not enough. His whole body burned—skin flushed, lips parted, breath coming in soft, shallow pants as he watched Chris's fingers work beneath the fabric. Your hips ground into him, chasing every stroke, your hands tight around his shoulders like you needed the anchor. Jisung couldn’t see what Chris was doing under there, not really—but he didn’t have to. The way your body writhed against him, the way your breath hitched and your back arched—God, he knew.

And Chris—fuck, Chris looked ruined with want. That heavy, dark hunger in his eyes never wavered, fixed on you like he could burn through you with just his gaze, his arm, corded with muscle and dusted in a sheen of sweat was locked around your waist, thick veins running the length of his forearm as he held you flush to him like it cost him something not to bury himself deeper. Pale skin flushed at the neck, chest heaving with every breath, his shirt clung to the ridges of his torso, the fabric damp and stretched across his broad shoulders and his mouth was at your ear now, lips brushing skin as he murmured things too low for Jisung to hear—things that made you whimper, made your spine curve, made your fingers dig into his side like you needed to hold on. His other hand cradled the back of your neck, fingers splayed wide, thumb stroking your pulse like he needed the proof that you were there with him, alive and shaking for him.

He kept you so close, so tightly pressed to him that it looked like even a sliver of space between you would’ve been unbearable. Your tank top had slipped from one shoulder, leaving the slope of it bare, and Chris dipped his head low, lips grazing the hollow between your collarbones, his teeth followed, dragging against your skin in a slow scrape, and the groan he let out was felt more than heard—raw, hungry, like he wanted to swallow you whole too. All the while, his fingers moved lower between your thighs with unrelenting focus, working you open with the same precision in his touch as in his stare, like he was memorizing every reaction you gave him, carving it into his bones.

Your head fell forward, forehead pressing against Chris’s, and Jisung’s whole body clenched at the intimacy of it. How close you were, how much you needed each other, how was more than just sex—it was like watching gravity itself bend to keep you tethered, like neither of you could bear the thought of being apart.

Jisung palmed himself harder now, biting his lip to keep from groaning. His cock throbbed, trapped in his pants, leaking, aching, he was so close to the edge he could barely see. Every drag of Chris’s fingers between your legs echoed in his bones, every soft grind of your hips made his own twitch in response, involuntary and shameful and so good. He could almost feel the heat of your bodies, the slick friction of sweat-slick skin, the sound of your breath tangled together as Chris lifted your tank top, just enough to expose one breast, and his mouth was on you a second later—wet, hungry, reverent. Your back arched, thighs squeezing around his hips, one hand tangling in his hair as he sucked your nipple between his lips and groaned into your skin.

Jisung whimpered, actually whimpered. His hand stilled, just for a second, like the shame had caught up with him—but the ache didn’t fade. The image was seared behind his eyes, hot and pulsing and real, Chris between your legs, your hands clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, the desperate, grinding rhythm of your hips, the wet sheen of spit and sweat and need.

He didn’t want to come, not yet, ot like this, but he was so close—his thighs trembling, stomach tight, his cock leaking into his boxers with every shallow roll of his hips against his palm as he clenched his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut for half a breath, trying to hold on. But when he opened them again— Chris had pulled your shorts to the side, he was on his knees now, and your hands were in his hair, head thrown back, thighs spread wide and trembling— Jisung couldn’t look away.

He broke.

There wasn’t a single moment he could point to—no line crossed or switch flipped, just the slow, suffocating build of it, the pressure mounting minute by minute until it shattered through him with quiet, devastating finality. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, skin on skin, hot and slick and aching and his breath punched out of him like he’d been hit. He curled his fingers around his cock, finally, desperately, the contact sending a bolt of pleasure through his spine so sharp it bordered on pain.

Across the gap, through that glowing rectangle of heat and shadow, you were spread open on the kitchen counter, thighs trembling, eyes half-shut. Chris had your legs over his shoulders, arms wrapped under your hips to keep you anchored, face buried between your thighs like he lived there and you—God, you looked like you were unraveling for him. Head tipped back, mouth parted, hand clutching at your own breast through your shirt, fingers pinching and pulling in rhythm with his tongue.

Jisung’s fist moved in tight, steady strokes, his thumb catching the slick at the tip, smearing it down as he exhaled sharp through his nose, eyes locked on your trembling form as his hips bucked up into his palm, quiet curses tumbling out under his breath. He didn’t even try to stop anymore, didn’t pretend. He was fucking himself to you—because of you—and it felt like he’d been waiting his entire life to do it. He imagined the way your thighs would feel around his head, the way you’d look down at him, fingers buried in his hair, whispering praise or filth, maybe both. He imagined Chris watching, not angry, mot jealous, inviting, holding you open while Jisung fucked you with his tongue, whispering in your ear how beautiful you looked with two of them between your legs. Maybe touching himself, maybe touching him, too.

His strokes got faster.

Chris was devouring you. His head moved in slow, hungry rolls, hands gripping your thighs like they were the only thing tethering him to earth as your hips lifted off the counter with every pass of his tongue, back arching, hands grasping at anything—his hair, the edge of the counter, your own thighs. One of your legs slipped, and he caught it easily, lifting it higher, spreading you further, like he wanted to crawl inside you and never leave.

Jisung bit down on the inside of his wrist to keep from moaning. He was fucking into his fist now, panting, feverish, cock slick, throbbing in his palm, and every soundless cry from your mouth made him squeeze harder, stroke faster, chasing the edge with dizzying speed. Chris pulled back for a breath—his face wet with you, lips swollen, eyes dark, he said something—filthy, judging by the look on your face and you reached for him instantly, dragging him up into another kiss, tasting yourself on his mouth.

Jisung whimpered aloud. He was close, so fucking close, pressing his forehead to the window, breath fogging the glass, his fist pumping slick and hard. You were rolling your hips against Chris now, grinding against the thick bulge in his jeans, your bodies moving together like instinct, like gravity, like sin. He could see the outline of your soaked underwear, the twitch of your thighs, the glazed, desperate look in your eyes.

Jisung's hand moved faster, tighter, the heat of his palm soaked through with slick, every stroke sending sparks ricocheting up his spine. His breath came in shallow, broken gasps, lips parted, sweat sticking to his temples, the waistband of his sweats digging into his hips. He was right there—right fucking there—his toes curling, thighs clenching, that tight electric coil in his gut threatening to snap. One more stroke and he’d fall apart.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

He stopped.

Choked on the pleasure like it was smoke in his lungs, fingers trembling as he hovered on the brink of release. The ache in his cock was unbearable, pulsing, angry, but the guilt clawing at the edge of his consciousness tasted even worse. His stomach twisted. His whole body rebelled against the denial, twitching with frustration and need as he squeezed the base of his shaft hard, biting down on his lip so sharp he tasted blood.

He shouldn't, but still, he watched.

Chris was back between your legs, one arm locked around your waist to keep you close as he rutted against you, still clothed, his cock grinding into your soaked panties through the thin denim. His mouth was back at your breast, kissing and sucking and moaning into your skin while you clung to him like he was the only thing tethering you to the world, your tank top was halfway off, your thighs spread wide over the counter, the waistband of your shorts bunched at one side, giving Jisung teasing, impossible flashes of wet lace and flushed skin. You rolled your hips with each drag of Chris’s cock against your center, your face open and needy and completely lost in it. You were beautiful, wrecked, gone.

Jisung could feel his heartbeat in his cock, throbbing, pulsing like it was trying to crawl out of his skin. His hand hovered, twitching, aching for friction as he palmed himself again—lightly this time, barely there—just enough to send another sharp, punishing jolt of pleasure racing through him. His knees nearly gave out, but he wouldn’t come, not yet. Not until he saw everything.

Chris pulled back just enough to look at you. His hand dragged down your stomach, slow and reverent, disappearing between your legs again as you cried out—mouth open, hips twitching—and Jisung imagined his fingers sliding through you, rubbing slow circles over your clit, spreading you open and working you like he owned you. He watched Chris lean in and kiss your throat, slow and tender, whispering against your skin and you said something back, breathless, smiling faintly through the haze.

Jisung let his hand fall away completely.

His cock twitched in protest, leaking, the ache twisting deeper in his belly like hunger left unfed. He wanted to scream, to beg, but instead, he pressed his forehead to the glass harder and let the edge swallow him whole, trembling and ruined and completely, utterly yours.

Chris’s hand disappeared again beneath your shorts, and this time your whole body answered with a sudden jolt, hips lifting, thighs tightening around his sides like they knew what was coming. Your arms looped around his neck, mouth brushing his, your forehead to his. The closeness between you felt unbearable even from across the street. Jisung could see the way you looked at him. Not just with want, but with this deep, surrendered sort of hunger. Like you needed him inside you just to breathe again.

Chris said something, a low murmur against your lips. You nodded.

That was it.

He reached between you again, this time with both hands, one tugging your shorts down to your knees, the other undoing his jeans. The sight was dizzying, hurried but still patient somehow, like he couldn’t help himself anymore but didn’t want to rush it either. His boxers slid low enough to free his cock, flushed and heavy, and Jisung sucked in a ragged breath as Chris stroked himself once, slow and tight from base to tip, his eyes locked on your face the whole time. You leaned back, bracing yourself on your elbows, your legs wide, panties askew, the wet shine of your cunt catching the kitchen light like something sacred. Chris lined himself up, and then—slowly, so slowly—he pushed inside.

Jisung’s breath caught like it had been yanked from his throat. His knees buckled slightly, one hand grabbing the edge of the windowsill to steady himself while the other slipped beneath his waistband again. He spat into his palm, quick, messy, desperate, and wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking slow, drawn-out pulls as he watched.

Chris sank into you with all the reverence of a man crawling into heaven. His jaw was clenched, eyes squeezed shut as he buried himself to the hilt, your body arching to take him, thighs trembling around his hips and when he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, hands braced on either side of the counter, he just held there for a second, like he couldn’t believe you were real, like the feeling of you wrapped around him was too good, too much.

Jisung stroked himself tighter, slick and slow, each movement winding that coil inside him even tighter. He couldn’t hear you so well—but he didn’t need to, he saw it, the way you gasped when Chris pulled back just a little, then thrust forward again with a slow, grinding rhythm. The way your eyes fluttered shut, your mouth falling open in a moan so soft and deep it looked like it could’ve been a prayer.

Chris set the pace, deliberate, devastating, each thrust slow and thick like he was savoring the drag, the way your body clung to him, the way you gasped just under your breath like you were trying not to fall apart too soon. He moved with maddening control, hips rolling with that signature, almost unbearable precision, like he knew exactly how to undo you and had no intention of rushing it. His brows were drawn tight in concentration, sweat sliding down his temples, jaw slack with restraint as he watched himself disappear into you over and over again, how the muscles in his thighs flexed with every grind, his abs tightening on every exhale, and there was something reverent in the way he held your hips like he needed the anchor.

And Jisung—God, Jisung wanted in. Not just to watch, not just to jerk off like some pathetic afterthought in the dark, he wanted to be there, between you, under you, with you. He wanted Chris’s hands on him, wanted to feel those strong, veiny arms pinning him down, that pale, sweat-slick chest pressed tight to his back while Chris fucked both of you open. He wanted to taste you where you were stretched around him, wanted to hear you beg with your mouth on his while Chris fucked you slow and deep and unrelenting.

But more than anything, more than anything, he wanted Chris—wanted to feel the weight of him, the heat of him, the strength in his thighs as they braced around him, the way his voice would drop when he moaned Jisung’s name. He wanted to be split apart on Chris’s cock, wanted to sob into the sheets while Chris held his hips and took him apart like it was nothing, like he belonged to him. He wanted to know how it felt to be the one under that gaze, those dark, hungry eyes locked on his face like he was the sweetest thing Chris had ever tasted. He was so hard he could barely breathe, the ache inside him sharp and deep and endless, and still it wasn’t enough—because he didn’t just want to watch, he wanted to be wanted, by you, by him.

One of your hands slipped down between your legs, fingers circling your clit in sync with his rhythm, and Jisung bit down hard on a curse, his throat tight with want. He could see how soaked you were, the way your slick spread along Chris’s cock every time he pulled back, glistening under the dim light, every inch of him sheathed in the evidence of how good he was making you feel. And the worst part—the most intoxicating—was how Chris looked at you: lips parted, eyes dark and drowning, completely gone for it, like the feeling of you wrapped around him was the only thing keeping him breathing. Jisung could feel it, the echo of your pleasure, the weight of Chris’s need, like it was his own, like he was the one being split open by that slow, relentless rhythm.

He pumped his cock faster now, his palm wet and hot with spit and precome, thighs tensing with every stroke. The wet sound of skin against skin didn’t reach his ears, but he could imagine it—could hear it in his head, along with the imagined moans, the whimpers, the broken cries of his name that Chris would drink from your mouth like they were everything he’d ever needed.

From across the dark gap of air and glass, Jisung watched, broken open.

His strokes had grown frantic. Not messy—purposeful. His palm was soaked, his thighs trembling, every pull of his hand slick and tight and cruel. His forehead stayed against the window, fogging the glass with each ragged exhale, breath syncing unconsciously to the rhythm of Chris’s hips slamming into yours. He was past shame now, far past hesitation, he couldn’t stop, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Inside the golden-lit kitchen, you were close—so close—your fingers gripping Chris’s back, hips twitching each time he bottomed out. Your head dropped back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth open on a moan he couldn’t hear but could feel. as Chris’s hand slipped between your bodies, and the moment his fingers touched you, your whole body arched, taut and sharp as a bow drawn tight, and you broke.

You came in his arms, gasping, shaking, your body trembling with release and Chris held you through it, breathing harshly against your neck, hips slowing but not stopping, like he needed just a little more, just a few more thrusts. He kissed you hard, sloppy, full of tongue and teeth and something deeper, and then it broke.

He came too, Jisung saw it, felt it, like a tremor in the air, a ripple that broke the tension in Chris’s body all at once. The way his spine arched, taut and straining, every sculpted line of him trembling as he sank in deep one final time, hips grinding flush against you in a slow, desperate press. His mouth fell open on a ragged gasp, eyes screwed shut so tightly his lashes trembled, sweat catching in the curve of his brow. Muscles locked, back flexed, chest heaving, he poured into you with a groan so guttural it seemed to tear from somewhere deep inside him, something unguarded and almost broken. His jaw clenched hard against your shoulder, stifling the sound like it was too raw to give voice to, while his arms caged around you like he’d fall apart if he let go. Every inch of him, his shaking thighs, his trembling hands, the way he clung to you like you were the only real thing left in the world, made it impossible for Jisung to look away, he was glowing and wrecked all at once, every breath caught on the edge of a prayer or a curse, and that—that impossible sight of Chris undone—was what unraveled Jisung.

