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em1i2a3 · 6 days ago

Text

Tongue

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Virgin!Fem!Reader

Summary: During a night out on the town with your friends, you are pushed into talking to a mysterious cowboy at a bar, who turns out to be one of the only blessings that Wabang has ever given you.

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff, Mentions of Alcohol Consumption, Mentions of Grief and Death (Reader was a caregiver for her ailing father since she left high school), Reader kind of sidelined her life to take care of her father meaning she missed out on a lot of things and is looking to catch up (would I say angst? I don’t really know, but I will say possibly?)

Smut Warnings: Virginity Loss, Unprotected P in V Sex (protect yourselves friends. This is pure fantasy), There are discussions of purity/virginity (between friends, and between Rhett and Reader), Masturbation, Dirty Talk (that involves the mentioning of the readers virginity), Rhett is an attentive lover Jesus H Christ lol, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Fingering, Making Out and Dry Humping (a devilish combo), Praise and Worship Kink, Discussions about Birth Control, A bit of blood (not always an indicator of loss of virginity btw, just throwing that out there), Hickeys and Lovebites, Squirting, Nipple and Breastplay, Overstimulation, Very Gentle Hair Pulling, Being Held Down (in like a not forceful type of way!), Emotional/Physical Aftercare

Author’s Note: I got a request for this and I really liked the idea of it, but I also had to go all out because it’s Rhett frickin Abbott we’re talking about here. Yeehawwww. Anyways, enjoy another segment of RAF <3

Word Count: 17,045

The Branded Mare was quieter than usual for a Thursday night–not totally dead, but certainly not shoulder-to-shoulder either. A couple of pool games were underway near the back, the clack of billiard balls echoing gently under the low murmur of voices. Classic rock hummed from wall-mounted speakers above the booths–Fleetwood Mac, maybe, or Skynyrd–tinny and worn from years of play. Overhead, the lights were low and amber-hued, casting a warm haze over everything. The bulbs flickered every so often, the way they always did here, like the building itself was coughing dust out of its orifices.

It smelled like a half-hearted attempt at cleanliness–Pine-Sol, bleach, maybe a hint of lemon disinfectant in the corners–just strong enough to sting the nose if you breathed too deep. But underneath that was the true scent of the place: beer-soaked wood, old bar mats, fryer grease, and cigarettes drifting in from the cracked patio door every time someone stepped out for a smoke. It was the kind of bar that felt lived in–scarred barstools, a jukebox that always skipped the second verse, and carvings etched into the tabletops so deep you could run your thumb through someone’s initials and still feel the indent years later.

You and your friends had taken over one of the half-moon leather booths near the back–close enough to the bar to watch people come and go, but tucked just out of the way enough to talk shit without being overheard. The seat was sticky against your thighs where your denim shorts met skin, and the middle cushion sagged slightly, forcing everyone to sit a little too close. The table was cluttered: half-eaten fries going cold in a red plastic basket, a few longneck bottles sweating condensation onto paper napkins, a couple cocktails in mismatched glasses. Someone had spilled something early on, and now the wood beneath your forearm stuck just faintly when you moved.

Your friends were talking–laughing, teasing, making little jabs about town gossip or the girl from high school who just got engaged for the third time–but your attention had started to drift like it normally did when you weren’t in tune with the subject.

Your eyes scanned the place slowly, taking it in with a sort of lazy familiarity. A group of guys in baseball caps gathered near the jukebox, arguing about the next song. A couple older men sat at the bar, hunched over their drink like they had been planted there since 4PM. One woman danced alone by the dartboards, a beer in one hand, her flip-flop tapping against the sticky floor as she swayed out of rhythm to the music.

Then your gaze snagged on a figure, and you paused.

He was sitting at the bar, maybe two or three stools from the end, his back turned partway to you. He wasn’t someone you recognized–not from school, not from the feed store, not from church or town events either. But then again, you didn’t go out much–or you hadn’t been going out much until fairly recently. You certainly didn’t know everyone in town, not in the way your friends did. Maybe he was just passing through. Maybe he was local and liked to keep to himself. Either way, you knew you would’ve remembered seeing him before.

His hair was light brown, pushed back beneath a dark baseball cap that had seen some better days, the brain curved tight and low over his eyes. A few strands curled out from beneath it, damp near the nape of his neck like he had showered and hand’s bothered to blow dry–or maybe it was sweat…You had no idea. He was nursing a beer–bottle, not draft–slow and casual, like he wasn’t in any kind of rush. His posture was relaxed, one forearm propped on the bar top, the other cradling the bottle as he tipped it toward his mouth.

You couldn’t see his whole face–just the side of it, the angle teasing more than it revealed. A strong jaw, the faintest trace of stubble, lips that moved slowly as he spoke to the man beside him. His voice didn’t carry, but you could imagine it–low, maybe a little scratchy. Probably drawled and dripping with a southern twang only the men of Wabang had.

What you could see, though, was his build.

He was lean but solid. Broad shoulders under a navy flannel button-down, the fabric pulled slightly where it stretched over his upper back. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, exposing tan forearms dusted with a little hair, and his jeans–well, they sat just right. Faded, worn a bit at the seams, hugging his thighs like they had been through hell and still clung to him out of loyalty. He didn’t look like he spent hours in a gym. He looked like he worked outside. Someone who used his body for ranch work, or even rodeo–a man carved from manual labor.

You didn’t mean to stare, but you couldn’t help it.

You stippled your drink absently, the lime-slicked gin and tonic turning watery from melted ice, and your gaze lingered–long enough for one of your friends to notice.

”I see you starin’ at that cowboy,” Jennifer stated, tilting her glass toward the bar with a smirk, “You want us to scoot so you can get a better view?” You blinked quickly as if she broke a spell of some sort.

”I’m not going up to him,” You replied, a little too quickly for your own liking.

“Oh, c’mon, Y/N, don’t be shy,” Leah added, nudging your hip under the table, “You’ve been picking from the douchebag buffet lately. A cowboy like that?” She motioned to the man standing at the bar, “They usually know how to treat a woman right.” You rolled your eyes, taking another sip from your drink.

”I’m not looking for candidates to take my virginity tonight, if that’s what all of you are thinking.” They burst out laughing at that joke, leaning in over the table, their drinks sloshing slightly as they hooted and snorted and covered their faces. You shook your head at them, your cheeks warming slightly, but a reluctant smile tugged at your lips anyway.

”It doesn’t hurt to flirt,” Sam said through her laughter, “Maybe he’s not into hookups. Maybe he’s decent…And maybe…Just maybe, y’all will hit it off.”

“He doesn’t look standoffish,” Leah chimed in, “And he’s got a nice ass…I won’t lie.” You let out a breath, but your eyes wandered back to him anyway, even through your friends teasing you.

From across the bar, Rhett Abbott wasn’t exactly trying to eavesdrop–but the laughter carried and echoed through the enclosed space, and it was hard to ignore.

Bits and pieces of conversation reached him between guitar riff and clinking glassware, muffled by the music but just clear enough to snag his attention.

He’d caught the words: Cowboy, Virginity, and Nice Ass. The last one made his brow twitch upward, and his lips parted in the faintest grin before he caught himself. He let his eyes wander casually across the bar, lifting his beer for another sip as he scanned the room nonchalantly.

It took a second to find your booth. And when he did, he knew. There wasn’t another group it could’ve been. His eyes lingered for a moment.

You were sitting with three other girls, all of you leaning in close, laughing like you’d just said something scandalous and immediately regretted it. You had your head tilted slightly, one shoulder drawn in like you were trying to disappear into yourself–and he could tell you were warm with embarrassment. Even from here, he could clock it instantly that you were the black sheep of your friend group–which wasn’t a bad thing at all.

The others were smirking, biting down on their straws, whispering into each other’s ears between giggles. One of them flicked her eyes toward the bar–toward him and Rhett watched as you tried not to follow their gaze.

He bit the inside of his cheek, ducking his head slightly.

“What’re you smilin’ for?” Perry asked, leaning over, his voice just above the low hum of the room. He had one hand on a sweating bottle of Coors and the other lazily spinning a beer coaster between his fingers. Rhett scratched the back of his neck, shaking his head a little like he was embarrassed to even say it out loud.

”Think I’ve got a fan club in ‘ere.” He said, voice rough with amusement, “I hear some girls talkin’ about me.” He glanced over at Perry, seeing his eyebrow was raised.

