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lowkeyerror · 2 months ago

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Key to Your Flat

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Word count: 4.9k

Notes: Fluff, a bit of angst, pining, lots of acts of service, friends to lovers, au no powers

Summary: Wanda ends her long term relationship with Jarvis after realizing she was a lesbian. You've been her best friend since college, it's only right for you to support her in any way you can.

An: So this was supposed to be a cute little 1-2k fic loosely based on the Doja Cat snippet that says "Does a key to your flat mean girlfriend?" But it has turned into something else lol.

Masterlist | Masterlist 2

From the first day that you met her, you knew that Wanda would be one of the most successful people that you had ever encountered. There was no one more determined to make something of themselves than her. It was more than hard work; it was the way she sacrificed for the things that she wanted to accomplish in life.

You admired her.

How could you not, especially with the lack of direction you had in your own life? When you became her roommate in your sophomore year in college, you were already on your 3rd major. From engineering, to English, to culinary arts; you were all over the place. Yet you didn’t care much about it, figuring things would work out somehow.

You believed that the universe would grant you whatever fate you deserved. Until Wanda told you that was such a ridiculous notion. Who would wait for a handout from the universe when they could simply get what they wanted themselves?

She was a good influence on you. You started taking school and your future a little more seriously after that. You put a lot more stock into your culinary dreams, and they paid off. There was a beaming fulfillment in your chest when you opened your own restaurant. Something that probably wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t met Wanda.

While you can’t necessarily recall what Wanda does off of the top of your head. You know she’s got some long fancy title at some big industry company. She had taken an internship in college and because of how completely undeniable the woman was, she shot up in the ranks of the company within a 10-year period.

You were both busy people, but you never loss touch as you climbed your respective ladders of success. It was second nature for you to keep in contact with Wanda. It’s not something you thought about as much as something that you did.

Other aspects of your life often slipped through your fingers. You weren’t proud to say you’d forgotten a birthday or two or missed family plans because of work. Even your dating life suffered immensely because of your hectic lifestyle.

You never understood just how Wanda could manage to create enough balance in her life to find someone like Jarvis. He was a good man, clean cut. A little more uptight than you’d thought Wanda would go for, but a charmer, nonetheless.

You remember being skeptical when you first met him. You were the first person that he’d met from Wanda’s life. It was an accident when you ran into him on the way out of Wanda’s flat. He was about to knock when you were exiting. The red head was a little embarrassed to explain as you stared at the tall blonde man. You looked between the two before you shook his hand and sent him a decent enough smile.

She had chased after you when you left, trying to explain herself, but there was nothing to explain. You congratulated her, said you were happy she found someone. She thought you’d be upset with her, but you weren’t. How could you be upset when she was happy?

You had assumed that they had a perfect relationship. That’s how it seemed when you saw them interact with each other. His hand on her waist, her eyes shining into his. They’d seem to compliment each other like the ocean compliments the beach.

Which is why you were confused when Wanda called you in the middle of your shift at work. She hardly ever called, finding texting much more reliable. However, you picked up the phone on the first ring.

“Hey, I know you’re probably working right now but is there any way you can pick me up.”

It sounded like she had been crying.

You were taking your apron off as you spoke into the phone, “Always, just send me your location and I’ll be on my way.”

You hear the relieved sigh she lets out, “Thank you.”

You informed your staff of your departure and went to your car. Wanda sent her location, and you put it into your GPS, before driving off. She was closer than you had expected so getting to her was easy.

She was at a park in the middle of the city. The day was cloudy, and the sun was preparing to set. It was a very grey day to be outdoors.

Once you were out of your car you scanned around for your friend. You found her almost instantly. She was sitting on a bench, her head in her hands.

You’d seen her stressed before, but this felt bigger than that. Her voice on the phone made that very evident to you.

You approached her cautiously and when you got close enough you called her name, “Wanda.”

Her head shot up when she heard you. She was off the bench and in your arms before you had time to react. Her arms were tightly wound around you. It caught you off guard and all you could do was stare down at her for a moment.

Soon you were holding her back just as tight. Your hand cradled the back of her hair, finger tenderly rubbing her scalp.

“What happened?” Your voice is soft when you ask, not trying to provoke her any more than she already is.

It takes her a minute to pull away enough to answer you, but eventually she does, “Jarvis, he proposed.”

Your eyes widen, “These don’t look like happy tears.”

“I was trying to break up with him,” she lets out a deep sigh. “I called him to talk in person, and then I tell him that I think we should break up. He gets on one knee and starts talking, and I- I just…”

“Oh Wands,” you pull her back into your embrace.

You readjust so that you have one arm over her shoulder. She doesn’t protest as you lead her to your car. She climbs in the passenger seat no questions asked as you pull off.

When you arrived at your destination she finally speaks up, “What’re we doing here?”

You’re in and out of the Chinese food spot with a hefty bag of boxes in tow. When you re-enter the car with the food Wanda sends you a small smile.

“Getting takeout,” you answered quickly getting out of the car. “You sit tight.”

“Did you-”

“Of course, I got our favorite and I asked for extra sweet and sour too. I was going to drive to yours, maybe we could eat and indulge in some sitcoms or talk, whatever you want. How does that sound?”

Your eyes raked over her features. She gave you a few small nods, “Sounds better than having an existential breakdown at the park.”

“Well, I guess it’s settled then,” you chuckled a little.

You drove to her house, glancing over at her every few minutes. Her head rested on the window and her eyes were closed, but you knew she wasn’t sleeping. Wanda often closed her eyes when she was trying to ground herself. It was something you had picked up on back in college. You never knew where she went in her head, but it always seemed to help her refocus.

When you got to her flat. You handled the food and the tv, shooing Wanda away to put on some more comfortable clothes. When she came back in her sweatpants and robe the two of you ate as you watched I Dream of Jeannie.

It took about 2 episodes before she said anything to you.

“You’re not going to ask why I wanted to break up with him?”

You leaned back into the couch, “I’m curious, but it didn’t really seem like something I should be asking right now.”

She searched your eyes for something. If you had to guess, you say for security. She needed to know that start she said next was ok to tell you. In truth there was nothing she could say that would deter you from being there for her.

“I think I like women,” she said as she looked into her lap. There were more tears brewing behind her eyes, “Only women.”

There was no hesitation as you moved closer to her. Your thigh brushing against hers, prompting her to meet your gaze.

“That’s not a bad thing Wanda.”

She shakes her head, “It is especially when you have a long-term boyfriend who loves you with everything that he has. You keep wondering when you’re going to love him the way he loves you. When will you stop hating the way he touches you? When will you be able to look at him, the way he looks at you. By the time you realize it can’t be him, it will never be a him… it’s too late. He shows you a ring while you’re trying to break up with him.”

You grab her hand, “You need to be kinder to yourself. This isn’t something you chose to do Wanda. It’s not like you knew the whole time. It sounds like you’re just coming to terms with your sexuality. You did the right thing by breaking up with him.”

“But-"

She ran her free hand through her hair, “Did you think we were a good couple? Jarvis and I.”

“Let me finish. If I’m being honest, getting on one knee and proposing to someone after they tried to break up with you sounds like a manipulation tactic.”

You thought about the question briefly, “I think it looked like you were the perfect couple, but sometimes I didn’t understand it. You’re both so different, not that it was a bad thing. I just… I’ve seen you soar to unimaginable heights. I’ve seen your ambitions become your reality. I just didn’t see that in him. You’re always striving to be the best, to improve. I always thought you’d want someone to do the same with you or someone who was okay with you doing that. It just seemed like all of that went over his head.”

“He was a very traditional man. He always talked about settling down in the future, with firm roots, and kids. He talked about me retiring and letting him take care of me. It was just- not what I wanted.”

“And that’s ok, people break up all the time Wanda. It’s a normal part of life. Yes, it sucks, but it's just a breakup. Think of it as one step closer to finding your person.”

She nods slightly, “When did you get so good at this?”

You smile at her, “I’m not good at this. I’m just good with you. That's what nearly a decade of friendship does to someone.”

She didn’t say anything else. Instead, she rested her head on your shoulder and turned her attention back to the tv. You wrapped your arm around her shoulder, pulling her firmly into you.

Wanda would get through this, just like she got through everything else. You’d make sure of it, because she'd do the same for you.

In the coming months, you found yourself carving out more time for Wanda. The busy nature of your schedule died down significantly when you started to entrust the general manager of your restaurant with some more responsibility. It made your workload lighter while allowing your GM to get some more experience.

You used the new free time to support her the best way you could. Sometimes that meant bringing her lunch when she was working. Other times it was coming over after work to make sure the woman wasn’t neglecting her home. You’d go over and check if she had groceries or that she wasn’t letting the flat get too dirty. She was the kind of woman that threw herself into work when she was trying to avoid something.

You’d even gone as far as helping her set up a dating profile when she was ready to put herself back out there.

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

You were once again in her flat. She stood in the kitchen, while you sat on a chair stationed at the island in the middle of the same room.

“Date women,” she was asking sincerely, but you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing.

“Well, I don’t really date, but it’s the same as any date. You’re trying to present your best self, get a good foot forward, but while maintaining an authenticity. It’s not like a job interview where only one person is doing the hiring; you both have a say in how it turns out.”

Wanda narrows her eyes, “Why don’t you date?”

You shrug, “Too busy running a very successful restaurant.”

“You’re not as busy as you used to be. Maybe you should set up a profile for yourself. I’m sure any girl would be lucky to have you.”

You shook your head, “Hard pass, but I appreciate the effort.”

“Come on, Y/nn. I know accomplishments can feel empty when you don’t have anyone to share them with,” she tried to persuade you.

“Well good thing I can share it with you then,” you countered.

She let out an irritated sigh, “You know that’s not what I meant.”

You smirked, “Why do you want me to sign up so badly anyway? You think we’re going to match?”

You were only joking, yet you can’t help but notice the slight color on your friend’s cheeks.

She scoffed like you expected her to, “Grow up.”

For a moment it felt like you were back in your college dorm. The playful and flirty banter was always present between the two of you. It was easy for you to flirt with her, knowing you never really had a chance. However, now that there was even the slightest of possibility that this could escalate, it felt completely different.

“It’s alright Wanda, nothing to be ashamed of. I’m hot, successful, hardworking, and financially responsible. Hard to ignore the total package.”

She rolled her eyes, “I remember when Ms. ‘Total Package’ couldn’t even finish her college assignments without my help.”

You chuckle when you catch her eyes, “You’ve got me there. If it wasn’t for you, I have no idea where’d I be.”

“Probably still in college on your 95th major change,” she laughed at her own joke.

It was your turn to roll your eyes, “Very funny.”

With a smile plastered on her face she strolled over to sit next to you. She spun on the barstool before grabbing your arms and looking into your eyes, “I have something for you actually.”

“What is it?”

She reached into her pocket and sat a key down on the island. You looked at her, then the key, with slight confusion.

“A key?”

Wanda nodded softly, “You’re basically here all the time and I’m getting tired of opening the door for you.”

“I’m using this key to come over and cook in this beautiful kitchen, you hardly use.”

“Hey, I cook,” she defended.

You laughed, “I said hardly, didn’t I?”

When you got home that night, you felt a new weight on your shoulders. Your hand slipped into your pocket to pull out the key. You held it flat in your palm. The small piece of metal was cool against your skin. You stared at it for a long while.

It was just a key. There wasn't anything crazy about it. Your friend gave you a key to her house. Friends do that with each other. Your heart shouldn’t have been fluttering the way it was over such a simple gesture.

You closed your hand around the key trying to ground yourself. Your eyes shut, but as soon as they did her smile etched its way into your sight.

“Shit.”

It was like college all over again. You thought you had gotten over your crush on Wanda many years ago. She was straight, it was never going to happen. That was something you could deal with, something you could work through. However now, that wasn’t the case anymore. Wanda liked women, technically you had a chance.

You shouldn't be thinking like that. She needs you now, to be her friend. You were doing so well. Taking care of her had become an unconscious pattern as easy as breathing. You never thought about it too hard when she needed you. It’s like the moment she put the key in your hand, your mind finally started thinking.

Subconsciously you’d always known it. It’s why you didn't date. It was unfair to be with someone who you could never prioritize over Wanda. She was one of the few people in your life that you’d drop everything for.

Sure, you were a busy woman, but you’d never be too busy for her. Her distress over Jarvis literally made you change the way you worked, just to make sure you were there when she needed you.

“Why would I make her a dating profile?” You asked yourself as you face-planted on to your mattress.

Just as you expected Wanda’s profile was gaining some traction. There were a lot of women interested in someone like her. Soon she was going on more dates than you had been on in years. Most of them weren’t serious, she often said she wouldn’t be seeing them again.

You made a day of finding the freshest ingredients. You drove out to find markets that had authentic food from her home country. There wasn’t a lot locally, but you didn’t mind the hunt.

While you were sad that she wasn’t finding anyone suitable you were also happy for the same reason. You thought you’d attempt to cheer her up after so many bad dates by cooking one of her favorite dishes.

Once you had everything you needed you made your way over to Wanda’s. It was a hassle carrying everything up, but you managed with a little effort.

While you were still conflicted about having a key to her flat, you used it plenty of times. So just like you had done previously you let yourself into Wanda’s home.

“Oh, fuck sorry,” you said as you immediately saw Wanda straddling the lap of an older ( admittedly super attractive) woman on her living room couch.

Wanda looked like a deer in headlights. You were trying to comprehend if you were more mortified or heartbroken. No one spoke for a long while until the older woman cleared her throat.

“Right, uh I’ll just come back tomorrow or something. Enjoy your night, Wanda.”

With the groceries still in your hands, you turned around and closed the door. You only made it down a few steps before you heard someone calling after you.

“Y/n, wait!”

You closed your eyes and took in a deep breath trying to mask your feelings before you turned around.

“This stuff is a little heavy Wanda; I want to get it back to the car before the bags break.”

She took a few bags from your hands, “Let me help you.”

“You don’t have to; you looked pretty busy in there. Here I was, bringing stuff to cook for you in light of all your failed dates, but it seems like you’re not doing nearly as bad as I thought,” you tried to joke with her.

“Agatha is definitely the best of the dates I've had so far.”

You had to keep yourself from wincing, “Glad to hear it.”

Wanda helped you load the stuff back into the car.

“I’m really sorry about this. If I would’ve known you were coming-"

You shook your head, “It’s fine Wanda, go back to making out with a hot older woman. They don't like to wait for too long. I’ll just text you next time instead of just barging in.”

“I gave you a key because you’re always welcome.”

You unhooked the key from your key ring and hand it back to her, “I know that, but maybe it’s best if you let me in.”

“Y/n,” she looked at you with confusion.

You smiled through the pain, “If you’re going to have women over, it’s not a good look for another woman to be coming in and out of your house whenever. We’re not related and we’re not roommates. There’s not really a reason for me to have access to you like that.”

“I don’t understand,” she looked between you and the key that was now in her hand.

“Usually, a key to your flat would mean I’m your girlfriend. Me coming over to cook for you as another woman who likes women is bad for your stock. It just doesn't feel like something that's easily explained. I would have a bunch of questions if I was in Agatha’s position, especially since you haven't gone back yet,” you got into your car.

There was a conflicted look on her face, “You’ll stop by tomorrow?”

“I’ve got work, but I'll try to stop by after,” you told her that even though you knew you wouldn't be coming back tomorrow.

“I’ll see later then?” She was searching for something as she surveyed your features.

With what little control you had left, you tried to give her what she was looking for, “Definitely. Now forget about this and go back to your date.”

She looked like she wanted to say more, but with a small glance back at her flat, she walked away. You drove home.

The groceries felt eternally heavier when you were bringing them into your house. You wondered how carrying them upstairs to Wanda’s was even possible.

You hurriedly put the food away, showered, and then got in the bed. When your head hit the pillow, you let out a deep sigh. Your jaw started to tremble on its own.

You let out a bitter laugh as the tears fell down your face. You didn’t bother to wipe them away. It felt like a part of you was ripped out of your chest.

This was bound to happen eventually. Wanda would move on from Jarvis and your silly fantasy would be crushed. You felt silly crying over a woman that was never yours.

Yet another part of you was screaming at you for feeling silly. You were doing a lot for Wanda. Even if it was all just friendly, sometimes it felt like more. All the dinners, all the cuddling on the couch, all the late-night talks. She was your better half, but she wasn’t your girl. She’d never be your girl.

It was something you had to accept. You didn’t go to work the next day. You rotted in your bed, not having the energy to get up. Scrolling on your phone was the only thing you wanted to do.

Wanda had texted you a few times, but you ignored the messages. Even the thought of her just made your entire chest burn.

You finally got out of bed when you had to pee. You took the opportunity to brush your teeth as well. On the way back to the bed your doorbell started to ring. Not just once either. Whoever was at the door pressed the button over and over again. It was impossible to ignore.

So, with your bed head, red eyes, and mismatched pajamas you yanked the front door open, “Look, I don’t know what you want but could you just go away and try again tomorrow or something.”

“Tomorrow’s not going to work for me.”

Your head shot up and you felt face heat. Wanda was standing at your front door with her arms crossed over her chest with an eyebrow raised.

“What’re you doing here?”

Your voice had a softness to it that you reserved for the red head in front of you.

She didn’t answer your question. Instead, she let herself into your home. You closed the door behind her. You followed her to your living room. She sat on your couch while you took a seat on a chair diagonal to it.

“I thought you had work today,” she says.

“I decided not to go.”

“I’ve been texting you.”

You shrugged, “Haven’t been on my phone, sorry.”

Wanda stared at you, “I went to your restaurant looking for you.”

You were looking into your lap, “I’m sorry Wanda.”

She got up from the couch to come completely into your line of sight. She kneeled down in front of you, her hands resting on your knees.

“What’s going on with you, Y/nn?”

The concern in her voice broke you out of your trance. You tried your hardest to feign that you were alright.

“I’m fine. Since you’re here why don't you let me cook something for us?”

“This is for paprikash,” Wanda watched as you began to prepare.

You stood from the chair quickly pushing down the rest of your emotions. She watched as you walked over to the kitchen pulling out some of the ingredients you had bought the day before.

You nod, “Yeah, I got stuff for chicken paprikash, alivenci, and cholent too. The plan was to cook the paprikash and then the alivenci for dessert. I was going to set up the cholent for you before I left so you could have it fresh the next day because it’s got to cook for like 17 hours.”

“You got all of this for me?”

You answered her while chopping up the vegetables, “It was nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. You’re using Hungarian bell peppers, where did you even get those?”

You smiled a bit, “I do own a restaurant, Wanda. If there’s anything I’m an expert in, it’s food. I wanted it to be authentic as possible.”

As you began cooking you felt the weight of the situation lift off of your shoulders. Cooking had always been a stress reliever for you, and it wasn’t any different now. You could feel Wanda’s eyes on you, but you never looked away from the meal.

Only when the chicken was simmering in the pot did she attempt to grab your attention.

“After you came by yesterday, I asked Agatha to leave,” Wanda broke the silence.

You finally look at her, “Why would you do something like that?”

She simply placed a key on the counter, “I couldn't stop thinking about you giving me this key back.”

“Wanda,” you tried to stop her, but she cut you off.

“No, I need you to listen. When you put this key in my hand, it felt like you had handed me a live grenade. I didn’t understand why. It wasn’t until I went back inside, and Agatha asked me how we knew each other that it clicked. You’re my everything.”

“What are you saying?”

She hesitated, “I’m saying I’ve already found my person.”

“Wanda, you’re my best friend.”

She invaded your personal space, grabbing you gently by the wrist, “And you’re mine, but it’s more than that isn’t it? You’re the person I can rely on for anything at any time. You’re the woman that left her restaurant to put me back together when my ex left. You listened to me, you held me, you cooked for me, made sure I had groceries, and that my house was clean. Friends don't do as much as you've done for me.”

You slowly lifted your gaze to meet her’s, “I just know you appreciate acts of service.”

“Y/n if you don’t want this I’ll leave and we can pretend it never happened; but if you do want this, want me, I’m right here laying it all out for you.”

You drop your gaze again, “I cried myself to sleep last night. I thought I'd lost my chance. When I saw you on top of Agatha, something broke inside of me Wanda. Back in college I had a crush on, but I thought you were straight, so it was easy to keep it down. When you came out to me, it was like I was at square one all over again.”

Wanda shook her head, “It’s not square one because here I am telling you that I’m in love with you. Please give us a chance Y/n.”

You wished the moment was more glamorous as you kissed the woman in front of you. You hadn’t denied her yet and you never planned to. Her hands locked behind your neck while yours rested on her waist.

Your breath was shaky when the kiss ended. Neither of you moved.

“I love you too,” you pecked her lips again.

Wanda blushed, but you were more focused on the way she looked at you. Her eyes were full of nothing but tenderness.

“Would you take the key back?”

You raised your eyebrow, “Why does it feel like you’re asking me for something else?”

She feigned innocence, “I’m not. Unless you think that what you said yesterday about keys is true.”

“Remind me what I said again?”

Her fingers played with the hairs at the base of your neck, “A key to my flat means girlfriend.”

You pretended to think about it, “Girlfriend?”

She nodded, “Girlfriend.”

“I guess I’ll have to get you a key too then,” you said softly.

This time Wanda leaned in for a kiss. It was supposed to be a peck, but you both got lost in that moment. Neither willingly to part with the other just yet. Lips fitting together to create a soft lullaby of security.

You never thought you’d be lucky enough to have Wanda in this way. She was your best friend, your person, and now your girlfriend. It may have taken years, but you wouldn’t have had it any other way. Wanda cherished you just as much. She felt like an idiot for not realizing her feelings sooner, but she was just happy to call you, her girl.

And one day, she would be ecstatic to call you, her wife.

#lowkeyerror #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #agatha harkness

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myrleius · 3 months ago

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the pageant (snippets!) — bakugo k.

bakugo k. x calm fem!reader│word count: 2.9k

synopsis: For their last school festival, Class B challenges Class A to join them in the pageant. With yn as their chosen representative, Bakugo was more than ready to make sure she wins.

cw/tags: fluff, established relationship

“Me?” yn asked, blinking slowly.