He came with a stifled sound punched into the crook of his arm, his hand pumping hard, his cock jerking between his fingers. It hit him like a wave, violent and full, his hips bucking, breath breaking as he spilled over his palm and into the waistband of his pants, vision blacking at the edges from how long he’d held it back. It was dizzying, blinding, delicious. He tipped against the window, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin and inside the apartment across from him, you and Chris held each other in the dim kitchen light—still tangled together, still panting, still glowing in the aftershock of what you’d shared. Jisung wiped his hand absently on his shirt, but his eyes never left the view.

Not even when you finally reached out, smiled at him lazily, and pulled the curtains closed.

432 notes · View notes

shadyfestivalperfection · 27 days ago

Text

Kill The Mirror~ Oneshot

Summery: After finding his wife Y/N and son Sebastian murdered, Bucky uncovers a horrifying truth—the killer is a version of himself. Desperate to save them, he turns to time travel, risking everything to undo the past.

Character: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warning: Emotional distress, Obsessive behavior tied to grief, death

||Main Masterlist|| ||Oneshot Masterlist||

Morning spilled through the windows like golden syrup, coating the hardwood floors in warm light. Outside, Brooklyn buzzed with life—the soft clang of garbage trucks, the faint bark of dogs being walked, the trill of a saxophone from a street corner below.

Inside Apartment 4C, the world was slower. Still. Safe.

Bucky Barnes stood at the stove, flipping pancakes like he was defusing a bomb. His brow furrowed in intense concentration, the corners of his lips twitching every time he missed the flip by a fraction of a second. He wore only grey sweatpants and a threadbare Stark Expo t-shirt that hung a little loose on his frame—the shirt had once belonged to Y/N, and he wore it often, as if it still smelled like her.

Behind him, Y/N leaned against the counter, sipping from a chipped mug that read World’s Okayest Mom. Her hair was pulled into a loose braid, and her eyes sparkled with a sleep-softened kind of joy.

“Bucky,” she said, drawing out the syllables, “you’re burning them again.”

“I’m not,” he said, too quickly. He jabbed at a pancake with the spatula, flipping it with more force than was probably necessary. “They’re just… extra crispy.”

“They look like they survived the Battle of New York,” she teased.

“You’re lucky I’m cute.”

“No, you’re lucky I’m cute,” she replied, setting her mug down. “Because a lesser woman would’ve called the fire department by now.”

He turned his head, smirking. “That’s why you married me. For my culinary prowess.”

“I married you because you cried watching that video of a baby goat wearing pajamas.”

Bucky chuckled, shoulders relaxing. “That goat was emotionally moving.”

“And I thought, ‘This man? This is the man who’s gonna kiss me before every mission, even if it’s just recon in Jersey.’”

He winced. “Okay, I forgot. Like, once.”

“Three times.”

“I was distracted.”

“Don’t make it four, Barnes,” she warned, walking up behind him and sliding her arms around his waist.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said, voice low and honest.

They stood like that for a second—just breathing. Just being.

Then—

Thud.

Thud-thud-thud.

Little feet pounded against the hardwood. “Mama! Dada! I found my other sock!”

Sebastian skidded into the kitchen, a five-year-old blur of energy and chaos. His socks didn’t match, his hair looked like he’d slept in a tornado, and he dragged his worn-out stuffed panther by one leg.

“Victory!” Y/N crouched and scooped him up in a hug, peppering kisses across his face as he giggled.

“Dad, can I have a chocolate pancake?” Seb asked, turning to Bucky with pleading eyes.

“One chocolate chip pancake,” Bucky said firmly, pointing the spatula like a gavel. “That’s the rule.”

“Uncle Sam gives me two.”

Y/N arched a brow. “Soft. You’re soft.”

Before Bucky could mount a defense, there was a knock at the door.

“Speak of the devil,” he muttered, heading to answer it.

Sam Wilson stood in the hallway, holding a paper bag in one hand and a coffee tray in the other. “I brought bribes,” he announced. “Sugar for the kid, caffeine for the under-slept parents.”

“UNCLE SAM!” Seb launched himself at Sam’s leg like a missile, wrapping his arms around it.

“Hey, soldier,” Sam laughed, ruffling his hair. “I’m gonna miss you too, little man.”

He handed the bag to Y/N—her favorite danish inside, of course—and kissed her cheek. “You good?” he asked gently.

Y/N nodded, smiling faintly. “Seb and I have a whole weekend planned. Pancake lunches. Saturday cartoons. Finger-painting on the walls.”

Bucky groaned. “Please, not the walls again.”

She grinned wickedly. “No promises.”

Sam sipped his coffee. “You sure you trust her alone with him? She’s the reason he tried to glue macaroni to the cat last month.”

“I heard that!” Y/N said, throwing a crumpled napkin at him.

They all laughed. It was easy. Natural. Like breathing.

But as Bucky turned to grab his duffel, the mood shifted—just slightly. Seb tugged on his pant leg.

“Dada? Are the bad guys super bad this time?”

Bucky knelt. “Yeah, but your old man’s tougher.”

“You’ll come back?”

“Always.” He cupped his son’s face. “There’s not a force on this planet that could keep me away.”

Seb hugged him fiercely, then scampered off to show Sam his newest crayon drawing—a lopsided family portrait with too many arms.

Y/N stood in the doorway as Bucky slung the duffel over his shoulder. They just looked at each other for a long moment.

“I hate this part,” she whispered.

“Me too,” he said, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “I’ll see you in three days.”

“Come home to me.”

“I swear it.”

He kissed her like he always did—slow, reverent, like it had to last forever.

He turned and walked away, not knowing that in doing so, he was leaving behind the last living memory he’d ever have of them

_____

The apartment door creaked open three days later.

“Y/N?” Bucky’s voice echoed through the silence. “Seb? I’m home!”

No reply.

No running footsteps. No laughter. No half-done drawing taped to the fridge.

Just quiet.

“Baby?” He set his bag down, panic slowly rising in his throat. His footsteps felt deafening.

Then he saw her.

Y/N was on the floor by the couch, crumpled awkwardly, blood pooled beneath her. One hand outstretched. Reaching.

Sebastian lay beside her. His face looked peaceful. Too peaceful.

“No,” Bucky breathed. He staggered forward, knees hitting the floor with a crack. “No, no, no—no.”

He pulled them into his arms, shaking, sobbing.

“Y/N, wake up. Wake up, baby, please—please. Don’t do this to me.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “You promised.”

His hands cradled Seb’s tiny body. “My boy. My sweet boy. Please…”

His screams were hoarse. Raw. The walls didn’t echo. They swallowed it.

____

Rain fell like grief from a grey sky.

Umbrellas dotted the cemetery like wilted flowers. Two caskets. One adult. One child.

The Avengers stood in rows, dressed in black. Heads bowed. Shoulders trembling.

Tony stepped up first. His voice was low, rough. “Y/N was brilliant. Fierce. She once rewrote a protocol mid-battle because mine sucked.” A shaky laugh. “She saved my ass. Constantly.”

He looked at Seb’s casket. “And that kid? He could’ve run Stark Industries one day. No doubt.”

Natasha took the mic next. “Y/N never looked at me like I was broken,” she said. “She saw past all of it. I loved her.”

Steve placed a photo at the base of the casket. “She saved Bucky. Gave him a life. A reason to hope again.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Bucky showed me pictures of Seb every damn day. He said watching him sleep was the best thing in the world. He loved them more than life.”

Bucky said nothing.

Didn’t move.

____

That night, Bucky opened the door to silence. The kind of silence that had teeth.

The panther plush lay on the floor. A toy truck. A sock.

He collapsed to his knees, the weight of it too much.

He clutched the stuffed animal and howled.

“I’m sorry. I was supposed to protect you.” His voice cracked. “I swore…”

Flashback –

They had sat in the hallway together, backs against the wall, holding the positive test between them.

“You’re gonna be a dad,” Y/N said, eyes glassy.

He looked terrified—and then radiant.

Bucky kissed her stomach that night and whispered, “No matter what happens… I’ll protect you both. I’ll die before I don’t.”

And in the stillness of their apartment, with her hand in his, he meant it.

Present-

Now, he lay curled on the floor, the toy pressed to his chest.

The clock ticked.

Time moved on.

But somewhere in the shadows of his shattered soul, a thought ignited.

What if there was a way to change this?

What if the mirror wasn’t broken?

Not yet.

The apartment was silent, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of the city that never truly slept. Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped together, staring at the floor as if it held the answers he so desperately sought.

“You’re up early,” came a familiar voice.

His head snapped up, and there she was—Y/N—standing in the doorway, bathed in the morning light. She wore his old t-shirt, the one that always looked better on her, and her hair was tousled from sleep.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he replied, his voice hoarse.

She walked over, sitting beside him. “Nightmares again?”

He nodded, unable to meet her gaze.

She reached out, placing a gentle hand on his cheek, turning his face toward hers. “I’m here,” she whispered.

He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes, savoring the warmth of her palm against his skin. “I miss you,” he murmured.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, leaning in.

Their lips met in a tender kiss, but as he opened his eyes, the warmth vanished. The room was empty. She was gone.

Bucky’s breath hitched, and he pressed his hands to his face, trying to hold onto the fleeting sensation. “Not again,” he whispered.

___

The skillet sizzled lowly as Bucky flipped pancakes with the ease of routine. The same brand of mix Y/N liked. The same spatula she used to swat at his shoulder when he got distracted. He moved through the kitchen on muscle memory alone—measuring, stirring, flipping—as if by obeying the rhythm of their mornings, he could summon them back.

The air smelled like sugar and warmth and something ghostly—nostalgia with an edge that cut.

He grabbed three plates. Three sets of silverware.

He placed a short stack on the first plate with extra syrup and a heap of strawberries—Sebastian’s favorite. On the second, he added two golden pancakes, light syrup, and a sprinkle of powdered sugar. Y/N always asked him not to go overboard, but she liked it when he did anyway. The third plate—his own—sat unfinished on the counter as he turned toward the hall.

“Y/N! Seb! Breakfast is ready!” he called, a slight lilt to his voice, like always.

No answer.

He waited. A moment. Two. Three.

Still nothing.

The smile he’d forced onto his lips began to tremble. “Come on, you two,” he called again, louder. “It’s getting cold.”

Still, the apartment remained quiet. The only sound was the ticking of the wall clock above the stove.

His chest tightened. “Sebastian,” he tried again, voice cracking. “Mama’s gonna be mad if you don’t come quick. And I made the chocolate chip ones. Just how you like.”

Silence.

His hand gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white. “Y/N…”

Still nothing.

The facade collapsed.

His legs gave out beneath him as he dropped to the floor beside the kitchen table, his back pressed to the cabinets. His breathing turned ragged, and tears streamed down his cheeks before he realized he was crying. Not like before. Not silent and controlled. But guttural. Shaking. Shattering.

“I made breakfast,” he rasped, his voice broken. “I made breakfast, babe. Just like always. You’re supposed to come in, and he’s supposed to sit on my lap and steal my food and—and you’re supposed to smile and say I’m soft—”

He curled forward, gripping his hair. “Why the fuck did you leave me?” he gasped. “Why—why didn’t I come back faster? I was supposed to protect you.”

His sobs wracked his body, loud and choking. His metal hand clenched into a fist against the tile. Cold. Useless.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

The table still held their untouched plates. Crayons lay spilled on the floor beneath it, the same ones Sebastian had used to draw a crooked family portrait the week before. In the corner sat a stuffed panther with one ear chewed. The air still smelled like syrup and strawberries and the ghost of a life that no longer existed.

“I don’t know how to live without you,” Bucky whispered into the silence. “I don’t even know how to breathe.”

___

The nights bled into each other after that.

Sleep became a foreign country, one Bucky could no longer visit. The apartment lights stayed on deep into the early morning hours as he sat hunched over the living room coffee table, surrounded by files, photographs, and weapon fragments.

The Avengers had offered help. Sam. Natasha. Steve.

He declined them all.

He didn’t want condolences. He wanted answers.

Blood spatter patterns. Forensics. He memorized every angle, every smudge. He went back to the scene a dozen times. He stood in the exact spot their bodies had been found. Measured the distances. Noted the entry wounds.

But something about it—it wasn’t random.

It was precise.

Too precise.

That’s when he noticed the first clue.

A bullet casing wedged under the couch—one that hadn’t made it into the official evidence photos. He held it up under the light and froze.

7.62x39mm.

Russian.

His pulse quickened. He knew this casing. He’d used this ammunition before.

In his Winter Soldier days.

The next clue was a knife—wedged behind the radiator. Not left behind on purpose. Forgotten. But familiar.

He held it by the hilt. A black carbon-fiber grip. Double-edged. Issued to only one division he knew of.

He had killed with this blade before.

Every fiber of him recoiled.

“No,” he breathed, staring at the blade like it might speak. “No, it can’t be—”

The kills were clean. Instantaneous. A throat slit at the right angle. A child’s heart stabbed with precision that made his stomach turn.

This was a style he recognized like an old wound.

His own.

But not his.

His hands shook as he sat back, piecing it together with growing dread.

It was him.

A mirror.

___

“You look like hell,” Sam said over the comm.

Bucky didn’t respond.

“You’ve gone ghost on everyone. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

“I need more time,” Bucky muttered.

“Time for what?” Sam’s voice was sharp. “To drown yourself in guilt and caffeine?”

“I found something,” Bucky said slowly. “The killer… they used Hydra weapons. My weapons. Techniques only I know. Only I remember.”

Sam was silent for a beat. “You think it’s someone from your past?”

“I think it’s me.”

____

The wind clawed at Bucky’s coat as he stepped out of the cab onto Bleecker Street. The driver didn’t wait for a tip. Maybe it was the look in his eyes—hollow, sunken, a warzone behind them. Or maybe it was the way the sky above seemed too quiet, as if the world knew something unnatural was stirring.

He stared at the brass plaque mounted by the ornate front doors:

177A Bleecker Street.

The Sanctum Sanctorum.

He hadn’t been here since the Snap. Last time, it had been chaos—armies of the damned and sorcerers flinging eldritch fire. But now, it was quiet. Too quiet.

The doors opened before he could knock.

“Come in,” Doctor Stephen Strange called from within.

Bucky’s boots echoed against the marble floor as he stepped inside. The air smelled of ozone and ancient parchment, with a faint undercurrent of incense and something… otherworldly.

Doctor Strange stood in the main chamber, illuminated by the soft glow of levitating candles and swirling golden runes dancing through the air like fireflies.

He looked up from a floating tome, his face unreadable.

“I was expecting you,” Strange said.

Bucky swallowed. “How?”

“You’ve been clawing at the edges of time,” Strange replied, walking toward him. “Leaving a trail behind you like a bleeding wound. The universe noticed. So did I.”

Bucky’s throat felt dry. “I don’t care about the universe.”

Strange studied him. “But you care about your family.”

A silence passed between them, thick with unspoken pain.

“I want to go back,” Bucky said. His voice trembled. “I need to stop what happened. To them.”

“You’re talking about time travel,” Strange said slowly. “You’re not the first to want it. But time is not a revolving door.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky repeated. “I don’t care what it breaks. What it takes. I just want to stop this.”