”Yeah?” Rhett nodded toward your table with the tip of his bottle.

“Booth in the corner. Four girls. Laughin’ like they’re up to somethin’.” Perry followed his gaze. It didn’t take long to find your table–too many sideways glances, too many hands covering mouths like they were trying not to be obvious–even though they were doing an extremely poor job. Perry smirked.

”You’re right on that one. They’re definitely talkin’ about you.” Rhett laughed under his breath, rubbing the edge of his thumb against the label on his bottle.

”Can’t imagine why. I’m just sittin’ and drinkin’.”

“It’s that goddamn shirt n’ jean combination…It attracts all the ladies…I told you this.” Perry said with a pointed glance at Rhett’s outfit.

“Maybe I just wear clothes that fit me properly,” He deadpanned, tilting the bottle to his mouth to take another swig of beer.

“You gonna talk to ‘em?” Rhett’s brow lifted at the question, swallowing.

”You dare me?”

“Hell yeah, I dare you,” Perry replied instantly, “I’ll pay for your next beer if you go over and strike up a conversation with ‘em.” Rhett paused, turning the bottle slowly in his hand.

The truth was, Rhett had been thinking about going over from the second he heard your laugh–quiet, a little self-conscious, like it had snuck out before you could stop it. He’d noticed you before the teasing, before the sideways glances, before the odd set of words floated across the bar and almost made him choke on his drink.

You stood out, even tucked into the corner like you were trying not to. Not because you were louder or flashier than the rest–if anything, the opposite. While your friends leaned into each other, bold and easy in their comfort, you sat just slightly apart, shoulders drawn in, one hand loosely curled around your drink like you were grounding yourself.

He wasn’t downgrading the others. Hell, they were all pretty in their own right, the kind of girls who turned heads the second they walked in. But you–

You were the one that made his heart stutter.

Maybe it was the way you watched the room with those soft, perceptive eyes, like you didn’t just see people–you read them. Maybe it was the way you carried yourself–thoughtful, a little guarded, like you’d learned to measure twice and speak once.

Rhett didn’t know what it was, not exactly. But he was curious. And that curiosity was burning like a fuse.

So when Perry threw out the dare and dangled a free beer on the end of it, it was really just icing on the cake. He took the last swig from his bottle and thunked it down on the bar.

“All right then,” He said, rolling his shoulders back with the kind of quiet anticipation that looked more like he was about to hop on a bull than walk across a bar. “Wish me luck.”

“Go get your fan club president,” Perry smirked, already fishing out his wallet.

Rhett adjusted his hat just enough so the low brim wouldn’t shadow his face, then turned and made his way toward your table–easy strides, relaxed, but with that faint electricity crackling just beneath the surface.

The second he stepped within earshot, your group fell quiet. Not instantly–but that kind of rippling quiet, where each girl caught on a second after the last. One by one, your heads turned.

And when you looked up at him–

Your lips parted slightly.

You didn’t even mean to. It just happened, automatic, like your breath caught before your brain had a chance to play it cool.

Because God.

Up close, he was even more than you’d imagined.

His face was all sun-carved angles and soft contradictions–high cheekbones, a strong jawline dusted with stubble that looked like it would scrape in the most delicious way. His skin was golden from time spent outdoors, a faint pink clinging to the high points of his cheeks and nose like he’d just come off the trail. And his eyes–

You could see them now.

Clear, startling blue. Not icy. Bright. Like sky after rain. Like river water in the deepest pocket of the bend. His lashes were thick, almost annoyingly so, and framed his gaze with a softness that balanced the rugged set of his brow. He looked like someone who’d seen his fair share of shit and had come out the other side weathered–but still good.

“Evenin’, ladies,” He drawled, voice smooth as warm honey and twice as slow. He tipped his baseball hat slightly, more charming than cocky, just enough to tease. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just thought I oughta come introduce myself, since I heard y’all had a few opinions about my ass…The name’s Rhett.”

Your friends broke into immediate laughter–delighted, unfiltered, hands over mouths like teenagers again.

You blinked hard and had to look away for a second. Goddamn it, he was funny too.

Jennifer leaned forward with a grin. “We were just admiring the view, cowboy. You can’t blame us.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” He said, grinning easily as his gaze flicked across the table–but it kept returning to you. Like clockwork. Like reflex.

You felt it–every time he looked, your chest got tighter. Your fingers pressed just a little harder around your drink. And when he caught you looking back at him?

Your lashes fluttered. Stupid. Obvious. And you hated how it made your stomach twist.

“I’m Jen,” She said brightly. “That’s Leah. And Sam.”

“Nice to meet y’all,” Rhett nodded, polite and warm. Then, after the briefest pause, he tilted his chin toward you. “But does the quiet one have a name?” You felt your throat tighten. The way he said it wasn’t pointed or pushy. It was gentle. Curious. Like he’d already picked you out and wanted to peel back the layers without spooking you. His voice dipped soft on quiet, like it was a trait he admired instead of teased.

You cleared your throat, sitting up slightly, the heat blooming up the back of your neck as you finally met his eyes head-on.

”…It’s Y/N.” His mouth twitched at the corner, and you saw it–how he bit gently on the inside of his lip like he was tucking something in. His voice dropped just a little when he repeated it.

“Y/N.”

There was weight to it. Drawl thick and reverent, like he was already tasting it on his tongue.

“Pretty name,” He said, soft and sure. “Fits you.”

And just like that, it hit you–hard.

The way your name sounded coming from his mouth. The way his eyes stayed on you even as your friends kept chattering beside him. The way your body was suddenly so aware of every inch of itself–knees pressed together, fingers twitching against the edge of the table, mouth dry.

Rhett’s eyes dropped to the melting ice in your glass, then lifted again, catching your gaze with a faint tilt of his head.

“Mind if I buy you a fresher drink?” He asked, voice low and a little playful, his fingers flicking subtly toward your half-dead gin and tonic.

You glanced down, lips curling slightly as you shifted the glass between your fingertips. The lime had sunk to the bottom, pale rind bobbing listlessly. The condensation had pooled beneath it in a ring, sticking faintly to your skin every time you moved your hand.

“Not at all,” You murmured, soft but clear enough that it cut through the static of your own nerves.

His mouth twitched–not quite a smile, but something just as warm–and then his tongue darted out, quick and unthinking, to wet the center of his bottom lip. Your eyes snagged on it before you could stop yourself. That faint sheen of moisture catching on pink skin, the way it lingered for just a second too long. It made something catch low in your throat.

“What’re you havin’?” He asked. You cleared your throat gently.

“Gin and tonic,” You replied, voice catching just enough to make you wince internally. You weren’t used to stammering. Not over a man. Certainly not over a stranger. Rhett gave a single, quiet nod.

”Gin and tonic it is…” He said with a slow drawl, and then–because of course he had to make things worse–he added “I’ll be right back…Y/N.” And he winked. A soft, subtle little thing. More a twitch of one eyelid than anything grand. But paired with the way he said your name? You nearly forgot how to breathe.

You watched him walk back to the bar–broad shoulders moving with an unhurried confidence, fingers tapping a rhythm on the neck of his empty bottle as he passed a couple other tables. When he reached the counter, he rapped his knuckles gently against the wood, motioning toward the bartender, then turned to say something to the guy beside him.

Jennifer let out a low whistle beside you, cutting through the haze.

“You sure you don’t wanna lose your virginity tonight?” You laughed–more like sputtered through a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“I’m sure,” you said with a shake of your head, watching the bartender hand Rhett a glass that immediately began sweating in the heat of the bar. “But I’m certainly going to be thinking about this man when I go home tonight…Preferably under my covers.” The girls all leaned in at once, delighted by your confession. Sam giggled into her straw. Leah’s jaw dropped.

“You gonna get his number?” She asked.

“Oh Jesus, definitely,” You said, voice a little too loud with conviction. “Did you see him? Holy fuck. If I wasn’t so nervous, I’d ask him to throw me down on this table right now an–”

“My God, and you call us the sex-crazed ones?” Jen cut in, eyebrows raised with mock scandal.

You ducked your head, laughing as your cheeks flamed hotter. “Well sue me for being behind on the whole dating sphere.”

Leah raised both hands in surrender, smirking. “Hey, we’re not judging. Least you have a bit of a reason for it.” You nodded, gripping your glass tighter to hide how warm your palms had gotten.