What was meant to be a relaxed evening of festival planning between Class A and Class B quickly turned competitive.

Kendo had started telling stories about pageant preparations when Monoma, ever the instigator, had cut in with that infuriating smirk. “Funny how Class A’s never even tried the pageant. What’s the matter? No one pretty enough?”

And just like that, the gauntlet was thrown.

Mina, never one to back down from a challenge, had been the first to rise to the bait. Now she pointed excitedly at yn, who sat next to Bakugo, nursing a cup of tea, blissfully detached from the brewing storm.

“You’d be perfect,” Mina gushed. “You’re gorgeous, super chill, and you’ve got that ‘mysterious but approachable’ energy that pageant judges would totally eat up.”

“Are you all serious?” Bakugo spoke up. He had been quiet this whole time, clearly uninterested in whatever dumb rivalry Monoma was trying to stir up. “You’re really going to let this extra provoke—”

“Sure,” yn said simply, setting the cup down with a soft clink. “Could be fun.”

Bakugo turned to her. “What?”

She shrugged. “Why not? It’s our last year.”

Monoma’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, really?” He let out a theatrical laugh. “Well, if that’s your choice, I suppose there’s no harm.”

Bakugo stiffened.

“What’d you say?” he asked, his tone dangerously low.

But Monoma didn’t back down. “Just being realistic. You can’t expect someone like her to keep up with someone like Kendo.”

"MONOMA, YOU IDIOT—!" Kendo launched herself at her classmate, delivering a swift karate chop to his shoulder

But the damage was done.

Something in Bakugo’s expression changed, a familiar fire igniting in his crimson eyes. He stood up slowly, cracking his knuckles.

“You’re on,” he said, voice firm. “We’re entering, babe. You’re winning that damn crown.”

Yn merely picked her tea back up, hiding a smile behind the rim of her cup. “Guess we’re doing this then.”

The next morning, Bakugo personally took charge, dragging everyone to the common room and barking orders.

“Alright, extras. Listen up! This ain’t a damn pageant. This is war, and we are not losing to those Class B losers!”

“Ooooh, Bakugo’s invested,” Mina beamed.

Bakugo ignored her comment and started pointing at everyone. “Racoon Eyes, Invisibitch��you’re on make-up! Shitty Hair, Flat Face—props! Ponytail, you’re with me on wardrobe! Dunce Face—you stay far away from anything important!”

“Rude!” Kaminari yelped, clearly offended.

Yn bumped her shoulder lightly against Bakugo’s. “You’re really into this, huh?”

Bakugo shoved her back with equal lightness. “Shut up. And get your ass moving too!”

Bakugo slammed three different fabric swatches onto the common room table, making the coffee cups rattle. “Charmeuse is the only option. Anything else is garbage.”

Momo frowned, holding up a shimmering sequin. “But this would catch the light beautifully—”

“IT LOOKS LIKE A DAMN DISCO BALL. NEXT.”

Yn yawned, resting her head on her arms. “I liked the disco ball idea.”

Bakugo flicked her forehead. “You’re not helping. And go to bed.”

Jiro strummed the final chord on her guitar, nodding as yn sang the chorus flawlessly. “Damn, you’ve got pipes.”

Yn huffed a laugh, reaching for her water bottle. “Only because you’re playing along. I’ve got nothing compared to you.”

Jiro set her guitar aside, uncrossing her legs. “Seriously, why don’t you sing for the live performances?”

A shrug. “I honestly didn’t know I could. Katsuki’s the one who mentioned it.”

Jiro’s eyes widened. “Wait. Bakugo pointed it out?” Then a slow grin spread across her face. “How’d that even come up?”

Yn blinked. “I, uh, hum sometimes. When we’re… napping.”

Jiro’s smirk turned lethal. “Oh my god. You lullaby him.”

“And… I regret telling you,” yn said with a sigh.

Jiro cackled, kicking her legs like an excited kid. “That’s the cutest shit I’ve ever heard.” She flipped over and grabbed her phone. “Mina’s gonna lose her mind!”

Yn lunged at her. “Hey, Jiro! No!”

Bakugo watched as yn took one more wobbly step in the strappy heels Momo had made before immediately grabbing him for support.

“Yeah… I don’t think I can do this,” she declared, shaking her head. “Absolutely not.”

“But they’re perfect!” Mina said. “Look at your legs!”

“Look at my ankles,” yn shot back, gripping Bakugo’s shoulders for dear life. “They’re about to snap.”

Bakugo slowly knelt down, his fingers gently undoing the straps. “Told you. Ditch the death traps.”

“But she looks so pretty in—” Uraraka protested.

“She’s wearing shorter heels. Just make ‘em pointed so she’d look taller,” he announced, tossing the heels aside.

“Hey!” Momo yelped as she caught them.

Monoma, disguised in a terrible wig, peeked into the stage where yn was practicing.

Kaminari spotted him instantly. “Uh, guys? We’ve got a spy.”

Bakugo didn’t even look up. “Flat Face.”

Sero grinned, happily taping Monoma up, while Shoji picked him up, ready to dump him in Class B’s dorm.

Yn waved as they passed her. “Tell Kendo I said good luck!”

Yn pushed open the common room door, blinking at the unexpected sight of Bakugo hunched over the sofa, papers in hand.

“Where’s everyone else?” she asked, sitting in the space beside him.

Bakugo shifted slightly to make room without looking up. “Still rehearsing for the live show.”

“And… you’re not playing the drums?” yn asked, leaning back onto the couch.

“Tch. Already nailed my part,” he muttered, finally tossing the papers onto the coffee table and slumping back. “They’re just screwing around now.”

Yn hummed, letting the silence settle between them. The easy kind that only existed when it was just the two of them.

She inched closer, letting her head drop onto his shoulder.

Bakugo didn’t hesitate. He leaned into the contact, his cheek brushing against her hair.

“Missed you,” he grumbled.

Yn laughed. “Katsuki, we share classes, a dorm, and now this pageant thing. I see you more than my own reflection.”

“With the extras,” he emphasized, nose wrinkling.

“Aww,” she cooed, playfully poking his side. “You wanted me all to yourself.”

Bakugo huffed, a flush creeping up his neck. “Shut up.”

Grinning, yn removed her slippers and curled up on the couch, tucking her legs beneath her as she looped an arm around his. “Well…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, heart thudding in her chest. “You’ve got me now.”

Bakugo turned, his gaze flickering from her eyes to her lips. “Yeah?”

Yn nodded, her smile soft. “I missed you too.”

Bakugo’s expression softened. His hand rose to cup her cheek, rough fingers gentle against her skin. When she leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering close for a second, Bakugo looked at her like she was the only thing in his world.

He tilted her chin up, slowly closing the space between them. Their eyes slipped shut, breaths mingling as their lips finally—

“Hey, Bakugo! We’re back!” Kirishima’s voice rang out, the door slamming open.

Bakugo groaned, jerking away. He slumped back against the couch, scowling at the ceiling in silent, dramatic defeat.

The notification buzzed against yn's palm as she lay curled in bed, the glow of her phone painting soft light across her face. She didn't need to look at the sender to know who it was.

Stop scrolling through your damn phone and sleep.

A quiet laugh escaped her as she typed back, How do you know I'm scrolling?

The reply came instantly. Because you replied immediately.

Yn smiled, adjusting against her pillows. Maybe I'm meditating.

Bullshit. You're looking at memes.

She glanced at the image still open on her screen—a cat wearing a tiny, lopsided crown—and sent it without hesitation. Okay, but this one's good.

Her phone lit up with his response, the letters practically vibrating with indignation even through text. THAT'S LITERALLY JUST A CAT.

A royal cat, she corrected.

Go. To. Bed.

Can't. Too busy manifesting my victory.

The next message contained a single image: an alarm clock set for 5 AM with the caption ‘WAKE YN UP.’

Meanie, she sent, already dreading the early hour.

You'll thank me when you're not yawning on stage tomorrow.

Yn sighed, knowing he was right but unwilling to admit it. Fine. But only because you're cute when you're bossy.

The bubbles appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared. Finally—

You'll kill it tomorrow. If anyone says anything bad about you, I’ll blow ‘em up.

Her breath caught, thumb hovering over the screen. She smiled and sent her response.

I know I will. But thanks, Katsuki. Love you.

GO TO SLEEP.

Yn chuckled, about to turn her phone face down on the nightstand when Bakugo sent another message.

Love you too.

Yn stepped onto the stage, quiet and composed, mic in hand. Her presence alone was enough to hush the crowd. She paused at the center, took a breath, and closed her eyes.

From the back of the crowd, Bakugo stood with his arms crossed, gaze fixed on her. Her face glowed on the giant screen behind her, casting her features in a soft, angelic glow.

Then the music began.

She began to sway to the melody, and when the moment came, she opened her eyes. Her voice followed, gentle and warm, filling the space like sunlight.

The crowd didn’t dare move. To anyone else, it might’ve looked like polite silence. But Bakugo knew better. They were captivated. Hooked.

He smirked, pride swelling in his chest. Atta girl.

The song swelled with sentiment, a delicate ballad that mirrored her soft delivery. But then, without warning, it began to rain.

Gasps echoed. A few umbrellas popped open in the audience. Bakugo’s entire body went tense, instinctively stepping forward, already half-ready to shield her.

But yn didn’t flinch.

Instead, she stepped into it, letting the droplets catch in her hair, cling to her skin, trailing down her cheek like tears.

She turned slightly, just enough to angle her body toward the light, the water shimmering like it was part of the act. Her voice never wavered, staying smooth and steady.

Bakugo blinked. Then, he saw it.

That small tilt of her head. That calculated pause in her breath. The barely-there smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

She was guiding the moment, twisting the sudden downpour to make her performance more dramatic. She pulled their hearts with gentle precision, painting herself as this fragile, ethereal heroine.

And they were eating it up.

Bakugo scoffed, grinning to himself.

He knew better though.

Underneath that calm exterior, yn was competitive as hell.

She just hid it better than most.

Like how she always walked just a little faster whenever Sato brought out fresh cookies, slipping through their rowdy classmates like it was nothing, but always managing to snag the first one.

Or how she’d lean back and smile during game nights, cool as ever, until someone beats her in Mario Kart. Then suddenly, she’d be sitting forward, knees tucked up, focus lazer-sharp.

He’d seen it in training too. She’d nod absently when given instructions, like she was barely paying attention. But the second someone started getting ahead of her, her punches got sharper, her footwork quicker.

And she never backed down.

Not even when Bakugo dared her to eat the spicy noodles he made just to mess with her. She’d just stare at him, eyes watering, and eat the whole damn bowl out of spite.

She just hated to lose.

And that was one of the first things he ever loved about her.

The crowd probably saw an angel.

But all he saw was her.

Then, mid-verse, she looked up.

Right at him.

The connection hit fast. Strong. Like she'd reached straight through the crowd and found him exactly where he stood.

The mic hovered close to her lips.

The next line was supposed to be a tender, heartfelt I love you. A perfect romantic finish, made to be sung.

But she didn’t sing it.

Instead, she spoke. Changing the words, uttering it so softly. Like a secret passed only to him.

“Thank you.”

The word whispered through the speakers, yet somehow it was louder than everything else.

The crowd melted.

But Bakugo didn’t move. He couldn’t.

His heart was pounding, loud and erratic in his ears, drowning out the cheers.

He never believed in soulmates or any of that mushy crap. That wasn’t them.

He and yn weren’t some fairytale couple. They were two stubborn, messy people who’d somehow figured out how to make it work. No sparks or fate—just time, effort, and a whole lot of understanding.

Their relationship wasn’t built on sweet words or perfect moments. It was built on them showing up. On backing each other up. On knowing when to push and when to just be there.

And right now, standing there soaked in rain, watching her express her gratitude so beautifully—Bakugo felt it. All of it.

Up there wasn’t just his girlfriend doing some cutesy stage performance.

That was his person. His partner.

The one person who called him out, kept him in check, pushed him to be better—but never once asked him to be someone he wasn’t.

And he didn’t know what the future looked like after graduation, or what kind of shit they’d face out in the world.

But he knew one thing for sure:

He wasn’t letting her go.

Yn barely had time to adjust her crooked crown before the Bakusquad descended like vultures, hungry for drama.

“OHHHH, LOOK WHO'S EATING HIS WORDS NOW—” Kaminari howled, slinging an arm around Monoma's stiff shoulders.

“Funny,” Sero mused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I could've sworn someone said we ‘lacked elegance’—”

Monoma's eye twitched. “I believe I said refinement—”

“YET HERE WE ARE!” Mina spun in front of him with a dramatic flourish, gesturing toward yn’s glittering crown. “This queen just wiped the floor with you. In the rain, no less!”

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” Yn stepped forward with a sigh, trying—and failing—to hide the amused sparkle in her eyes. “We shouldn’t rub it in…”

She paused.

Then pulled out her phone, the screen already glowing. “...without proper documentation!”

The Bakusquad erupted.

“OHHHHHH!!!”

“SHE’S ARCHIVING THE SHAME!!!”

“SEND THAT TO THE CLASS CHAT!!!”

Bakugo, trailing just behind her, let out a bark of laughter. He leaned over her shoulder, fingers zooming in on Monoma’s scowl. “Hold still, Knockoff.”

Monoma looked ready to combust. “This is harassment!”

Kirishima, barely containing his own laughter, grinned widely. “Yn use the clown filter. For accuracy.”

Kendo, watching the chaos with amused resignation, shook her head. “You're all terrible.”

“We learned from the best,” yn replied sweetly, passing her phone to Kirishima and patting Monoma on the shoulder with mock sympathy. “Thanks for the inspiration. You’ve been great for morale.”

Kendo chuckled and stepped in, offering a hand. “Seriously, though. You were incredible.”

Yn’s smirk softened. She took Kendo’s hand, squeezing it. “Thanks. You were amazing too. Had me sweating for a second. You made the competition tough.”

Kendo grinned and pulled her into a quick, warm hug. “Coming from you? That means a lot.”

They parted with a shared look of respect before Kendo dragged a sputtering Monoma off by the collar, still mid-rant.

Then, finally, yn let the tension drain from her shoulders. She turned and collapsed into Bakugo’s side, face buried in his chest.

“Carry me,” she mumbled into his shirt, her voice muffled and sleepy.

Bakugo let out a low chuckle, wrapping an arm around her. “Yeah, yeah. I got you, princess.”

The stars were out. Quiet, for once.

Yn climbed the stairs slowly, her sweater sleeves pulled over her hands. She found him exactly where she expected—leaning against the railing, arms folded, gaze turned skyward.

“You avoiding the party?” she asked, voice light.

Bakugo didn’t look at her. “Tch. Too loud.”

She joined him at the railing, shoulder brushing his.

“I can’t celebrate my win without my coach, y’know,” she teased, glancing up at him.

That earned a small scoff. “You didn’t win ‘cause of me.”

“I didn’t win without you either,” she said softly.

He didn’t respond at first, just stared ahead, jaw tight. Then—

“You were amazing,” he said, almost grudgingly. “Stupidly amazing.”

Yn smiled. “You’re getting better at compliments.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, but his ears were definitely pink.

Silence followed, settling comfortably between them, soft and familiar.

“But I was a bit scared, you know,” yn admitted after a moment.

Bakugo snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yeah. Could’ve fooled me.”

She bumped his shoulder lightly. “I’m serious, jerk.” Then, more quietly, her expression softened. “I kept looking for you.”

Something flickered in his eyes. The distance between them diminished.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

This time, when they leaned in, there was no hesitation. Her fingers curled into his hoodie, his fingers hovered near her jaw, and the rooftop felt quieter than it had all night.

Their noses brushed, lips just about to meet—

“Yo! There you guys are!”

Bakugo’s forehead fell to yn’s shoulder with a low, agonized groan.

“Shitty Hair,” he growled, not even turning around. “I swear to god—”

“I just came to tell you there’s cake!” Kirishima grinned from the door, completely unbothered. “But hey, don’t stop on my account—”

“Kirishima.”

“Okay, okay, I’m leaving!”

He disappeared back down the stairs, laughing.

Yn pressed a hand to her mouth, giggling into her palm. “Next time then,” she whispered, eyes sparkling.

“Yeah… fuck that,” Bakugo muttered, before tugging her in by the waist. “C’mere.”

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tacobacoyeet · 2 months ago

Note

Could I request a fic about George x Muggle!reader? Like she stays and works in the little village near the Burrow. Could either be snippets of them throughout the years having little flirty talks and slowly turns into a George feeling protective/scared for her safety kinda thing. Fluff/smut/angst/maybe happyending? That I'll leave up to you if this isn't too much of a ask!

Absolutely love your work!

flour and flowers | george weasley x reader

a/n: writing a bunch today to distract myself from the day's events. thank you for the request and your kindness! hope you like it :)

warnings: a cross between implied smut and actual smut, mentions of grief, not proofread

The first time George Weasley saw you, you were balancing a tray of teacups in one hand and flicking a disobedient curl out of your eyes with the other. Your fingers moved with the practiced grace of someone who knew how to carry comfort in porcelain. The sunlight caught the edges of your hair and made your smile look warmer than the tea you were serving. You stood outside the village café—chipped pastel paint, a hand-drawn chalkboard sign still smudged with yesterday’s specials, and the smell of something sweet curling through the air like it was trying to lure people inside.

He’d just popped down from the Burrow to run an errand for Molly, not expecting anything more exciting than a loaf of bread and a scolding for forgetting the milk last time. But then he saw you—sunlight on your shoulders, shoes scuffed from too much walking, your laugh spilling out like it belonged in the air.

You didn’t notice him at first. Just another stranger with freckled hands and storm-worn eyes. But when your gazes met—something in your chest fluttered. Like the world paused to see what you’d say first.

He slowed down, just slightly. Told himself it was curiosity.

Told himself a lot of things that day.

You noticed him, of course. Tall, red-haired, freckled all over with that vaguely chaotic glint in his eyes—the kind of man who didn’t exactly blend in. You offered him a smile out of politeness. He blinked like he hadn’t expected it.

“Tea?” you asked, voice light. “Or are you more of a coffee and chaos type?”

He huffed a laugh. “What gave me away?”

You shrugged. “The hair. The grin. The air of impending mischief.”

He took a step closer, nodding toward the tray. “Those for customers or is one of them a peace offering?”

“Depends,” you said. “You planning to stay a while or just here for the bread and doom?”

George smiled. Fully. The kind that showed teeth and softened him around the edges.

“Maybe both,” he said. “But if I’m going to be doomed, might as well be with a cup of something sweet.”

From that moment on, George only ever stopped at one place to pick up bread.

Didn’t matter if the other shop was closer. Or cheaper. Or didn’t make him feel like his chest might cave in every time you smiled at him from behind the counter. He came back anyway.

Sometimes he bought things he didn’t need—an extra croissant, a jar of local jam, a scone you said turned out too flat but still tasted fine. But mostly, he came for the way your voice smoothed out the sharp edges in his head. The way your laughter cut through the fog he still lived in, even years later. Sometimes he didn’t buy anything at all. Just sat out front with a cup of tea and let you talk to him about things that had nothing to do with magic or war or anything that had broken him before. He listened closely. Memorized the shape of your sentences, the way you tapped your fingers when you were excited, the soft hum you made when you stirred your drink. And with every word, every passing moment, something unnamed began to stitch itself back together inside him.

You didn’t know who he was. Not really. And he liked it that way.

Still, there were things you noticed.

He always stood with one shoulder tilted just slightly forward, like he was shielding something—or had once been forced to. There was a soft scar tucked behind the mess of curls on the right side of his head, where one ear should’ve been. You never asked about it.

The air around him always felt... different. Like it held a memory you couldn’t name. Like the warmth of his smile came from somewhere far away, carried on something heavier than it looked.

He laughed with you. Teased you. Rolled his eyes dramatically when you forgot his favorite muffin. But behind every grin, there was a flicker of something else. Grief, maybe. Or guilt. Or the echo of a name he hadn’t spoken out loud in a long time.

He came in more often as the weeks went by. Never said why. Just appeared like the wind—one minute the café was quiet, the next, the bell above the door chimed and there he was with a smirk and a sarcastic comment about your apron.

Sometimes you’d catch him staring out the window with a far-off look, like the village wasn’t quite real to him yet. Like he was still waiting for something—or someone—to tug him back into the storm.

Once, when it rained and no one else came in, you let him linger long after closing. You talked about stupid things: the worst thing you’d ever baked, his distaste for mint in desserts, a goat from the next village over who kept escaping. He laughed, really laughed, and then went quiet, like it surprised him.

Another time, he brought you a flower he swore he didn’t pick on purpose. It was crushed, a little muddy, and stuffed inside a napkin.

“Don’t get used to it,” he said.

But you kept it anyway. Pressed it between the pages of your recipe book. Every time you caught a glimpse of the browned, brittle petals, you smiled. Your fingers would sometimes linger on the page longer than necessary, tracing the soft edges as if they still held the warmth of his hand. It made your stomach twist, in that way beginnings always do—nervous and hopeful and quietly sweet.

The more he came around, the more he softened. Not all at once. Not loudly. But in small, steady ways.

He started fixing things—your sticky back door hinge, the café’s squeaky chalkboard sign, the wobbly stool by the window he always claimed as his. He never asked. Just noticed. Just did. And when you caught him at it, sleeves rolled to the elbows, wand tucked out of sight but clearly used, he’d shrug like it didn’t matter—like it hadn’t taken him an hour and a half to charm the latch back into place just right. Once, you found a small stack of napkins folded to level the back table leg. On one, he’d doodled a tiny magpie.

He started asking things, too. Quietly, like it cost him something. If you’d always lived here. If you ever wanted to leave. If you were scared to be alone at night. What your favorite song was. What your worst day looked like.

You caught him humming once. Under his breath, half-conscious of it. A melody that didn’t belong to the radio or the street—just something he was keeping close. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to scare it away. But something about the sound of it—gentle, aimless, half-happy—stayed with you. It echoed in your chest long after he left that evening, like the warmth of it had threaded into your ribs and settled there. You wondered what memory it belonged to. Or if maybe… it had something to do with you.