Strange raised a hand, summoning a golden hourglass that rotated in mid-air. The sands within shimmered silver. “There are… ways. But they are costly. And uncertain.”

“I’ll pay anything.”

“That’s the problem,” Strange said, eyes narrowing. “You already have.”

Bucky said nothing.

Strange’s gaze softened—not with pity, but understanding. “I can give you four chances. That’s all the multiverse will allow. Four doors. Four branches. After that, the timeline becomes unstable. You’ll risk tearing a hole too wide to mend.”

“Four,” Bucky said, nodding. “Fine.”

Strange made a gesture, and the hourglass split into four glowing fragments, each hovering before Bucky like a burning ember.

“One chance to be too late. One chance to choose wrong. One chance to be powerless. And one… to face the real threat.”

“The real threat?” Bucky asked, eyebrows narrowing.

Strange didn’t answer directly. “You’ll know. Or you’ll fail.”

Bucky looked at the first fragment. The moment he reached for it, the world dissolved into light.

The world twisted.

Reality unraveled like smoke, and when it reassembled, Bucky was standing in a dim, familiar hallway.

The soft hum of fluorescent lighting overhead. Faint smells of stale coffee and old floor polish. Apartment 4C just ten feet away.

Home.

His heart pounded, blood rushing in his ears. The air was thick, slow, as if the world itself held its breath. He bolted toward the door.

“Y/N! Seb!”

No answer. Only the distant hum of a cartoon playing on the television inside.

Bucky fumbled with the keys—no, too slow. He rammed his shoulder into the door instead. It cracked off the hinges and slammed open.

And what he saw—

God.

“NO!”

Blood. So much blood.

Y/N was on the floor, her body twisted unnaturally, a crimson halo spreading beneath her head. Her eyes stared upward, empty. Her mouth was parted as if she had died mid-breath, mid-plea.

Beside her, their son—Sebastian—lay motionless, curled in on himself. One tiny hand still clutching his black stuffed panther.

Bucky dropped to his knees.

“Y/N—baby—no, no—please—” His voice cracked, broken glass in his throat.

His hands hovered uselessly, afraid to touch, to confirm what his soul already knew.

He pulled Seb into his lap, searching for any sign of life. Warmth. Breath. Anything.

Nothing.

“Sebby, c’mon,” he choked, rocking him gently. “It’s Daddy. C’mon, buddy—open your eyes.”

He kissed his forehead. It was cooling.

“Please. Please don’t do this to me…”

Flashback-

Laughter filled the apartment.

Bucky had just come in from grocery shopping, his left arm juggling three bags while Seb charged toward him like a rocket.

“DAD! We made muffins!”

Bucky laughed as Seb latched onto his leg. “Muffins? Without me?”

“You were slow,” Y/N called from the kitchen, her voice bright and teasing. “He insisted we add peanut butter. I tried to stop him.”

“They’re Panther Power Muffins,” Seb declared proudly, raising a chocolate-smeared wooden spoon like a sword.

Bucky stepped into the kitchen and pulled Y/N close with his flesh hand. She still had flour on her nose. He kissed it off.

“Panther Power Muffins, huh?”

“Wakandan-inspired,” Y/N said, grinning.

“By which she means: chocolate, banana, and chaos,” Bucky teased, making Seb giggle.

Y/N rolled her eyes. “The chaos is genetic. From your side.”

He kissed her again, softer now. “I’ll take credit for that.”

Seb shrieked in mock disgust. “EWWWWW!”

They spent the day inside. Bucky read to Seb from Where the Wild Things Are, doing all the voices. Y/N folded laundry and stole kisses every time he passed her. That night, they danced in the living room to some old Ella Fitzgerald vinyl, with Seb perched on Bucky’s shoulders.

They had no idea Death was already on its way.

Present-

Bucky held their bodies in silence. The tears wouldn’t stop. He had traveled through time, fought gods and monsters—and he couldn’t save the only two people who mattered.

His jaw clenched. His metal fist dug into the floor.

“I was so close,” he whispered. “So close.”

He leaned over and kissed Y/N’s forehead. Her hair was still soft.

“I’ll fix this,” he promised. “I swear it.”

The golden light began to pulse behind him.

The first fragment was spent.

Three doors remained.

Bucky staggered back into the Sanctum Sanctorum, eyes red-rimmed, clothes still stained with blood that no longer existed—at least, not in this moment of time. He barely felt his legs move beneath him.

Stephen Strange stood by a levitating table, arms folded, watching.

“You were too late,” the sorcerer said quietly.

Bucky didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His voice had dried up sometime between sobbing and screaming into the void.

“Three attempts left,” Strange said. “Each one risks more. The more you twist the branch, the louder the universe screams back.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “Send me again.”

Strange gave a final, long look—almost pitying—and gestured.

The second golden shard lifted from the air and pressed itself into Bucky’s chest.

He vanished.

⸻

Day of the Murder – Five Hours Earlier

This time, Bucky appeared on the rooftop of the building across from their apartment.

The city buzzed below. Sirens in the distance, wind tugging at his jacket. Late afternoon sun dipped lazily behind buildings, casting the streets in long, golden shadows.

Bucky adjusted the scope on the sniper rifle he’d borrowed from a Hydra weapons cache—one he’d sworn he’d never touch again.

No mistakes this time.

No more being too late.

He scanned the street. Watched. Waited.

And then—movement.

A figure approached from the alley below. Hooded. Tall. Purposeful. Dark clothes. Head down.

Bucky’s heart began to race.

There you are.

He moved like he was gliding through air, descending the fire escape with practiced speed, never once taking his eyes off the target.

The hooded man paused just outside the building’s entrance.

Too calculated.

Too calm.

Bucky dropped down behind him, silent.

He struck.

One hand around the neck, the other driving a knee into the figure’s back. The man grunted and fought back, but Bucky twisted and slammed him into the alley wall. Hard.

The hood fell back.

Blood.

A broken nose.

Brown skin.

A familiar voice gasping, choked:

“Bucky—?! What the hell?!”

Bucky’s breath caught.

No.

Sam Wilson’s eyes were wide with pain and confusion. Blood poured from his nose. One of his wings, compacted into a backpack harness, was twisted at an odd angle.

“No—nonononono—” Bucky stammered, his grip loosening.

“I was just coming to check on you, man!” Sam wheezed, spitting blood. “Y/N texted me—you weren’t answering. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Bucky backed away, horror spreading like frost.

He looked toward the apartment.

No sound. No sirens.

But the knowing, soul-crushing ache hit him again.

He sprinted.

Three floors.

Bashed open the door with his shoulder.

And just like before—

The blood.

The stillness.

Y/N, lifeless.

Sebastian, eyes closed, small hand still clutching his stuffed panther.

Bucky collapsed again.

“No,” he whispered. “Not again.”

Footsteps echoed behind him. Sam stood in the doorway, one hand pressed to his nose, the other shaking with disbelief.

“Oh my God…”

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them knew how to breathe.

Flashback –

“Hey, tell me something,” Y/N said lazily as she lay on Bucky’s chest, their legs tangled on the couch.

“Hmm?”

“If I die before you,” she said softly, “you’ll promise me something?”

Bucky turned his head, brushing his nose against hers. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Just promise,” she said. “It’s not morbid. It’s real.”

He exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

“Promise you’ll never stop telling him stories. About me. About us. Even the dumb ones.”

Bucky smiled sadly. “Especially the dumb ones.”

Seb had toddled in then, blanket dragging behind him, thumb in his mouth.

“Up,” he mumbled.

Y/N pulled him between them. “Family sandwich,” she announced, wrapping them both in her arms.

Bucky remembered thinking:

This. This is everything.

Present-

He buried his face into his hands. Blood on his shirt. Sam’s blood. Seb’s blood. Y/N’s.

He had made the wrong choice.

Killed the wrong man.

And still—he had failed.

Behind him, the golden light bloomed again. The second shard, now drained, floated back into Strange’s hand.

⸻

Sam’s voice echoed in Bucky’s memory even as the Sanctum reassembled around him.

“You’re not well, man,” Sam had said. “You’re not thinking straight.”

No. He wasn’t.

But what else was he supposed to do?

Strange said nothing this time. Just extended his hand to the next fragment.

“You understand now,” the sorcerer said at last. “Being early doesn’t mean being right.”

Bucky’s fists clenched. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You have two chances left. You’re not just altering the past anymore—you’re straining yourself.”

“Good,” Bucky growled. “I want the pain.”

Strange nodded. “Then you’ll find it.”

And with that, the third door opened.

Golden threads of time wove through Bucky’s chest like lightning in reverse. His body tensed, pulled from one moment to another like a snapped rubber band.

And then—

Light.

Color.

Noise.

The present vanished again, and the world unfolded for the third time.

⸻

7 A.M. – The Day They Died

This time, he awoke in bed.

Warm.

Sheets tangled around his legs.

Soft morning light spilled through the bedroom curtains, dancing in streaks across the ceiling.

A small, solid weight pressed against his side—Sebastian. Curled between him and Y/N, drooling slightly on his shirt.

Y/N shifted beside them, eyes still closed, her fingers twitching in dreams.

Bucky froze.

They’re alive.

He didn’t move for a full minute. Just breathed them in. The scent of her shampoo. The warmth of Seb’s breath. The slow rise and fall of both their chests.

When he did move, it was slow—careful—like a soldier in a minefield. He kissed Y/N’s forehead. Then Seb’s.

This is the moment everything starts.

And he wouldn’t let go of it.

⸻

Morning Routine – 8:30 A.M.

Y/N was rinsing the dishes, humming Stevie Wonder under her breath. Bucky leaned in the doorway, silently counting their breaths. Every sound, every note—he absorbed it like a starving man.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

He smiled faintly. “Just admiring the view.”

“Gross.” She winked. “But acceptable.”

Seb ran through the kitchen wearing his pajama pants on his head like a hat.

“I am Captain Panther, defender of muffins and cartoons!”

“God help us all,” Y/N muttered.

Bucky chuckled, but something inside him wouldn’t settle. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. The air buzzed—not with magic, but with wrongness.

Like a violin just slightly out of tune.

Y/N stopped mid-scrub, brow furrowing.

“You feel that?” she asked.

He straightened. “Feel what?”

She blinked, frowning. “I dunno. Weird déjà vu or something. Like… we’ve done this before. Exactly like this.”

Because we have, he thought.

“You okay?” he asked, stepping closer.

She nodded slowly, eyes unfocused. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

He kissed her. “Let me handle breakfast.”

“No complaints here, Chef Barnes.”

But that feeling lingered.

⸻

Afternoon – 2:17 P.M.

He stayed with them all day.

Everywhere they went—every room, every step. He kept one hand near a weapon. Monitored the windows. Traced the corners of the apartment with his eyes, over and over.

Y/N noticed.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re acting like we’re in a bunker, Buck.”

He hesitated. Then: “Just… wanna keep you close.”

Her face softened. “We’re safe, baby.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I do know that,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist. “You’re here.”

But even as she said it, she glanced out the window. A flicker of something—a shadow that shouldn’t have moved.

He followed her gaze.

Nothing there.

And still.

The feeling.

⸻

Evening – 7:00 P.M.

Dinner was quiet. Too quiet.

Y/N made spaghetti—Seb’s favorite. Bucky smiled and played along, but his mind ticked like a clock. Counting moments. Watching signs.

Seb giggled as he slurped a noodle. “Papa, look! I made a mess!”

Bucky nodded absently.

Something’s wrong. It’s too perfect.

And then it came.

A subtle hiss.

Not loud. Barely audible beneath the whir of the dishwasher.

Bucky froze.

Y/N looked up. “What’s that?”

He rose fast.

Metal arm flashing, he slammed open the utility cabinet.

Gas.

A hissing pipeline.

Not natural gas.

Hydra tech. Leaking odorless, colorless, nerve agent. Invisible death, slow and silent.

“Grab Seb!” he barked.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She scooped Seb up.

“Out the fire escape—go!”

She turned, bolting. Bucky grabbed his knife, slashed the gas line, and tried to vent the pressure—but the leak was too far gone.

Then he heard it.

A cough.

Sebastian.

“No, no, no—”

He chased them to the hallway.

Y/N staggered. Dropped to her knees.

Seb’s stuffed panther fell from his hands.

“Y/N!” Bucky grabbed her.

Her face was pale, her lips turning blue.

“Buck—I can’t—” she gasped.

He caught Seb as he slumped forward.

“No—nonono—wake up—please—” he begged.

Their bodies were limp.

Silent.

The gas had gotten in sooner. Maybe earlier. Maybe hours ago. Maybe when the apartment was still laughing and filled with music.

He had been there. The whole day. And it hadn’t mattered.

The timeline doesn’t want them alive.

He screamed. A sound that tore his throat raw. He pounded the floor with his fists, cracked the walls with his rage.

And then—

The light found him again.

Golden.

Unforgiving.

___

He collapsed back into Strange’s chamber, gasping.

Sweat clung to his skin. His hands shook.

Strange looked up slowly. “I felt it. They changed tactics.”

“They?” Bucky snarled. “You mean me. Or whoever… whatever… did this.”

Strange frowned, brows furrowed. “No. I mean time.”

Bucky stood, trembling. “What the hell does that mean?”

“The timeline doesn’t like being corrected. It’s pushing back. What you saw—the gas—that was new. Different. This isn’t just a killer. It’s a branch collapsing in protest.”

Bucky’s eyes burned. “So I’m losing to fate now?”

“No,” Strange said carefully. “You’re losing to yourself.”

Bucky stared at the final fragment.

Only one left.

One last door.

Strange raised his hand. “If you open this one, there’s no going back. You could fracture your soul. Or worse—destroy the tether that binds you to this reality.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky said, stepping forward. “I’m already a ghost in this one.”

Strange’s eyes softened. “Then may you find what you’re looking for in the last mirror.”

The fragment glowed—

And time shattered one final time.

The golden light swallowed him one final time.

Unlike the others, this wasn’t a pull — it was a plunge. Cold. Hollow. It didn’t feel like slipping through time.

It felt like falling into himself.

Bucky landed on his knees in the darkness of the Sanctum’s antechamber. His palms scraped the stone floor. The air was too still. Too quiet.

His lungs filled slowly, like they had to relearn how to breathe in this version of the world.

This was it.

The final door.

No second chances now. No more fragments to catch him if he failed.

He rose.

This time, he knew exactly when the murders happened. And now, he knew who was coming.

Himself.

The Winter Soldier. Not a memory. Not a ghost. But a living, breathing variant from another timeline. One who never broke free.

One who still obeyed Hydra’s last order.

Eliminate the asset’s weaknesses.

⸻

11:52 PM – One Hour Before the Attack

Bucky arrived at the apartment early. Too early.

He moved through the space like a shadow — securing every door, every window. Checking every wall. Every vent. Every water pipe.

He stood in the dark for minutes at a time, listening.