“Exactly. Let me live.” And just as you said it, Rhett turned from the bar.

He reached your table like he’d never left it, moving with that same easy confidence, one drink in each hand, the condensation trailing lazily down the side of the glass he’d brought for you.

Without a word, he set the gin and tonic down in front of you, sliding it gently across the table.

Your eyes caught on his hands.

They were exactly what you’d imagined–broad, rough around the edges, with strong knuckles and faint scars scattered across the backs like stories he’d never tell out loud. Calloused fingertips, short nails. Hands that had gripped reins, maybe tools. Hands that worked for a living.

But despite the wear and grit, his touch was careful. Thoughtful. Like he knew how to handle things that could break easy.

“Here you go,” He said softly. “A nice cold one.”

You murmured a quiet thank you, fingers brushing the cool glass where his hand had just been.

Then, with the kind of grin that made your heart knock around in your ribs, Rhett tilted his head and added, “Bartender said you gotta pay me back with your number.”

Your friends lost it. Laughter burst across the booth like fireworks, quick and high and delighted. Sam slapped the table. Leah whooped under her breath. Jen bit her straw like she couldn’t contain herself.

You, somehow, didn’t flinch.

You blinked once, then let a slow smile tug at your lips as you leaned in ever so slightly and said, “Got your phone?”

His brows lifted just a little, surprised–but in a good way. Like he’d been ready for a polite no and was suddenly on the receiving end of a yes that knocked the air out of him.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I do.”

He pulled it from his back pocket–an older iPhone, a little scuffed around the edges, the case cracked in one corner–and handed it over without a second thought.

You took it from him, careful not to brush his fingers even though the air between your hands felt charged enough to spark. The screen was already unlocked. No password. Just a plain home screen with a photo of a horse in the background and only a couple of apps.

You tapped into his contacts.

There weren’t many. Maybe a dozen names, tops. But you didn’t dwell on that.

Instead, you added your number under your name and typed in a little note beside it: Branded Mare. Gin & Tonic Girl.

Then you handed it back, your fingers grazing his this time–light, unintentional, but enough to make him glance up at you with something unreadable in his eyes. Something slow and focused.

“Appreciate that,” He drawled, voice low.

You both held that look for a beat too long. Then he stepped back, just slightly, enough to give you space but not enough to feel like he wanted to go.

“I’ll give you a call in the morning,” He said, tipping his head gently, “Make sure you got home safe.”

You nodded, smiling without meaning to.

“But for now…” He added, glancing around at your friends, who were all shamelessly eavesdropping behind grins and wide eyes, “I’ll leave you ladies to whatever it is you were doin’ before I came over and stirred things up.”

He gave a polite nod to the group. “Pleasure meetin’ all of you.”

Then, just before turning to go, he looked at you one last time–and gave you a wink.

And it wasn’t smug. Wasn’t cocky.

It was sweet. Like a secret. Like something he’d tucked into his back pocket for later.

You watched him walk away, your drink sweating in front of you, your heart pounding somewhere in your throat.

And all you could think was–

Holy shit.

Because Rhett Abbott had just walked straight out of your daydreams and into real life.

—————————

Rhett didn’t waste any time giving you a call the next morning. His voice was still thick with sleep, a soft rasp at the edges like he hadn’t been up long—and somehow, that made it even better. That low, gravelly drawl slipped through the phone and straight into your spine, turning your bones into something a little more jelly-like than you cared to admit.

You were curled up on your couch in an oversized tee, mug of lukewarm coffee in your hands, and the second you saw Rhett Abbott flash across your screen, your heart tripped like it didn’t know how to act.

He didn’t waste time with small talk, either. Just a warm “Hey,” Followed by, “Was thinkin’ I’d like to take you out tonight. There’s this little diner just outside town…good food, real quiet. Thought maybe we could talk, get to know each other…see where it goes.”

You had agreed way too fast.

Embarrassingly fast.

There had barely been a breath between his invitation and your answer, and the little laugh he let out in response had made your stomach flip. It wasn’t mocking–it was amused. A little pleased. Like he hadn’t expected you to say yes so quickly, but he liked that you had.

You gave him your address–your one-level, white-brick house with the green mailbox out front and the wind chimes that never stopped making noise even when there was no wind–and he said he’d swing by around seven.

Which led you to having an emergency FaceTime with Jen, who was on her bedroom floor, looking at the outfit options you had in mind. She shook her head at the third pair of denim shorts you held up.

”No. Absolutely not. We’re not doing shorts tonight,Y/N.” You groaned, throwing yourself down on your bed.

“It’s a diner, not a five-star restaurant.”

“I know it’s a diner. That’s exactly why this is the moment. You show up all soft and pretty in one of those summer dresses you never wear anymore and he won’t be able to keep his eyes off you. Especially if it’s the white one with the ties.” You raised your brow.

”The white one?” Jen nodded.

”Yes. The one that laces up in the front…It’ll be a little tease for him…And it’s pretty.” That dress lived tucked in the back of your closet like a secret–one you hadn’t pulled out since last July. It was soft cotton, thick enough to hold its shape but thin enough to breathe. The color was a creamy, near-milk white, with the faintest floral print etched across it in dusty blue. Not too busy. Just enough to catch the light when you turned.

The bodice hugged close, fitted with subtle seams that shaped along your waist without needing a bra. And right at the center of your chest, two long strings tied into a little bow, gathering the fabric just enough to create the softest dip of cleavage–barely there, but suggestive in the right light. The tie could be loosened or tightened depending on your mood, but tonight…You were already tugging it a touch tighter.

The sleeves were short, slightly puffed, ending right above the bend of your arm, and the skirt fell just past mid-thigh–flowy and gentle, not clingy. When you walked, it moved like it had a mind of its own. Soft. Slow. Like summer wind.

And best of all? It had pockets. Deep ones.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, smoothing your hands over the skirt and adjusting the tie at the front.

“You look hot,” Jen said through the screen, tilting her head and lifting her eyebrows, “Absolutely jaw dropping.” You snorted, turning slightly to see the dress from the side.

”It’s not too much?” You questioned.

”It’s exactly enough,” She said, “Now fix that hair of yours, put some lip gloss on, and some of that fancy perfume you have…Because you’re going to have to look good for the mugshot after you kill this man tonight.” You shook your head, smiling down at your phone.

”You’re absolutely ridiculous.” She smirked.

”I want all the details tomorrow about how it went.” You nodded.

”I’ll be a waterfall of details.” Then the call ended.

About an hour later–right on time–Rhett’s truck rumbled to a stop in front of your house.

He cut the engine and stepped out, boots crunching gently over the gravel as he made his way up the walkway. The porch steps creaked beneath his weight–worn but solid–and as he approached the door, he took it in properly for the first time.

The house was one level, white brick with faded sage-green shutters that matched the mailbox out front. The roof sloped low and wide, and the porch spanned the front like a lazy hug, with a couple of mismatched chairs tucked beside the screen door. A potted plant hung off one of the wooden beams, and a wind chime–old, maybe copper–clinked faintly in the breeze. The whole place had character. Lived-in. Like a home someone loved, not just a place they stayed.

He liked it.

He raised a hand and knocked–three quick taps against the frame.

And when you opened the door…

It hit him.

Your perfume first. Soft and overwhelming in the best way. Like wildflowers and spun sugar, like some sunlit meadow had been poured into a bottle and sweetened with something sticky and decadent. It flooded his senses in an instant, made his stomach tighten and his throat go a little dry.

And then his eyes hit your dress.

And your boots.

God.

Those light brown cowgirl boots–scuffed just enough to look broken in, just enough to hint that you knew how to wear them–peeked out from beneath the flow of that pretty white dress. The fabric fluttered gently around your legs, and the delicate little bow that you had tied at the center of your chest made it impossible for him to look away for a good second too long.

You stood in the doorframe, golden in the early evening light, your hair done up soft and neat, a little shine on your lips and that scent clinging to your skin like a secret.

Rhett stared.

Then let out a soft breath like it punched right out of him.

“God, you look pretty,” He said, voice barely above a murmur.

You felt the heat bloom up your neck before you could help it, rushing straight to your cheeks.

Your eyes dipped to take him in as well–the forest green button-up he wore brought out the richness in his blue eyes, the sleeves rolled to the forearms again, his usual denim sitting low and loose on his hips, faded from wear. He wasn’t wearing a hat tonight.