And slowly, you became part of the way he healed. Not by doing anything big, not by demanding he be different—but just by being there. Being warm. Being constant.

He stopped bracing when you touched his arm. He started remembering how you took your tea. He stayed longer. Looked lighter.

You weren’t magic. Not like him. But you felt like a kind of spell anyway.

---

He realized it on a Tuesday.

He’d been walking down the main lane into town, already half-smiling at the thought of seeing you, maybe teasing you for your questionable muffin-of-the-day choice—when he saw it.

The café was dark.

The lights were off. The chairs inside still up on tables. The chalkboard sign outside had been knocked over, lying face-down in the dirt.

Something in his chest snapped to attention.

He picked up his pace without thinking, scanning the windows, checking for movement. Nothing. No soft music, no scent of baking, no warm hum in the air that usually buzzed with your presence.

Then he heard it—from a passerby at the grocer’s doorstep.

“Shame about the café. Robbed last night, I heard. Poor girl must’ve been scared out of her mind.”

He didn’t hear the rest. Not really.

His hands were already shaking.

Because he didn’t know where you were.

Didn’t know if you’d been hurt. If you’d cried. If you were alone when it happened. If you were still alone now.

And that helpless, breathless ache clawed its way back through him.

Because the last time he’d loved someone enough to fear losing them, he had.

He didn’t think. Didn’t stop. Just moved.

Through the square. Past the post. His boots hit the pavement too hard, his breath shallow, heart thudding loud enough it might as well have been shouting your name.

The baker saw him and called something out—he didn’t hear it.

He rounded the corner toward your flat above the café, his hand already on the railing of the steps before his brain caught up. One breath. Two. Then he knocked.

And when you opened the door, eyes puffy, sweater too big, hair undone from what must’ve been a long and sleepless night—he couldn’t speak.

You blinked at him, then tried to smile. “Hi.”

He swallowed hard. “You’re okay.”

You nodded. “I’m okay.”

And then he was pulling you in, arms wrapped tight around your shoulders, his face buried in your neck like the world had stopped spinning and he needed to feel gravity again.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

Not yet.

Inside, the flat is dim—curtains drawn, a half-finished cup of tea gone cold on the table. You close the door behind him, the latch clicking into place like a sigh. Neither of you speaks at first.

He doesn’t let go.

Not until your hands come up to rest on his back, and even then, only enough to pull away and look at you—really look.

“Did they hurt you?” he asks, low. Rough.

You shake your head. “No. Just broke a window. Took the till. Some stock. I wasn’t here.”

Relief floods him so fast it feels like weakness. He sinks onto the edge of your couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

You watch him for a moment. Then sit beside him. “George?”

He looks up. His eyes are too bright.

“I—I didn’t know where you were,” he says, and it’s like the words rip something open.

“I thought—God, I thought I was going to lose you, and I didn’t even—”

He stops himself. But his hands find yours. Threaded. Tight.

“I don’t think I can do that again,” he admits. “Lose someone I—”

You squeeze his fingers.

“I'm here,” you whisper.

And this time, when he leans in, it’s not with panic. It’s with promise.

His lips brush yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. Gentle. Testing. But once you respond, his restraint slips, just a little—your mouths part, meet again, deeper this time. His fingers knot themselves in your hair, and your hands find the edge of his shirt, anchoring him to you.

The kiss turns hungry in a heartbeat, built from everything unspoken and aching. Your bodies shift closer, knees bumping, breath warm and shared, and when he moans softly into your mouth, it sends a bolt of heat down your spine. You gasp against him, fingers curling at the hem of his shirt, dragging it up, needing more—needing him.

His thumb grazes the underside of your jaw as he pulls back for only a second, eyes searching yours, glazed with want. “Is this going to be okay?” he murmurs.

You’ve wanted him for so long it feels like it’s woven into your blood. Like every soft glance and crooked grin and half-step closer was a stitch, and now you’re coming apart to make room for him. Your body aches for him, not just with need—but with something fuller. Something that feels dangerously close to love.

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

And you kiss him like it’s the answer to every question he never dared to ask.

You’re not sure who exhales first, but the sigh between you is shared, warm, heavy with everything you haven’t said aloud.

When he pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His forehead rests against yours. His thumb still moves in slow circles at your side.

“Tell me this isn’t nothing,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, barely breathing. “It’s everything.”

He kisses you again.

Not tentative this time—there’s a hunger to it now, an ache that’s been building under every laugh, every shared cup of tea, every moment you made him feel like someone whole. His fingers slide under the hem of your sweater, slow and reverent, like he’s asking permission. Like he’s afraid if he rushes, it’ll all disappear.

You nod before he even says a word.

That night is soft. You take your time, like the two of you are learning a new language written in breath and bare skin. He kisses the slope of your shoulder, the bend of your knee, murmurs something indecipherable against your stomach that sounds like worship. You drag your fingers through his hair, pull him back to your mouth, feel his weight press into you like he’s trying to be rewritten by your body alone. The rhythm you find together is slow, reverent—like memory, like healing. He touches you like he doesn’t believe he’s allowed.

You let him.

You tell him he is.

And in the morning, the sun paints gold across your floorboards, catching on the curls at the base of his neck where he sleeps, half-tangled in your sheets.

You wake before him. Watch his chest rise and fall, slow and steady, one hand curled loosely beneath his chin. He looks younger in the light—unguarded, almost boyish, like the weight he carries has finally been set down for a while.

Something in your chest swells. You press a kiss to his shoulder, light as air, and whisper his name just to be sure it’s real.

He stirs. Wakes slowly. Stretches. Blinks at you like he’s still dreaming.

“I want to try something,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Try what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just slips out of bed, bare feet padding over wood, and reaches for his wand from where it rests on the windowsill. You sit up, blanket clutched to your chest, watching as he steps into the patch of sunlight by your window.

He closes his eyes. Breathes.

He thinks about the way you looked at him last night. About your hands in his hair. The sound you made when he whispered that you mattered. The way it felt to finally, finally be held without fear.

When he opens his eyes, he lifts the wand and speaks—clear, quiet, certain.

“Expecto Patronum.”

And for the first time since Fred, something silver and stunning bursts from the tip—light and wild and alive.

It takes the shape of a magpie.

He turns to you, eyes glassy, smile trembling.

You don’t say anything. Just reach for him.

And he comes home to you all over again.

-----

tagging: @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy

#a writes #ava's asks #george weasley #harry potter #george weasley x reader #george weasley x you #harry potter x reader #george weasley fluff #george weasley smut #george weasley angst

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averagewriter-inthedark · 6 months ago

Text

Don't Mess With The Doctor's Wife 💘 | Carlisle Cullen Snippet

Twilight Masterlist Part 1

Characters & Pairings: Carlisle Cullen x female!vampire!reader (romantic), Bella Swan x Edward Cullen, Edward Cullen x reader (platonic)

Content warnings: fluff, light angst, suggestive themes right at the end | female reader (she/her) | wc: 1.4k

Premise: Just some good ole fluff of a married vampire couple of a few dumbass teen immortals.

Note: So many people loved 'The Doctor's Wife' and asked if I could continue it! not sure if I'll make it long imagines but I definitely plan on making small snippets like this that is good ole fluff of the golden couple of the Cullens dealing with their chaotic teenage immortal children. Enjoy and thank you so much for the positive reception on my work!

--------------

“Honey….,” Carlisle leaned against the door of their bedroom, treading carefully on water he knew better than to cross. But their whole family dynamic was at stake and as the patriarch--and coven leader--he needed to fix it.

Without any bloodshed.

Her glare, however, spoke against his hopes for peace. “Don’t honey me, Carlisle Cullen.” Clothes flung everywhere, the room in utter disarray contrary to its usually unkempt nature. “He is being ridiculous and you know it.” Tossing a pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps into the suitcase she gave him another look, “And yes, I know he can hear me.” Carlisle had opened his mouth, but closed it, his wife not having to the mind reader in the family to know what he was about to say.

“You have every right to be upset. I’m not happy about the situation either, but we have to do what’s best for our family.”

Carlisle came over to where she was, beginning to pack his clothes into his own suitcase. Brushing away the stray hairs that fell from her hair scarf, Y/n’s eyes turned serious, “What happened was unfortunate--and it is a shame Bella got hurt. He’s been beating himself over it the entire weekend and I understand that, Carlisle. But what I don’t appreciate is him uprooting us and using you as the excuse.”

Following Bella’s birthday party gone wrong, Edward didn’t waste a second in making the executive decision to the family that they had to leave Forks. Saying they were a danger to Bella and to ensure her safety and no more harm comes to her as a result of his doing, they needed to remove themselves from the picture. And Edward’s genius move was to tell Bella it was because the staff at the hospital were starting to notice Carlisle’s lack of aging.

“His concern is valid. We’ve been here four years now. It was bound to happen.”

“So you’re telling me you’ve heard people talk at the hospital?” She challenged.

“I don’t need to hear them say it aloud, Y/n,” he tells her with a knowing look. “Their stares are enough confirmation. I had one nurse ask me last week if I had a skincare routine.” His attempt at a joke doesn't work. She doesn’t so much as crack a smile, but he tries again. “Soon they’ll be asking what botox doctor I go to.”

Y/n knew Carlisle had a point. It always happened wherever they moved. They settled down, spent maybe five or six years until all the kids graduated from high school for the hundredth time, then did it all over again. If it wasn’t nosy hospital workers, it was teachers. If it wasn’t the bakery owner she frequented asking how she managed to look 27 after seven years, then it was the engineer she was collaborating with on a project.

“It’s not fair,” she goes on, carefully folding her dress shirts, skirts, and pants. Not looking forward to having to pack up her art studio. All the supplies, artwork, and projects she was working on. “And I feel so awful for her,” her frown made his own appear, “You see the way she looks at him. It’s utter devotion, as though he was a sentient being sent from the heavens. And Edward,” her voice drops to a whisper, “he worships the ground she walks on. And this decision not only punishes her, it punishes him.”

The pair fall into a silence when the front door opens and slams shut. Edward’s lingering scent disapparating, causing Y/n to groan and place her head in her hands. The anger and not caring if her adoptive son heard her rant suddenly vanished. Replaced with shame.

Carlisle sighs, setting down the pile of towels he folded to walk over to her. Gently grabbing her shoulders, he brings Y/n into a comforting embrace, letting his hands fall to her waist, allowing her to sink into his arms with a content hum.

“Listen to me,” she closes her eyes, not wanting to meet his gaze where she’ll find judgement. “I sound ridiculous--and I’m being unfair to him and his feelings on the matter.”

“You care for him dearly,” Carlisle strokes her hair, “he understands that. And I think deep down he knows you’re right, but won’t admit to it because he believes he’s doing the right thing for Bella.” Carlisle leans back to look into her eyes, “Remember, he was turned at a young age--and has never experienced this type of love before. He’s learning all this for the first time.”

“I know,” she mumbles, deflated but understanding. They stayed in their embrace for a few minutes before separating to continue packing up. Edward returned later that night with brighter eyes, indicating he had fed to which resolved some of the tension between the two when they finally sat down to have the conversion they’d been dreading. Him apologizing for uprooting the family suddenly, and for the harm he was to cause Bella. And Y/n apologizing for the words she spoke before he left. They hugged it out, neither able to stay mad at the other, and Edward helped her pack the art room throughout the remainder of the night.

The time away from Forks was odd but somewhat comforting. Carlisle and Y/n decided to spend their time on the island they owned just off the coast of Brazil. Rosalie and Emmett traveled to New York, Alice and Jasper in Mississippi and Edward in Rio de Janeiro. They spoke on the phone frequently, sent letters and postcards, or emailed. Edward would spend a night or two on the island to hunt, Y/n painted canvas after canvas, and Carlisle worked on a medical textbook he was in the process of writing.

“You hear that?” She asked one night when they were cuddling on the couch. A random movie playing on the TV.

“What?”

“It’s quiet,” she whispered, a grin spreading on her lips. “No kids. No animals. No workers. Absolute silence.” Carlisle mirrored her smile.

“You’re right. We haven’t had complete silence in ages.”

“More like eighty years--give or take,” she snorted.

When the shit hit the fan in Italy, Y/n nearly killed Edward herself. Not just for the danger he put himself in but for the whole family. Alice and Rosalie also met her wrath--Rosalie for not explaining clearly to Edward the vision, and Alice for dragging Bella to Italy.

Yeah, none of them wanted the smoke.

The sight of the three siblings sitting on the couch with their heads down and twiddling their thumbs while Y/n paced in front of them while shouting a motherly tangent had Emmett straining to hold back his laughter. Carlisle didn’t dare intervene.

Back in Forks the family settled back into their routines. Carlisle in the hospital and Y/n working on projects. The kids in school and planning for the summer.

Then shit hit the fan again.

This time in the form of a newborn vampire army created by the red-headed lover of the tracker they disposed of the year prior. Victoria. And she was out for revenge against Edward and Bella.

Y/n was not the fighting type, but that didn’t mean she did not know how to throw down. She could get her hands dirty if she desired. Emmett and Jasper taught her the ropes, Edward taught her how to anticipate opponents moves.

“C’mon old man!” she dodged Carlisle’s attack, giggling as she pivoted to kick lightly at his chest. “Don’t be getting sleepy on me now. That’s not like you.” Carlisle smirked, catching her off guard by grabbing her waist and flipping her onto the ground.

“I’d watch who you call old, sweetheart,” he mocked right as Jasper yelled, “Never turn your back on your enemy!”

Let’s just say…they did more than spar that night once the sun went down.

#carlisle cullen fluff #carlisle cullen imagine #carlisle cullen fanfiction #carlisle cullen x reader #carlisle cullen x you #vampire!reader #twilight fanfiction #twilight masterlist #twilight fluff

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crescenthistory · 7 days ago

Text

while we're both here; part five

Synopsis: Being loved may be difficult, but loving one another isn't, and you find that maybe, just maybe, it's worth the work. After reconnecting, Remus goes to find you outside the infirmary for once.

Words: 2.1k

Tags: fem!reader, undisclosed chronic illness that causes you pain and fatigue (writer has EDS and POTS), remus pov, fluff, some hurt/comfort, physical affection, remus' lycanthropy and related theatrics, disabled!remus, remus is slowly healing, establishing the relationship, happy and hopeful ending

previous part | series masterlist

Note: this is the final official part:,) however, if you liked their story and want to see drabble-form snippets of various points in their relationship, shoot me a request!

There is a disturbing amount of emotions swirling around in the cavity of Remus’ chest.

Hope, shame, affection, insecurity, assuredness, mixing down the drain. To drown out the chaos, he tries to let your voice in his head guide him to focus on the ones that are worthwhile.

His cane is a heavy and comforting weight in his hand as he hobbled probably a little too fast on his way to his destination; he has not the patience for his hips and knees to keep up with him, for he is a man on a mission.

Tucked away beneath his pillow in the dorm he just left behind – his mates’ chuffed sniggers following him down the hall – is a magical map that he had hunted you down on, his finger tracing the ink that spelled out your name in a faraway corner of the library. With the end of year etching closer, it made sense that you would be holed up there with your final essays.

Before summer comes in to affect your dynamic, Remus had an overwhelming desire to spend time with you outside the infirmary. He doubted a change of scenery would affect his feelings for you, it was more so the growing incessant need to be close to you. This is the most real thing he had ever had the terrifying pleasure of having, and even so, he felt a need to further cement whatever you had to ensure it stays that way.

The cold stones surrounding him as he walked the final stretch to the library were familiar, the confines of a home he has had for years on end. He was still overwhelmed by the thought that he would get to leave with a found family of best mates, something he never expected. To think that he might have found love, too, was more than he could handle.

Might. Remus chuckled at himself. Not many nights have passed since you were cleared by Madam Pomfrey to go back to your real dorm, but even during that short period of time, Remus knew better than to question it.

He was in love.

Perhaps that was stupid of him, perhaps his father would even tell him as much if he dared have you over, if he dared make plans for the future that included you. Nevertheless, it was Remus’ reality.

The most tangible evidence of his love was now just a few metres away – he memorised exactly which spot you sat in – as he entered the Hogwarts Library, gait somewhat crooked. His cane was a deep maroon, given to him as a gift from James and his parents a few Christmases ago. You had recently helped Remus decorate it by wrapping a string of tiny crocheted silver stars around it, spelling it to stay put and sparkle.

He felt oddly confident walking through the library with this cane as an amalgamation of the people he loved most; a far cry from the embarrassed 12 year old who once roamed the halls with a plastic crutch.

You had chosen a secluded corner of the library, hidden away by yourself in an alcove carved into the stone wall, lined with flickering candles on the walls and padded with purple cushions. A shy smile spread over Remus’ face as he saw you, taking in the way you sat crisscrossed on the bench, absentmindedly massaging your calves while you read the massive book laid down in front of you, dust dancing out from it in the sunlight. The same sunlight caressed your skin beautifully, drawing forth your inner shine that always captivated Remus so.

You hadn’t noticed him yet. Remus slowly closed in on you, too distracted by your familiar beauty to take a closer look at what book you’re reading.

As if you picked up on the distinct sound of Remus’ steps, you looked up. Surprise flashed in your eyes for but a second before they were filled with a warmth that made his fingertips tingle, a barely subdued grin taking over your expression.

“Hi there, stranger,” you said quietly as he got closer, leaning forward on the table. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“You mean outside the infirmary?” Remus stopped in front of your table, leaning his good hip against it and crossing his arms. The polite almost-flirting tone he extended you when you first met felt much more genuine now, abated by slight nerves. He added softly, “Hey, dove.”

Remus let himself believe you relaxed at the sound of his voice, pushing down the sensation of how dangerously far gone he was becoming.

“I thought you boys were banned from the library,” you teased, smile prevalent. You lifted a challenging brow at him.

“Ah, no, that's just James and Sirius. Wormtail and I are still in Madam Pince’s good books, and are trying to use our repertoire with her to get them unbanned.” Remus’ eyes filled with even more mirth at the snort you let out at his friend’s nickname.

“Well, I’m glad to see you. What’re you here for?”

At that, Remus reached up to scratch the back of his head, chuckling nervously. Normally he might have tried to play it off, but after your conversation about openness and honesty, he couldn’t even bring himself to want to do that. “I came looking for you, actually. Figured you might fancy some company?”

Might fancy spending time with me, specifically, he hoped silently.

Your eyes crinkled as you let out a soft laugh. “I– yeah, of course. Settle down.”

Remus did, resting his cane against the table carefully before he slid in on the opposite side of the alcove, all the way around so he almost sat arm in arm with you. Close enough that your knee brushed his thigh in its curled up position.

Only then did the illustration on the book in front of you catch his eye – a sketch of the different moon phases.

His breath caught in his throat as he froze, properly focussing on the book now. It was massive and clearly ancient, the ink meandering across the space, one repeated word seemingly screaming out at him: “The Wolf”, always capitalised.

He didn’t know how to process what he saw, so he just looked up at you, lips quivering as if uncertain whether to smile and frown. His silent question floated between you.

You acted nonplussed, but it was clearly a put-on front, shyness and fondness simmering beneath the surface. “This one’s quite outdated,” you began to explain, “but I figured it’s helpful to read how academics used to discuss the matter to better understand how lycanthropy was received over the years. I finished reading Scamander’s take on it earlier, which was much more empathetic and refined.” Beside you was a small notebook that Remus could now see was nearly full, your quill resting on top of it, still wet .

Remus’ lips remained slightly parted, his voice hoarse as he spoke. “You… you’re doing research? For… me?”

You shrugged, as if this didn’t turn his world upside down, as if it didn’t mean everything to him and more. “I mean, you did it for me. With everything. And I know it’s much harder to find muggle medical textbooks in a place like this than it is to find information about lycanthropes.”

The laugh that escaped him was wet and breathy, his mind still not having quite caught up. “It wasn’t that difficult, Madam Pince is rather helpful. And this… this is something else entirely, dove.”

“I just don’t want a lack of knowledge to be a barrier between us,” you said quietly, seemingly trying to downplay the care in your gesture. “I want you to be able to speak freely with me about lycanthropy, without me having to ask about everything.” Remus opened his mouth to answer, but you hurriedly added, “Though, of course, if you want to explain something yourself, please do. Lived experience always trumps dusty books.”

He stared at you with nothing short of awe, uncertain what to say and whether you would ever understand how much this meant to him. There were no words, so all he could offer was, “You, uh, can just call us werewolves. Lycanthropy is a mouthful.”

Your smile suggested his expression was easy to read. “Alright, I will,” you whispered, voice soft.

“Thank you, love. Really.” He let out a longer breath, relaxing into his seat and looking sideways at you with a quivering smile. “You’re really doing this for me?”

“Of course. I want to be there for you.” You held his gaze up until that point before swallowing, looking down to your book. “Friends, right?”

Remus knew, in his heart of hearts, that it was now or never.

“Right. And… and if I wanted to be more than friends? If I wanted to spend time with you, not just while we’re both here, but when we’re anywhere, together?”

Your previously shy smile became borderline unabashed now, lighting up both his life and your eyes as you met his again. “Then, I guess I would ask you why you haven’t invited me to Hogsmeade yet?”

Remus’ heart thundered in his chest as he placed his hands on the table, slowly circling his pinky around yours. This felt like a dream. “Well, I’ve seen how you always flare up afterwards. I didn’t want that to happen because of me.”

Which was true. It was also because he was a coward, but he figured you didn’t need to hear that; he was certain you already knew. He was a lucky bastard, though, because you didn’t seem to mind.

You laughed good-naturedly, shaking your head. “I have a flare-up every two to three business days, Lupin. If I have one because I get to spend time with you, it would have been a worthy sacrifice, at least in my books.”

“Yeah?” Remus breathed out, feeling like he was floating on air. Like the unbelievable had happened – because it had. He was walking with someone, and that someone was you.

“Yeah.” You nodded emphatically, emotion swirling in your gorgeous eyes.