Sebastian was asleep in his bed, clutching his panther plush. Y/N was in the bedroom, reading. Her voice echoed softly as she murmured words to herself.

God, he missed the sound of her voice.

He closed his eyes.

Just one more hour.

⸻

12:44 AM – The Lights Flicker

It started small.

A low hum beneath the floorboards.

Bucky opened his eyes. Everything slowed.

The bulb in the hallway buzzed — then popped.

A whisper of cold air brushed his neck.

He turned.

And saw himself.

Standing at the far end of the hallway, near the front door. The long hair. The blank eyes. The cold sneer etched into the face he once wore.

But this wasn’t just another assassin.

This version of the Winter Soldier wore no mask.

Only contempt.

“You’re late,” Bucky said, stepping between the variant and his family’s door.

The Soldier tilted his head. “You remembered. Good. Makes this easier.”

Bucky stepped forward. “You’re not getting past me.”

The Soldier gave a thin, humorless smirk. “You think you’ve changed. But I know you better than anyone. You still want to kill. You just wear better reasons now.”

“I want peace.”

“No,” the Soldier snapped. “You want absolution.”

His voice was darker than Bucky remembered. Not mechanical. Human. Too human.

“They were going to make you weak,” the Soldier said. “Just like they made me weak, once. Hydra corrected that mistake in my timeline.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “You’re not saving me. You’re killing what made me human.”

“They made you soft. Slow. You started smiling. Laughing. And look what happened. You failed them three times already.”

The Soldier stepped closer.

“You want me gone? Then stop me.”

They clashed like thunder.

Metal met metal — fists crashing, walls shattering. The air cracked with every strike.

The apartment trembled with the violence of it.

Bucky ducked a blade swipe and slammed his knee into the Soldier’s ribs. The variant spun and elbowed him across the jaw.

“You’re slow,” the Soldier taunted.

“I’m free,” Bucky growled.

They tumbled into the living room — furniture splintering beneath them. Bucky grabbed the Soldier’s arm and flung him into the wall, but the bastard rolled with it and landed on his feet like a wolf.

“I watched them die,” Bucky snarled, advancing. “I felt it. Again and again. And I swear to God—if you touch them—”

“I already did,” the Soldier sneered. “Three times. You just kept hitting rewind.”

Bucky roared, slamming into him.

They crashed into the kitchen. A knife block spilled. Both reached for blades.

Steel flashed.

Blood hit tile.

The Soldier’s knife slid across Bucky’s ribs — but Bucky’s metal fist caught him square in the jaw, sending him flying into the stove.

Glass cracked.

Smoke hissed.

Bucky grabbed him by the collar and slammed him down.

“This ends now,” Bucky rasped.

The Soldier laughed.

“Then do it. Kill me. You know you want to.”

Bucky raised the knife — hand trembling.

He’s right.

He could end it here. No more chasing. No more failure. Just silence.

But—

Seb’s laughter echoed faintly in his head. Y/N’s sleepy smile. The way they both looked at him like he deserved peace.

He dropped the knife.

“No,” he whispered. “That’s your way.”

He punched the Soldier unconscious — hard enough to make sure he stayed down.

Then Bucky stumbled to his feet.

And ran.

She was awake. Sebastian too — cradled in her arms, sleepy and scared.

“Bucky?” she gasped. “There was—there was noise—and I—”

He reached them.

He dropped to his knees and pulled them both into his arms.

“You’re okay,” he choked. “You’re safe.”

Seb clung to him. Y/N wrapped her arms tight around his neck, trembling.

“I had a dream you were gone,” she whispered. “That you kept… leaving.”

Bucky’s chest cracked open.

“I did,” he said hoarsely. “But I’m here now. I swear, I’m here.”

Sebastian cried softly into his shirt. “Papa… the bad dream was real.”

“I know, baby,” Bucky murmured. “But we beat it. We beat it together.”

⸻

Hours later, back in the Sanctum, Strange examined the variant — now bound, silent, and unconscious in a containment ward of magic.

“You succeeded,” he told Bucky. “You severed the loop.”

Bucky stood silently, arms around Y/N and Seb. Both had followed him back. Both still shaken. But alive.

“What happens to him?” Bucky asked.

Strange’s gaze hardened. “He’ll be judged by a higher force than us. This version of you… is a fragment. An echo. But echoes still carry.”

Bucky nodded.

“And the timeline?” he asked.

Strange didn’t answer at first. Then:

“You forced a correction. It held. But time is… alive, James. It remembers what was taken from it.”

Y/N stepped closer, holding Bucky’s hand tighter. “What does that mean?”

Strange looked between them.

“It means the door is closed — for now. But something else may come looking.”

⸻

Back in their apartment, finally safe, finally still, Bucky tucked Seb into bed.

The little boy didn’t let go of his panther plush the whole night.

Y/N watched Bucky from the doorway.

“You look haunted,” she said gently.

“I saw myself,” he whispered.

“I know.”

She walked to him, took his hand, and placed it on her heart.

“You’re here. You saved us.”

He didn’t speak.

So she kissed his knuckles.

“Whatever comes next,” she said, “we face it together.”

He finally exhaled.

Held her.

Closed his eyes.

Outside, the night was still.

But far, far away — in the spaces between time — something watched the broken loop.

And smiled.

-the end……….(?)

#marvel #shadyfestivalperfection #female reader #fanfiction #romance #avengers #mcu #sebastian stan #bucky barnes x wife!reader #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #bucky x y/n #bucky x female reader #bucky x you #bucky fanfic

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twistedheartsclub · 3 months ago

Text

The Neighbors Claim Male X Female Reader

It started with a knock.

Not even a loud one—just a shy little tap on his apartment door. He almost didn’t hear it over the sound of the game on his old TV. When he opened it, she was standing there. New girl. Apartment 4C. The one who moved in with too many plants and not enough muscle.

She smiled up at him with both hands wrapped around a mason jar. "Hi, um—I’m sorry to bother you, but my sink’s doing that awful rattling thing again, and I was wondering if you maybe had a wrench I could borrow?"

That was it. Nothing dramatic. Nothing special. Just a jar of iced tea, a soft thank you, and the way she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear when he said he’d come take a look.

He fixed the sink. Took him ten minutes. She offered him banana bread in return. Still warm. Wrapped in a little towel. Smelled like butter and vanilla and something almost dangerous.

That was the first time.

After that, she came by more often. A lightbulb out. Her AC acting funny. A shelf she couldn’t reach. And he always helped—always showed up with his sleeves rolled, work boots thudding heavy on her soft little carpet. And she always paid him back in food.

Casseroles. Cookies. Pasta with too much cheese. Chicken soup when he got sick once in November. All of it homemade. All of it wrapped in those too-sweet notes with her pretty little handwriting:

“Lunch for tomorrow—hope it makes work a little easier!”

“Made too much, again. Save room for dessert :)”

She’d leave the dishes out for him to pick up later. Washed. Dried. Sometimes still warm from her hands. His name scribbled on post-its like they’d been married ten years. Like she was already his.

And maybe she didn’t mean anything by it.

Maybe she was just kind.

But that didn’t stop it from settling into his chest. That didn’t stop the ache.

Because after a while, it wasn’t just her food he was craving.

It was her soft voice saying his name. The curve of her waist when she reached for something high. The way her eyes lit up when he said he’d help her, no problem. The way she smiled like she trusted him.

Like he was safe.

And that was the most dangerous part.

He wasn’t safe.

Not anymore.

His name was Mason.

Worked early mornings, came home late. Drove a battered truck with tools rattling in the back. The kind of man people moved around without realizing it—like he took up more space than he meant to, like the air shifted a little when he walked into a room.

He’d been in the building longer than anyone else. Didn’t talk much. Fixed things around the complex when the landlord didn’t get there fast enough. People appreciated him. Respected him. But no one lingered with him. Not like her.

She lingered.

Not on purpose. That’s what made it worse. She was just... sweet. The kind of sweet that felt homemade. Like a girl raised to say please and thank you, who brought too much to the table and never asked for anything back.

Except she did ask. A little at a time.

He started remembering the things she needed. Started keeping extra lightbulbs in case she ran out. Started cleaning his tools more often so they didn’t look too rough when he brought them to her apartment. Not for her sake. For his own.

He liked the way she looked at him. Like she was grateful. Like she thought he was some kind of good man.

He wasn’t. Not really. Not when it came to her.

Because he watched too long when she turned her back. Listened too closely when she hummed in the kitchen while he fixed her squeaky cabinet. Noticed the way her soft pink lips curled around the edge of a spoon when she offered him a taste.

She didn’t know what she was doing.

Didn’t know what she was inviting.

And Mason… he tried. He tried to keep it clean. To keep it neighborly. But then winter came, and she knocked again—cold, bundled in a scarf, cheeks flushed from the wind.

“I made stew,” she said, handing over a warm glass container. “And apple cobbler too. You’ve done so much for me this month, I just wanted to say thank you.”

Stew. Cobbler. A handwritten note on the lid.

He took it from her, and their fingers touched for just a second too long. She didn’t pull away right away. Just smiled up at him, soft and trusting. That was when it hit him—really hit him.

She’d make a good wife.

A good mother.

She already fed him like one. Looked at him like she belonged to someone. And he wanted it to be him.

He closed the door too hard that night. Ate the cobbler straight from the pan with his fingers. Her note stayed on the counter all week.

He didn’t sleep well.

And when he did sleep, he dreamed about her in his bed. Her soft little body curled up under his heavy palm. Wearing nothing but one of his work shirts, hair mussed, voice breathy.

God help him, he wanted to ruin her.

But not quick. Not fast.

He wanted to make her his.

Slow.

Permanent.

Forever.

Y/N had lived in the city her whole life.

Born and raised in a quieter neighborhood uptown, where front porches still mattered and neighbors watched each other’s kids without thinking twice. Her mother was a nurse—gentle, warm, exhausted. Her father ran a corner bookstore and believed girls should know how to change their own tires but also how to bake a pie from scratch.

She grew up with a soft kind of resilience. The kind that made people smile when she passed. The kind that made old ladies call her “an old soul” and strangers offer to carry her groceries without really knowing why.

After college, she didn’t leave. The city had veins that matched her own—fast and busy, yes, but also full of stories, full of people. She got a job as a kindergarten assistant teacher at a nearby school. She worked with tiny hands, sleepy giggles, crayon-streaked cheeks. She kept Band-Aids in her pocket and hairpins on her wrist. Always prepared. Always kind.

It wasn’t a glamorous job, and it didn’t pay much. But she loved it. And she stayed.

She lived alone now—her first solo apartment, 4C in a weathered brick building with peeling paint and old pipes. She decorated with soft colors, lacy curtains, mismatched dishes from thrift stores. The walls were thin, and the hallway lights flickered when it rained. But she didn’t mind. She made it a home.

The first time she met Mason, she was balancing a cardboard box of winter clothes and the building’s front door slammed shut too fast. He caught it with one hand—just stepped in, boots heavy on the wet floor, callused fingers closing around the frame like it was nothing.

He was quiet. Tall. Big. He didn’t say much.

But she smiled at him anyway, the way she always did. “Thank you,” she said, a little breathless, and nudged the box back up in her arms. “I think my winter coats are plotting against me.”

He grunted. Nodded. Held the elevator for her, too.

That was it. That was the start.

Mason had noticed her before.

You couldn’t not notice her. She was light in a hallway of shadows. Always smiling at people. Always holding the door. He figured she wouldn’t last in the building more than a month—too kind, too soft. The kind of girl the city usually chewed up.

But she stayed. And slowly, she started asking for things.

Not much. Never demanding. Always soft-spoken.

“Would you mind helping me with this shelf?”

“My smoke alarm keeps chirping. I don’t trust myself on a ladder.”

“Do you know anything about radiators?”

And every time, she brought him something in return. Little paper-wrapped cookies. Ziploc bags of fudge. Tupperware stacked with dinner—real food, not just boxed meals. She cooked like a woman who learned from someone old-fashioned. Someone who believed food was love. And her notes were always hand-written:

“I hope your day wasn’t too long. You deserve something warm.”

“Thank you again. I’ll wash the Tupperware and return it tomorrow!”

He kept them all in a drawer.

At first, it was neighborly. Friendly. Sweet.

But it started to turn.

She was so gentle, so easy with him. It made something ugly stir inside. Not violent—possessive. A primal, growling mine.

She didn’t know what she was doing when she touched his arm to thank him. Or when she leaned in too close to show him a cracked tile on her kitchen floor. She didn’t know what kind of fire she was playing with when she looked up at him like that. Big trusting eyes, soft mouth, like he was her hero.

He wasn’t her hero.

He was a man who hadn’t been touched in too long. Who hadn’t been loved, not really. A man who lived alone by choice, because the world felt too damn loud. And now this little thing—this woman—was bringing the noise right into his chest. Sweet and slow, like rot under wood.

And the more he helped her, the more he needed her to need him.

So he started finding reasons to stay longer. Fix things that didn’t need fixing. Show up with tools she didn’t ask for. His eyes followed her too long. His hands hovered too close.

One night, he stayed late after patching a broken lock on her balcony door. She brought him a slice of lemon cake on a plate with little blue flowers. She was barefoot, hair damp from a shower, wearing some oversized sweatshirt that hit mid-thigh.

He could barely breathe.

And when she smiled at him like she wasn’t afraid—like he was safe—something inside him cracked.

He wanted to press her into that counter, lift her up and make her his.

He wanted to breed her.

Hold her down and fill her until she had no room left for anyone else. Until there was proof inside her, permanent and undeniable, that she belonged to him.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Because she wasn’t ready. And Mason... Mason was patient. Dangerous, yes. But patient.

She was already halfway his. She just didn’t know it yet.

Y/N was the kind of girl who gave the world her best without asking for much back.

She woke up early every morning, packed her little floral lunchbox, and left with her hair tied up in a ribbon or clip. Her clothes were modest, but soft and pretty—flowy skirts, cream cardigans, vintage blouses. Like she stepped out of a picture book and never realized the city had teeth.

She brought treats to work for the other teachers. Remembered the janitor’s birthday. She helped kids tie their shoes and always kept a little bottle of hand lotion for chapped knuckles. Her apartment smelled like cinnamon and lavender. Her bookshelf was overflowing.

She didn’t party. She didn’t date much either.

Too busy. Too tired. Too... unsure. She said love would come when it was supposed to. Said she didn’t mind waiting.

Her friends, of course, didn’t buy it.

Especially Harper.

“You’re gonna turn into a Disney spinster,” Harper said one Friday afternoon, sipping wine in Y/N’s kitchen. “You’re literally wife material, babe. Someone should be worshipping the ground you walk on.”

“I’m fine,” Y/N said with a bashful smile, slicing apples for a pie. “I don’t need to be worshipped.”

“No,” Harper said. “But you do need to live a little. Which is why I gave your number to a friend of mine. His name’s Theo. He’s nice. Normal. Employed. You’re going.”

Y/N blushed. Stammered. But in the end, she said yes.