Instead, you could finally see all of his hair–thick, tousled light brown with strands that caught the sunlight as it filtered through the trees overhead. It curled slightly at the ends, like he hadn’t fussed over it much. It made him look softer somehow. Younger. Warmer.

“You look good too,” You complimented, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the smile from spreading too wide.

He gave you a lopsided grin at that–boyish, slightly crooked, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the compliment but appreciated it all the same.

“C’mon,” He said gently, tipping his chin toward his truck. “Let’s get you fed.”

You followed him down the porch steps, the hem of your dress dancing over your thighs with every step, your boots thudding softly on the wood. When you reached his truck, Rhett didn’t hesitate–he stepped ahead and opened the door for you.

The inside was a little worn–the fabric on the bench seat stretched in places, a couple old stains on the floor mats–but it smelled clean, like pine and something faintly citrusy. The kind of scent that lingered from someone who actually tried to keep their truck respectable.

You climbed up and slid across the wide front seat–a bench, not two individual chairs. Nothing between the both of you but a cup holder and a whole lot of unspoken tension.

It was comfortable. Cushioned like an old couch. The kind of seat that begged for closeness.

You didn’t mind that. Not even a little.

Rhett closed the door behind you, circled to the driver’s side, and climbed in with one smooth motion. He glanced over once–just enough to check your seatbelt–before settling in and turning the ignition.

The truck rumbled to life.

“Alright,” he said, easing them down the drive. “Let’s get goin’, hmm?”

And just like that, with the windows cracked and the sky starting to gold, the night began.

—————————

The diner was a relic of another era—an ‘80s dream that hadn’t changed its tune in decades. The neon sign out front buzzed faintly in the twilight, casting a warm pink glow over the gravel lot, its cursive lettering spelling out Marlene’s Midnight Diner. Fluorescent lights bled through the wide glass windows, softening just slightly through layers of streaky Windex and time. A couple of vintage chrome motorcycles were parked near the entrance, and inside, the booths were upholstered in turquoise vinyl that squeaked every time someone shifted too much.

The walls were covered in framed black-and-white photos of rockstars, movie posters with curling corners, and a whole shelf of bobbleheads that lined the back wall like a chorus of silent, nodding critics. The floors were checkered black-and-white tile, clean but scuffed with age—evidence of late-night rushes and post-prom milkshakes long past. A jukebox flickered in the corner, playing faint snippets of something classic and upbeat, while the smell of fried onions, grilled meat, and hot coffee lingered heavy in the air.

It was cleaner than you expected for a 24-hour place. Not pristine, but tidy. The kind of clean that came from someone actually giving a damn, even if the linoleum was chipped in the corners and the sugar dispensers didn’t always unscrew right. A waitress in a powder-blue uniform with her name–Connie–stitched over her left breast had already come by, balancing a notepad in one hand and a pot of coffee in the other. She didn’t bat an eye at Rhett’s flannel or your dress, just took your order with a tired smile and a wink that said she’d seen every type of first date sit in this booth at least once.

You were settled into a corner booth, your dress skirt fanned just slightly along the seat beside you, and Rhett across from you, looking about ten shades more nervous than he had at your door. The overhead light buzzed gently, casting a faint golden sheen on the chrome napkin holder between you. Both of you had tall glasses of Coke sitting in front of you, tiny bubbles rising up through the caramel-colored fizz, the glasses sweating slowly in the humid summer air.

Rhett hadn’t touched his drink yet. His fingers rested near it, but he kept glancing up at you and then back down at the condensation ring on the tabletop like it held the answers to something he hadn’t asked yet. And maybe it was the heat, or maybe it was the way your dress dipped just enough at the neckline, but he cleared his throat softly before speaking.

“So…what do you do?” he asked, voice lower than usual, a little rough. Like he was forcing the words out before he chickened out altogether.

You took a sip from your Coke, the straw catching the ice as you pulled it toward your mouth. The chill hit your tongue, sweet and sharp, and you let it sit there for a moment before answering.

“I actually just recently became a home health aide.”

Rhett’s brows lifted, genuinely surprised. “Oh really? That sounds like it’s pretty interesting. You work every day?”

You shook your head, swirling your straw slowly through the glass. “It’s about four days a week, but I can pick up shifts or give them away if I’d like. It’s pretty flexible.”

He nodded slowly, then bit the inside of his cheek–a habit you were already beginning to recognize. “Do you enjoy it?”

You smiled, and the warmth behind it was real. “Definitely. I have a lot of experience in home health, so it was an easy transition.”

His head tilted just slightly. Not in judgment–just curious. “Where’d you get the experience from if you just became one?”

Your fingers tightened on the straw. You took another drink to stall, letting the bubbles fizzle against your tongue before swallowing.

“Well…Umm… My dad got sick when I was still in high school, so I had to take care of him. I gave him all his medications and helped with, you know…Everything. He usually needed help keeping track of everything.”

Rhett caught it right away–the way you were speaking in past tense. His eyes softened a bit, and you could see it, like he made the connection.

He hesitated, then asked gently, “When…When did he pass? If you don’t mind me asking.”

You rubbed at the inside of your palm beneath the table, a nervous little habit that had never really gone away. “About a year ago.”

His lips parted, but he gave you a moment. Then, quietly: “I’m sorry for your loss.”

You shook your head slowly, meeting his eyes across the table. “Thank you, Rhett.”

There was a pause–not heavy, not awkward, but full. Like the air had thickened just slightly with understanding. He nodded once, then looked down at his Coke and back up at you again.

“Enough about me,” You said softly, offering him a small smile. “What do you do?”

He let out a small exhale through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching like you’d caught him off guard. “I work on my dad’s ranch,” He said, then after a beat, added with a sheepish little grin, “And I ride bulls.”

You blinked. “A bull rider?” Your lips parted slightly, and you leaned forward a little. “You certainly have the look…”

Rhett flushed, just a bit, but it was clear the compliment hit him square in the chest. He scratched the side of his jaw, eyes flicking down to the table.

“Is it the nice ass that gave it away?” He asked, teasing. “Or the muscular thighs?”

You laughed and the sound made his whole body relax visibly.

“Oh, it was definitely both,” You replied, biting your straw between your teeth for just a second. “But it’s the confidence that really gave you away.”

He raised his brows. “Confidence?”

You nodded. “You walked up to a table of four girls like it was nothing.”

His eyes sparkled, leaning in a little closer. “Truth is, I was only focusing on one…So that made it pretty easy.”

The warmth that bloomed across your chest that nearly knocked the wind out of you.

Your plates arrived just after that last teasing exchange, still steaming as Connie slid them across the table with the kind of efficiency only found in places like this–diners where the waitresses knew how to keep coffee hot and couples talking. The food was simple but good–crispy fries, thick burgers, golden grilled cheese with perfectly melted slices of cheddar–and both of you picked at it between laughs and lingering looks.

The conversation never stumbled. It rolled easy. Quiet confessions about favorite bands, childhood memories, the weird shit you believed as a kid. Rhett talked about riding his first bull at sixteen, about getting bucked so hard he chipped a bit of his tooth and never got it fixed. You told him about sneaking out during summer storms to sit under the porch roof and count how long the thunder took to follow lightning.

And somehow, it all blurred.

By the time you glanced at your phone, your breath caught in your throat.

“Shit,” You whispered, eyes widening as you leaned back from the booth, “It’s one in the morning.”

Rhett blinked, then laughed low and warm in his chest. “Should I be gettin’ you home?”

You nodded, sheepish. “I got work in the morning, so…I think that would be the best idea. I didn’t even realize how much time went by.”

He smiled at that–soft and a little proud, eyes glittering in the golden diner light. “Well… you’re very easy to talk to. And I guess I’m a pretty good distraction if you didn’t even realize how many hours passed.”

You laughed, cheeks warming again, “You really are…”

When the bill came, you reached for your purse–but Rhett was faster.

“Don’t even try,” He said, slipping a couple of bills onto the check tray before you could blink.

“Rhett–come on,” You protested, reaching across the table.

He shook his head, that crooked grin spreading again. “Next one’s on you, if it makes you feel better.”

It did. A little.