Remus used his pinky around yours to properly intertwine your hands. Passerbys would see you holding hands and sitting close in a library alcove, and probably assume you were together. The thought exhilarated him even more when he realised they wouldn’t be far off.

“This Friday good for you?” he asked.

“Yeah, I think so. Hope so.” You looked somewhat nervous, but he could tell it was because of you and not because of him or the prospect of going out. He squeezed your hand.

“If it winds up being a bad day, we can always just spend the night in the infirmary, dove. I would like to be anywhere with you, familiar or new,” he murmured reassuringly.

Your eyes softened as you held his gaze, whatever slight tension that had been building in your shoulders melting away. Remus dared think you looked like you felt safe. “Thank you,” you mumbled. “The sentiment is shared.”

You leaned sideways to rest your head on his shoulder, shuffling closer so that you could lean your crisscrossed knee on top of his thigh. Each place where your bodies touched served as a grounding point for Remus, anchoring himself to you and the world. He was beginning to understand what peace feels like.

Abruptly, your head shot up and you furrowed your brows at him, as if struck with a thought. “Wait– how did you know I would be here?” you wondered, voice not accusatory but certainly intrigued.

Remus let out a breathy laugh, not having expected to have to explain himself. Though, for once, he found himself not opposed to doing so. “Oh, that, uh– that is one of the many secrets of mine that I’ll be peeling open for you, love. Though, preferably somewhere less crowded.”

You made a show of looking around at the sparse students sitting scattered at tables around you, as if you were undercover detectives on high alert. “You and your secrets, Remus Lupin.”

“They’re all yours, if you want them.” His voice was more suave than he was feeling.

Your smile widened just for him. “I want them.”

Remus’ heart chose to interpret that as I want you. “I’ll spill it all in private, dovey, just you wait.”

You leaned further against him, smile taking on a more deviant undertone. “Are you saying you want to whisk me away to somewhere more intimate, then?”

The tops of Remus’ ears felt warm in a way that warned him they were surely turning red. He swallowed heavily, but it didn’t diminish his wide smile.

“I would love nothing more, dove.”

And that, he did.

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fireya-x · 15 days ago

Note

Hi, I love your writing! Could you do one of John Price, on a road trip?

Hi! This turned out to be way longer than I anticipated. But it has lots of fluff and some smut at the end! I hope you like it!♥️

somewhere only we know

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ John Price takes you on a road trip through the English countryside - just the two of you, a few pieces of his past, and the unpredictable weather. ✦ 16k words ✦ tags/cw: fluff, road trip, picnic, eventual smut: cunnilingus, blow job, piv sex, creampie, love confessions, aftercare, multiple orgasms

The morning carried rare warmth, a breeze of early summer, a temperature on your skin that made you question whether you were still in England at all.

Being from California, this unexpected tenderness in the air felt like a welcome reprieve from the seemingly endless stretch of grey British skies - an overused cliché, perhaps, but undeniably true. Those stubborn clouds, often thick and unyielding, had lately made you ache with homesickness.

And for once, there was no urgency, no early-morning training sessions, no hurried meetings.

You leaned against the hood of John’s car, stretching your legs in front of you like a cat basking in the warmth of a sunbeam. You’d chosen your outfit fitting for the occasion, trading in your uniform and tactical gear for shorts, a faded band shirt whose letters had long begun to peel, and your favourite pair of boots scuffed from too many miles but perfectly comfortable.

It felt strange, almost too easy, being dressed like this and not feeling the sense of something happening within the next few minutes. No weapons strapped to your thigh - just skin exposed to the warm breeze, sun kissing your bare arms and legs.

A few feet away, John stood near the entrance of the base. He was turned toward Kate Laswell, who spoke quietly to him, her posture precise and authoritative as always.

They were silhouetted against the low sun, and even from here, you could catch snippets of their conversation - the familiar, clipped tone of Kate’s voice, John’s quiet mumbles. He was relaxed, at least by his standards; shoulders a little looser, head inclined slightly as he listened to whatever caution Kate was undoubtedly giving him.

“…just a precaution,” she said as she handed John a tiny device, her sunglasses hiding most of her expression. “I don’t like sending my best out there without at least some kind of communication.”

It looked like a car key at first glance - sleek, black, unremarkable. But the way John turned it over in his hand, thumb grazing the subtle ridge along its side, indicated that he understood exactly what it was. Something to keep a line of communication open, wherever you were.

He gave her a dry look. “You planning on checking in every night, then? Tuck me in, read me a story?”

Kate’s mouth twitched. “Only if you ask nicely.”

John sighed dramatically. “It’s a bloody vacation, Kate -”

“It’s you we’re talking about, John. Trouble follows.”

You watched the exchange, a quiet smile tugging at your mouth. She wasn’t wrong; trouble had a way of finding him, of finding both of you, no matter how far you travelled.

Laswell’s sharp gaze shifted to you. “You sure you’ll survive out there with him? Man barely knows how to relax.”

“I’ve got my ways,” you teased, watching as John gave you a pointed look over his shoulder - one part warning, one part slightly amused.

Kate sighed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Just… try to actually enjoy yourselves. Both of you.”

There was a weight beneath her words. One you didn’t need translated. She knew what this job did to people. She knew John couldn’t just switch off , not really. But she also knew he was more likely to try when it was you beside him.

John ran a hand through his hair, a motion that ruffled the shorter strands near his temple. “We’ll manage, Kate.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she murmured with mock annoyance, waving a hand dismissively as she turned on her heel. “Send me a postcard.”

John shook his head, huffing a quiet laugh before he turned slightly, glancing toward the barracks doorway where Ghost stood silently, perfectly still, his posture unmistakably watchful, observing the exchange without expression. For a heartbeat, their eyes met in quiet acknowledgement, and Ghost’s chin dipped slightly.

John returned the nod, and an entire conversation was exchanged in silence before Ghost turned, disappearing back inside without another word.

“Right,” John said, turning toward you. “We should get moving before anyone else has something stupid to say.”

“Too late,” came a familiar voice behind him, and then Soap materialized, grinning like a man with absolutely nothing to lose. “Just try not to ruin her holiday too much, aye, sir?”

“I make no promises,” John deadpanned, rolling his eyes.

Gaz stepped into view next, flashing you a warm, boyish smile. “Have a good one.”

“You’ve earned it,” Soap added, more sincerely this time.

You gave them both a small wave. There was something bittersweet in leaving them behind, even for a day.

Then John turned toward you fully and opened the passenger door with a quiet click. His hand rested casually along the top of the door frame, but his eyes were on you - blue, steady, unguarded in a way that made your breath catch for a second.

He didn’t have to say anything. You stood, brushing imaginary dust from the back of your shorts, and climbed in, the seat warm already from the sun.

He closed the door gently behind you, circled the hood, and slid into the driver’s seat. You watched as he moved - his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms, and the button-down shirt was slightly wrinkled at the collar. And today, his shoulders settled a little lower. His jaw was unclenched.

No uniform. No weapon. No rank.

Just John.

The engine came to life beneath you, a reassuring hum. As the gates began to shrink in the rearview, a hush fell over the two of you - easy, companionable. A silence that didn’t press.

“You alright?” he asked eventually, voice low, thumb rubbing along the leather of the steering wheel.

You reached across the console, fingers brushing over his knuckles. “Yeah,” you said. “I’m good.”

The quiet settled between you like an old companion, not awkward or strained but soft-edged, familiar. The kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled. Only the low hum of tires rolling along the road kept time with the occasional whisper of passing traffic.

Fields unfurled on either side-long, languid stretches of green stitched with hedgerows, dotted with sheep lazily grazing and clusters of wildflowers dancing gently in the breeze.

Your hand rested loosely on your thigh, occasionally brushing his knee as he drove, each touch grounding and familiar. John glanced your way from time to time, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint, contented smile whenever he caught your gaze lingering.

It wasn’t often you got to see him like this. The version of John Price that existed outside briefing rooms, gunfire, and shadows. The man without the weight of command on his shoulders. Here, in this small pocket of peace, something in him had eased. The lines etched into his brow didn’t look quite so deep. His eyes, though still sharp, seemed slower, less haunted.

The landscape began to shift subtly, the flat farmland giving way to rolling hills that undulated gently beneath the summer light. Trees rose along the ridgelines, full and green, their leaves flashing silver when the breeze curled through them. It all felt like something out of a dream - untouched and timeless.

“Gonna tell me where we’re headed?” you asked eventually, turning to look at him.

His lips curved just enough to make a statement. “No.”

You let out a theatrical sigh, flopping your head dramatically against the seatback. “You know I hate surprises.”

He didn’t answer, but his smirk deepened.

Before you could press again, the road dipped and curved, revealing a village tucked like a secret into the folds of the hills. Your breath caught for a moment. The place looked as though it had been carved straight out of a postcard - red brick cottages with low, sloping roofs, windows framed with climbing ivy and overgrown blooms bursting from flower boxes. Stone chimneys sent up thin curls of smoke despite the gentle warmth of the day, the scent of wood fire mingling faintly with something sweet on the breeze.

The car slowed as John guided it down narrow cobbled lanes, careful of pedestrians strolling with baskets and little dogs on short leashes. You leaned into the window, taking in the storybook charm of the place, as if you could commit it to memory just by staring.

Eventually, he pulled into a small parking area at the village’s edge.

He shifted the gearstick into park, throwing you a look that was half fond, half amused. “Breakfast?”

You stretched like a cat, already reaching for your seatbelt. “Hell yeah.”

He led you through the winding street, past the quiet hum of local life. A girl on a bicycle, a man unpacking crates, a cat sleeping on a sunny windowsill. And then, just ahead - a small café, its pale stone façade decorated with baskets of violet and blue petunias hanging from iron hooks.

John reached for the door and pushed it open, the gentle chime of a bell announcing your arrival.

The interior was warm and honey-coloured, filled with the scents of fresh-baked pastries, butter, and black tea. Every table was different - some round, some square, none matching - but all gleamed with polish, set with mismatched china that somehow suited the place perfectly. Soft chatter drifted from a corner booth where two older women sipped tea, their voices low and companionable.

“Jonathan Price?”

A warm, familiar voice rose above the gentle din. You turned to see an older woman emerging from behind the counter, a flour-dusted tea towel draped over her shoulder, her apron smudged and well-worn. Her white hair was tied neatly back, and her glasses perched precariously on the tip of her nose, eyes bright behind the lenses.

Her face lit up with delight, and you saw something change in John - his shoulders dropping another inch, the line of his mouth easing.

“Margaret,” he said, smiling in a way you didn’t see often. Not the sharp twist of amusement he offered during briefings or the rare smirk in the field. This was gentler. Real. “Been a long time.”

Margaret tutted, stepping forward to cup his face in her flour-dusted hands like a mother scolding her son. “Too long, you stubborn mule. Look at you - wearing something that isn’t soaked in blood and mud. I barely recognized you.”

Then her gaze shifted to you, and her smile only widened. “Ah,” she breathed knowingly. “And this must be the girl he’d never shut up about.”

John made a low, vaguely embarrassed sound, rubbing the back of his neck. You looked up at him with something close to astonishment, and then at her, accepting the outstretched hand she offered you with a smile. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she said warmly. Then she leaned in and whispered just loudly enough, “Don’t let him get away with all that stoic soldier crap he loves so much. He’s got a heart under all that gravel.”

You laughed, and when you glanced at John again, his expression was pure, long-suffering affection.

Margaret clapped her hands once. “Right, then. Breakfast?”

“Yes, please,” you said. “Full English for both of us.”

“Good choice.” She gestured toward the tables. “Sit yourselves anywhere.”

As Margaret disappeared back behind the counter, John guided you to a small table near the window. You settled into the sturdy wooden chair, sunlight warming your skin through the glass as he took the seat opposite.

“You came here a lot, then?” you asked, your voice softer now, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the place.

“Yeah,” he said, settling back in his chair. “Used to stop through when I was younger. Before 141. Before everything got…” He paused, mouth pulling thoughtfully. “More complicated.”

“It’s nice,” you murmured.

He nodded slowly, his eyes tracing over your face, something tender settling into his expression. “Thought you might like it.”

You reached across the table and took his hand, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. It wasn’t grand or dramatic, just simple, real.

“I love it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Breakfast arrived soon after, carried by Margaret with the practised grace of someone who had served hundreds of these meals and still cared enough to make each one feel like a gift.

The scent hit first - warm butter, thick bacon crisped at the edges, tomatoes grilled until their skins puckered and split, golden toast still steaming, and a side of eggs cooked perfectly soft.

The tea she poured was strong enough to stand a spoon in; the mismatched cups, painted with delicate roses, reminded you of another time, another place.

The food tasted like comfort, like a childhood memory passed down on a plate.

John ate slowly, savouring each bite as if it might be his last for a while, as if this moment deserved reverence. There was a quietness to the way he moved - composed, like even here, even now, he was still tracing invisible patterns of preparedness into every motion.

You watched him carefully, elbow resting on the edge of the table, cheek leaning against your hand. There was peace in the way he chewed, the way his jaw ticked slightly when something tasted especially good. But his eyes - those eyes never stopped moving. Every time the bell above the door chimed, every time someone new walked past the café window, he subtly recalibrated. Trained vigilance embedded into the very structure of him.

“You’re doing it again,” you murmured, tapping his boot with yours beneath the table.

He looked up, his brow drawing faintly in confusion. “Doing what?”

“Checking the exits. Watching the door.” You nudged him again with your foot, gentler this time.

He paused for a moment, then sighed quietly, offering a faintly sheepish smile. “Habit.”

“I know,” you said gently. “But you promised me you’d try to relax.”

He huffed, shaking his head as he reached for his tea. “I am. This is relaxed.”

You laughed, pointing your fork at him playfully. “Captain Price, I don’t think you even know what relaxed feels like.”

That made his smile twitch into something more genuine. The lines around his eyes eased, and his hand brushed his beard in mock contemplation. “Reckon I’ve forgotten.”

“You should spend more time out here,” you said, glancing around the sunlit room. “I bet this town hasn’t changed much since you were young.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Barely at all. It’s comforting, actually.”

He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually across the backrest, eyes moving over the café as if seeing more than what was there - like he was looking through time itself. “I used to come here after training,” he said, a thread of nostalgia winding through his voice. “Had this ridiculous old bike - used to ride it out here at sunrise, just for the breakfast. The quiet. Margaret always gave me hell for riding without proper gear.”

You grinned, sipping your tea. “I bet you drove too fast.”

“Only when no one was watching,” he said, mischief glinting in his eyes like sunlight on glass.

You tilted your head, studying him with genuine curiosity. “I bet Margaret knew.”

“Oh, she knew,” he said with a laugh that warmed you to your core. “She always threatened to call my CO, but never did.”

You tried to picture him then - young and wild, wind in his hair, flying down back roads before the world had asked too much of him. There was a sweetness in the image, a version of him you hadn’t met but felt like you knew. “Sounds like you two have some history.”

He glanced over toward the counter, where Margaret moved easily among the teapots and plates, her presence a steady thread through time. “Margaret’s a good woman,” he said. “She’s seen more soldiers pass through here than she cares to count. Always looking after us in her own way.”

The weight in his voice wasn’t heavy - it was grateful. And suddenly, it clicked: this wasn’t just some breakfast stop. This place, this village - it was stitched into his bones.

“You should bring me out here more often,” you said quietly, nudging his boot beneath the table once more.

His gaze met yours, and something flickered in it - something soft, something that made your throat tighten with how much you loved him. “Think I’d like that.”

Margaret returned once more, clearing away your plates and topping off your tea with a knowing, gentle smile.

“Take care of yourselves out there,” she said, eyes settling meaningfully on John.

He nodded, quiet seriousness replacing his smile for just a moment. “We will.”

You stood, stretching briefly as John tucked cash beneath the edge of the teacup despite Margaret’s quiet protest. He nodded a gentle goodbye, then reached instinctively for your hand as you stepped out into the sunlight once more.

The morning had warmed further, sunlight bathing everything in a bright golden glow. The village bustled gently now, streets more alive as locals moved through their familiar routines, pausing to chat or wave.

John turned to you, gently guiding you back toward the car. But before you reached it, you paused, spotting a small, cozy-looking bookshop tucked beneath an overhang, its window filled with colourful covers, stacks of old hardbacks, and worn paperbacks neatly piled in inviting disorder.

You stopped completely, a quiet breath escaping as your eyes widened. “Oh,” you whispered, hand tightening gently around John’s. “You’ve lost me.”

He chuckled, squeezing your hand as he followed your gaze to the bookshop. “Suppose we can spare a few minutes.”

You turned your head to glance at him, brow lifted. “You say that like you have a choice.”

“I don’t, do I?”

“Not even a little.” Your grin curved easily, and you were already pulling him toward the crooked door. “Besides, what’s a proper holiday without a good book?”

He sighed with mock suffering, but the way he let himself be led, the way his eyes never strayed far from your face, betrayed him.

He’d follow you anywhere, as long as you kept looking at him like that.

The inside of the bookshop was a little world of its own, cool and dim after the brightness of the street. A bell chimed quietly as you stepped through the narrow door, the air filled with the comforting scent of old paper and polished wood. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, laden with worn hardcovers and well-loved paperbacks; each spine cracked gently from repeated reading.

You let go of John’s hand reluctantly, stepping further into the space with quiet reverence. Your fingers brushed gently along book spines as you moved down the first aisle, each title whispering quiet invitations, promising stories you could lose yourself in for hours.

Behind you, John moved quietly, his boots creaking against the ancient wooden floorboards. He didn’t wander far. He never did. He stayed within sight, settling near the corner shelves lined with military history and biographies, books he’d probably read a dozen times already.

You glanced over at him occasionally as you browsed, smiling softly at how utterly at ease he looked in this quiet place. Away from base, from the weight of command, John stood differently - his posture less rigid, one hand comfortably tucked into his pocket, the other occasionally reaching out to pluck a familiar book from the shelf, flipping through the pages like revisiting old memories.

“Anything good?” you teased gently, stepping closer to him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his.

John held up a thick volume detailing some obscure historical battle, smirking lightly. “Depends on your definition of ‘good.’”

You leaned over further, catching a glimpse of dense text and dry maps, and made a face. “Looks riveting.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t know why I expected anything else from you.”

“At least I’ve got good taste,” you murmured, giving his hip a playful nudge with yours as you moved past him.

“You certainly do,” he responded dryly, eyes tracking your movement with quiet amusement.

You returned to the fiction section, a slim volume catching your eye - a weathered copy of old English poetry, its cover a faded shade of blue, the title barely visible from years of careful handling. Flipping through its pages gently, you felt something shift in your chest. This was exactly the sort of thing you’d hoped to find - quiet, intimate, beautifully worn by time.

When you returned to the front of the shop, John had already made his way there as well, holding a thick military biography beneath one arm. His eyes found yours the moment you stepped into view, and they softened when they landed on the slender blue book in your hand.

“Found something, did you?”

You nodded, holding up the poetry book with a shy smile. “Something for quiet nights by the fire.”

You placed the poetry book on the counter, reaching for your wallet. But John’s hand settled over yours, stopping you quietly. He paid before you could protest, sliding both books across the polished wood toward you.

“John - ” you started.

He cut you off gently, giving you a quiet, affectionate look. “Let me.”

Your heart tugged softly in your chest, warmth spreading slowly through you. “Thank you,” you whispered.

The bell chimed again as you stepped back onto the street, sunlight spilling warm across your shoulders. You tucked the book gently into your bag, catching John’s quiet smile from the corner of your eye. He nudged you lightly with his elbow, guiding you toward the car parked just up the lane.

As you climbed back into your seat, the warmth of the sun had already seeped through the windshield, filling the interior with the comforting scent of leather and the faint aroma of coffee that lingered from earlier. John settled behind the wheel, rolling his shoulders slightly before glancing your way with that familiar, quietly amused look.

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “You still haven’t told me where we’re headed, you know.”

He smirked slightly, starting the engine and pulling smoothly back onto the road. “And ruin the surprise? Not a chance.”

You sighed dramatically, stretching out your legs and feigning impatience. “You realize I do this for a living, right? Gathering intel, extracting secrets from stubborn people.”

John raised an eyebrow, glancing at you briefly before returning his gaze to the winding country road. “Good luck extracting it from me, love.”

“I have my ways,” you teased, settling comfortably into the seat and angling your body toward him. “I’ll guess.”

He chuckled, clearly humouring you. “Give it your best shot.”

You tapped your fingers against your knee in thought, eyes flicking to the curve of the road ahead. “Lake District?”

“Nope.”

“Hmm…” You tilted your head, drawing the word out. “Yorkshire Dales?”

He shook his head, lips twitching.

“Cornwall?”

“Not even close.”

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you complained playfully, nudging his thigh gently with your knee. “You’re a cruel man, John Price.”

You waited a minute. Two. Let the silence stretch just enough to lull him into thinking you’d let it go. Then -

“Alright - give me a region. North? South?”

He exhaled, jaw tightening slightly like he was holding back a laugh. “You’re relentless.”

You grinned. “You didn’t know that before now?”

“I knew,” he muttered, still refusing to look at you. “Didn’t know you could be this mouthy when you want something, though.”

You turned in your seat, brows raised, voice dipped low and sweet. “You didn’t mind my mouth last night.”

That did it.

His grip on the wheel tightened, knuckles flashing white for a heartbeat. His jaw ticked, a slow drag of tension down his neck. You could see it in his posture - the sudden stillness, the sharp line of his focus. And for a second, you felt the way the air shifted around him, thickening with that low, simmering edge of control he rarely let slip.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice roughened now, the grit in it rolling through you like a shiver.

You smiled to yourself, satisfied. But you were no closer to your answer.

“So?” you asked sweetly, resting your hand casually on your thigh, thumb tracing idle patterns into the fabric of your shorts. “You gonna tell me?”

“No.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh, leaning your head against the window and watching the fields slip past. “You’re unbelievable.”

There was a pause. You could feel him look at you out of the corner of his eye. And then -

“Why don’t you beg for it? Like last night ?”