Mason didn’t like surprises.

He didn’t mean to check the hallway camera that night. Not really. It was just habit. Security, routine. He liked knowing when people came and went. Especially her.

And when he opened the feed and saw her?

Fuck.

He froze.

She was stepping out of her apartment like a dream. A soft powder blue dress, cinched at the waist with a white ribbon. Her lips pink. Her hair curled. He hadn’t seen her wear heels before. She wobbled just slightly before steadying herself, clutching her purse with that same innocent little smile she gave everyone.

And then he showed up.

Tall-ish. Smiling too much. Wearing a leather jacket like he was trying too hard. And Mason—still in his work pants, sweat still drying on his back—watched the guy lean in, watched her laugh at something he said.

He saw them walk off together.

And something snapped.

The date went fine. Theo was nice. Talked a little too much about cryptocurrency and CrossFit, but he wasn’t rude. He paid for dinner. Walked her back to the building with his hands in his pockets like he wasn’t sure if he should try anything.

“I had fun,” Y/N said softly.

“I’d like to see you again,” he said. “If you’re up for it.”

She hesitated. Smiled politely. “Maybe. I’ll text you?”

He nodded. Didn’t push. Just leaned in for a quick hug.

And from upstairs, Mason watched. Jaw clenched. Chest tight. Heat coiling low and dark.

She made it inside, kicked off her shoes, and was halfway through taking off her earrings when the knock came.

Three slow thuds.

Heavy. Familiar.

She opened the door without thinking.

“Mason?”

He stood there—still in his work pants, boots unlaced, grey t-shirt clinging to broad shoulders, rough hands resting casually at his sides.

“Didn’t mean to bother you,” he said, voice gravel and steel. “Thought I heard your AC rattle again. Figured I’d check.”

“Oh—it’s fine, I didn’t hear anything,” she said, confused but smiling. “But, um… you can come in if you want?”

He stepped inside. Filled the whole doorway with his size, his scent—sawdust, soap, something male.

Her apartment always felt smaller when he was in it.

“I was just about to have a glass of wine,” she said, fidgeting. “Would you like one?”

He nodded once. “Sure.”

She poured two glasses. They sat at her tiny kitchen table. She was still flushed from the date, still wearing the dress, still a little warm in the cheeks from flattery and wine.

And Mason watched her with something dark burning behind his eyes.

“You look nice,” he said, quiet.

She blushed. “Thank you.”

“You go out with that guy often?”

She shook her head. “First time. Harper set it up.”

He hummed. Took a slow sip. “You like him?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know yet. He’s nice. Kind of loud.”

Mason smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You like loud?”

She laughed, a little shy. “Not really. I like quiet. Gentle.”

He tilted his head, watching her. “You ever dated an older man?”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Um… no, I don’t think so.”

“No reason,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “Just think you might do better with someone who knows how to treat a woman.”

The silence stretched.

Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come.

And Mason just watched her.

Every blink.

Every twitch of her hands.

Every breath.

She had no idea what she’d just invited in.

She finished her glass of wine too quickly.

Her cheeks were warm now—not just from the alcohol, but from his eyes on her. Mason didn’t talk much, but when he looked at you? It was different. Heavy. Like he saw more than he should. Like he was waiting for something you didn’t know you were offering.

She was still in that powder blue dress. Still curled in her kitchen chair, her legs tucked under her a little, one hand playing absently with her necklace. Her lip gloss had worn off. Her eyeliner had smudged.

He thought she’d never looked more fuckable.

But he kept his tone easy. Relaxed. A slow hunter, not a fast one.

“That guy,” Mason said after a sip, “he touch you?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“After the date. Did he try anything?”

She shook her head quickly, soft laugh bubbling up. “No. Just a hug. He’s respectful.”

Mason’s jaw shifted. Not clenched. Just… adjusting. Like he didn’t quite like the idea of anyone putting their hands on her. Not even a hug.

And then, quietly, he said, “He didn’t deserve one.”

She blinked. “What?”

His voice was low, almost thoughtful. “That dress. Your hair like that. He didn’t earn it.”

Y/N smiled, flustered, tucking her legs in tighter. “You’re sweet, Mason. That’s—thank you.”

“I’m not sweet,” he said, mouth curving slightly. “Not with women like you.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. The words felt too heavy, too adult, too... charged. So she tried to shift the energy—playful, soft.

“Well, if you're not sweet,” she said, “how come I always find my shelves fixed and my dishes carried up?”

He reached across the table before she could pull away—fingertips brushing a crumb from her cheek.

She froze.

His touch was warm. Callused. Gentle in that way only a strong man can manage—like he could crush her windpipe or stroke her throat with the same hand.

Her breath caught.

And he smiled. Just a little.

“You bring me pie,” he said. “I’d fix your whole life if you asked.”

She let out a nervous laugh. “Mason…”

He sat back slowly. Let her have her space again.

Then, with a shrug: “You deserve someone who knows how to treat you. Not some kid who doesn’t know where to put his hands.”

Her face burned. She fiddled with the hem of her dress.

And then—

“You ever think about letting me take you out?”

Her head snapped up. “What?”

He leaned forward again, elbows resting on his knees, big frame folding in close.

“Just friends,” he said, casual. “Dinner. Somewhere nice. You do all this for other people all the time, cooking, baking, giving. Maybe it’s time someone did something for you.”

She hesitated. The wine was soft in her blood. His voice was deeper in person than it was in the hallway, his eyes darker up close. There was something about him—safe but not safe. Warm but too intense.

“I mean… sure,” she said quietly. “As friends.”

His smile turned sharp, but only for a second. Then it was back to calm.

“Friends,” he echoed. “Course.”

But in his chest, the word curled into something twisted.

Because he knew better.

And soon, she would too

Y/N stood to clear their glasses. No big thing. Just a little gesture. But when she turned and walked to the sink, bare feet padding across the tile, her dress swayed gently around her thighs. The zipper at the back had dipped slightly. The curve of her neck was too exposed.

And Mason couldn’t look away.

She hummed—soft, tuneless. Just rinsing the glasses. The overhead light was dim, casting a warm yellow glow over her skin. She moved like she didn’t know she was being watched. Like it didn’t even cross her mind that someone might be burning for her right behind her.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, voice low.

She glanced over her shoulder, smiling. “I don’t mind. You helped me with the balcony door, remember? This is the least I can do.”

She turned off the tap, reached up to open the cupboard—stood on her tiptoes.

And that was it.

Mason’s jaw flexed. His knuckles went white where they rested on his thighs.

That little stretch—her dress riding up slightly, her shoulder blades pulled back, soft little exhale from the effort—something snapped inside him.

He was behind her before he even realized it.

“Let me,” he said, voice rougher than he meant.

She gasped a little but stepped aside with a sheepish smile. “Thanks. You’re always rescuing me.”

He reached up, grabbed the glasses, set them in place. He didn’t move away. Didn’t step back.

Y/N didn’t either.

They were too close now. The kitchen was too small. Her back nearly brushed his chest. She smelled like wine and vanilla lotion. Warmth and softness and home.

And then—then—she did something she didn’t even realize would wreck him.

She turned, smiled up at him, and reached to straighten the collar of his shirt.

“You’ve got sawdust on you again,” she said softly, brushing it off with her delicate fingers. “You’re always working.”

Mason went still.

Her fingers brushed his chest. A fleeting touch, innocent, casual, affectionate in the way women sometimes are when they don’t know the power they hold.

But to Mason?

It was too much.

His hand came up—hovering just beside her waist. He didn’t touch her. Not yet. But his breath hitched. His restraint hung by a thread.

“You always take care of people like this?” he asked, voice low, dangerous.

She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

He looked down at her—into her—and his voice was quiet when he spoke.

“You’re soft with everyone. Generous. Sweet. You do things that feel like… more.”

She blinked, eyes wide, lips parting just slightly.

“You ever wonder,” he murmured, “what that does to a man?”

Her throat bobbed in a swallow.

“I—no. I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t,” he said. His voice dropped. “That’s the worst part.”

The air crackled between them.

And then—mercy. He stepped back.

Just enough.

Let her breathe again.

“I should go,” he said, throat tight. “It’s late.”

She nodded, looking dazed. “Yeah. Of course.”

He walked to the door, but before he left, he looked over his shoulder.

“Wear something nice when we go out, yeah?”

Y/N smiled, soft and unsure. “Okay.”

He left without another word.

But all night, she sat in bed wondering why her skin still tingled where he’d almost touched her.

And all night, Mason lay awake on his couch—hard as a rock, jaw clenched—replaying every second.

She was breaking him down.

And soon, he wouldn’t just watch her do domestic things.

He’d own them.

Y/N woke up foggy.

Not from the wine—it was barely a glass. But her head was heavy, her body humming with something leftover. Something sticky. Something warm.

It was Mason.

That moment in the kitchen wouldn’t stop playing on a loop in her mind. The way he’d looked at her—like he was holding himself back. Like she was a cookie he’d been told not to eat. Like he’d already tasted her in his head.

She’d felt it, even though he never touched her.

And worse… part of her liked it.

She wrapped a cardigan tight around her that morning, clutching her coffee as she called Harper while walking to the school.

“He was just being nice,” she said.

Harper laughed through the phone. “Oh, babe. Come on. The man literally fixed your door and then offered to take you out. That’s not ‘just nice.’ That’s predator patience.”

Y/N gasped, half-laughing. “Harper!”

“I’m kidding—mostly. But seriously, how old is he again?”

“I don’t know. Forty-something, maybe?”

“Oof. You’re twenty-four, sugarplum. That man’s been paying taxes since you were teething.”

Y/N groaned into her scarf. “Don’t make it weird.”

“It’s already weird. But also… kind of hot?”

“Stop.”

“No, like—he’s tall, right? And those hands? He probably built a shed with those hands. He’d wreck you.”

“Harper!”

“I’m just saying. If you ever decide to do something sinful, make sure you stretch first.”

Y/N hung up laughing, but the conversation clung to her. Stuck to the edges of her brain like molasses.

Because Harper wasn’t wrong. About his hands. His eyes. The way he stood close. The way he looked at her like he wanted something.

And what scared her most?

She didn’t know if she wanted to run...

Or say yes.

Mason’s morning was worse.

He barely slept.

By 6am he was already in his truck, already gripping the steering wheel too tight, already rock-hard again just thinking about her standing on her tiptoes in that fucking dress.

He hadn’t touched himself. Didn’t want to. Not yet.

He wanted to earn it. No—claim it.

His crew was already working when he showed up, toolbox in one hand, the other holding the familiar glass container.

“Heyyy, Big Mace’s got a lunch again!” someone called out. It was Javi, the youngest guy on the crew. Loud, nosy. Always pushing buttons.

Mason ignored him.

“Oh come on, man. That little girl next door still feeding you?”

Mason didn’t answer.

“Goddamn,” muttered Troy, an older guy with grease under his nails. “That’s, what, three times this week? Homemade, too. You hittin’ that?”

Mason looked up slowly.

Troy raised his hands in surrender. “Kidding, kidding. But for real—what’s her name again? She got a sister?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mason said quietly, snapping open his lunchbox.

There was pie inside. Wrapped in wax paper with a sticky note on top:

“Have a good day! Hope this makes the morning a little easier 💛”

His jaw ticked.

Javi whistled. “You ever bring her over, we’ll make her lunch for you, man.”

Mason stared at the note. Said nothing.

But in his head?

He was picturing her apron tied at the back. Standing in his kitchen, barefoot, round with his baby. Stirring soup with one hand and holding her belly with the other.

He would bring her home.

And no one else would ever touch her. Ever.

The day at the school was long but sweet.

Y/N had two back-to-back classes full of five-year-olds, all high energy and sticky hands. They made paper flower crowns. She helped tie shoes, wiped away snotty noses, gave out extra gold stars just because it was Friday. She spoke gently, knelt to eye level, hugged kids who needed it.

The other teachers loved her.

The kids adored her.

She kept her phone in her cardigan pocket, glancing at it occasionally. No messages. Not from Theo. Not from Mason.

Not that she was expecting one.

But… part of her kind of was.

Around lunch, she stepped out into the break room to eat her sandwich and sat down beside her friend Celine, who glanced over and grinned.

“You’ve got that look,” Celine teased.

“What look?”

“The ‘I had an interesting night and now I’m pretending nothing happened’ look.”

Y/N laughed into her thermos. “I had a glass of wine and a very intense conversation with my neighbor. That’s all.”

Celine raised an eyebrow. “The neighbor?”

Y/N nodded, lips twitching. “He invited me out. As friends.”

“Friends,” Celine repeated, unconvinced. “Honey, if that man looks at you like he looked at you when he helped set up for the Fall Carnival, he doesn’t want to be your friend.”

Y/N tried to brush it off, but her heart fluttered.

“He’s just… older,” she said softly. “Different.”

“Mm,” Celine hummed. “Older men know what they want.”

Y/N didn’t answer. She stirred her tea, eyes distant.

Because yeah. Mason definitely knew what he wanted.

And she wasn’t sure how long she’d be able to pretend she didn’t feel it, too.

That night, she made cookies.

Baking calmed her down. Gave her something to do with her hands. Something sweet, simple, normal. The apartment filled with the smell of brown sugar and cinnamon. Her playlist was soft—old records, piano songs, the kind of thing that always made her feel warm.

She wore her sleep shorts and a big oversized sweater. Her hair was up in a clip. The windows were cracked. And for the first time in a while, she felt calm again.

On impulse, she snapped a picture of the cooling tray—soft, golden-brown cookies stacked up like a little offering—and sent it to Mason.

Y/N

Guess what you’re getting tomorrow 👀🍪

She didn’t expect a reply right away.

But then—

Mason

Still awake?

Her stomach fluttered.

Y/N

Yeah :) just finishing the last batch

Mason

Got something in my truck I meant to drop off. You want it now or tomorrow?

She hesitated. Then typed:

Y/N

Now’s fine if you’re still up!

Two minutes later, there was a knock.

She opened the door barefoot, the scent of warm sugar trailing behind her like a ribbon. The moment she saw him—still in his boots, hoodie pushed up to his elbows, hands full with a small box of tools—her stomach flipped.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to bother you this late.”

“You’re not,” she said quickly, stepping aside. “Come in.”

He stepped inside. Her apartment was dim again—just the kitchen light and a candle flickering on the table. Everything about it felt soft. Intimate.

He set the box down. “Just some stuff I thought you might need. Basic things. Tape measure, screwdriver, flashlight.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, smiling.

“I know.”

She offered him a cookie. He took one, fingers brushing hers again. This time she felt it. That pause. That weight.

She looked up at him.

And then—nervous, fidgeting, trying to fill the silence—she said, “You ever bake anything?”

He gave a low huff of a laugh. “Not unless you count frozen pizza.”

She giggled. “I could teach you. If you wanted.”

Something shifted in his expression.

“You’d teach me?” he said slowly.

“Sure.”

“Maybe I’d rather just… watch you do it.”

She looked down, cheeks burning.