By the time you stepped out into the night air, the temperature had dropped. The warmth from inside clung to your skin as the breeze wrapped around your legs and lifted the hem of your dress just slightly. Goosebumps prickled along your arms. Rhett noticed. He tilted his head toward the truck without a word, guiding you across the lot like he was keeping you within orbit.

The ride back was quieter, but not uncomfortable. The windows were rolled halfway down, letting in a cool wind that tangled through your hair. The smell of summer dirt and far-off fields filled the cab. A country station hummed low through the speakers, barely audible over the soft growl of the engine. Rhett kept glancing over at you–quick, quiet looks that made your stomach turn each time.

When he pulled up in front of your house, he killed the engine but didn’t move right away. Both of you unbuckled at the same time, slow, almost hesitant–like the weight of the night didn’t want to lift just yet.

“We should do this again…” Rhett said softly, eyes flicking toward yours in the shadows. “I had a lot of fun.”

You nodded, the words catching in your throat before they came out. “Me too…”

The headlights cast soft light over your porch, reflecting faintly off the windshield, leaving his eyes half-lit in gold and shadow. It made the space inside the cab feel smaller. Closer. Intimate.

And when his gaze dropped–just briefly–to your lips, your breath hitched.

You looked at his mouth too.

Neither of you leaned in right away. It happened slowly–like gravity was inching you closer, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat.

When your lips met, it was soft at first. A question. His mouth brushed against yours with careful, aching restraint–as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to have you this close. But once he felt you melt into him, he tilted his head just enough to deepen the kiss.

And fuck.

It was hot. It was deep. It was everything you hadn’t even known you’d been craving. His mouth moved against yours like he wanted to memorize the shape of your lips. His hand came up, rough palm cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek with a touch so gentle it made you shiver.

You kissed him back harder–desperate, drawn. Your fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as he let out a soft, guttural sound in the back of his throat, low and breathless.

Then you felt it–his fingers, tentative and curious, ghosting over the ribbon at the center of your dress. He toyed with the edge of the bow, brushing it with the backs of his knuckles like he was wondering if he could tug on it and feel you come undone.

You gasped into his mouth, and that’s when you pulled back.

Your breath was shallow, lips swollen, lashes fluttering as you stared at him in the dim cab.

“We’re gonna have to put the brakes on…For now,” You whispered, voice trembling from the heat that still pulsed under your skin.

Rhett looked wrecked in the best way. Hair mussed from your hands, lips pink and wet from your kiss. His chest rose and fell in short bursts. He nodded slowly, gulping like he was trying to rein himself back in.

“O-Okay,” He murmured. “Yeah… okay.”

You leaned in again, pressing one last, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Text me when you get home.”

He nodded, voice rasped raw. “I will.”

You slid out of the truck on shaky legs, dress clinging to the heat of your thighs, heart still pounding.

That night, alone in bed, it wasn’t even a question.

Your hand slipped under the sheets as you exhaled through your nose, your eyes fluttering shut. All you could think about was the rough scrape of his stubble against your cheek…The weight of his palm cupping your jaw…The way his mouth devoured you like it had been starving for years.

And God–his hands.

You imagined them on your waist, your hips, the backs of your thighs. Rough, wide palms gripping you like he meant it. Like he wouldn’t let go even if you begged him to.

You bit your lip to stifle a sound, thighs clenching as your fingers slipped deeper. Every flick of your wrist was guided by memory–by the sweet pressure of his kiss, the faint smell of pine and leather on his skin, the warmth of his breath when he whispered your name.

You came hard, quiet but breathless, curling into yourself as your body trembled beneath the weight of everything he’d left you feeling.

And as your heart slowed back to something manageable, one final thought danced through your mind–

If his kiss felt like that…

You weren’t ready for what the rest of him could do.

————————

“I need advice.” You announced during brunch a few weeks later. Jen, Leah, and Sam all looked up from their plates like hounds catching scent–forks suspended mid-air, brunch suddenly forgotten.

Jen blinked once. “Proceed.”

You took a breath, speared a piece of melon on your fork, then set it down again. “I think I’m going to sleep with Rhett tonight.”

Silence.

Then Leah, deadpan and unimpressed, muttered, “Fucking finally.”

The table burst into laughter–Jen clapping her hands once with glee, Sam nearly choking on her mimosa as she smacked the table.

“Well?” Sam grinned, wiping her mouth. “What do you need advice on, miss ‘finally going to ride a cowboy’?”

You groaned, letting your forehead fall lightly into your hand. “Y’know… how do I make this experience not so–shit?”

The laughter came again, softer this time. Not mocking–just warm.

Jen sipped from her iced coffee, eyebrows raised like she was trying to figure out exactly how much to say. “Girl…A lot of prep. That’s key. Especially if he’s the patient type. And Rhett seems like the patient type.”

“He is,” you said quickly, cheeks warming. “Very patient. Like…Painfully patient. I can tell he wants to take things further, but he’s never pushed. Not even once.”

“That’s because he respects the hell outta you,” Leah said, pointing at you with her fork. “And he’s probably scared of messing it up. Especially if he knows it’s your first time.”

You nodded, absently swirling your fork through your eggs. “I told him over dinner on our fourth date. He didn’t flinch. Just said, ‘We were all virgins once. I really don’t mind.’”

“Awh,” Jen cooed, mock wiping a tear. “The cowboy has morals and charm. We love that.”

Sam leaned in with a smirk. “And hands. Let’s not forget the hands.”

You pressed your lips together and looked away with a barely concealed smile. “Trust me. I’ve not forgotten.”

Jen pointed her fork dramatically. “Okay. So. Prep.”

Sam nodded, serious now. “Have some lube on hand. You’re probably gonna be nervous, and…If Rhett’s packing, better to be safe than sorry.”

You choked slightly on your juice, eyes wide. “Oh my God.”

“Sorry,” Sam said with a little shrug. “But he is a bull rider. Have you seen his thighs?” Leah cut in, ever the practical one.

“You’re on birth control, right?”

You nodded. “Of course. Been on it since grade nine.”

“Good. But have condoms anyway,” Jen said, gesturing firmly. “Because you never know.” You let out a long breath and poked at your toast.

“I should be taking notes.” Leah smiled softly.

“It’ll come naturally once you’re in the moment. Mostly. You just have to make sure to communicate. Tell him what you like, what hurts, what doesn’t feel good.”

“Yeah,” Sam added, “You don’t have to be a sex goddess. Just be present. Feel what you’re feeling. And trust him.”

“I do trust him,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

Jen reached across the table and gave your wrist a light squeeze. “That’s why it’s gonna be good.”

There was a pause. And then–

Jen lifted her brow. “Have you at least, y’know, explored yourself a bit? So you know what feels good?”

Your eyes shot up. “I’m not Mother Teresa, Jen, I’ve maturbated before…Just haven’t had someone else do it for me, that’s all.” Jen smirked.

”Right…Because now you’ve grown feral for the cowboy.”

“Shut up,” You muttered, grinning despite yourself. Your mind was already drifting. Rhett’s mouth. His hands. The way he looked at you like he was memorizing every detail for later.

“Is there anything else I should know?” You asked, half joking, half serious. “Tips? Warnings? Ritual sacrifices?”

Sam hummed thoughtfully. “You may bleed a little. Totally normal. But if you relax and take it slow, it won’t be bad.”

Jen nodded. “Just breathe. Keep talking. Let yourself enjoy it. It’s supposed to feel good.”

Leah leaned in one last time. “And if it doesn’t go perfectly? That’s okay. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it. Especially with someone who clearly gives a damn.”

You looked down at your plate, heart a little fuller than it had been minutes ago.

“All right,” You said, lifting your coffee. “I think I can do that.” Jen leaned back in her chair, spearing a strawberry off her fruit bowl and pointing it at you like it was a mic.

“One last thing,” She said, tone mock-serious, “Don’t be surprised if you cry afterward.”

You blinked. “Cry?”

All three girls nodded in unison, as if they’d just been waiting for this part.

“Yeah,” Leah said, popping a piece of bacon into her mouth. “It’s super common. Doesn’t mean anything bad. It’s just…A lot.”

“A lot,” Sam echoed, sipping her iced coffee like she was preparing for a TED Talk. “All the nerves and build-up and hormones and oxytocin? Sometimes it just leaks out of your eyeballs. No warning. It happened to me with Dave. I went to the bathroom to pee and started crying like I just watched the end of Titanic.”