Your head whipped around so fast your neck popped. “Jesus Christ, John.”

He raised a brow, expression unreadable but smug. “You started it.”

You reached over to swat his arm, but he caught your wrist midair, strong fingers wrapping around your forearm before you could make contact. He didn’t flinch. Just pulled your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to your knuckles - soft, deliberate, final.

The matter was closed.

You huffed and turned back to the window, heart pounding despite yourself, the heat from his lips still lingering on your skin. The road unspooled ahead, quiet now except for the hum of the engine and the sound of your own breath.

He didn’t say anything else. Just let the silence settle again, calm and unbothered.

At least he let you pick the radio station.

The road narrowed the further south you drove, winding between thick hedgerows and tall trees that reached across the lane like they were trying to hold hands. The car dipped into cool patches of shade and out again, sunlight filtering through branches in flashes that played across the dashboard and your legs like a slow, flickering rhythm.

You didn’t ask where you were anymore. You just watched him drive, his focus sure, one hand resting easy on the wheel, the other always drifting back to you.

Sometimes, his palm rested against your thigh; other times, his fingers curled just under the hem of your shorts, warm and idle, like he couldn’t help himself. Like he didn’t want to.

When the sign for Burford came into view, your spine straightened just a little. You recognized the name, if only from postcards and wistful stories.

As the car descended the hill into the heart of the village, the world tilted subtly, like falling into a dream. Warm stone houses lined the slope, their windows overflowing with tangled vines and blooms. The rooftops were uneven and lovely, weathered by centuries of sun and rain. People moved unhurriedly down the pavement, their canvas bags swinging gently at their sides.

It was unfairly beautiful. The kind of place that made you want to write letters again. The kind of place you wanted to get lost in.

John eased the car into a gravel lay-by near the center of the village, the tires crunching as he shifted into park. You stepped out into the warmth and were immediately wrapped in the scent of lavender, warm stone, and something faintly sweet - fresh bread or pastries, maybe, drifting in from a nearby bakery.

He came around the car to meet you, close enough that your arms brushed when you turned to take it all in.

“Still annoyed I didn’t tell you?” he asked, glancing at you sideways, that dry note threaded through something gentler beneath.

You slid your hand into his, the fit easy, known. “A little,” you admitted, then leaned in, brushing your shoulder against his chest. “But I’ll get over it.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, not saying a word.

The sound of the village settled gently around you - birds calling from a nearby tree, the distant clink of teacups from a café patio, a soft breeze whispering through the hanging baskets.

You felt his thumb stroke over your hand again.

“We’ve got the whole day,” he said. “Where do you want to start?”

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze, then tugged him forward. “Somewhere charming. Somewhere that’ll make me want to spend too much money on things I don’t need.”

“So... every shop on the high street, then?” he muttered, following without resistance.

The main road through Burford sloped gently downhill, lined with crooked little shops that looked like they hadn’t changed in centuries-old wooden signs, arched doorways, and glass panes slightly warped with age. The stone glowed warm under the sunlight, the whole place humming with quiet life and slow footsteps on cobblestones.

You paused at the first shop window, eyes lighting up. “Look! Antiques.”

“God help me,” John murmured behind you, but there was no bite in it - just that warm, familiar exasperation that came from loving someone exactly as they were.

You ducked into the shop ahead of him, the bell on the door jingling gently. Inside, it smelled like dust and beeswax and old wood, with shelves stacked in organized chaos - ceramic teacups with faded rims, worn books, little brass trinkets and lopsided oil paintings. It was the sort of place where time felt slower, where everything had a story, even if no one knew it anymore.

You wandered through the narrow aisles, your fingers trailing along shelves until you found it.

A tiny porcelain bear. Hand-painted. One paw cracked and glued back on. You turned it in your hand, smiling at its slightly crooked little face.

John appeared at your side, raising a brow. “That what you’re walking away with?”

“It’s got personality,” you said, cradling it protectively.

He gave it a long look. “Looks like it’s seen some shit.”

“Exactly,” you mocked. “It reminded me of you.”

He rolled his eyes, but you caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” You held it out for him to see. “A bit too serious. Rough around the edges. Definitely growls when poked.”

A low, amused breath escaped him, but his brow furrowed slightly as he reached for his wallet. “Go on, then,” he sighed, “Add it to the collection.”

You stepped back immediately. “Nah-ah. I’m buying this one.”

He opened his mouth. His hand stilled. “You don’t have to -”

“I want to,” you said firmly, eyes meeting his.

The shopkeeper wrapped the little bear in brown paper, tying it with care and a loop of twine. You slipped it into your bag, the shape cradled against the spine of your poetry book, and when you stepped out into the sunlight again, your hand found John’s as if drawn there by gravity.

The rest of the shopping trip passed in the kind of dazed, sun-drunk contentment that made you forget to look at the time. You ducked in and out of crooked old storefronts selling hand-poured candles, paused to smell bars of lavender soap and read vintage postcards. He lifted you down from a low stone wall after you clambered up to get a better view of the swans on the river. You stole a sip of his lemonade. He brushed windblown hair from your cheek. And at some point, you stopped thinking about the road ahead and let yourself exist in the moment, in the village, in the warmth of his presence beside you.

“I’m starving,” you said eventually, your voice low with laughter, your bag now heavier with keepsakes you didn’t need but couldn’t resist.

“Let’s fix that,” he murmured and reached for your hand again like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And so you did.

Lunch was under dappled sunlight, seated at a weathered iron table set with chipped blue china and a small vase of wildflowers. The café patio overlooked the river, and everything felt soft - a quiet conversation from nearby tables, the occasional gust of warm wind tugging at the edges of your napkin, and the rich aroma of garlic and lemon drifting from the kitchen.

You passed plates back and forth without thinking and stole bites from each other’s forks like it had always been your table. He let you talk - about the village, about nothing, about your life before you moved across the sea. And you watched him grow quieter as the hours unfolded, not closed off but unwinding a little, his tension bleeding away with every lazy sip of tea.

His eyes didn’t squint so tightly in the sun now. His jaw eased between words. He touched your wrist with the back of his fingers without noticing.

He looked like someone you wanted to grow old with. Not because he was strong or clever, but because he looked - right then - like someone who could be still. Who wanted to be still, if only beside you.

When the bill came, you reached for it instinctively, but he was faster.

You gave him a look. He returned it, placid. “Don’t start.”

You rolled your eyes but let him win. This time.

John opened your door for you again because, of course, he did, and you slid into the passenger seat with a satisfied sigh. The heat of the day had soaked into the sun-baked leather, wrapping around you like a blanket still warm from someone else’s skin. You tossed your bag into the back, the little paper-wrapped bear inside rattling gently as it settled, and leaned your head back against the seat.

As he settled behind the wheel, you turned toward him, nudging his shoulder with the edge of your hand. “So... what’s next?”

He smirked, adjusting the mirror. “You’ll see.”

“You really are proud of yourself for all this secrecy, aren’t you?”

“A bit,” he admitted, then glanced at you. “But mostly, I like watching you try to figure it out.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Don’t hear you complaining much usually,” he said, and there was that tone again - dry, amused, warm in a way that reached behind your ribs and curled there.

The road out of the village dipped gently into the hills. As they drove on, the charm of the town gave way to broader views - open fields rolling into clusters of trees, stone fences winding along the edges like ancient veins. It was quieter out here. Older, somehow. The kind of quiet that you couldn’t find in cities or even on base. It had weight.

“You’ve done this drive before,” you said, breaking the comfortable silence as he took a turn with smooth, unconscious ease.

He didn’t look at you, but something in the shape of his mouth softened. “Yeah.”

“With someone?”

“No.”

You waited.

“This stretch,” he said, quieter now, “was part of my old route home. Back when I was stationed inland. Young. Stupid. Used to take the long way just to clear my head.”

He glanced out the window, like he could still see it the way it was back then. “There’s a farm up past that rise,” he nodded toward a low hill ahead. “Used to stop there. They sold jam out of a shed. Honest-to-God best blackberry I’ve ever had.”

You turned your head to look at him fully, studying the profile of his face - the set of his jaw, the way the late light cut along his temple and cheek. This wasn’t the kind of story he told often. Which meant he wanted you to have it. Wanted to hand over little pieces of himself in this quiet, private way he had.

“You think it’s still there?”

He shook his head, eyes on the road. “Doubt it. Probably turned into a car park or a bloody Airbnb by now.”

“Bet I could find you something that’s just as good,” you said, reaching over to brush your fingers against his forearm.

He glanced at you, and for a moment, the look in his eyes made your breath catch - tender, unguarded, with that glint of something else behind it.

“You already did,” he murmured.

You didn’t say anything to that. Just let the words settle around you, warm and steady.

The next village came into view slowly - a scatter of houses and old stone walls nestled into the dip of a hill, a medieval church rising at its centre like a crown. You passed through without stopping, just long enough for John to point out the spot where his old motorbike had once broken down.

“Tried to fix it myself,” he said, clearly amused. “Made it worse. Some old bloke gave me tea and let me use his phone. Didn’t ask why I was half-soaked and cursing a Yamaha like it owed me money.”

You laughed, picturing it too easily. “Bet he figured it out.”

“Probably.”

The sun had shifted now, beginning its slow descent into the western sky. The light turned warmer, even more golden, the shadows longer. The world felt like it was holding its breath - suspended in that magic hour between afternoon and evening where time bent, stretched, softened.

“We’ll stop soon,” he said.

And you didn’t ask. Not this time.

Because you were starting to understand that none of this - none of it - was random. Every bend in the road, every village, every story he chose to share or not share, every glance he gave you when he thought you weren’t looking... it all meant something.

He wasn’t just driving you through the countryside.

He was showing you the map of who he used to be.

And maybe, just maybe, letting you draw your own name across it.

Bourton-on-the-Water was almost too idyllic to be real. Narrow stone bridges arched over a gently moving stream that wound through the centre of the village, its surface catching the daylight like glass. You wandered together along the edge of the river, passing beneath willows that trailed their fingers in the water, your hand tucked securely in his.

A small ice cream stand stood beneath a wide green awning. Without a word, John stepped into line and returned minutes later with a cone in each hand - yours swirled with vanilla, his a classic chocolate.

“You’re finally really leaning into this holiday thing,” you murmured as he handed it over.

He just gave a quiet, satisfied grunt and licked a stripe down his own like it was instinct.

You sat together on a low stone wall beneath a tree, watching the slow drift of people passing by - families with strollers, couples laughing in quiet corners.

The world felt far away here. Smaller. Slower. A child threw breadcrumbs to ducks, and John watched with a look you couldn’t quite name - something wistful, maybe, like he was remembering a version of himself that belonged in a place like this.

You just leaned into him until his arm came around your shoulders, slow and automatic, pulling you gently against his side. His fingers found the curve of your arm and rested there.

You stayed like that until the cones were nearly gone, and then you wandered again.

Bibury came next, as if the day still had more to give.

Arlington Row slouched peacefully beneath the warm light, its ancient stone cottages leaning into one another like old friends. Geraniums spilt from deep windowsills, and vines traced their way up the weathered walls, curling into cracks and corners as if they belonged there.

The gravel path crunched beneath your feet as you walked side by side, John’s thumb lazily hooked through a belt loop of your jeans as if tethering you to him.

“That one there’s been standing since the 14th century,” he murmured, nodding toward a cottage with warped glass windows and a door only just tall enough for him. “No central heat, but it probably still costs more than my flat.”

You snorted.

By the water’s edge, you crouched to feed the ducks with a few leftover crumbs from a café stop earlier. He hung back at first, arms crossed, a practised look of detachment on his face - but he still dropped to a crouch beside you when one waddled closer, the corner of his mouth twitching as it snatched the bread from your hand. When you glanced over, he was pretending not to smile.

You stopped at a low stone wall overlooking a wide green pasture. Sheep dotted the hillside in clusters, grazing lazily, framed by slanting light that gilded every blade of grass in gold.

You leaned your arms on the warm stone, and after a moment, he stepped beside you.

His voice, when it came, was softer than before.

“Came here once. Before I deployed.”

You turned your head, watching the side of his face. “By yourself?”

He nodded, gaze fixed on the field. “Didn’t know where else to go. Just needed something still. Something quiet.”

You reached out without hesitation and slid your hand into his, where it hung between you. “Did it help?”

His eyes stayed on the fields. “Yeah. It did.”

There was a long pause.

Then he looked at you - not with his usual heat or guarded affection, but with something deeper, like he saw something in you that could anchor him. Like he was letting you see all the parts that didn’t get to live on base.

“I’m glad I get to see this version of you,” you said. “The one who knows where to find quiet.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just squeezed your hand gently, his thumb moving over your knuckles once, then again.

Later, as the sky deepened to dusk, you found a small inn tucked off a side lane just outside of town. The sign out front swung gently in the breeze, and the windows glowed warm with firelight and amber lamps. The woman at the front desk welcomed you with a smile.

Dinner was slow and comforting - plates of roast chicken and rosemary potatoes, crusty bread with soft butter, wine poured by the fire. You sat tucked into a corner booth near a wide hearth, John’s knee pressed into yours beneath the table, your shoes resting side by side.

He let you finish most of his dessert.

You teased him for it, and he only shrugged. “Don’t like sweet much these days.’ Cept you.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart didn’t.

Upstairs, the room smelled faintly of old wood and soap. The windows were small but opened wide to let in the night breeze. You dried your face with a towel, then dug through your overnight bag for something to sleep in - only to pause, your hand brushing over fabric that wasn’t yours. You pulled out one of his shirts and slipped it on without a second thought. It was comfortable and worn and heavy with the scent of him.

The bath steamed gently in the corner of the bathroom, the sound of the water settling into the porcelain mingling with the low creak of floorboards beneath your bare feet. The inn room was small and warm, walls dimly lit by a single lamp and the flickering amber glow from the hallway sconce bleeding in under the door.

John stood near the basin, bare-chested now, belt undone and jeans riding low on his hips. He moved slowly, like he hadn’t quite convinced himself it was okay to be still. You watched as he rolled his shoulders back, the subtle tension still visible even in his quiet.

You stepped behind him, your fingers ghosting over the thick muscle of his shoulder blades, tracing down the familiar lines of scars and sun-warmed skin.

“Get in,” you said softly.

He glanced back at you, brow raised slightly. “You getting in with me?”

You shook your head. “Nope.”

That earned you a faint smirk, tired but amused. “Bit unfair.”

“I’m washing you,” you said, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Now sit down and let me spoil you for once.”

He didn’t argue.

The water shifted as he lowered himself in with a grunt, the heat drawing a low groan from his throat that made your stomach flutter. He stretched his legs, one arm resting along the edge of the tub, the other submerged, hand absently skimming the water’s surface. Steam curled around his face, softening the hard lines of his jaw and cheekbones.

You perched on a low stool beside the tub. You dipped the sponge into the water, wrung it out slowly, and started to drag it gently over his chest.

“I forgot what quiet feels like,” he said after a moment, voice low and rough.

You kept your movements slow, the sponge gliding over his collarbone. “You’ve earned it.”

“Don’t know what to do with it.”

You looked up at him, and the way his eyes dropped just slightly made something in your chest ache.

You cupped water in your hands and let it pour over his shoulders, watching it cascade down his skin. The years showed there - faint lines, old bruises that never healed right, the pale marks of blades and bullets and things that tried to take him out but never quite succeeded.

“I always used to come out this way,” he said after a while, voice drifting like the steam around you. “When things got too loud. I’d find a place like this - cheap room, woods nearby, no one to answer to. Walked until I forgot what day it was.”

You ran the sponge gently over his arms, tracing the grooves of old muscle, the raised edge of a scar near his elbow. “Alone?”

He nodded. “Always.”

You reached for the soap - plain, handmade, wrapped in brown paper with a little rosemary sprig tucked under the twine. You worked it into a soft lather and smoothed it over his chest, your fingertips working through the fur on his chest, drawing invisible paths across him.

He closed his eyes briefly, like the heat, the scent, and your touch had finally started to crack something open.

“I didn’t mind it then,” he murmured. “Didn’t have anyone to miss. Didn’t have to explain why I disappeared for days. No one to disappoint.”

Your hands slowed. The question slipped out quieter than you meant. “You really think that’s how it is with me?”

His eyes opened and met yours. There was something raw in them - unguarded.

“No,” he said after a long pause. “That’s the thing, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Now I couldn’t just disappear anymore,” he said. “Not like I used to. Not for days. Not even for hours.”

He looked down at your joined hands, the way your skin fit against his like it belonged there.

“Because now I’d miss you.”

Your throat ached with how simply he said it.

“I don’t know how to sit still,” he murmured, eyes still on your hand. “Not properly. Not without looking over my shoulder, not without waiting for the next call, the next mission, the next loss.”

You traced his forearm with your free hand, sliding the sponge slowly across the worn terrain of his body.

“But you make it easier,” he said. “Being here with you... you slow things down. You make the silence feel like something I can stand.”

You smiled faintly, thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “That’s the idea.”

His eyes flicked to you then - tired, searching, full of that flickering thing he didn’t let anyone else see.

“I’ve seen a lot of ugly things,” he said. “Done worse. Buried parts of myself I didn’t think I’d ever want to dig up again. But this -” He gestured with a small tilt of his chin, to the room, to the bath, to you kneeling beside him in a shirt that smelled like him - “this feels like something I never thought I’d have.”

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple, slow and grounding. He turned slightly into it.

“You’ve got it now,” you whispered against his skin. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

He didn’t answer. Just closed his eyes and brought your hand to his lips, kissed your knuckles gently, then pressed your palm against his chest, right over the constant thrum of his heart.

You kept washing him after that - quietly, gently. Over his ribs, down his arms, along the slope of his back where the scars lived thickest. He let you. Said nothing else for a while. Just sat there and let himself be cared for.

For the first time in days - maybe weeks - his body truly relaxed.

And when he finally rose, towelling off his face and shoulders, he stopped in front of you without saying a word.

His gaze dropped to the way his shirt hung off your frame, damp, shoulder bare.

He stepped forward, close now, and reached for the collar, tugging it gently into place with a gentle touch, fingertips brushing your collarbone. His knuckles lingered against your skin.

You looked up at him, breathing slowly.

He leaned down, not in a rush, not to claim - just to meet you. His mouth brushed yours once, then again, lingering. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t hungry. It was the kind that threaded through your bones and softened everything it touched.

When he finally pulled back, his hands found your thighs, and he lifted you - slow and sure like you weighed nothing. You wrapped your arms around his neck, forehead resting against his, a quiet laugh escaping you, breath warm between kisses against his jaw.

And he carried you to bed.

The bed wasn’t large, but it didn’t need to be. You lay with your legs tangled in his, your hand on his chest, the beat of his heart loud beneath your palm.

“Do you ever miss it?” you asked carefully. “Before all this?”

“Sometimes.” His fingers traced slow, absent lines along your shoulder. “But then I remember what it was like not knowing what I wanted.”

“And now?”

He looked at you - and in the dim light, something passed over his face. Not a smile, not quite. Something deeper. Brief, soft, certain.

“Now I know.”

You stayed like that for a long time. No television. No interruptions. Just the hush of breath and the warmth of skin, the hum of quiet between words. Everything suspended in the old quilt’s weight, in the creak of the inn settling around you, in the way your bodies curved toward each other like they’d always belonged there.

Morning crept in slow , filtered through the old curtains in streaks of light that pooled across the wooden floor. You stirred to the sound of birdsong outside the open window - no alarms, no clatter of boots or distant engines. Just the rustle of trees and the low creak of floorboards as someone shifted in bed beside you.

John was already awake, propped on one elbow, watching you.

“You stare a lot,” you murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

“Only when I’ve got a good view,” he replied, brushing a thumb along your jaw.

You closed your eyes again for a moment, letting the softness of the morning wrap around you. There was no rush to move. Just the slow awareness of warm sheets, sore thighs, and the rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm.

Eventually, you both rose - leisurely, without speaking much. You washed your face, pulled on clean clothes, and wrapped the poetry book from the day before in a sweater to protect it. He was already half-dressed as you came out of the bathroom, and you watched the way the morning light caught in his beard and traced the planes of his chest beneath the thin fabric.

He looked... quietly stunning like that. Not just because he was beautiful but because he looked peaceful.

“You always this slow in the mornings?” he asked, adjusting the strap of his watch as you slipped on your shoes.

“Only when I’m happy.”

That earned you a smile.

You left the inn with warm cups of takeaway coffee and a paper bag passed to you by the innkeeper - flaky pastries filled with cream and thick jam, their tops dusted in sugar that stuck to your fingertips and your lips. You licked it away with a lazy kind of joy that made John glance at you once, shake his head, and steal a bite.

The drive south cut through a quieter patch of the countryside. Wide stretches of rolling land opened up on either side of the road, golden with wildflowers and tall grasses. As the car moved, you let your hand drift out the open window, fingers slicing through the warm air.

“Where are we headed now?” you asked, more out of habit than expectation.

He gave you a sidelong glance. “You really trying it again?”

You smiled and let it drop, resting your feet on the dash and nibbling on the edge of your pastry, happy to let the scenery unwind around you.

The signs changed again - Wiltshire this time - and soon, the land began to shift subtly beneath your wheels. Low, grassy mounds. Clusters of ancient stones scattered across fields. There was something ancient in the air here. Something older than anything either of you had carried into the car.

Avebury came into view slowly, almost without notice. The stones didn’t rise dramatically - they simply appeared, scattered across the grass like they’d always belonged there.

You stepped out of the car slowly, the breeze lifting your hair, the scent of earth and chalk thick in the air.

“Oh,” you breathed.

John came around the hood of the car and stood beside you, arms crossed, eyes narrowed slightly.

“It’s not as flashy as Stonehenge,” he said.

“It’s better,” you murmured, and you meant it.

You wandered the grass in easy steps, passing between towering stones that seemed to hum with their own gravity. Some tilted, others stood tall.

You kicked off your boots halfway through the walk and went barefoot, toes sinking into the grass, the soil still damp from dew.

John gave you a look somewhere between amused and deeply sceptical. “Didn’t realize we were reenacting some Druid ritual.”