“You’re good at it,” he said. “Feels like home in here.”

She didn’t know what to say. Her throat was tight.

And then he stepped just a little closer. His voice dropped.

“You wear this for the kids too?”

She blinked. “What?”

He reached out, tugged lightly at the hem of her oversized sweater—his eyes dragging down the length of her bare thighs.

“N-no,” she whispered. “Just for me.”

His voice came back soft. Dangerous.

“Shame.”

They stood there in silence. So close. Too close.

Then Mason stepped back. Took a deep breath. His knuckles cracked once as he said:

“You free tomorrow night?”

“I think so,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“I’m taking you out,” he said. “No arguments.”

She swallowed. Nodded. “Okay.”

“Wear something pretty.”

And then he left.

Not another word.

Saturday afternoon, Y/N called Harper.

She was pacing her bedroom, dresses thrown across the bed like fabric confetti.

“It’s not a real date,” she said for the third time.

Harper groaned over speaker. “Girl. If I had a dollar for every time you said that, I could fly you to Paris to get laid properly.”

Y/N laughed, flopping onto her mattress. “It’s not like that. Mason’s just… being nice. Again.”

“Oh yeah,” Harper drawled. “The giant, brooding, older man who looks like he could bench press a truck and has zero social life—he’s definitely being neighborly.”

Y/N bit her lip. “He brought me a flashlight.”

Harper cackled. “Was it attached to a ring?”

“Harper.”

“I’m serious! Look, just come over. Bring your options. Celine’s here. We’ll make sure you don’t wear librarian drag and call it flirty.”

Half an hour later, she was curled up on Harper’s rug in a sea of clothes.

Celine held up a pale green wrap dress. “This. It’s soft, romantic, not too showy.”

Harper narrowed her eyes. “No. She’ll spill something on the tie.”

Y/N groaned. “Can I wear a potato sack and just say I’m emotionally unavailable?”

Celine smirked. “Too bad, because emotionally unavailable is in. Especially for men like Mason.”

Y/N blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Men like that,” she said, painting her nails. “Rough around the edges. Hands like tree bark. You smile at them once and they decide they’d die for you.”

Harper nodded sagely. “Or kill.”

Y/N shivered. “You guys are making it sound like I’m walking into a mafia romance.”

They just laughed.

But under the humor, Y/N couldn’t help the flutter in her chest.

Because they weren’t totally wrong.

Mason was intense.

And she was nervous.

Later that evening, back home, she stood in front of the mirror.

She chose a dusky rose-colored dress—modest neckline, sleeves to the elbow, hem brushing mid-thigh. Feminine. Sweet. Paired it with her simple gold necklace, soft curls tucked behind one ear. She looked soft. Gentle.

Like herself.

But more polished.

She touched perfume behind her ears. Lip balm. Just a little shimmer on her eyelids. Not too much. Not enough to suggest anything serious.

It’s just dinner, she told herself.

Just friends.

Just—knock knock knock.

Her breath caught.

She walked barefoot to the door, smoothing the fabric of her dress, and opened it.

Mason was standing there.

And God.

He looked dangerous.

Dark jeans. Black button-down rolled to the elbows. The sleeves clung to his forearms, veins visible in his hands. Hair clean and tousled just enough to look like he didn’t try. A leather watch on one wrist. The faintest trace of cologne—wood, smoke, something expensive.

His eyes dragged over her body with slow precision.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was gravel. “You ready?”

Y/N’s mouth went dry.

She stepped aside. “Y-Yeah. Just let me grab my shoes.”

He waited at the doorway, tall and quiet, eyes watching everything. The way she moved. The way she fidgeted. The curve of her calves as she bent to slip on her flats.

“You look beautiful,” he said simply.

She paused. Blinked. “Thank you.”

She tried to breathe.

Just friends.

But when Mason offered his arm?

She hesitated only a second before taking it.

And his hand curled just a little too tight around hers.

The drive was quiet at first.

Mason’s truck was clean but smelled like him—leather, soap, and something earthy. He opened the door for her without saying much, helped her climb in like it was instinct.

The second the door shut behind her, she felt the world narrow.

The city noise outside dimmed. His presence filled the space beside her. One hand on the wheel, the other resting too close to the gearshift. Too close to her.

“You nervous?” he asked, voice low.

“A little,” she admitted with a light laugh. “It’s just dinner, though. Right?”

He glanced at her. Smiled. Slow. Unreadable.

“Right,” he said.

But he didn’t take her to some fast-casual diner.

No.

The place was nice. Quiet, moody. Warm-toned lighting. Real candles on the tables. Soft jazz playing under the clink of wine glasses. Not what you take a friend to.

“Mason,” she whispered as they were led to their booth, “this is—wow. You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he said simply. “You deserve nice things.”

She flushed.

They sat close—too close for how wide the booth actually was. His thigh brushed hers under the table. His hand settled near hers. And when she reached for the menu, his fingers lightly grazed her wrist.

She startled a little.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

But he didn’t move away.

The touches added up.

A hand at the small of her back when the waitress brought their drinks. His fingers brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. His thigh staying just pressed to hers through appetizers. He kept leaning in when he talked, voice soft, smile easy. He didn’t leer. He didn’t make crude comments.

But it was so much.

Too much.

At one point, when she took a sip of wine, his hand landed gently on her knee under the table—warm, solid, confident.

Her breath hitched.

He smiled at her over the rim of his glass like he felt it.

She wasn’t sure what to do.

Because he was kind. He was safe. He’d fixed her doors, carried her groceries, brought her tools. He’d fed her kindness from day one.

And now he was touching her like he had every right to.

She looked down. “You’re… really touchy tonight.”

Mason didn’t pause. Didn’t flinch. He leaned in, voice lower than it had been all evening.

“You okay with it?”

She froze.

He didn’t move his hand. Just let it rest there. Warm. Heavy.

“I—I guess,” she said quietly. “You’re just… different tonight.”

“I’m the same,” he murmured. “Maybe you’re just seeing it more.”

He slid his hand off her knee, finally, just as the dessert menus came. She tried to collect herself, focus on anything but the way her skin still burned from where he’d touched her.

But when she excused herself to the bathroom?

He watched her go.

Like a man who already knew.

On the ride home, he was quiet again.

But his hand kept finding hers.

On her knee.

On the center console.

Fingers brushing hers too often.

And every time, she didn’t stop him.

Not because she didn’t want to.

But because she didn’t know how.

They pulled into the parking lot, and Mason killed the engine.

It was dark now, city lights flickering across the windshield. A comfortable kind of quiet filled the cab, like maybe the night would end there. Maybe he’d walk her up, say goodnight, and that would be it.

But Y/N didn’t move to unbuckle.

And neither did Mason.

“You have a good time?” he asked, voice smooth.

“I did,” she said truthfully. “Thank you again. It was… really nice.”

He smiled, slow and warm. But something behind his eyes didn’t quite match the softness.

“You’re easy to please,” he said. “That’s rare.”

She looked down at her lap. “I guess I just don’t expect much.”

“You should,” he said. “You should expect the world, sweetheart.”

That nickname—sweetheart. It slid down her spine, unfamiliar from his lips.

He reached across to touch her chin. Just lightly. Just a brush. Tilted her face toward him for a moment.

“You clean up nice,” he murmured. “But you look better in your kitchen. No makeup. That old sweater. That’s the version I like best.”

Her breath caught.

She pulled her gaze away. Reached for the handle. “We should head up.”

He got out first. Rounded the truck before she even stepped down, hand out to help her like it was second nature.

She hesitated before taking it.

His grip was firm.

Possessive.

The hallway was quiet.

He walked beside her up the stairs, slow and easy. When they reached her door, she fumbled for her keys.

“I owe you more cookies,” she said, trying to lighten the moment. “You’ve done a lot for me lately.”

“You bake like it’s your love language,” he said playfully.

She laughed—nervous, tired.

“It kind of is.”

“Well then,” he said, leaning one hand on the doorframe above her, just crowding her a little, “guess I better keep doing things that make you want to feed me.”

Her breath stilled.

She felt the weight of his presence behind her—solid, warm, close.

She unlocked the door. Pushed it open.

“You want to come in?” she asked, voice too quiet.

She didn’t know why she asked.

Maybe because it felt rude not to.

Maybe because it was easier than saying no.

He smiled like he’d been waiting for her to ask.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

The apartment felt smaller with him inside.

She kicked off her shoes, padded toward the kitchen to grab two glasses of water. He followed slowly, eyes grazing over her back, her legs, her soft little dress.

“You always take care of people this way?” he asked, leaning against the counter as she set the glasses down.

“I guess,” she said. “I like making people feel comfortable.”

He took a step closer.

“You make it easy to forget boundaries.”

She looked up, startled.

He smiled again—playful, but something in his eyes stayed still. Focused.

“I’m kidding,” he said softly. “Mostly.”

She swallowed hard. “You’re being different again.”

“Maybe I’m just being honest now.”

He took a sip of water. Watched her over the rim.

“You want me to go?” he asked.

She hesitated. “It’s late.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

“I didn’t say yes either.”

“You didn’t have to,” he said. “I’m good at reading people.”

He stepped closer. Only a few inches between them now. His hand reached out, touched the curve of her elbow.

“Tell me to go, and I’ll leave.”

His voice was gentle. Almost a whisper.

But there was nothing casual in the way his thumb traced small, invisible circles against her skin.

She opened her mouth—

And closed it.

“I’m tired,” she said instead.

He nodded slowly.

And leaned in to kiss her forehead.

A soft, lingering press of lips.

Like he was claiming her.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he murmured.

Then he turned, walked out without another word.

And the second the door closed, Y/N locked it.

And leaned back against it.

Heart racing.

Because that didn’t feel like “just friends” anymore.

And she didn’t know how to stop it.

The next day, Y/N met her friends for lunch at a cozy café with patio seating.

It was chilly, the kind of early spring day where the sun was out but the wind still nipped at your ankles. She wore her favorite cream cardigan and a long skirt, hair loose, makeup soft. She looked like herself.

But she didn’t feel like herself.

Not after last night.

Not after him.

Harper and Celine were already sipping mimosas when she arrived. They waved her over, called her “Sleeping Beauty,” and immediately dove into conversation about the guy Celine matched with on a dating app. Y/N laughed where she could, but she was quieter than usual—twisting her straw wrapper, not really touching her sandwich.

Finally, Harper narrowed her eyes.

“Okay, what’s going on with you?”

Y/N hesitated.

Then, quietly: “It’s Mason.”

Both heads snapped toward her.

“I let him come in last night. After dinner.”

Harper’s eyes lit up. “Did you finally—”

“No!” Y/N blushed, shaking her head. “No. Nothing happened. Not like that.”

“But something happened,” Celine said, raising a brow.

Y/N looked down at her hands. “He was… touchy. All night. Not in a creepy way. Just… hands on me. My back, my knee. He kissed my forehead before he left.”

Harper blinked. “Okay, that’s kind of adorable.”

“It wasn’t,” Y/N whispered. “It felt like he was testing me. Like he wanted to see how far he could go without me saying no.”

Celine leaned in. “Did you want to say no?”

“I don’t know.” Y/N’s voice broke a little. “He’s always been kind to me. But it felt different last night. Like he wasn’t asking anymore.”

Harper sipped her mimosa. “So tell him to back off.”

“It’s not that simple,” Y/N said. “He doesn’t do anything wrong. Not really. But I feel like… I don’t know. Like I can’t breathe when he’s near me.”

Celine tilted her head. “Maybe you’re just into him.”

Y/N stared. “What?”

“I’m serious. You said it yourself—he’s older, takes care of you, shows up when you need something. Maybe your body’s picking up on something your head’s scared of.”

Harper smirked. “Or maybe you just need to fuck him and get it over with.”

Y/N’s mouth fell open. “Harper!”

“I’m kidding. Kind of. Sometimes these guys only stick around because they think you’re the prize they haven’t unwrapped yet. You sleep with him, he gets bored, he moves on.”

“That’s awful advice,” Celine said with a snort. “Honestly, if he’s been this patient with you and he hasn’t made a real move, maybe he’s serious. Maybe he actually likes you.”

Y/N went quiet again.

Because neither option felt right.

She poked at her salad. “I’ve only been with one person. Back in college. It was… okay. I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

Harper reached over and touched her hand. “Babe, you don’t owe anyone anything. Not him. Not us. Not anyone. But if you’re confused, you have to ask yourself why. What is it about him that makes you feel weird?”

Celine shrugged. “Or… what is it that makes you feel good, and you’re just scared of it?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

She sat there in the golden afternoon light, surrounded by friends, laughter, soft music playing in the background.

But all she could feel was the ghost of Mason’s hand on her skin.

Still warm.

Still there.

Three Days Later

Mason was elbow-deep in drywall dust and nails.

The house they were working on was old—wood rot in the floors, wiring from the damn 60s. Sweat clung to the back of his neck under his shirt. A nail gun hissed beside him, someone shouting over the hum of the generator.

But Mason?

Mason wasn’t really here.

He was thinking about her.

He always was, now.

Did she sleep in that same oversized sweater? The one that barely reached her thighs? Did she bake again last night—leave the window cracked and the lights warm, inviting?

He pictured her humming in the kitchen, hands in dough, lips bitten softly in concentration. He wondered what music she played when she was alone. What it would sound like, muffled against the wall between their apartments while she moved through her little world like something holy.

God, he wanted to crawl into her skin.

He patched the drywall like muscle memory. Sanded. Cut. Measured. It didn’t matter. He was good at what he did—reliable, his boss said. Quiet. Strong. A man who finished what he started.

But every job felt meaningless now. All this fixing, building—none of it gave him the kind of purpose she gave him.

With her?

He could build a life.

He could do it right this time. No messy exes. No mistakes. Just her. Barefoot in his kitchen, pregnant and glowing, mouth soft from the cookies she couldn’t stop sampling.

He could give her everything.

And the best part?

She didn’t even know how much she needed it.

Y/N’s apartment was quiet.

It was Thursday night. She’d stayed a little late at school helping one of the kids finish their diorama project. Now she was home, hair tied up in a clip, hoodie soft and oversized again, legs bare as she sat cross-legged on the couch with a warm cup of tea.

The movie playing in the background was something she wasn’t really watching. Her thoughts kept drifting. To him.

To the way he looked at her that night at dinner. The way he touched her. The way she didn’t stop him.

And hadn’t told anyone no.

She should be used to him by now.

But she wasn’t.

She checked her phone. Nothing.

Until…

Mason

You home?

She stared at the message for a beat.

Then typed:

Y/N

Yeah. Just relaxing. Why?

No response.

Not for a minute.

Then—

Mason

Got off work late. Thought I’d bring something by. You need anything?

She hesitated. Fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Y/N

I’m okay. But you can come by if you want?

The words were barely sent before the knock came.

Three slow knocks.

Heavy.

Familiar.

Inevitable.

She opened the door, and there he was.

Mason.