You stared at her. “You cried on the toilet?”

“Yup. Naked. Legs shaking. Dave panicked and brought me a fruit snack.”

Jen snorted into her mimosa. “Honestly? That man earned a gold star for that one.”

You couldn’t help laughing, the tension breaking a little. “Jesus.”

“It’s not bad,” Leah added, a little gentler now, “Just intense. First times can be overwhelming even if everything goes right. Doesn’t mean you did anything wrong. Doesn’t mean he did anything wrong.”

You nodded, tucking that somewhere in your brain. “Okay. I appreciate the heads-up.”

Jen leaned in again, all faux-seriousness. “But if he does do anything wrong, text us ‘cowboy down’ and we’ll come beat him up for you.” You rolled your eyes, laughing. “He’s not going to do anything wrong.”

“We know,” Sam said, softer now. “That man looks at you like he’d lay down and die if you asked him to…It’s just in case though.” Your smile wavered just a little at that. Not because it was wrong–but because it was true. And hearing it out loud made it all that much more real.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself.

“Okay,” you said finally. “So lube, condoms, communication, expect the tears, maybe keep a fruit snack nearby…Any last words?”

“Don’t focus so hard on doing it right that you forget to feel it. You’ve waited this long–make sure you get something out of it too.”

You paused. Then nodded. “Yeah… Yeah, you’re right.”

And then Sam leaned over with a knowing little grin and murmured, “And hey… If his hands are anything like they looked when he brought you that drink, girl, you’re about to ascend.”

You buried your face in your hands as the table exploded into laughter again.

Because honestly?

You were counting on it.

—————————

When Rhett drove you home from the drive-in that night, he figured things would end the way they usually did–lips on lips, your thighs straddling his lap in the driver’s seat, the console digging into your side while your hands fumbled in each other’s hair. Maybe a little grinding, maybe a few low gasps muffled against his neck, your dress bunched around your hips while his hands found their familiar place on your waist.

But this time, when he eased the truck into park outside your house and leaned over to press a gentle kiss to your mouth, you surprised him.

You pulled back almost instantly–not to stop him, not to tease. Your hands came up instead, cradling his face between your palms, your thumbs brushing the soft skin just beneath his eyes.

His lips parted slightly, breath caught between questions he hadn’t dared to ask yet.

“Wanna come inside?” You murmured.

The shift was subtle, but immediate. His expression changed like the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. Eyebrows lifted just barely. His eyes flicked over your face, searching for a trace of a joke–anything–but all he found was sincerity. Soft, nervous, brave sincerity.

“You sure?” He asked, voice low, raspy, like it caught in the back of his throat. “Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

You shook your head once, deliberate. “I booked tomorrow off.”

That made him blink.

“You did?”

“Mhm.” You nodded, and the smile you gave him wasn’t teasing. It was warm. Quiet. Like you were holding a secret just for him. You leaned in, slow and steady, your breath brushing his ear as you whispered “Thought it would be best if I was going to sleep with you tonight…I want to spend the morning wrapped up in you.” His hands, resting on your thighs, tensed ever so slightly. He swallowed hard, the sound thick in his throat.

“You sure?” He asked again, softer this time. Almost reverent.

And you leaned back just enough to meet his eyes fully–no hesitation, no fear, just that same quiet bravery–and said, “I’ve never been more sure.”

Rhett unbuckled his seat belt with a click, his movements smooth but tense with anticipation. He cut the engine and stepped out, rounding the front of the truck in a few long strides, boots crunching softly against the gravel. By the time he opened your door, you were already sliding forward in your seat, heart fluttering against your ribs.

His hand found yours, warm and rough, curling around your fingers as he helped you down. You barely had time to settle your footing before he leaned in–just close enough for his breath to fan against your cheek–and whispered, “Lead the way, sweetheart.” You did.

Your fingers fumbled slightly as you dug through your purse for the keys, walking up the short wooden steps to your front door. The porch light cast a soft glow over the faded green paint, your wind chime clinking lazily in the warm summer air.

You found your keys just as Rhett stepped in behind you, his hands gently finding your hips, his thumbs pressing softly into the dip of your waist. He bent close, his lips brushing your bare shoulder in a slow, reverent kiss that made your breath catch.

Then you felt it–his fingers slipping through the back loops of your jean shorts. Not tugging. Just holding. Anchoring. Like he needed to touch you to make sure this was real.

You unlocked the door with a quiet snick and pushed it open, stepping inside.

“C’mon,” You murmured, pulling him in by the front of his white t-shirt he wore beneath his black long sleeve button up.

He followed without question.

The keys clattered onto the little table by the door–a narrow vintage piece with peeling white paint and a small dish full of quarters and hair ties. The entrance opened directly into your living space, and it looked exactly like you: warm, cluttered in a way that felt lived-in rather than messy, cozy without trying too hard.

A worn brown couch sat against the far wall, the cushions a little too soft from years of sinking into them after work. A crocheted throw blanket was slung lazily over the back, and the coffee table was full of mismatched coasters, a candle burned low, and a couple half-read books stacked unevenly beside a mug that still held the ghost of morning coffee. The TV was modest, angled toward the couch, and the rug beneath your feet was frayed at the edges, patterned with sun-faded florals.

Beyond the living room was the open-concept kitchen–small but bright, the kind of space that made use of every inch. White cabinets, a fridge covered in magnets and little post-it notes, a tea towel hanging off the oven door, and a row of spice jars on a repurposed shelf above the stove. A round wooden dining table sat between the rooms, one chair slightly pulled out like it had been left mid-thought.

Rhett looked around, eyes wide but soft, like he was stepping into a space he’d only seen in dreams.

“Really nice place,” He murmured, voice low and sincere.

You glanced over your shoulder and smirked, reaching down to toe off your boots. “Thank you.”

He kicked his off beside yours, then moved toward you with slow intent. His hands found your waist again, fingers curling over your sides as he pulled you in–chest to chest, breath to breath.

And then he kissed you.

It started deep. Immediate. No hesitation this time. His lips slanted over yours with heat and hunger, his mouth moving like he needed you to feel exactly how long he’d been craving this. Your hands threaded through his hair, tugging gently at the roots as your body molded to his, heart racing with every brush of tongue, every subtle press of teeth.

You moaned into his mouth when he bit softly at your bottom lip, and that was all it took for him to lift you.

His hands slid down, gripping beneath your thighs, and in one smooth motion, he hoisted you up. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, locking you in tight. He groaned softly against your lips as your bodies met, the pressure sending sparks through your core.

You barely broke the kiss to breathe, your nose brushing his as your mouth hovered against his.

“Tell me where…” He rasped, voice ragged, breath hot against your cheek. “Where the bedroom is.”

You nodded toward the hallway behind him, your voice coming out in a rush: “Down the hall…Just go straight.”

“Okay,” He murmured like a promise, shifting his grip as he started walking.

You didn’t make it easy for him.

Your lips trailed down his neck the second he turned, slow and teasing, pressing soft open-mouthed kisses to the curve of his throat. Your tongue flicked against the salt of his skin, and you felt it–his pace faltering for just a second, his breath catching, the thump of his heart beneath your lips pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.

He swore under his breath–something quiet and desperate–and kept going, the hallway dim around you, lit only by the soft glow of the porch light filtering in through the windows.

The door creaked open as Rhett stepped carefully into your bedroom. The moment the threshold was crossed, the world seemed to quiet even further, as if the very walls of your room were holding their breath, waiting for what came next.

His hands adjusted slightly under your thighs–warm, calloused, steady–and he dipped his head just a little, eyes darting past your shoulder to take in the space. Then, slowly, gently, he crouched, easing you down onto the bed with a care that made your chest ache.

The mattress dipped beneath your weight as you bottom met the comforter. The fabric was soft beneath you–well-worn cotton with faded floral print, not pristine or frilly, but cozy, the kind of bedding someone actually sleeps in, not just made for show. Pillows were stacked unevenly at the headboard, one still faintly creased from the way you’d curled around it the night before. Rhett stood for a second, straightening up as he looked around.

The bedroom was intimate without being staged–walls painted a soft eggshell, glowing warm in the dim light, one corner occupied by a small bookshelf full of worn spines and bent jackets. A framed print of a wildflower field hung crooked over the dresser. Your laundry hamper sat half-full beside it, one of his flannels folded neatly atop it from when you’d borrowed it last week and meant to return it. There was a window just above the headboard, cracked open to let the night breeze in–soft cricket sounds threading faintly through the screen.