You grinned over your shoulder. “Come on, live a little.”

He shook his head but followed anyway, boots crunching quietly as he walked behind you.

Near the centre of the circle, you paused, hand resting against one of the stones, fingers spread across its cool, weathered surface.

“Do you ever think about how long these have been here?” you said, softly now. “Like… what they’ve seen. What they’ve outlasted.”

John came to stand beside you, his shoulder brushing yours.

“Not really,” he admitted. “But I think about how many people came out here looking for something.”

You glanced at him. “What are you looking for?”

His gaze stayed on the horizon. “Right now? A woman who puts her boots back on, so I don’t have to carry her to the car.”

You let out a breath - half laugh, half sigh - and the grin that pulled at your mouth betrayed how easy it was to love him in moments like this.

He kissed you there - slow and sudden, just a brush of his mouth against yours with the old stone at your back and the wind all around.

You didn’t say anything afterwards. Just looked at him. And then you raised your phone.

He protested, mildly. You ignored him.

The photo you took caught him leaning casually against one of the taller stones, arms folded, eyes narrowed in that particular way of his - equal parts gruff and patient. The sun caught just behind him, outlining his profile in a flare of light that softened everything.

You knew you’d look at it later and feel like you could still hear the wind moving through the grass. Still feel the cold stone beneath your hand.

Still feel the moment he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world he trusted to stay.

Marlborough stretched out like a storybook - its wide, high street flanked by elegant Georgian buildings and crooked, timber-framed shops, bunting fluttering lazily overhead, as if the town were perpetually in celebration.

You wandered through the market slowly, hand in hand, the scent of sun-warmed produce, crushed herbs, and freshly baked bread thick in the air. You’d surely find everything for a proper picnic.

It was livelier than the quiet villages you’d visited the day before. Stall owners called out greetings in broad accents; locals browsed with wicker baskets on their arms, and dogs dozed under tables. It was everything you’d imagined the countryside might be - but fuller, deeper somehow, because he was beside you, pointing things out like he’d been here in another life.

Maybe he had.

You paused at a bakery stall and picked out two crusty rolls still warm from the oven, passing one to John without a word. He took it with a hum of approval, bit off the end, and kept walking. He didn’t let go of your hand.

Then you saw it.

Tucked between jars of chutney and curd, beside hand-painted labels and gingham lids, it sat like a memory trapped in glass: blackberry jam. Just blackberry. Not spiced, not swirled, not infused by lavender or clove. Deep and dark and honest.

You picked it up carefully, cradling the jar as if it were something delicate, your fingers brushing over the handwritten label and the wax-sealed lid.

Without saying anything, you stepped closer to him and held it up.

John blinked. Then, he took it from you slowly, eyes fixed on the jar like it had slipped straight from his past into the palm of his hand.

“Is that one?” you asked, voice quiet - teasing on the surface but gently curious underneath.

He turned it over once, then again. “It’s damn close.”

You watched him - really watched him - and your heart caught. For a flicker of a moment, he wasn’t the Captain.

He was young.

He was young, standing in front of a jam stall with the sunlight warming his hair, and you could see it - the boy he must’ve been. Something tender flickered across his face. Small. Honest. A joy that wasn’t sharp or hidden, but simple and startling in its purity.

And you loved him for it. Not just for the man he was now - but for the boy who still lived quietly inside him. For the version of him that still got wide-eyed over jam in a market on a summer morning.

“You’re excited,” you said, stepping closer.

He snorted, low and embarrassed, already trying to tuck it away. “It’s just jam.”

“No,” you whispered. “It’s not.”

He moved on to the cheese stand, mumbling something, and while he wasn’t looking, you paid for the jam and tucked it into your bag.

You caught up to him, and he glanced over as you slipped your arm through his.

“Got everything?”

“Everything we need,” you said.

John turned the car toward the road, the trunk filled with food and wine and your shoes discarded beneath the dash.

You rested your feet on the edge of the seat and looked at him. “You know,” you said gently, “it’s a good thing I’m already in love with you. Because the way you looked at that jam? I might’ve fallen all over again.”

His ears pinked slightly at that - just enough to make you smile.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

You leaned over, kissed his shoulder, and whispered, “You love it.”

The road narrowed to a ribbon of pale gravel that wound through low hedges and open meadows, the afternoon sun warming everything in a way that made it feel suspended in time. You’d left the last village behind a few turns ago, and now there was nothing but the soft rise and fall of the North Wessex Downs ahead - lush grass rolling under the breeze, dotted with wildflowers and the occasional stubborn sheep chewing lazily in the distance.

John slowed the car, scanning the landscape like he already knew what he was looking for. “Let’s walk from here,” he said. “Find a nice spot.”

He pulled off the road, parked under the shade, and popped the trunk.

He pulled off the road and killed the engine beneath the crooked shadow of a small tree. The breeze that met you when you stepped out was warm, carrying the smell of sun-warmed grass and dry stone. He popped the trunk, and you helped gather the blanket, the clinking bottles, the wrapped bread, cheese, and fruit.

You walked for a while. You didn’t keep track of the time - mostly because you were too busy teasing him for being slow, for grumbling about the wine bottle weighing down his arm, for pretending to scowl every time you skipped a little ahead barefoot. He let you go on, quiet behind you, only occasionally rolling his eyes when you looked back.

Then he saw it.

“Over there,” he said, nodding toward a gentle slope that curved into a broad, open hollow - half-shadowed by a lone oak tree that leaned slightly westward, branches sprawling like a crooked crown. Beneath it was a patch of even grass and wildflowers freckled between the blades like fallen confetti.

You walked down the slope together, boots in hand, laughter carried off by the breeze. The world stretched wide around you, endless and green.

And when you reached the tree, John lowered the basket with a small grunt, dusting his palms together. “That’ll do,” he murmured.

“That’ll more than do,” you said, breath catching slightly as you looked around.

You spread the wool blanket between you. The quiet was the kind that settled into you, not over you - no traffic, no phones, just the sound of wind in the tall grass and the rhythmic thrum of bees somewhere nearby.

John sat with a groan, legs stretched out, arms braced behind him. You handed him a glass of wine, then passed him a wedge of cheese.

You poured a glass, passed it to him, then handed him a sliver of sharp cheddar. “You ever had a picnic like this before?”

He thought for a second. “No.”

It made you smile in that quiet, reverent kind of way - because, of course, he hadn’t. Of course, his days off had always been numbered, his peace stolen in pieces, never enough time to do something so ordinary. And yet here he was now, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, the buttons open at his throat, sun catching in the fairer ends of his beard and softening all the hard edges you’d come to know. His legs were stretched out across the blanket, ankles crossed. His shoulders had lost their usual height. He wasn’t scanning for threats. He was watching you.

You ate slowly, not because you had to, but because everything about the moment made you want to. The crusty bread still had warmth in its centre, the cheese crumbled at the edges, and the jam - when you finally opened it - was thick and sweet, stained dark with fruit and childhood memories. The wine was cool, and the breeze carried the sound of birdsong from some hidden branch above the fields.

John leaned back onto one elbow and picked at a piece of fig you passed him, chewing lazily, almost dreamlike. His fingers brushed yours every now and then - no rush, no urgency. Just that wordless rhythm of sharing space, food, and breath. You let the silence bloom around you, not awkward but full, like something sacred.

“You know,” you murmured after a while, brushing crumbs from your fingers, “I think I wish I could’ve shared this part of your life with you.”

He turned slightly, brows furrowing. “What part?”

“The younger version of you. The one who came out here on a bike. Bought jam from a roadside shed. Spent hours walking through villages like this.” You picked at the edge of the blanket, suddenly shy. “I think I would’ve loved him, too.”

John didn’t speak at first. His eyes dropped to your hand, watching how your fingers moved, then lifted back to your face - measuring the weight of your words like they were fragile.

Then he reached out, gently curled his fingers around your wrist, and tugged until you looked at him.

“You’re here now,” he said simply. “That’s a million times better.”

You stared at him, and something in your chest cracked open. The way he said it - without hesitation, without needing you to reassure him - landed somewhere deep.

You leaned into him and kissed the corner of his mouth. He caught your chin after and kissed you again, slower this time, like he was trying to memorize the way your lips felt under the sun.

You pulled back just enough to ask, “Could you ever imagine living out here again?”

He blinked, then turned to look out over the grass, thoughtful. The breeze lifted the edge of the blanket and played with your hair. Bees buzzed lazily nearby, weaving through tall stems.

“Maybe,” he said after a while. “With the right person.”

You didn’t say anything to that. Just stared at him.

His hand found yours again. You let him hold it, your thumb grazing the rough line of his knuckles, a silent thank you tucked in the motion.

Then, you reached for your bag and pulled out the jam.

He stared. “You actually bought that?”

“How could I not?” you said, unscrewing the lid. The smell hit first - rich and dark, the kind that tugged at the back of your throat with something almost too nostalgic to name. You dug out a spoonful, sticky and deep violet, and held it out toward him. “Open up.”

He gave you a long-suffering look. You just smiled.

“Say please,” you whispered.

He didn’t. Instead, he took the spoon from your hand, rolled onto his side, and pulled you into his lap without warning. You yelped, laughing as he buried his face against your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin there before he pressed a kiss to the spot he’d nipped.

“God, you’re lucky I like you.”

“Yeah?” you said, breath hitching as your arms looped loosely around his neck. “How much?”

He didn’t answer. Just fed you the spoonful, then licked the sticky jam from the corner of your mouth with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue that made you freeze.

“Enough,” he murmured against your skin.

And for a while after that, there was only laughter, sunlight, and the rustle of grass all around you. His fingers splayed warmly over your thigh where you sat tangled in his lap, and yours traced lazy lines along his jaw as the sun dipped lower in the sky.

You passed bits of fruit between your mouths, drank the rest of the wine with flushed cheeks and quiet smiles, and talked about nothing and everything in between slow kisses and stolen bites.

Then, from far off - a breeze shifted. A cool one.

You lifted your head instinctively. It started not with sound but with absence: the birdsong faded, the warmth thinned, the air changed direction, brushing across your skin in a way that made every hair rise.

You were still half-curled in his lap, fingers absently crumbling the remains of a piece of bread, when the first raindrop struck - fat, singular, cold against your thigh. You blinked down at the dark circle it left behind, spreading like ink on fabric.

“Did you feel that too?” John murmured, brow arched.

Another drop. Then another.

And then the sky cracked open. A sheet of rain fell without grace or buildup, sudden and merciless, soaking the back of your shirt before you’d even found your feet.

“Oh my God!” you shouted, bolting upright. The blanket was already slick, puddling beneath your knees. You scrambled for the cheese, the wine, the half-wrapped bread - laughing and cursing at once.

He wasn’t helping.

John Price, decorated soldier, was standing there like he’d never seen rain in his life, arms slightly out, head tilted to the sky, water cascading from his hair, down his neck, darkening the linen shirt clinging to his chest. He was laughing - a full, unrestrained, boyish sound that cracked you wide open.

“You jinxed it!” you cried, trying to shove the damp cheese into the tote bag as the bottle of wine nearly slipped from your grip.

He just grinned wider, hauling the corner of the blanket up with a flourish that sent crumbs flying.

“Customer service is absolutely going to hear about this. I’m leaving the worst review anyone’s ever seen.”

“Oh yeah?” he shouted, “Well, customer service would like to formally deny your complaint, ma’am !”

Thunder rolled lazily across the hills behind you - nothing dangerous, but deep enough to remind you of how alone you were out here. The kind of sound that made you feel small , like the world had woken up and was reminding you of its power.

Your hair was soaked, heavy against your cheeks. Water ran down your arms in rivulets. The blanket was a lost cause. You bundled what you could into the bag and clutched it to your chest like a prize salvaged from a shipwreck.

“Car’s too far,” John said, eyes scanning the drenched horizon, rain dripping from his lashes.

“No shit ,” you gasped, wiping water from your face.

He turned suddenly, pointing to a narrow lane through the trees, some lights barely visible through the curtain of falling water. “There. I think the village’s that way.”

You didn’t need convincing. You were already running.

The hill was slick beneath your boots, every step a gamble. Mud clung to your heels, tried to steal your footing, and you nearly went sideways once, squealing, the wine bottle clutched like a lifeline. Behind you, John’s laugh rang out again - louder now, completely unguarded.

And when you looked back - just for a second - you saw him like that.

He was soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his forehead, and his shirt stuck to every line of him like it was part of him. Arms pumping as he ran down the hill without care or caution, boots splashing through puddles like he had never known the weight of war or loss or time. And he was smiling.

Not smirking. Not the wry, half-cocked grin he wore when he was teasing. No - this was joy . Unfiltered. Like a boy let out of school and caught in a storm.

And your heart - God, it just ached . With the kind of helpless, wild love that roots itself in your ribs and never lets go. You felt breathless and drenched and absolutely overcome.

He paused at the bottom of the slope, turning slightly to wait for you, water pouring off him, his chest heaving, and he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever need to see again.

“Come on, love,” he called, holding out his hand. “Before we drown.”

You didn’t hesitate. You reached for him, your hand slipping into his as he caught you, steadying you, anchoring you in the downpour.

And then you ran .

Through the grass, through puddles that soaked your legs to the knee, through the cold that didn’t matter and the wet that couldn’t touch the heat between your chests. His laughter met yours like an echo, your bodies colliding once, twice, as you pelted toward the village lane. Like unburdened kids fleeing some beautiful disaster.

You weren’t thinking about how you looked, or how soaked you were, or how far you still had to go.

You rounded the bend, breath catching as the village came into view like something conjured from memory - half-seen in a dream. Nestled into the curve of the lane was the inn: low stone walls darkened by rain, ivy clinging to the edges, a crooked sign swinging wildly in the wind, its iron chains creaking overhead. Smoke curled from a chimney, curling into the bruised sky, and golden light spilt from its windows like warmth incarnate.

John tugged you through the little iron gate and up the worn steps, both of you slipping slightly on the slick stone. He wrenched open the heavy wooden door with a grunt, and the wind shoved in behind you - then was cut off with a slam that echoed through the walls as the door shut again, sealing you inside.

You froze just over the threshold. Breathless. Drenched. Dripping water onto the old timber floor like a pair of strays let in from the storm.

Inside, the world was different. Softer. Dim and quiet. The scent of firewood and spice hung thick in the air - clove, maybe, or something mulled. The low pop and crackle of a hearth fire filled the silence. Somewhere down the corridor, a dog barked once as if acknowledging you.

The innkeeper stood behind a polished oak counter, a man with wiry grey hair and a red waistcoat, blinking slowly at the sight of you both. There was no alarm in his expression - just that curious, amused patience that came from living a long time in one place, from having seen weather like this and people like you before.

John stepped forward, still holding your hand, his thumb brushing once across your knuckles. His hair was plastered to his forehead, dark with rain, and drops slid down the back of his neck to soak into the collar of his shirt.

“We’ll take a room,” he said, voice low.

The man gave you both a once-over - wet to the skin, breath still catching - and nodded as if the answer had already been decided. “Top of the stairs. First door on the left.”

John handed over wet cash without letting go of your hand.

Neither of you spoke as you climbed the stairs. Your steps squelched on the old carpeting. The hush between you wasn’t awkward - it was full. Charged with everything that had just happened. The run. The rain. The laughter. The look he’d given you at the bottom of the hill.

You reached the room and stepped inside without speaking. It was small, simple, utterly perfect. A wide bed with a heavy quilt. A thick rug beneath your feet. A fire already lit in the stone hearth, flames curling up around thick logs, shadows dancing on the pale walls. A basin and mirror stood in one corner, a worn armchair in the other.

The door clicked shut behind you, the latch catching with a thud that echoed through the warmth of the room. It was quiet, save for the low crackle of the fire and the sound of water dripping from your sleeves, your hair, and your bag onto the old wooden floorboards.

The fireplace glowed low at the far end of the room, flames flickering up around thick logs, their light dancing across the stone hearth and casting shadows against the walls. You stepped toward it instinctively, as if pulled, feeling the heat begin to chase the chill from your wet skin.

Your shirt clung to you like a second skin - cold and heavy and utterly miserable now that you’d stopped moving.

Without thinking, without hesitating, you began to peel it off, dragging the damp fabric up over your head. It made a low, wet slap as it hit the floor. Then your shorts followed, and your socks, leaving a trail across the rug as you stood closer to the fire, chasing warmth into your bones.

You bent to tug off your last sock, your spine curving with the motion, water trickling in slow paths down your sides, your breath still shallow from the run.

Behind you came a sound.

A groan. Low and involuntary.

You froze, sock halfway off, and slowly turned your head.

John was standing near the door, still fully dressed - his shirt clinging to his chest, his jeans soaked and dark. His eyes were fixed on you, wide and dark and hungr y . One hand was braced on the wall, the other between his legs, pressing hard against the unmistakable outline of his cock, straining visibly against drenched denim.

He didn’t hide it. Didn’t flinch or drop his gaze or pretend it wasn’t happening. He just looked at you like he couldn’t breathe.

And you - God, you felt it. That stare, that weight, that need. It settled low in your belly, blooming into heat that rushed between your thighs, caught in your lungs, curled like smoke through your limbs. You turned to face him fully, bare now and bathed in firelight, your skin flushed and still kissed by the storm. You let him see it all.

And he did.

His eyes moved over you like he was memorizing you, like he couldn’t believe you were real. His nostrils flared. His throat worked around a sound he didn’t quite let out. His fingers flexed where they gripped his jeans.

And then he moved.

Toward you. Like a man possessed.

He stopped right in front of you, soaked through, boots trailing rain across the floor. He didn’t speak. Just stood there, towering and still, breath coming hard through his nose like it took everything not to fall to his knees right then and there

His hand came up - slow, reverent - and brushed damp strands of hair back from your cheek. His fingers grazed the line of your jaw, then slid down your throat, across your collarbone, trailing warmth in their wake.

“Sit,” he rasped, voice thick with need. “Over there.”

He nodded toward the armchair in front of the fire - an old thing, high-backed and broad, worn leather dulled by age and use. It looked like it belonged in some country manor, the kind of chair someone once read poetry in while the rain fell outside.

You stepped back slowly, lowering yourself onto the cushion. The leather was warm from the fire, soft beneath your bare skin, the heat licking at your sides, your thighs. You sank into it and looked up at him, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

He knelt in front of you without hesitation. His knees sank into the rug with a soft thump, and then his hands found your thighs. Large, calloused, sure. He spread them gently, reverently, as if opening a book written just for him.

And when he looked up at you again, everything in your chest stopped.

His eyes were dark and molten, but not just with want. There was worship in that gaze. A raw, stunned kind of reverence that made your throat tighten.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered. And there was awe in it. Like he meant it. Like he didn’t know how the fuck he’d ever done anything good enough to deserve you.

Then he bent forward - and devoured you.

His mouth found you like it had known the way all along. The first stroke of his tongue was slow, deliberate, so fucking tender it nearly undid you on the spot. He licked you from the base of your entrance to the peak of your clit with a groan so guttural, so wrecked, it vibrated right through your bones.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause . He buried his face against you like a man dying of thirst, mouth hot and desperate, tongue circling your clit, lips sucking it into his mouth until your back arched against the leather.

“John,” you gasped, voice breaking, “fuck - fuck, please - ”

He growled in response, beard scraping gently against your skin as he buried deeper, flicking his tongue faster now, the rhythm devastating. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, anchoring you, his fingers digging just enough to ground you in every flick, every swirl, every kiss of his mouth.

“John - ”

A low, ragged sound tore from his chest as he pinned you in place with his strength alone.

“Stay still,” he murmured against you, voice rough and soaked with need. “Let me worship you properly.”

And fuck, did he.

One of his hands slid lower - two fingers, thick and slick with your arousal, teasing at your entrance. He kissed your clit as he pushed one inside, slowly, filling you in one deep, steady thrust.

You cried out, hips jerking.

“There she is,” he rasped, lifting his head just enough to watch the way your mouth parted, the way your chest heaved. His lips were glistening, his voice gravel and smoke. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

His finger curled just right - and the sensation was immediate, a bolt of lightning behind your eyes, white-hot and blinding. Your thighs jerked, your whole body tightening like a bowstring drawn too far, too fast. Heat coiled low in your belly, thick and sharp, winding tighter with every shallow breath, every slow flick of his tongue.

He felt it - of course, he did. The way your muscles tensed, your breath hitched, your hips began to roll toward his mouth like they couldn’t help it.

“That’s it, love,” he murmured and then kissed your clit - an open-mouthed press of heat and tongue and reverence that made your vision blur. “Come for me.”

And then he sucked. Tongue flicking just right, lips sealing around you with maddening precision.

You shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you like a wave breaking over stone, crashing down and curling back to hit again. A sharp cry tore from your throat, your spine arching off the chair as your hands scrambled for purchase - on the arms, on him, on anything. He didn’t let go. Didn’t falter. Just groaned low in his chest like your pleasure fed something primal in him and kept devouring you. His tongue licked through every pulse of it, every slick, trembling aftershock.

And even then - even then - he didn’t stop.

You whimpered, already shaking, thighs twitching, still trying to breathe. But his hand slid lower again, and when he pressed a second finger inside - slow but insistent - you gasped, back jolting from the seat.

“John - ” your voice broke, half-plea, half-warning.

“You can give me another one, love,” he said, voice rough and worshipful, fingers stretching you open with careful skill. “One’s not enough. Not for you.”

His mouth followed, tongue circling your clit again, this time with a different rhythm - slower, deeper, building you up from the ruins of the first. Then faster. Then filthy - lips dragging, tongue flattening, sucking until your hips bucked and your fingers fisted in his hair.

Every sound he made - every groan, every sigh, every breath - told you he loved this. Loved you . Loved wrecking you with his mouth like he couldn’t get enough.

You tried to pull away, instinctive, a twitch of overstimulation -

But he growled, low and possessive, and tightened his grip on your hips, dragging you back into his mouth like he wasn’t done. Like he couldn’t bear the space between you.

And you came again.