Boots dusty. Work pants smudged at the thigh. Black t-shirt clinging to his chest, sweat still drying at the base of his throat. Hair messy. Hands rough, one of them holding a battered tool bag—more out of habit than necessity.

He looked big in the doorway. Too big. Like the apartment wouldn’t be able to contain him.

“Hey,” he said. Voice lower than usual. Tired, maybe. Or something else.

“Hi,” she replied, stepping aside. “Come in.”

He walked past her like he owned the space.

And honestly, part of her felt like he did.

“I haven’t eaten yet,” he said, dropping the bag near her door. “Didn’t feel like fast food.”

She hesitated. “I still have leftover pasta. I can warm it up for you?”

Mason didn’t answer for a second.

Then—quietly, like it hit him somewhere deep: “Yeah. That’d be good.”

It was such a small thing.

She moved easily through the kitchen, barefoot again, humming under her breath as she pulled the container from the fridge. Her hair was falling out of its clip. Her hoodie kept slipping off one shoulder. She looked so familiar. So comfortable. Like she didn’t even realize the intimacy of the moment she was giving him.

She opened the microwave, stirred the food halfway through. Set a plate at the table without him asking. Poured him water. No wine tonight. Just comfort.

It wrecked him.

Because he could see it—this exact scene, every night.

Coming home. Her waiting.

Warm food. Soft touches. Her doing paperwork while he unwound. Kissing her neck while she filled in lesson plans. His child in her belly while she rubbed her feet under the table.

His jaw clenched as he sat down. Ate slowly. Watched her.

She didn’t notice at first. She was sitting at the other end of the table now, grading papers with a pink pen, occasionally sighing and muttering things like, “He wrote dinosaur with a ‘Z’? Again?”

Every now and then she’d glance up and smile like nothing was strange.

“Long day?” she asked softly.

“Yeah,” he said. “You?”

“Kind of. The kids were sweet, but one of them painted on the wall again. I swear it’s like they wait until I turn around just to cause chaos.”

Mason smirked. “They probably like the attention.”

She rolled her eyes. “They like making me suffer.”

He watched her lips move as she talked. The soft way she scrunched her nose when she flipped through lesson materials. She’d laid out some construction paper and little popsicle sticks, probably for a class activity.

She didn’t realize what this looked like. What this was.

A wife.

A home.

A life.

“You always do this much?” he asked.

She looked up. “Do what?”

“This,” he said, gesturing loosely. “Cooking. Teaching. Being... sweet.”

She shrugged, suddenly shy. “I guess. I just like taking care of people.”

He stared at her for a long second.

“You ever let anyone take care of you?”

She paused. “I don’t know how.”

Mason’s voice dropped.

“I could teach you.”

Silence.

The microwave beeped again—leftover garlic bread she’d warmed for him. She stood quickly, flustered, grabbed the plate.

“You want this too?”

He didn’t answer right away.

But when she turned, setting it gently in front of him, something in his eyes shifted.

He didn’t reach for the bread.

He reached for her hand.

Held it. Just lightly. Warm fingers curling over her wrist.

She froze.

His voice was soft. But firm.

“Tell me if this is too much.”

Her heart pounded.

She didn’t answer.

And he let go.

Y/N carried his empty plate to the sink.

Her hands were shaking just slightly, fingers curling around the cool porcelain. She didn’t look back at him—she couldn’t. The air in the apartment was thick now. Heavy with something she didn’t have a name for. Something warm and wrong and hungry.

She ran the water.

Scrubbed slowly.

Tried to breathe.

Behind her, Mason stood from the table. She could hear the wood creak under his weight. Boots thudding soft against the floor.

He didn’t say anything.

But she felt him moving closer.

The way the air shifted. The way her skin prickled.

She rinsed the plate. Reached for a towel.

And then he was behind her.

Too close.

So close her back almost brushed his chest.

Her breath caught.

She turned slowly—trying to keep it calm, light, safe.

“Mason—”

He didn’t let her finish.

One hand came up, big and warm, cupping her cheek. The other curled around her hip, firm, anchoring her in place.

His eyes burned into hers.

And then he kissed her.

Not soft. Not gentle.

Claiming.

Her eyes flew wide. She made a soft sound—half-protest, half-breathless gasp—her hands pressing lightly against his chest.

But he didn’t stop.

His mouth moved over hers like he’d been waiting years for it. His grip on her hip tightened. His body pressed forward. His tongue slid past her lips before she could even process it.

When she whimpered—genuinely overwhelmed—he pulled back.

Just barely.

His breath was hot against her lips.

“You feed me. You dress like that around me. You let me in your home,” he growled. “You think I’m not gonna want a taste?”

Y/N was shaking.

“M-Mason, I—”

“Don’t lie,” he said, voice dark. “You wanted it. Or you would’ve stopped me the second my mouth touched yours.”

She stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast.

He leaned in again—his lips brushing the shell of her ear this time.

“Plan your weekend,” he whispered. “You’re spending it with me.”

Her breath hitched.

“I didn’t—” she started.

“I’m not asking.”

He stepped back.

Slow.

Eyes locked on her.

And then, like nothing happened, he grabbed his tool bag from the floor, slung it over his shoulder.

“Thanks for dinner.”

And he left.

The door clicked behind him like the snap of a trap being set.

Y/N didn’t sleep.

She sat on the couch for hours, fingers pressed to her lips like she could still feel him there—hot, demanding, uninvited.Her heart wouldn’t slow down. Her body kept replaying it. The kiss. His hands. The way he told her she was spending the weekend with him.

Not asked.

Told.

Her throat was dry. Her eyes burned. And she hated that a small part of her—the part deep in her gut—didn’t feel scared.

It felt wanted.

And that’s what terrified her most.

The next day, she called Harper and Celine again.

They met at a tiny brunch spot with fake flowers hanging from the ceiling and rose gold menus. Y/N showed up late, wearing sunglasses and a too-big hoodie, her energy off.

Harper raised an eyebrow the second she sat down.

“Spill.”

Y/N hesitated.

Then—quietly: “He kissed me. Last night.”

Celine blinked. “Wait—what?”

Y/N nodded, fingers tightening around her iced coffee.

“I didn’t ask him to. I was doing the dishes. I turned around, and he just—he grabbed me. And kissed me. Hard.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Harper whistled low. “Damn.”

“I didn’t say yes,” Y/N whispered. “I didn’t say no either. I just… froze.”

Celine leaned forward, voice softer now. “Do you feel okay?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m scared. But not because I think he’d hurt me. Just… because I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Harper tilted her head. “Do you like him?”

“I—” Y/N’s voice cracked. “I don’t know. I think I did. Before. But now? It’s different. I feel like I can’t breathe around him.”

Harper shrugged. “Look, not to be That Girl, but maybe he just got caught up in the moment. Men are idiots when they think we want them. If you’re still thinking about him, maybe that means you do want him. At least a little.”

Celine frowned. “Or maybe she’s scared and needs space.”

Y/N looked between them, heart pounding.

“I don’t know what I feel.”

Harper leaned back. “So find out. Go with him this weekend. Worst-case? You don’t like it and you cut it off. Best case? He wrecks your back and makes you waffles.”

“Harper,” Celine snapped.

“What? She’s allowed to want to be taken care of.”

Y/N sat in silence, sipping her drink, confused and quiet.

She didn’t know what was worse—that Mason kissed her without asking.

Or that part of her wanted him to do it again.

Meanwhile, Mason was in the best mood he’d had in weeks.

He whistled while he worked, humming low under his breath as he lifted heavy bags of cement and cracked jokes with the crew. His hands were steady. His back didn’t ache the way it usually did.

Javi noticed first.

“Damn, someone got laid.”

Mason just smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Troy raised a brow. “You’re grinning like you won the lotto.”

“Maybe I did.”

He didn’t say her name. Didn’t need to.

But when the lunch break hit, he pulled out his phone and scrolled lazily through listings. Saved one—a small, private house at the edge of town. Big backyard. Fenced. Quiet.

Perfect.

Troy leaned over his shoulder. “You finally looking to move out of that dusty-ass apartment?”

“Thinking about it,” Mason said.

“You and the girl?”

Mason didn’t look up.

“Yeah,” he said. “Eventually.”

He tapped the contact for their mutual realtor and sent a quick message.

“I’m ready. Find me something private.”

Because this weekend?

He was going to seal the deal.

And once she was his?

He wasn’t letting her go.

Saturday Morning

Y/N stood by the window, arms crossed tight over her chest, staring down at the street below. She hadn’t touched her tea. Her phone buzzed twice. She didn’t look.

A small overnight bag sat near the door.

Already packed.

Pajamas. Toiletries. Two dresses—one soft, one safer. Just in case. A book she probably wouldn’t read.

She should’ve said no.

She meant to.

But now?

Her stomach twisted with guilt and heat and something too tangled to name.

Her mind kept replaying that moment—his hands on her, the weight of him, the command in his voice.

“Plan your weekend. You’re spending it with me.”

She should’ve said no.

So why didn’t she?

She kept telling herself she’d stop it at the door. That she’d tell him she changed her mind. That it was all too fast, too much.

I’ll say it when he gets here, she promised herself.

Then—

three heavy knocks.

Her body went still.

She stepped to the door, heart pounding, palms damp.

When she opened it—

Mason was standing there.

And he looked like something out of a dream.

Black Henley shirt, sleeves tight around his forearms. Clean jeans, heavy boots. His jaw was freshly shaved, his eyes darker than usual. Hungry. Electric.

Behind him, his truck rumbled quietly.

“Morning,” he said.

Y/N blinked.

She opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

He reached for her bag without asking.

She watched as he lifted it—casual, like it weighed nothing—and turned without another word.

And like a string tied to her spine, she followed.

The drive was long, quiet, and winding.

She stared out the window as city buildings gave way to trees, highways turning into back roads, and finally—

Winding forest paths.

They passed no signs. No gas stations. No houses.

Just pines and sky.

“Where are we going?” she asked softly.

“You’ll see,” Mason said, a hand resting loosely on the wheel.

The other stayed near her leg the whole time. Not touching. Not quite. Just there.

She held her breath.

And then—

The truck pulled up a narrow gravel path. Trees parted to reveal a hidden gem:

A cabin.

Beautiful. Remote. Wood and stone and glass. Nestled at the edge of a wide lake that reflected the clouds like a mirror. Birdsong echoed in the trees. Wind swept through the pines.

Breathtaking.

Y/N stepped out slowly, taking it all in.

The air smelled like earth. Like peace.

It should’ve comforted her.

But her skin prickled.

Mason moved past her, unlocked the front door like it was already his.

“Come in,” he said.

Not a question.

A command.

And she did.

Dinner was… good.

Too good.

The food was perfect. Mason sat across from her, sleeves rolled, beer in one hand, fork in the other. They talked—normalthings. Her work. His job. He told her a story about a coworker almost falling through a roof. She laughed, a little too loud.

He watched her drink. Refilled her glass twice. Said nothing about it.

Just watched.

Listened.

Fed the silence.

Afterward, she moved to clean the dishes, but Mason stopped her.

“I’ll do it,” he said, reaching for the plates.

“No—let me help.”

He stepped close. Took the plate from her hand. “I said I’ll do it.”

His voice wasn’t harsh.

But it stilled her.

She backed off.

“Why don’t you shower?” he said. “Wash the day off. I’ll be done by the time you’re out.”

She nodded.

Obeyed.

The shower helped. A little.

She used the one in the guest bathroom—tried to move slowly, tried to breathe. The hot water relaxed her muscles, but not the tightness in her chest.

She wrapped herself in soft clothes—leggings, a long sweater—and padded back out.

Mason had cleaned everything.

He stood barefoot near the fireplace, a hoodie thrown over his frame now, beer in hand, eyes dark in the dim light.

“Movie,” he said, nodding toward the couch. “Come sit.”

It wasn’t a request.

And she went.

The fire crackled.

The cabin was dim except for the flicker of light and the soft glow from the TV. Mason sat beside her—not touching, but close. She pulled a blanket over her lap, heart still too fast.

“I haven’t picked anything yet,” he said, flipping through options. “Got a preference?”

She shook her head. “Surprise me.”

He clicked on something slow. Quiet. A drama. She didn’t catch the title.

Ten minutes in, he handed her another glass of wine.

“You’re tense,” he said softly. “You always this jumpy?”

“I’m just… tired,” she lied.

He looked at her for a long time.

Then he smiled.

“Good,” he said. “You’ll sleep better once you’re used to being here.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said smoothly. “Just drink.”

And she did.

Because arguing felt pointless.

Because part of her didn’t want to know what he meant.

The fire crackled softly.

The wine in Y/N’s hand trembled, the glass light between her fingers. Her head buzzed, not quite dizzy, but not fully steady either. The air felt too warm, the sweater too soft, the couch cushions too deep.

She hadn’t realized how close Mason had gotten.

One moment he was a foot away.

The next, his thigh pressed against hers.

She felt it—slow, deliberate. The heat of him radiating into her side, his hand resting just behind her on the couch cushion, not quite touching, but there.

Waiting.

She didn’t look at him. Kept her eyes fixed on the movie.

A soft, forgettable scene was playing. She couldn’t have repeated a single line.

“You’re quiet,” he said beside her. Voice low. Calm.

“I’m just tired,” she said again.

“I know.”

His hand moved. From behind her… to her thigh.

She flinched.

“Mason—”

He shushed her gently. “Just relax.”

His fingers stroked slow circles over the fabric of her leggings. Casual. Soothing. Wrong.

She shifted. “Please don’t.”

“You invited me into your home,” he said quietly. “You dressed soft. You let me kiss you.”

“I didn’t—”

“You let me bring you here,” he said, hand tightening. “You cooked for me. You smiled. You packed a bag.”

Her breath caught.

“I didn’t say yes,” she whispered.

“But you didn’t say no,” he replied. “Not loud enough.”

His mouth was on hers again.

Hot. Demanding. Her whimper barely escaped before he was swallowing it, tongue forcing past her lips, his hand already on her throat—not squeezing, just holding. Claiming.

He kissed her like he owned her.

Like her lips were something he'd paid for.

She pushed against his chest—weak, trembling. But he didn’t move.

“You don’t want to fight me,” he murmured against her mouth. “You wouldn’t win.”

His hand slipped under her sweater. Rough palm dragging up her belly, over her ribs.

She gasped. “Mason, please—”

“You don’t even know what your body’s made for,” he growled. “All this softness. All this warmth. You were meant for this.”

His fingers found her breast, cupped it. Squeezed.

She sobbed—breathless and confused as heat sparked through her belly.

“No,” she whimpered. “Don’t—”

“Shhh,” he whispered, lips against her ear. “You’ll feel better once I’m inside you.”

And then—

He stood.

Took her wrist.

Pulled.

She stumbled to her feet, disoriented, heart in her throat.

“Sit down,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

“Sit. On the floor. In front of the fireplace.”

Her body moved before she could think. She lowered herself slowly, hands bracing against the rug.

He knelt behind her.