To his left, the door to your ensuite bathroom was open, just enough for the warm tile light to spill out in a soft line across the wood floor. Inside, he could make out pale green towels hanging on the bar, a few bottles tucked along the edge of the tub. Your toothbrush sat in a small ceramic holder on the sink, beside a candle and a little jar of cotton rounds. Lived-in. Lovely. Yours.

And something about that hit him hard. The quiet intimacy of your space. The invitation of it. He was stepping into your world–and you were letting him in without armor, without distance, without fear.

Rhett exhaled slowly, his eyes dark with reverence. Then he turned to the small nightstand beside your bed, flicked the switch on the amber lamp, and let warm, golden light spill across the room.

It was the kind of light that softened edges. That wrapped everything in a dusky glow, like honey catching in the air. It made your skin gleam and your eyes catch fire.

Then–wordlessly–he shrugged off the black button-up, the fabric whispering as it slid down his arms. He let it fall to the floor beside him without ceremony.

Underneath, the white t-shirt clung to his chest and shoulders in ways that made your breath stutter. It wasn’t tight, but it didn’t need to be. The cotton hugged his biceps with ease, pulled slightly at the seams where his body curved broad and solid beneath it. The line of his torso cut clean down the middle, a faint shadow hinting at the muscle that lay beneath.

Your thighs clenched without meaning to. Reflexive. Hungry. Heat curled low in your stomach.

Rhett saw it. He could feel it. And his jaw tightened as he crossed the short distance back to the bed.

You opened your legs slowly, deliberately, inviting him in with nothing more than that movement–and he stepped between them, eyes never leaving yours.

Then his hands came up.

Rough palms cradled your face with startling gentleness, his thumbs brushing just beneath your cheekbones as he tilted your head up toward him. You looked at him and forgot how to breathe.

Because in this light…

His eyes were beautiful.

That striking blue had deepened to something richer now–like the sky right before night swallows the last of the day. They shimmered with something electric, something endless, framed by lashes that caught the glow like they were made for it. There were freckles scattered faintly across his cheeks now that you were close enough to see them, tiny sun-kissed pinpricks that spoke of days spent outdoors, of skin kissed by more than just light.

And the way he looked at you…

It was like he was starving and home all at once.

His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up, and he wet his bottom lip slowly–deliberate, sensual, the tip of his tongue dragging over pink skin as if preparing for something sacred.

Then he kissed you.

This time, there was no hesitation. No breath of doubt.

It was heat and hunger, teeth and tongue, lips parting like they’d never tasted anything sweeter. His kiss devoured, coaxed, claimed. His body pressed forward as he kissed you deeper, urging you gently down onto your back until your spine met the mattress.

You didn’t even realize you were moving until your legs curled up, wrapping tight around his waist. The feel of him between your thighs, the weight of him pressing you down–it sent your mind reeling.

His hands braced beside your head. His hips settled low, just enough pressure to make you moan into his mouth, your fingers gripping at his shirt, nails dragging down the fabric like you needed more.

The mattress shifted with every movement. The room filled with the sound of breath and fabric and heartbeats and heat. Your hands slid beneath the hem of his white t-shirt as you kissed him harder, gripping the soft cotton and pulling him impossibly closer. The air between you was thick now, heady with heat and something darker—something slow and primal.

He moaned softly into your mouth, the sound like gravel dragged through honey, and your body answered with a full-body shiver.

Rhett’s hips rolled forward, slow and deliberate, and you felt him through the thick denim of his jeans–hard and heavy, grinding perfectly against the aching heat between your thighs. The friction made your breath catch, made your spine arch off the mattress. You clung to him, your thighs tightening around his waist as he rocked again.

Denim met denim in a blur of pressure and desperate friction–your shorts riding higher with every shift of his hips, the center seam of them pressed firmly against your core now, tugged taut by the weight of him. It was messy and maddening and god, it felt so good.

His body was big and solid above you, but never crushing. He was braced just enough–arms trembling slightly as he supported himself over you, careful not to let his full weight drop even as his pelvis ground into yours. Each motion was intentional. Controlled. He could’ve taken you apart if he wanted to.

But he didn’t.

He held back.

And that restraint–that quiet dominance, that held tension in his jaw, the way his hips ground instead of slammed–it made you dizzy.

His lips broke from yours only long enough to trail down your jaw, his breath scorching against your skin as he kissed a path to your neck. When he found the space just beneath your ear, he groaned low against it, grinding down again, and you gasped.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” He whispered, voice ragged. “You feel that?” You could only nod, head tilting back as he rolled his hips again, slower this time, making sure you felt the full press of his bulge against your center. Your fingernails dug into his shoulders, knees pulling tighter around his waist.

It wasn’t rushed. It was feral. Careful. Contained. Like he was holding a match to a fuse and daring it not to blow.

And just when you thought you’d combust from the friction alone–he stilled.

He pulled back, lips swollen, eyes dark and locked on yours as he brushed your hair back from your face.

“Can I take your shirt off?” He asked, voice low and reverent.

You didn’t hesitate. You nodded, breathless. “Yes. Please.”

His hands moved slowly, helping you sit up with a careful tug of your waist. His touch never left your skin. He peeled your shirt up and over your head in one slow motion, like he was unwrapping something sacred. He threw it off to the side and paused, his breath catching in his throat. Because beneath it–you were wearing a powdered blue bra. Soft lace, delicate straps. The kind of blue that looked barely-there in this light, washed in amber glow and moonlight.

Rhett’s eyes traced every inch like he’d never seen anything so beautiful. His hands came up, slow and open, calloused palms cupping your breasts through the fabric–gentle, almost awestruck, his thumbs brushing across the curved edges of the cups.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured, eyes still locked on you. “You’re somethin’ else.”

You shivered as his fingers flexed ever so slightly, not squeezing, just holding. Like he needed to feel the weight of you in his hands, needed to remind himself this was real.

Then his mouth found yours again.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize every breath–deep and open and hungry. And as he kissed you, he eased you further up the bed, one hand at your back, the other braced on the mattress beside your hip.

He followed you, slowly crawling forward on his knees until he was fully on the bed now–hovering above you, chest to chest again, his weight sinking into the mattress as it groaned beneath both your bodies.

The kiss never broke.

His thighs slid between yours again. The heat of him, the scent of pine and sweat and summer skin, the constant throb where your bodies met–it wrapped around you like fire.

And when his hips rolled forward again, this time braced against the bed, denim catching against denim, bare skin finally brushing cotton, you moaned into his mouth and pulled him closer, and Rhett swallowed the sound like it was the only thing that mattered. Rhett’s mouth broke from yours with a slow, shaky breath, his lips slick and parted, his gaze heavy-lidded as he pulled back just enough to take you in.

Then he dipped his head.

His lips found your throat first, brushing the skin there in a whisper-soft kiss, then trailing lower, open-mouthed and hot. His breath fanned out across your collarbone as he kissed it slowly, reverently, his voice tumbling out between the touches like he couldn’t stop himself.

“So damn pretty…” He murmured, nuzzling along the delicate slope of your neck. “So fuckin’ beautiful…”

His words were low and breathless, more praise than statement–like they were being dragged from his chest by the heat between your bodies. He kissed the hollow of your throat, then moved lower, his hair falling forward as he ducked down. The strands had begun to slip loose from the way he’d styled them, soft waves now tickling against your skin as he pressed his mouth to the top swell of your breast.

You gasped, spine arching faintly.

His lips dragged across the top curve of one breast, then the other, slow and teasing, the tip of his tongue just barely flicking against the edge of the lace as he groaned softly.

“Your skin is so fuckin’ soft,” He breathed, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing just beneath the band of your bra. “Can I take this off, sweetheart?”

You nodded, breath caught in your throat. “Yes.”

He didn’t rush. His hands were careful, respectful, as he found the clasp and eased it open, the soft snap of fabric releasing like a held breath. He let the straps fall away, the bra sliding off your arms, and he tossed it gently to the side.

Then he sat back on his knees for a moment.

Just looking.

The room was quiet but charged, amber light bathing everything in a molten glow. Rhett’s eyes were wide and reverent, drinking in the sight of your bare chest like it undid something deep inside him.