It was messier, sharper. Your head fell back, mouth open in a cry you didn’t recognize as your own, your legs trembling against the leather and fire-warmed air. You felt the heat and the slick and him, and it all bled together into something wild - something unrelenting.

He didn’t stop. Just licked you through it like a man lost in worship, groaning like your body was the altar and he’d found his God.

When it finally passed - when you sagged back into the chair, boneless, glowing, legs parted in surrender - he pulled back. Barely.

He knelt between your thighs, lips red and swollen, beard wet, his chest heaving like he’d just gone twelve rounds. You were trembling, glowing in the firelight, every inch of you flushed and alive.

And then you laughed - soft and ragged, like it startled even you.

“I didn’t even get to eat any of the picnic,” you said, voice thick with breathlessness.

His brow arched, but you went on, pouting faintly.

“I was promised strawberries and cheese. Jam, too. And now the blanket’s probably halfway to Scotland.”

That earned the smallest flicker of a smile - crooked, dangerous, and so fond it made your chest ache.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, sliding his palms up the inside of your thighs with slow, heavy heat, “I’ve got something a hell of a lot more delicious for you.”

You blinked, lips parted. “That so?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he stood slowly, peeling his soaked shirt off with a quiet rustle. The firelight gilded every line of him - broad shoulders, thick chest, skin flushed from heat and exertion. He dragged a hand through his wet hair, then gripped the waistband of his jeans.

He cupped himself through the fabric once - slow, possessive - then tugged it down.

And fuck.

You sat up without meaning to, heat pulsing sharp and hungry low in your belly.

He was already hard - thick and flushed and heavy, the kind of thing you felt before you even touched it. His hand wrapped around the base, stroking once - slow and lazy, like he knew what he was doing to you.

“Open your mouth, love,” he said, voice low and rasped and dangerous.

You did - greedy and dazed, lips parting as he brought the tip to your tongue, his hand tightening in your hair the second you closed your lips around him.

“That’s it,” he groaned, hips rocking forward just enough to press deeper. “Knew you’d take it so fucking well.”

You sucked him deep, tongue swirling, mouth hot and wet and eager. He cursed, voice cracking under his breath, his fingers tightening in your hair as you worked him over - slow and sinful, letting your teeth graze ever so lightly, pulling back with a pop just to lick the head the way you knew drove him mad.

Your mouth sealed around him, tongue dragging along the underside of his cock in a rhythm that made his breath stutter above you. He swore, low and raw, his hand tightening in your hair as you took more of him, the heat of your mouth drawing another broken sound from his throat.

“Fuck -” he choked, hips jerking despite himself.

You moaned around him, throat flexing, the vibration making his knees nearly buckle. He pulled back slightly, but you followed, lips flushed, eyes dark, and took him deeper - all the way this time, until your nose brushed the hair at the base and his cock twitched against the back of your throat.

That was it.

He staggered back with a curse, eyes wild, jaw tight, like he’d just barely stopped himself from coming right then and there.

“Bloody Christ,” he rasped, staring down at you - wrecked and glistening and too fucking good.

He hauled you into his arms, no hesitation now, no teasing or pretence. Just need . You hit the rug with a gasp, your back arching as he followed - his body heavy and hot against yours, mouth crashing into yours with a groan that sounded more like a prayer than a curse.

He came down over you, every inch of him trembling with restraint. The weight of his body pinned you beneath him, the hot press of his cock against your thigh sending fire straight through your spine.

He looked down at you - like a man seconds from ruin.

And then he pushed inside.

Slow. Deep. Devastating.

You gasped, your spine arching into him like your body had been waiting for this exact moment your entire life. Your hands clawed blindly at his shoulders, trying to hold onto something solid, something real, while your name tumbled from his lips like a vow, wrecked and reverent.

He filled you completely, every thick inch dragging along nerves left raw from his mouth, from his worship, from the way he looked at you like you were salvation, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that said everything he didn’t know how to say with words.

His hips moved in long, deliberate strokes, dragging the thick length of him deep inside you, over and over, until you couldn’t remember where you ended and he began. Your nails dug into the broad plane of his back; your lips parted around helpless sounds as he rocked into you, slow and deep and utterly devoted.

The fire cracked beside you, casting molten light over the sweat gleaming on his skin, the sharp line of his jaw, and the shadows under his eyes.

He looked wrecked. Wild. Beautiful.

You barely had your breath back when the laughter slipped out.

A quiet giggle at first - then more, a flood of it, light and ridiculous and suddenly impossible to stop.

John grunted against your throat. “What?”

You pressed your face into his shoulder, trying and failing to contain yourself. “The poor innkeeper,” you wheezed. “We’re not exactly - subtle.”

He huffed against your shoulder, lips curving into a smug smile. “Good.”

You swatted at his shoulder. “John -”

He pulled back just enough to look at you - wet hair falling into his eyes, that smirk cutting sideways through the heat of the moment. “I’ll leave a generous tip.”

“You’re awful,” you whispered, still laughing, even as his hips rolled forward in another slow, devastating stroke.

“You love it,” he murmured, mouth brushing your jaw, voice low and wrecked. “All those sweet sounds you’re making - you want them to hear.”

“Do not put that in my head.” But it was already there. The image. The sound. The truth of it - that you were his, and he was yours, and you didn’t care who knew it.

He chuckled - deep, dark, and unbearably fond. Then he kissed you again, and all of it - your protest, your teasing, your breath - dissolved in the way he moaned softly into your mouth and pressed deeper inside you, holding there, buried to the hilt.

He kissed you again, and then his rhythm shifted, just slightly. Slower. More controlled. Every thrust was purposeful, dragging every inch of him over every spot inside you that made your toes curl and your eyes roll back. He moved like he was trying to carve his name into the softest parts of you. Maybe he was.

You whispered his name, breath trembling, and he leaned down to kiss you again - open-mouthed and desperate like he couldn’t get close enough.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, lips brushing your cheek. “Right here, love. Right here. ”

His breath hitched as he bottomed out again, hips grinding into yours, and you gasped, legs locked tight around his waist, nails pressing half-moon indents into his back.

“I love you,” he whispered against your throat, voice cracked and uneven, like the words cost him something - but he gave them anyway. “I fucking love you.”

Your breath hitched.

His hand found your cheek, thumb stroking reverently over your skin as his hips moved - slower now, deeper like he wanted to stay inside you forever, like he could if the world would let him.

“I love you,” he said again, more urgent this time, like he needed you to believe it, to hold it. “Every part of you. Every word. Every breath. You hear me?”

“Yes,” you choked, voice trembling. “God - John - ”

“I love you when you’re angry,” he rasped - and thrust deeper, harder, making you gasp.

“When you’re being a pain in my ass - ” Another sharp thrust, rougher, knocking the air from your lungs. “When you make me laugh - ” His voice cracked, and he buried himself in you again, brutal and perfect.

“When you walk into a room, and I forget how to fucking breathe -”

He drove into you with a force that bordered on savage - raw and wild and completely undone. Your head fell back, a cry escaping your lips as he pushed you further, deeper, dragging you with him into something feral and too full of love to be gentle anymore.

His hand slid between you, found your clit, and circled it in a slow, devastating rhythm.

“That’s it,” he panted. “Come with me. One more. I need it, love - can you do that for me?”

You nodded - barely - already there, already teetering on the edge.

He buried his face in your neck, groaning raggedly, “Wanna feel you when I let go. Wanna feel you take every fucking drop.”

And then it broke - inside you, through you.

And then it happened - fast and all-consuming. Your body tensed, shuddered, clenched around him as your orgasm slammed through you with raw, blinding intensity. Your hands fisted in his hair, your legs locked tight around him, and your cry broke in the back of your throat as everything inside you lit up - tightening, fluttering, pulling him deeper.

That flutter - God - it wrecked him.

“Jesus Christ - ” he gasped, the words torn from somewhere low and broken, his body seizing against yours. “ Fuck, I - ”

He thrust once, hard, hips slamming flush, and then he came - deep and violent, with a groan that sounded like it cost him something to give. His cock jerked inside you, spilling hot and thick as your body milked him for every drop, your walls fluttering around him in waves that kept dragging him under, again and again.

He clung to you, arms locked tight around your back, head buried in your shoulder like he could hide from how much it undid him - his groans turning into ragged gasps, his entire frame shuddering with the force of it. His hips twitched helplessly, still grinding against you as the last pulses wracked through him, oversensitive and utterly overwhelmed.

“Fuck - fuck, love, I -” His voice cracked, breath catching in his throat as he pressed impossibly closer, like if he didn’t hold you tighter, he might come apart entirely.

He stayed like that - buried to the hilt, panting against your throat, every muscle in his body drawn taut, trembling from the aftershocks. You could feel his heartbeat racing against yours, feel the heat of him, the weight of him - real and yours , in the most devastating, beautiful way.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move.

Just stayed there, his weight pressed into you, his arms wrapped around your body like he needed the contact to stay grounded. You could feel his heartbeat against your ribs, fast and deep, still catching up.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

Eventually, he shifted just slightly - just enough to ease his weight so you could breathe a little easier, though he didn’t go far. Instead, he dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the place below your ear, where your skin was still damp with sweat and rain and heat.

He was still inside you, deep and warm and pulsing in the afterglow, his body blanketing yours, heavy with the kind of weight that felt right . Grounding. Real.

Your hands found his face - cupping his jaw, thumbs brushing over the coarse stubble there - and his forehead rested to yours. You breathed in tandem. Lips ghosting. A rhythm you’d fallen into without realizing.

When you finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. “Did you mean it?”

His lashes lifted slowly. “What?”

You searched his face. “Back at the picnic. When you said maybe you could imagine living out here again. With the right person.”

“Yeah.”

Your voice softened. “I’d like to be that person.”

A long silence stretched between you. His thumb brushed your cheek, slow and grounding.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his thumb swept along your cheek, slow and thoughtful. His voice was quiet when it came - hesitant, like saying it too loud might make it disappear. “You talkin’ marriage?”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t nod. Didn’t smile. You just looked at him.

Held his gaze with that steady, open softness that always disarmed him more than a bullet ever could.

His brow furrowed slightly, voice dipping into something rougher, almost incredulous. “Jesus,” he breathed. “You are .”

You just looked at him, eyes open and unwavering, and in that moment, you were everything he’d never dared to believe he could have - everything solid and warm and good in a world that had taught him to expect loss more than love.

And when you finally spoke again, it was gentle and impossibly tender. “I love you, John.”

His hand slid behind your neck, and he kissed you - hard, full, like his mouth was the last place left to put everything he’d ever been too afraid to say aloud. Like this - you - was the only truth that had ever mattered.

When he finally pulled back, his lips brushed against yours, breath warm and unsteady.

“I know,” he whispered.

He didn’t say anything else, just kissed you again - slower this time, like he wasn’t going anywhere. And for now - for this moment - that was promise enough.

198 notes · View notes

borathae · 2 months ago

Text

↳ Index [Snippet #57 - Tentacles]

“When you and Jungkook test out your new tentacle dildo.”

Genre: married life!AU, Slice of Life, Smut, Fluff in the beginning

Warnings: domestic sweetness, they’re couple goals, Bamie being their cute son, Kook being a dork, the next warnings are for the smut, switch!Kook, switch!Reader, but the D/s dynamic is very minimal, this is about a couple in love taking turns to make the other feel good, but he calls her Mistress when he gets really into it, pussy fingering & clit play to get her ready, making out, being totally lost in the moment, use of a tentacle dildo, sharing of said dildo, they take turns with it, use of lube, first she penetrates her pussy with it, then he fucks his ass with it, hand job, nipple play, neck kisses, some drool, mutual masturbation, praise, dirty talk, wet & messy orgasms, squirting for both, cuddly aftercare, they’re in love <3

Wordcount: 6.5k

a/n: anonie, your enthusiasm about this wip made me finish it, hehehe, so this one's for you <3 honestly it’s so horny, enjoy besties 🧡 i fucking love this koo so much omfg my comfort koo for life <3

You are using your laptop by the kitchen table for a change. A bowl of salted peanuts and a glass of white wine is keeping you company. You can hear Bam playing with one of his squeaky toys in the living room. The constant squeaking should annoy you, but it doesn’t. It has become part of your life, serving as a nice background reminder that Bam was happy.

You take a sip of the white wine, scrolling down the webpage you currently find yourself on.

“Doing some online shopping?” Jungkook asks, coming into the kitchen to get his workout drink. He spent the afternoon drawing in his hobby room and plans on doing his boxing workout now.

“Yeah, just browsing for some stuff”, you answer him, not looking up.

He comes up behind you, bending down to kiss your neck and hug you. Such affection is a daily occurrence from him, which means that you don’t let it distract you from your shopping. It is still really nice and exciting, don’t misunderstand.

“That’s nice. What stuff?” he asks.

“Just some more lube and toy cleaner. We’ve run out. Hey, do you think that we should get a tentacle dildo?”

Jungkook falters. He finally looks at the screen, eyes widening at the rows of silicon dicks looking back at him.

“Oh my god, you’re doing dick shopping in our kitchen?” he gasps.

“I guess”, you say and chuckle at his use of words.

“What the hell, baby?”

“In my defence, I only wanted to get lube and cleaner first, but fell down a rabbit hole. Remember the alien dick conversation we had?”

“I guess? I don’t know. Not really, no.”

“Either way, I got a tentacle dildo on the front page and now I’m here. On the fantasy dildo page, thinking how hot it would be to own one. Should we get one?”

“Wait a minute. I need to sit down and see the options.”

And like that, his boxing workout has to wait as you and he spend a good hour deciding on which tentacle dildo to get.

Jungkook is home when the package arrives. You are still at the restaurant, working hard.

Jungkook is working on a tattoo in his room when the doorbell rings. He tells Bam to stay and hurries to the door to check who was interrupting him. He thanks the postman and wishes him a good day, then he hurries to the living room.

He takes out his phone and dials your restaurant’s number. Then he stands by the living room window, looking outside with one hand on his hips.

“Hello, you’ve reached ___’s Bistro, Joe speaking. How may I help you?” one of your employees picks up.

“Hey, Joe. Here is Jungkook speaking. Can I talk to ___, please?”

“Yo hey, Jungkook man. Yeah, right away”, he says and calls out to you, “hey, ___! Jungkook’s asking for you!” He speaks to Jungkook again, “she’s on her way.”

“Thanks, man.”

A few moments of silence. The restaurant sounds busy in the background.

“Thanks Joe. Hey, sweetie”, you suddenly say.

“Is Joe gone?”

“Yes, he’s back to working. Why?”

“Baby, I need you to come home immediately.”

“Why? What happened? Are you okay? Is Bam okay?”

“The dildo arrived.”

“Wow okay. Thanks for making me have a heart attack. You can’t just say that to me after calling the restaurant. I thought that an emergency had happened.”

“This is an emergency. I really wanna open it and look at it.”

You laugh, “you’ll survive.”

“No, I won’t. Please sweetie, come home.”

“I would love to, but the restaurant is really busy. It’s probably gonna get late today.”

“Nooo babyyyy, why would you say that?”

“I’m sowwyyyy, I swear I don’t want it either. But it’s Friday and payday for most. People want food.”

“And I want my wife.”

“Just play your Sims until I’m home.”

“No, I’ll sit by the door and whine. Like a dog.”

You laugh, “okay do that, puppy.”

He grins, “please don’t work too hard.”

“I’ll try. You can open the package already if you want to.”

“No, I wanna do it with you.”

“Okay, okay.” More noise in the background. “I really gotta go now. We got more customers.”

“Yeah, okay. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The call ends. Jungkook huffs out air in frustration. Never in his life has he missed you as much as he misses you right now. For just a second, he even considers driving to the restaurant just so he can watch you work.

Bam stubs his leg. Jungkook looks at him and pets his head.

“I know, Bamie. I miss her too. Stupid payday, it’s always busy then.”

Bam whines, showing Jungkook the tennis ball in his mouth.

“Should we play some fetch? Okay, let’s go to the beach.”

Jungkook stays down by the beach until Bam is basically tired enough that he barely manages to get up the stairs. Jungkook cleans him in the garden and prepares cold water for him to drink as he makes dinner.

He texts you if you want to eat dinner at home to which you say that you already ate at the restaurant. So Jungkook makes himself a quick meal, eating by the table while Bam eats his dinner as well. You text him again as he eats.

- Wifey ♡: It’s still busy here :( I’m sorry…

- Jungkook: Don’t apologise ♡ I’m sorry that it’s busy :( sending you lots of energy ♡

- Wifey ♡: Yay thank you ♡

Because it will still take you some time, Jungkook decides to go for one last digestion walk with Bam. Afterwards the poor Doberman is so tired that he falls asleep on Jungkook’s lap during his night time routine. Of course you and Jungkook have a night routine for Bam, which consists of wiping down his fur, moisturising his paws and brushing his teeth. Jungkook leaves out Bam’s “jammies” tonight, sending him straight to his crate. Bam merely manages to snuggle up against his emotional support dinosaur plushie and then he is already fast asleep.

“Sleep, my baby. Daddy loves you so much”, Jungkook whispers and sends him a hand kiss, afterwards he leaves Bam’s room. Just in time with you arriving home. Jungkook hurries to the door and sits down. He has a plan. To make you laugh.

Not long after he sat down, the door to the garage unlocks. You step inside and stop, eyes falling to Jungkook sitting on the floor and whining.

“Seriously?” you say, having to laugh loudly. You stumble, knees giving up and so you end up on the floor as well.

Jungkook laughs with you, closing the distance to touch your arms.

“Did you actually sit here and whine all day?”

“Of course I did”, he jokes, only making you laugh harder.

You hug him, muffling your happiness in his shoulder. Jungkook hugs you back, feeling on cloud nine. Making you laugh will never ever lose its magic.

“Oh god, you. This just wiped away all of the stress I felt.”

“I’m glad. I guess I don’t have to ask how your day was.”

“It was stressful, but not bad. Still glad to be home now and to have three free days ahead of me.”

“I know, me too.”

“How was your day?”

“Lonely without you, but still good. I was at the beach with Bam almost all day. He’s basically dead in exhaustion. He even snored when I left the room.”

“Aww Bamie, so cute. Our son. I bet he had such a good day running around.”

“He did, yeah.”

You and he stand up together, exchanging a loving kiss. He helps you out of your jacket and carries your bag for you.

“So did you really wait with the package?”

“Of course I did. I wanted to look at it with you.”

“You really didn’t have to.”

“No, I wanted to. It’s important to me that we unpack it together.”

“You’re cute. Let me just wash my hands real quick. I feel disgusting.”

“Okay.”

You join him in the living room in comfortable clothes. You sit down next to him.

“Ready?”

“So ready.”

He takes the package and scissors. You scoot closer, watching him open the box.

Some packing peanuts, the receipt, the toy.

“Wooaah”, you and he gasp at the same time, eyes widening.

“This looks so realistic.”

“It’s bigger than I thought it would be.”

“Take it out of the package, I wanna touch it.”

You and he hold the toy together.

“Wooaaah.”

It is purple in colour and with a good length. Around twenty centimetres with a growing girth. The tip is just a little thicker than Jungkook’s thumb, while the base is around the size of his wrist. The silicon feels soft and very high quality and it has no scent to it, which is always a good sign.

“Run your thumb over the suckers, they feel so realistic”, he says.

“They do. Wow. Do you think that we can feel them?”

“I hope so. That’s lowkey the point.”

“Me too. It’s actually so long. My cooch is not gonna handle that well.”

“Yeah, it’s big. I feel like I’m gonna struggle too.”

“Right. We can take it slow.”

“Definitely.” He glances at your face. “Should we do it tonight?”

You meet his eyes.

“Okay no, you don’t want to. That look told me everything I needed to know.”

“Sorry, I’m really tired.”

“Don’t apologise. We looked at it, that’s already enough for me. Whenever you’re in the mood.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, sounds good. Should we shower and then watch a movie and cuddle?”

“Yes, this sounds amazing. I’m sorry that I’m not feeling it tonight.”

“Apologise again and I’m biting you.”

You chuckle, “okay fine.”

It is around four in the afternoon the next day when Jungkook seeks you out. He was in the garden before that, while you lounged on the beach. He sits down next to you, calling your name. You open your eyes.

“Hey, baby.”

“Hey, you.” He rubs your arm. “Baby?”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if maybe you are in the mood?”

You sit up, “you’re horny? Now?”

“Not horny, just really curious.” He pouts. “I just wondered, you know, it’s been almost a day and yeah. Yesterday, you said you wanna do it tomorrow. And today is tomorrow and yeah.”

“Did you already clean out and everything?”

“No, I would do it now if you said yes.”

“You know what? I am down, actually. Once we’re ready, it’s gonna be later anyway, so why not start already? Should I clean out downstairs?”

“Whatever you want. I’m flexible.”

“Then let’s do it like that.”

“Yes, I’m so happy right now.”

You and he pack up and then go home to get ready.

You meet in the bedroom again, cleaned out and so ready. Bam is officially in his crate and the door is locked because you don’t want to be disturbed. Slow RnB music is playing and you have the thin curtains drawn closed to shield away some of the sunlight.

You are naked, laying out your waterproof sheets, when Jungkook comes outside.

“Oh. Hey. Yay, matching outfits”, he greets you.

“You’re looking good in it, my handsome.”

“Says the right one, my beautiful”, he flirts back and closes the distance in confident steps.

It is so sexy to be naked together when the near future offers pleasure. He connects his hands with your waist, running them down to your hips. His big, brown eyes race over your face and tits, sparkling in adoration.

“Hey”, he rasps.

“Hey”, you coo.

“You’re so sexy”, he says in a breathy whisper.

“Thanks. You’re so sexy too”, you say and run your hands from his abs up to his pecs.

“It feels good how you touch me.”

“Your body is perfect.”

He looks at your lips, “I’m really excited. How are we gonna do this?”

“I guess I go first and you go second? Because, you know, ass to pussy is never a good idea.”

“Right. We can’t have you catching something. Let’s have you go first. What do you need me to do to get you there?”

“Just kiss me and let me feel you on top.”