One hand went to her waist.

The other—her shoulder.

His breath ghosted down her neck. His voice was a growl of possession.

“I’ve been good,” he said. “Patient. Watching you. Helping you. Letting you pretend this was your idea.”

He reached around. Tugged her sweater up. Slow. Deliberate.

“You should’ve known better.”

Y/N sat on the rug, frozen.

The fire lit her from one side, golden and flickering, shadows dancing across the long stretch of her bare legs. Her sweater was rucked up above her waist, and she clutched it tightly with trembling fingers, trying to pull it back down.

Behind her, Mason knelt like a predator settling behind his prey. Calm. Slow. Focused.

His hand curled around her waist.

Not roughly.

Not yet.

“You feel that?” he murmured, leaning in until his chest brushed her back. “The way your body doesn’t move away?”

She shivered. “Please… I don’t…”

“You don’t what?” His lips dragged against the shell of her ear. “You don’t want this? Or you don’t know how to admit you do?”

His hand moved forward. Flattened against her belly. Held her still as he dragged her back into him, until she felt the solid weight of him pressed flush against her—hard, hot, ready.

She whimpered. The sound left her before she could stop it.

“I’ve thought about this,” he said darkly, voice like gravel and heat. “You. On the floor. Warm and soft. Shaking just like this.”

His other hand slid slowly, slowly, down her thigh.

“You walk around like you’re innocent. Like you don’t know what you do to me.”

Her breath hitched as his hand reached the top of her leggings.

“You feed me like a wife. Let me touch you like a lover. And now you want to pretend you didn’t mean any of it?”

His hand slipped beneath the waistband, warm and firm.

She gasped and grabbed his wrist.

But she didn’t push him away.

Didn’t scream.

Didn’t move.

“You’re so quiet now,” he whispered. “Is it fear? Or excitement?”

He kissed the side of her throat, slow and possessive. “It doesn’t matter. Either way… I’m going to make you mine.”

She whimpered again, and he chuckled—low, pleased.

“You’re already halfway there.”

He didn’t go further.

Not yet.

But she knew.

She knew the rest was coming.

The fire crackled behind them.

The wineglass still sat on the table, half-full, forgotten.

And Mason held her close like a man who had waited long enough

Y/N’s breathing hitched.

His hand was still under the waistband of her leggings, warm and heavy and deciding. His mouth ghosted over the shell of her ear, his voice a slow whisper of rot and desire.

“You know I won’t stop,” he said. “You know what I want.”

Her eyes stung.

Maybe if I give it to him… maybe he’ll stop.

Maybe he’ll leave me alone.

Harper’s words echoed in her head—Just let him fuck you, he’ll get bored.

#yandere #dark fantasy #fantasy #x reader #tw noncon #sfw noncom #dark romance #power dynamics #age g4p #breeding k1nk #older man younger woman #older male #blue collar #dubc0n #twistedheartsclub

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monkeyssalad-blog · 11 days ago

Video

flickr

McDonnell Douglas F-4C Phantom II FG USAF 64-0673 8th Tactical Fighter Wing 433rd Tactical Fighter Squadron by Chris Murkin Via Flickr: McDonnell Douglas F-4C Phantom II FG USAF 64-0673 8th Tactical Fighter Wing 433rd Tactical Fighter Squadron Photo taken at Pima Air & Space Museum Tucson Arizona USA May 2025 HAA_5615

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usafphantom2 · 6 months ago

Text

Here she is at Wright-Patt

@PBS67 via X

#f 4c phantom #mcdonnell douglas aviation #fighter bomber #aircraft #usaf #aviation #vietnam war aircraft #Col Robin Olds #8TFW #555th TFS #Ubon RTAB #cold war aircraft

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xomarzz · 30 days ago

Text

vital signs

~2.2k words, premed!zayne x black!fem!premed!reader, college au, fluff, SLOW burn, smut, semi-proofread, oral (f receiving), soft & slow sex, a little dirty talk, wouldn’t be me without yearning, micro-aggression mentions if you squint, black reader intended, minors and ageless blogs do not interact, i WILL block you!!

a/n: just graduated college & also prepping to apply to medical school so this was kind of just self indulgent, i love this one though :)

entry 1: initial observations

date: week 1

course: anatomy & physiology

you were late. first day of spring semester, anatomy and physiology, and your phone’s gps led you in a circle twice before you stumbled into the lecture hall, breathless and sweating out your edge control. eyes turned as you entered the room, the only seat left was beside someone with impossibly straight posture, dark clothes pressed so clean you could see your reflection in those buttons.

you dropped into the chair, whispering a quick “hi.”

no reply, just the sound of his pen gliding over a yellow legal pad with perfect precision as he stared intensely at the lecture.

you snuck a glance. sharp jawline, lips pressed into a line, brows so still they looked sculpted, like expression never bothered to land there. he looked like he woke up every morning already two hours ahead of the world.

oh, one of those, you thought. probably thinks i’m not serious..now being in your junior year of undergrad, you’ve had your fair share of “gunner” pre-med students at this point, nothing a surprise anymore.

you sat a little taller anyway. matching energy.

notes:

he probably thinks i’m not serious.

(so now i have to be.)

entry 2: contact under sterile conditions date: week 4 — dissection module

course: a & p

weeks passed, you weren’t surprised when no one wanted to partner with zayne for the dissection module. his vibe was… clinical. unapproachable. maybe even intimidating.

you volunteered, not to prove a point, okay, maybe a little.

he didn’t look at you when you suited up beside him, just handed you gloves. “try not to cut too deep,” he murmured, tone cool, eyes on the cadaver like it was a puzzle to be solved.

when your scalpel hesitated mid-air, his hand moved to yours, steady, gloved, and warm through the latex. he didn’t take over. just guided, a subtle nudge of reassurance rather than correction.

his voice, usually so clipped, dropped just enough to feel different. “you’ve got a steady hand, don’t overthink it.”

a compliment?

your brain lagged for a second. you glanced at him, expecting that same blank focus, but for the first time, his face shifted. barley, but enough for you to notice.

notes:caught him looking longer than necessary :p

still expressionless but not unreadable.almost like curiosity.

conclusion:hand contact counts as data.so does the way he said don’t overthink it.

(too late.)

entry 3: passive proximity

date: mid-semester

location: third floor library, table by the window

you started sitting across from him at the library, not intentionally at first, then, maybe a little intentionally.

he never said no. never said much at all. but he always shifted his laptop slightly, making space for you. you’d eventually find your pens migrated into his space, your outlines somehow shared, annotated in his unmistakably neat print.

notes:i never asked to share notes.he never asked to stop.

it’s the quietest collaboration i’ve ever had.

entry 4: study buddies

date: week 8 — post study group

location: study room 4C

a study group was your idea. you liked how people bounced off each other, how information got clarified when it had to be said out loud. zayne stayed behind after everyone else left.

you were packing your notes when you heard him say, “you explain glycolysis like you’ve lived it.”

you turned, caught off-guard. “is that a compliment or…?”

he looked directly at you, that cool mask still firmly in place. “it means i remember it when you say it. that’s not normal for me.”

your breath caught in your throat. you smiled, soft and genuine, pushing your prescription glasses up to your face. he looked down, and for once, you thought he might be the nervous one.

notes:he remembers what i say.even when he says nothing at all.

that was definitely a compliment ;)

entry 5: fieldwork — collaboration

daye: week 10 — student clinic volunteering

location: pediatric wing, room 3

the student clinic had its own kind of quiet chaos, sick kids, anxious parents, paperwork piling up while the waiting room buzzed low and tense. but you liked it. it made everything you were working toward feel tangible, grounded.

you’d heard rumors that zayne had been volunteering here for months before classes even started, quietly showing up early, staying late, always just… there. you never asked why.

the boy in room 3 was maybe six, trembling as he tucked himself behind his mother’s legs. you crouched down, voice soft and steady, explaining the procedure in the gentlest way you knew how. but he only clung tighter, eyes wide with fear.

zayne stepped in, wordless at first, kneeling beside you.

“she’s very good,” he said quietly, addressing the boy. “she helped me when i didn’t know what i was doing, you can trust her.”

you turned toward him, surprised by how calm his voice sounded, not cold, just certain. something fluttered in your chest. you’d never seen him vouch for anyone, yet here he was, offering his credibility like it cost him nothing.

like trusting you was the most obvious choice in the world.

notes: subject’s trust is not given lightly.trusting me felt obvious to him. coldness thawing under microscope <3

entry 6: unexpected shelter

date: week 12 — post-clinic

location: campus walkway, outside dorm

it poured the second you stepped outside. your hoodie adorning the school’s logo was no match for it. you were about to bolt when an umbrella opened over your head. zayne stood beside you, holding it without a word.

he didn’t offer his arm, didn’t make small talk, just walked beside you, perfectly poised, sharing the umbrella like it was a contract.

at your door, you turned to say thanks. but your words caught in your throat. rain clung to his lashes. his eyes dipped to your lips for a breath of a second. then he was gone.

and you were left wondering if you’d imagined it.

entry 7: behavioral assessment— mock interview

date: week 14

location: reserved study room

you’d spent hours preparing for this, rehearsing answers, perfecting your tone, making sure your confidence felt real and unshakable.

today, you wore your best blazer, the one that made you feel like you could take on the world. across the table, zayne sat composed, unreadable as ever, his eyes sharp and focused. not a hint of a smile, not a single blink to give you away, but beneath the surface, something quietly stirred. his foot tapped just once, twice, barely noticeable, like he was keeping a secret locked inside.

afterwards, you laughed as you stepped out the door. “so? did i pass your standard of cold professionalism?”

he tilted his head, eyes steady. “you’ll get into medical school before i do.”

you stopped in your tracks. “jealous?”you replied teasingly, poling your lip out as you spoke.

he side-eyed you, looking at you like the word was foreign. “i don’t usually admire people.” he replied courtly before speeding up his walk, leaving you to chase after him.

notes :

cold professionalism + light teasing = suspiciously warm vibes.

“i don’t usually admire people” = code for “i’m secretly impressed, don’t tell anyone.”

entry 8: stairwell breakdown

date: tuesday before finals

location: stairwell outside lecture hall

it all came crashing down the tuesday before finals. you found yourself slumped on the cold stairwell, shoulders trembling, not from the chill, but from the weight pressing down inside your chest. the flashcards in your hands blurred into indecipherable shapes, words slipping through your tired mind like water through fingers. doubt gnawed relentlessly at you, maybe you’re not cut out for this. maybe everyone else belongs here more than you do. the exhaustion wasn’t just physical anymore, it was the heavy, suffocating ache of feeling like an outsider follwing your own dream.

footsteps approached, you didn’t look up, but then a protein bar appeared in your lap, and a blonde espresso caramel macchiato was placed beside you.

zayne sat beside you without a word. your breathing slowed, anchored by his quiet presence.

you finally exhaled, the words slipping out like something you’d been holding in for too long. “i don’t think i’m good enough for this.”

he turned to you then, something gentler in his eyes, barely visible, but there.

“you’re one of the best,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “the rest of us are just trying to keep up. including me.”

your heart clenched. you hadn’t realized how badly you needed to hear it until that moment how much of yourself had been tied up in proving something you were already becoming.

you sniffed, managing a weak laugh as you nudged his shoulder with yours. “bruh, you’re literally top of every class.”

he gave a small shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching, almost a smile. “doesn’t mean i’m not chasing you.”

entry 9: confession protocol

date: last day of semester

location: a&p lab

it was the final lab, leaving just you and zayne finishing clean-up. the air between you felt too charged to ignore.

you were hanging up your lab coat when you heard him say it, quiet, controlled, like every word was chosen.

“i’m not good at this.”

you turned. “at what?”

his eyes met yours. unflinching. vulnerable.

“at pretending i don’t think about you all the time.”

your breath hitched. everything you’d suppressed all semester while focusing on classes rose to the surface like steam from an open wound.

say something, say anything, you thought.

all you did was step closer.

entry 10: final

date: last day of semester

location: a&p lab

you reached for his hand first, trembling. zayne met you halfway. his palm was cold, steady, reverent.

he pulled you in with slow gravity, like he’d been holding back the entire semester. you leaned in. so did he.

when your lips met, it wasn’t desperate, it was inevitable.

and for the first time, he let the softness show. just for you.

it started with that kiss that tasted like everything you’d held back.

zayne’s hands were steady as always, but something in them had shifted, urgency pulsing just beneath the surface. the lab had been cleaned, the lights off. it was supposed to be over. but the way he looked at you made it clear something unfinished remained between you.

he kissed you like he’d been memorizing the thought of it for weeks. polished hands slid along your jaw, holding you still not possessive, but deliberate. his thumb brushed your cheekbone like you were fragile. you weren’t, and you both knew that, but the softness made your knees weaken all the same.

when he pulled back, his voice was low, controlled. but rough around the edges.

“tell me if you want me to stop.”

you didn’t. you couldn’t. you only nodded.

zayne guided you backwards carefully, always carefully, until you bumped into the edge of a table. he didn’t rush. his fingertips skimmed your hips like he was reading anatomy again, like every curve had to be relearned under his hands. his lips followed, tracing your neck with patient admiration.

you breathed out, voice barely a whisper. “do you always take this long?”

a faint smile attached to your hip. his hands tightened just enough to make your breath catch and make you let out a small moan.

“i don’t rush what i care about.”

the air between you tightened. clothes fell away in slow layers, peeled back like secrets. every time his fingers touched bare skin, it felt like a vow, silent and absolute. he never fumbled. every motion had purpose. every kiss landed like it was meant to stay.

and when his mouth moved lower down your chest, across your stomach you felt it in the ache in your cunt. he kissed like he was studying you. still obsessed with knowing everything beneath the surface.

“look at me,” he said, voice like silk over heat.

the moment his tongue touched you, your body arched in response. he held your thighs firm, anchoring you while he worshiped you with precision. no hesitation, no wasted movement. just slow, focused attention like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

you came on his face feeling your entire body melting, his name breaking from your lips before you could stop it. he covered your mouth as he worked you down from your high. zayne rose, kissing you again, tasting your own juices against his tongue.

“you—” you tried to speak, dazed. “you’re not what i expected.”

his eyes locked on yours, dark with everything he hadn’t said.

“i’m exactly what i want to be. for you.” he stated, removing his erection from the neatly tailored pants.

he entered you slow, controlled, deep, reverent. and stayed close, forehead resting against yours as your bodies found rhythm. each thrust was deliberate, more emotional than physical. not fast, not rough, just intense.

your clung to him as he murmured things you barely caught. “so beautiful.” “been dreaming of this.” “mine.”

when you came again, eyes rolling back, he followed, shuddering against you as he pulled out with a broken exhale that sounded like surrender.

you laid there after, hearts syncing in the dark of the lab. zayne brushed damp curls from your forehead. for once, his voice held no chill. just quiet awe.

“you undo me.”

you smiled, eyes heavy, heart full.

“good.”

~gg ♡

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