“Come here”, he says and fulfills your wish enthusiastically. He kisses you, picking you up just to lay you down on the sheets and climb on top.

He gives you a moment to catch your breath. The way he looks at you makes you feel like the most beautiful person to ever exist.

“Is this comfy?” he asks, touching your thighs gently. You have them around his hips to keep him close.

“Yeah, it’s perfect.”

“Let me know if you don’t want me to touch you somewhere. I’ll let my hands wander, yes?”

“Yes, don’t leave anything out please. Can I touch you everywhere too?”

“My body’s free real estate for you”, he jokes, making you laugh.

He smiles, chuckling, and kisses you.

“Idiot”, you murmur between kisses, fingers running through his hair.

“You love it”, he answers you, right hand running along your side.

“Mhhm, love it.”

“Baby…”

Perhaps it’s all the years together, but it is so much fun to turn each other on. It’s so easy and exciting and damn, do you love doing it. Today it’s especially nice because it’s such a perfect day for spontaneous sex.

The sun is warm and enters the bedroom in a yellowish glow because of your curtains. You are trapped in a cozy, sensual atmosphere, floating on the growing clouds of attraction. You left the balcony door open to let in the salty ocean breeze. The rushing of waves joins the music as much as the occasional call of a seagull does. This is paradise and it’s your daily life.

The realisation makes you pull him so much closer. His back ripples and tenses, his throat produces the loveliest of sighs. His skin feels like heaven. Soft and warm and so his’. Perhaps it is impossible to understand but you know the sensation of his skin these days. You could recognise him just by touch.

Jungkook runs his right hand from your shoulder down to your hip. He holds you there, pinning you down with just enough strength that you notice it. He is gentle in it however, giving you a tender roll of his hips which naturally grinds his dick over your tummy. He is already so swollen and hard.

“Fuck, Kook”, you break the kiss, gazing up at him with heavy eyes, “I need you to play with my pussy. I can’t do long make out sessions today.”

“Anything you need”, he says and puts two of his fingers into his mouth to get them wet.

Once happy with the results, he slips them between your legs, rubbing them up and down your sweet warmth. He is propped up on his hand for now, arm tense and keeping his weight up with little struggle.

You exhale in relief, eyelids fluttering. He lowers himself to his elbow and cups your cheek, making it so much better.

“Is this nice?”

You nod your head, “I love this moment.”

“Me too. You’re so beautiful in this light.” He traces your eyebrows and caresses your left temple. “My goddess.”

“Kiss me, I mean it.”

Jungkook moans softly, letting you pull him into a kiss. You control the tempo and intensity and he is so happy to follow. It feels so good. It’s been years since you shared your first kiss on top of the ferris wheel and it still feels as exciting as it did back then. Perhaps even more exciting because each kiss, each eager touch and tender lick is filled with memories of your life together.

Jungkook feels light-headed. He takes your left hand and pins it above your head in sync with his hips rolling against your inner thigh. He is leaking all over your skin because he is already rock hard. He gets hard so easily with you. He swears it’s because he loves you so much.

You run your right hand down his back until you can grab a good amount of his buttock. It makes him growl into the kiss and chase your thigh in a needy thrust. You love it so much. Being under him, having him hold your hand and fuck your thigh and goddamn, having him rub your pussy. You love this so much, leaking onto his fingers.

“More.”

Jungkook hums in understanding and buries his wet fingers in you. He is slow in it, so as not to hurt you.

A gasp breaks the kiss. You look at him with the neediest and sexiest face he has ever seen.

“Is this good for you?” he speaks in a low purr, eyes totally smitten for you.

“So good, ah.”

“Mhhhhm, I love your pussy”, he purrs and kisses you deeply. It is his turn to control the tempo, the intensity and fuck, is he passionate with it.

If you weren’t already entirely engrossed by him, you would have started to be right this moment. He tongue kisses you like he is doing it professionally, all while he curls and scissors his tattooed fingers deep inside you. And because this fucking bastard is amazing, he rubs his thumb up and down your clit, including a circle whenever he is right on top.

You swear that you will melt into a puddle because of him. These are the moments where you love his perfectionism. He is so stern with himself all the time, but it results in him having perfected pleasure. He touches you like it is his destiny and god, you might lose yourself.

You break the kiss, choking out your words.

“Stop right now. Stop.”

Jungkook freezes up.

“Pull your hand away. Now.”

“Oh my god, what’s wrong?” he gasps, doing what he is told. He even sits up, panicking enough that his cock goes a little soft.

“Fuck this was close, what the heck.”

“What’s wrong? Are you okay? Please don’t tell me that I hurt you.”

“No, I almost nutted.”

“Wow okay, then say that and not be so cryptic. I was so scared”, he pouts.

“Sorry, are you okay?”

“No, I need you to kiss me.”

You snicker, getting on your knees and closing the distance. You kiss him like this. Kneeling with him as your arms snake around his body and your tits melt with his pecs. His cock is between your tummies, getting rubbed so good that he grows hard again.

And Jungkook forgives you instantly, cradling you in his strong arms. He towers over you a little, resulting in you having to crane your neck and lean into him. He loves it so much, feeding you his needy sighs alongside his tongue.

Fuck, he is so into you. He growls and grabs your ass with both hands, doing it with such passion that you whimper and tremble. You twist his hair at the back, getting him dizzy and short of breath.

In return you feel light-headed and ready to crumble into a pile of horny mess. The way he is kneading your buttocks feels so good. Possessive and rough, which means you can feel it in your pussy as well. You press yourself so much closer to him, turning him on unbearably.

If this continues, he might ask you to forget about the dildo and fuck him instead. And because you and he are basically connected, you break the kiss just to mention said dildo.

“I need to sit on the tentacle now or I will never escape you.”

He chuckles breathily, “fuck, why are you so good at reading me?”

“Because I’m obsessed with you”, you flirt, sending his pulse into a frenzy.

He gives you his best and most loyal puppy eyes ever. You peck his lips and wiggle out of his arms.

“Are you excited to watch me?” you ask, getting the dildo ready. You put it into one of your strap-on harnesses and strapped it to a pillow to make it easier to ride.

“I’m so excited”, he confesses, watching you smear lube all over the purple tentacle. “Getting it wet sounds so sexy.”

“Right? I’m so curious how it’ll feel. Now silence, I need to concentrate.”

He gasps dramatically and holds his breath with his eyes big and his cheeks puffed out. He makes you laugh, setting him off too.

“You can breathe.”

“Just making sure.”

Giggling and laughing, you position yourself over the toy. Jungkook watches you, laughing and giggling just as much. How fucking good it feels to laugh with you during sex.

You get serious once you start playing with the tip however, taking your lower lip between your teeth and looking down at the toy.

Jungkook shares in your silence, breathing heavily because the view is so arousing to him.

You lower yourself, taking the toy easily. Just the tip. Down. Down. Down until the stretch comes. Stop.

“Fuck, this is… Woah fuck…”

“Is it good?”

More. Deeper.

“It’s intense. Woah” you writhe and reach down to touch your own tummy, “woah, this is deep. Oh my god.”

Jungkook presses his thighs together, mewling needily. Knowing that you are stuffed turns him on so much.

“Please try to move”, he begs and you do.

“Fucking hell, urgh”, you get out, throwing your head back and twisting the pillow. “What the fuck is that?”

“Is it good? Does it hurt?”

“It’s like I’m getting impaled by an alien or something”, you moan, rolling your hips on the purple tentacle needily. You try to lift your hips as well, resulting in your puffy cunt to slurp up the tentacle greedily. It sounds so wet and sinful. Looks like actual pornography.

“Baby, oh my god”, he whimpers, having to touch his own nipples because it excites him so much. He rubs his hands over them, all while his thighs are squeezing his balls for stimulation. He can’t stop looking at your pussy and how she gets impaled by the tentacle. She is stretching so much, weeping and slurping happily and Jungkook swears he will pass out at the view.

“Ah, Jungkook”, you moan, arching your back sensually, “Jungkook…baby…Jungkook��”

He can’t do this. He can’t just watch when you moan his name like this. He closes the distance and calls your attention by rubbing your arm.

You peel your eyes open and lift your head, gazing deep into his eyes.

“Does it make you think of me?”

“It feels so nice. Koo, I keep thinking of you as my alien lover.”

He moans. You whimper his name and drop down on the tentacle. It squelches sinfully, stretching your pussy addictively well. It doesn’t hurt, it just feels intense. This is the kind of stuffing that satisfies you to the very core. The kind of stuffing you want to keep chasing and chasing and chasing.

“Jungkook…”

He runs his eyes over your body, chest rising and sinking in a shaky breath. He lifts his hands, running them along your curves without actually touching you. The ghost of it tingles, making you crave his fingers on you.

“I really wanna touch you”, he whispers, eyes glued to your stuffed pussy.

“Please, do.”

He rests his left hand on your waist and slides his right hand between your legs. His fingers part your folds, finding your clit easily and picking up a sensual rhythm.

“Kook”, you moan shakily, resting your hands on his strong pecs. The toy feels a million times more intense now that he is touching you. The suckers keep grinding against your entrance, sucking and stimulating it sinfully well.

“You’re so soft”, he whispers, eyes racing between yours. His fingers draw circles on your clit, knowing exactly how much pressure and what speed you love. Of course they know. He touched you a million times before. Your body is a landscape he knows how to explore blindly. And he won’t ever grow bored of it, tingling in pleasure each time he rubs your clit.

With shaky fingers, you touch the nape of his neck. You pull his face down, moaning when your foreheads touch. The eye contact remains, the tension is electric.

“Sweetie”, he sighs, sliding his left hand to the small of your back. He loves how you tense as your hips dance on the toy.

“Koo, it feels so good”, you whimper, grasping his neck.

“I know it does. I know. I’m so happy. You’re so beautiful, my sweetheart.”

“Oh god, it feels so good.”

“Enjoy it. Focus on it. You deserve it.”

“Kiss me.”

Jungkook claims your lips as his’, moaning with you as you sink into the kiss. You convulse around the toy, grasping his face. His fingers speed up on your clit, sending trembles through your legs.

The kiss breaks just barely, but you needed to moan and gasp for air.

“Am I doing good?”

“Really, ah, re-really good.”

“God baby, I wanna live in this moment forever.”

“You’re gonna make me cum.”

“Good, so good. Focus on it, baby. Focus on the toy. How it’s inside you.”

“I can feel the suckers everywhere”, you mewl, twitching, “ah, Koo.”

“Good girl. Taking my tentacle so well. Mhm? Are you taking my tentacle well?” he taunts, wanting to play into your fantasy because it will get you off.

“Koo…” you whimper breathily, eyes going just a little cross.

“Good girl, such a good girl.”

Your hips have no true rhythm going on. All they are doing is rut and squirm and chase the orgasm. Your entrance is already so sensitive because of the tentacle. Your pleasure spots inside are throbbing and burning in ecstasy. And your clit pulsates each time he runs his skilled fingers over it.

His eye contact. The close proximity. His hand on your back. His dirty talk. The moans he shares with you. It is all too much. You are completely and utterly submerged in this moment. You exist for nothing but him and the pleasure you create together.

“I’m cumming.”

“Cum for me.”

“Koo.”

He moans into your mouth because you pull him back into a kiss. The moan turns into a throaty purr as you begin sucking on his tongue because this is all that you can manage during your orgasmic shakes.

This high is intense. It really, genuinely, weakens you. To the point where you fold in on yourself and your legs press together. You fall against Jungkook, forcing the kiss to break.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

“I’m here, hold onto me. I’m here.”

“Jungkoooooook”, you mewl, reaching between your legs to press his fingers closer. Your knees are twitching, legs squeezing together and walls throbbing around the tentacle. This isn’t over. This orgasm has layers to it, hitting you over and over again.

“Good girl. You’re doing so well. Cum on my tentacle, such a good girl.”

You sob, “ah-a-ah.” And then it happens. You squirt, messying the toy and your thighs. Truly, if Jungkook wasn’t holding you, you would have already collapsed.

“Oh my god, Yes baby. Yes. Squirt for me. This is so hot. Fuck, yes give me everything.”

His words help you ride it out. And it is glorious. To know that you have someone like Jungkook helping you through it, makes it so much better.

He rubs your clit until you pull his hand away. Brought to your limit, you instantly have to slip off the toy. The tentacle squelches loudly as it leaves you, flopping to the front. It glistens sinfully. Big globs of your orgasm are sticking to the suckers.

“I can’t, ah”, you get out and plop down in the mess.

“Breathe, baby. Breathe”, he talks you through the aftershocks, cradling your face with both hands.

“This was really intense.” You gulp, eyes glassy. “I’m shaky.” You exhale weakly. “Can I get a hug, please?”

“My baby, you cutie. Of course, come here”, he hugs you against him, rocking you softly. “Let me hold you, babygirl. I’m here.”

“Oh god, Koo.”

“Just lean on me. I’m here.”

His loving embrace helps so much. Because of it, you manage to come back safely. Oh, it is so comforting to be loved by him.

You lift your head, gazing at him.

“Hey, do you feel better?” he whispers, caressing your cheeks. It doesn’t matter to him that some time has passed. As a matter of fact, sharing this tender moment with you felt like paradise to him.

“Yeah, I feel happy. I can’t believe this just happened.”

“Me neither. I haven’t seen you this twitchy in some time.”

“I don’t know what happened. It felt so good.”

“It did?”

You nod your head. He exhales shakily.

“Not gonna lie, this makes me really needy.”

Your eyes glimmer.

“Do you wanna ride it?”

“I do. I really fucking do.”

“I’ll clean it.”

“Don’t.”

Your heart flutters.

“Fucking don’t clean it. I wanna know that I get to have you inside me. At least something of you.”

“Koo”, you get to your knees, cradling his face, “Koo, please ride it. I can’t wait to watch you.”

He nods his head and slips out of your touch. You scoot back a little to give him space.

“I hope I’ll like it too.”

“I’m sure that you will. This toy is definitely your style.”

“Fuck, I’m so excited.”

“Do you need me to prepare you somehow?”

“No, watching you get off was everything I needed. Besides, I’m wearing a plug.”

“That’s so hot.”

Jungkook reaches behind himself and pulls out the plug. He groans softly, leaking onto the sheets.

“Thank god we put the sheet down”, he says.

“Definitely. First me, now you. We’re so messy.”

He chuckles, putting aside the plug. He takes the tentacle and positions it under himself.

“I’m so ready to sit on it.”

“You will love it so much.”

He picks up more lube, spreading it on the toy.

“It’s so warm from you. And messy. I can’t wait, fuck.”

“Me neither, baby.”

He circles his loosened rim, staring down at himself. His lower lip is between his teeth, his brows are furrowed. You don’t want to breathe, gawking hungrily.

He lowers himself. The tip slips in.

“Ah.”

“Relax. Take it easy.”

More. He manages around seven centimetres and stops. A groan leaves him, followed by a “fuck”, and his head rolling back.

“Is this a it’s good fuck or a it hurts fuck?”

“An it’s more intense than I thought it would be fuck.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“I get you now. Oh my god what the fuck”, he chokes out, touching his tummy to check how much he takes.

A little more and he stops again, grasping the pillow for support. It squeezes his pecs together and makes his arms tense.

“___”, he moans, cock twitching and lungs working overtime to breathe.

You close the distance and hold his waist. He rolls his head to the front, meeting your eyes. His gaze is droopy and entirely smitten for you.

“I’m right here, baby. Just look at me when it gets too much.”

He moans your name, eyes fogging up and hips dropping further down on the slickened tentacle. Five more centimetres, and his mouth falls open. Not for long because he has to bite his lower lip in sync with him trying to rock on it. His brows tremble because they can’t decide whether to lift or furrow.

“Intense?” you ask, rubbing his waist.

He nods his head, rolling his lip between his teeth.

“Keep looking at me, baby. I’m here.”

He whimpers softly, cupping your cheek.

“I don’t know if I can slip off”, he confesses.

“Hurts?”

“It’ll feel so good. I can’t do this.”

“Just try, baby. For me.”

Jungkook furrows his brows and obeys. He slips off the toy.

“Ah!” He yelps and flinches. “O-oh my god. The texture.”

“It’s intense, isn’t it?”

“Yes” He squeaks, closing his eyes. He drops back down on the toy, lifting his hips instantly to pick up a needy rhythm.

“Just listen to you getting fucked. Your hole sounds so stuffed right now.”

“It feels so good. I feel every sucker. Ah. The girth. My hole is so….ah….filled.”

“That’s right. It’s so stuffed with me.”

He whimpers, legs shaking.

“Isn’t that right? You got my orgasm deep inside you, baby.”

“Please.”

“It’s coating your insides. I’m making you mine.”

“Please, shut up”, he keens, trying his hardest to cover your mouth with his hand. His palm is so warm and just a little sweaty.

You giggle, kissing his shaky fingers.

“What’s wrong? Don’t like me talking dirty to you?”

“Don’t want this to end. No orgasm. Not yet. Please.”

“Okay, okay sorry. Then let me watch you for a while.” You dance your hands over his body. “You don’t mind me touching you as you get fucked, do you?”

“Please”, he breathes out, dropping his head in defeat, “don’t stop touching me. It feels so good.”

He slings his left arm over your shoulder, using your other shoulder as his headrest. You rub his back, sliding your right hand to his cock.

“___”, his voice is squeaky and entirely drenched in pleasure. His hips tremble before getting so much sloppier on the tentacle.

Jungkook knew that you weren’t lying when you lost it on the tentacle, but he didn’t think that it was actually this intense. He has a very sensitive hole, even normal stimulation with your strap feels intense. To have something so intensely textured pound him over and over again is actually deeply overwhelming for him. He can feel each sucker his hole swallows, he can feel them trying to stay inside when he slips off and he can feel them digging their way back inside when he drops down. Because of its shape, most of the stretch stays by his hole. And there is always this one sucker which seems obsessed with his prostate.

“I get it. ___ my love, I get it.”

“You do? Do you like it?”

“Love it. Goddess, I’m yours. Please don’t ever leave me.”

The toy has him clingy. He must love it a lot. He only gets this way when the pleasure has infiltrated his brain as well and the only thoughts occupying his mind are thoughts of you.

“I’m not leaving you, Koo. Feel it, this is me making you mine. You’re on my mind”, you promise him, twisting your hand around his tip.

“___.”

He drops on the toy and stays down, hips suddenly rutting back and forth vigorously. You know this motion, you know the urgency of it. He turned cock dumb, trying oh so desperately to make himself climax. The only thing you can do is keep your hand still and talk sweet to him.

“Good boy. Make yourself cum. What a good boy you are. You’re made for the tentacle.”

“My nipples, please.”

You connect your left hand with his chest, playing with his nipple. His right one is a little more sensitive so you are paying attention to it. You rub and squeeze it, tugging on his piercing very gently whenever you feel like it.

“I’m cumming”, Jungkook whimpers and breaks with a sob. He shoots his load all over your hand and tummies, collapsing into you and scratching your upper back.

“That’s it. Cum for me. Good boy, give me everything. Cum for me”, you talk him through it, jerking his throbbing cock.

He sobs loudly, curling into himself because the orgasm reached his prostate. He doesn’t want to but he still spills translucent liquid all over your tummy. He can’t help it. You touch him just right.

“___!”

“Yes baby, squirt for me. Let the tentacle milk you. Good boy.”

“___, I can’t stop.”

“I know, let it happen. Don’t try to hold it in”, you encourage him, squeezing every single droplet out of him and Jungkook can do nothing more than give you everything his body can produce.

“Hurts”, he means it honestly once the high stops. He slips off the toy with shaking legs and drops into your arms.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

“I’m shaky”, he whimpers, seeking your comfort by nuzzling his nose into your neck.

“I know exactly how you feel. Lean on me, it’ll pass soon.”

“Oh god, oh god…”

“I’m here, babyboy. I’m right here.”

The perfect thing about you and Jungkook is knowing that you can be each other’s comfort and not have it feel weird. He can be dominant and strong while you are shaky and weak. And in return you can be just as dominant and strong while he is shaky and weak. This is what makes you and him so fucking perfect for each other.

With your love, Jungkook recovers quickly. Soon, he feels strong enough to lift his head and meet your eyes.

“How are you doing?”

“Good, but vulnerable. I wanna hold you.”

“Let’s lie down.”

Your limbs tangle together so you can face each other. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are glimmering prettily.

“I don’t know what happened.”

“Me neither. There must be crack on this toy.”

He laughs weakly, “seriously. At some point it felt alive inside me.”

“Right? And the sounds-”

“So wet. I tried not to listen because it would have broken me instantly.”

You agree with a nod and snicker. Jungkook smiles softly.

“I feel so droopy”, he confesses, dropping his hand on your cheek.

You melt into his touch, “you look droopy.”

He hums and closes his eyes. You scoot closer and kiss his nose.

“Just think of the day I peg you with it.”

He mewls, “don’t make me think of that, I’ll pass out.”

“Sorry”, you snicker and kiss his nose a second time, “I’m so happy that we bought this toy. I definitely wanna use it again.”

“Yeah me too.” He kisses your lips, mumbling a very heartfelt “I love you” against them.

“I love you too.”

“Wanna cuddle.”

You close the distance and snuggle into him. Jungkook purrs happily, hugging you against him.

“This was amazing”, he whispers, “it got me there so fast. I’m kinda sad it’s over.”

“I get you. I got there so fast too. Means we have to do it again soon.

“Yeah definitely.”

You snuggle him tighter, tracing mindless shapes on his back. He does the same along your spine.

“The sun’s starting to set”, you whisper.

“Nice. I love the sunset. Should we make pasta for dinner?”

“Pasta sounds amazing. And for dessert we can have ice cream.”

“Yeah, mint choco.”

“No, hazelnut choco.”

Jungkook smiles. Even years later, your favourite ice cream flavour hasn’t changed.

“I love you so much”, he whispers, wrapping his limbs around you to melt you into him.

“I love you too, but I’m gonna suffocate”, you whine, heart racing like crazy.

“Take it, I need to squeeze you.”

You laugh, letting it happen gladly. He is such a sweetheart.

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