His hand came up, slow and open, and cupped one breast with tender pressure, thumb dragging softly over your nipple as it hardened beneath his touch. You gasped and arched slightly into him, your thighs flexing around his waist, your bottom lip caught between your teeth to stifle the moan threatening to break loose.

“Fuck,” He whispered, voice cracked. “You’re unreal…”

Then he leaned forward again, lips brushing the other breast as he murmured, “Can I kiss them?”

You nodded immediately, your voice trembling. “Please…”

That was all he needed.

He kissed the soft underside first, mouth hot and open, tongue flicking teasingly along the curve. Then he took your nipple between his lips and sucked.

Your whole body jolted.

The sensation ripped through you like lightning–sharp, electric, overwhelming. His mouth was hot, wet, focused as he laved over your nipple, then sucked harder, his tongue swirling as he groaned into your skin. His other hand massaged your other breast, palm wide and warm, kneading with slow, deliberate rhythm.

Your hips bucked into him, the friction of your shorts dragging against the denim of his jeans. His own hips rolled in response, grinding down against you in perfect, torturous time with his mouth.

The weight of him. The rhythm. The praise. The heat.

It was too much and not enough all at once.

“Rhett–” You gasped, one hand tangling in his hair as it brushed against your chest, thick and messy now, tickling with every breath. “God…”

He sucked harder, groaning at the sound of your voice, the vibration of it rumbling through your skin. He didn’t stop. He just kept grinding slow and heavy against your core, the hard line of his cock dragging exactly where you needed it, the pressure maddening.

“You like that?” he rasped, lips slick as he looked up, his hand still kneading at your breast. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You whimpered, nodding, your breath ragged. “Yes–yes, it feels so good–”

He kissed back across your chest to your other nipple and sucked there too, just as intensely, his hips never stopping their slow grind. You could feel how much he wanted you–how much he was holding back–and it only made the tension coil tighter between your thighs.

You were drowning in it–in the heat of his mouth, the drag of his hips, the praise whispered into your skin, the way his body crowded yours completely.

Rhett’s mouth lingered at your breast a moment longer, then released you with a soft, wet pop, placing a tender kiss over the nipple before moving lower. His lips trailed a slow, reverent path down the slope of your sternum, breath warm and ragged as he murmured soft things into your skin.

“So beautiful,” He whispered, brushing the tip of his nose along your stomach, kissing just beneath your ribcage. “So fuckin’ soft… Can’t believe I get to touch you like this…”

You felt his tongue dart out, licking slowly along the gentle dip above your navel. His groan was quiet but raw, like your taste knocked the wind from him. Then he did it again, slower this time, eyes fluttering shut as he tasted the salt and heat clinging to your skin.

He kissed you everywhere–your stomach, your waist, the faint stretchmarks at your hip. Sweet nothings fell from his lips like prayer: You’re unreal…Can’t get enough of you… never seen anything so perfect.

And then he reached the waistband of your shorts.

His mouth hovered just above the button, and he glanced up at you through his lashes–eyes glassy and dark, mouth flushed.

“Can I take these off?” He asked, voice husky, reverent.

You nodded instantly, already breathless. “Yes… please.”

His fingers moved with aching care, undoing the button, pulling the zipper down so slowly it might’ve been deliberate torture. Then he curled his hands around the waistband and shimmied the denim down your thighs, inch by inch. You lifted your hips to help him, legs parting slightly.

And when the shorts slipped off completely–when he saw what you were wearing underneath–Rhett stopped breathing altogether.

It was the matching set.

Powdered blue lace. Dainty straps. Barely-there coverage.

His jaw flexed, eyes flicking up to your face, then dropping again to the sheer fabric stretched over your soaked center.

“Jesus…” He muttered, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. One large hand skimmed down your thigh, then up again, fingers grazing over the lace. You arched ever so slightly into his touch, hips twitching in quiet desperation.

He groaned low, eyes locked on where you moved for him.

“I wanna see how you touch yourself,” He rasped, dragging his knuckles over the front of your panties. “Before I do anything to you… I wanna watch you, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught. You looked up at him with wide, unsure eyes–doe-eyed and flushed, heart pounding.

“O-Okay…”

His hands were gentle as he helped ease the delicate underwear down your legs, bunching them in his fist before setting them aside carefully, like they were something precious. Then he sat back, slow and deliberate, bracing himself between your knees. His hands slid up the outsides of your thighs and gently pressed–urging your legs open to him.

The air between your bodies tightened. You could feel yourself flushing from head to toe.

Your fingers ghosted down your stomach, trembling slightly, and Rhett didn’t say a word–just watched. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Kneeling before you like he was witnessing something holy.

You avoided his gaze as your fingers slipped lower, already slick with the arousal he’d built inside you with nothing more than his mouth, his words, and that grind. You gathered your wetness, circling your clit slowly, trying not to overdo it.

Rhett leaned in. His lips brushed the inside of your knee, tender and grounding.

“You’re very gentle with yourself…” He murmured. “Are you sensitive?”

You nodded a little, breath stuttering.

He exhaled hard through his nose, voice breaking as he whispered, “You look so pretty when you touch yourself like that…”

His hand came up to rub slow circles along your thigh while you worked your fingers in slow, rhythmic spirals. Your breath hitched. You circled again, and then again, each motion sending little shocks through your stomach.

And then you said, “Whenever I touch myself… all I’ve been thinking about is your fingers instead of mine.”

Rhett’s mouth curved into a smirk against your skin. His lips brushed up your thigh, closer now.

“Is that so, sweetheart?”

You whimpered. “I want your mouth on me so badly, Rhett.”

He kissed the inside of your knee again–gentle, sweet, steady.

“Alright,” He murmured, voice barely more than gravel and breath. “But if you want me to stop, you can tell me at any point, okay?”

You nodded instantly. “I won’t want you to stop…”

His eyes darkened as he pressed a kiss higher up your thigh. Then another. Then another.

And as he moved closer to where you ached most, your body shuddered with anticipation. His breath ghosted over your center, hot and unsteady. You could feel it–each exhale brushing across the slick folds of your core, stirring goosebumps up your thighs. And then his voice came, low and ragged, like gravel dipped in honey.

“You’re glistening, Y/N…” He murmured, his breath catching. “It’s so fuckin’ beautiful… Can’t believe I’m the first one who gets to touch you like this…To taste you like this.”

The reverence in his voice made your chest ache. Your thighs tensed beneath his palms, and he soothed them with a slow stroke of his thumbs–circling gently, grounding you. Then he leaned in.

His stubble scraped softly against the tender skin of your inner thighs, just enough to make you flinch–not in pain, but in pure, sharpened sensitivity. He kissed your right thigh first, then your left, mouthing at the soft flesh with quiet devotion before shifting closer, lips parting.

The first lick was slow.

Long.

Deliberate.

The flat of his tongue dragged up your slit in one smooth, reverent motion, tasting every bit of your arousal like it was something sacred. He let out a low hum–a quiet, aching sound of pleasure–as his hands tightened ever so slightly on your thighs.

Then he pulled back just enough to kiss your clit–soft and wet and lingering.

“You taste amazing…” He whispered, lips brushing your folds. His voice was thick, almost dazed.

You bit your bottom lip hard, eyes fluttering as you looked down at him. He stared up at you with that same reverent hunger, mouth slick, cheeks flushed. And then he dipped his head again, tongue finding your clit in a slow, lazy stroke that made your hips twitch.

You shifted, gasping softly, instinctively wiggling against his mouth in search of more. Rhett responded immediately–pressing his face in deeper, his stubble rubbing raw and hot against your skin. You reached down without thinking, hand fumbling until yours found his.

He squeezed your hand gently.

And then, muffled against your core, you heard him ask, “You okay, baby?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes…” It came out like a whisper. “Feels so good…”

He kissed your clit again, murmuring, “Put your hand in my hair.”

Your fingers obeyed instantly, slipping into the thick strands and curling softly. He hummed in response, the sound vibrating straight through your core, and then he returned to you–tongue stroking slow, intentional patterns over your most sensitive point.

Everything about him was gentle, but relentless. He never rushed. He worshipped.

And then his hand slid off your thigh. You felt the shift–the weight of his palm dragging down, disappearing for a second.

He pulled back, panting lightly, lips shiny and pink. His voice was hoarse. “I’m gonna finger you…Is that okay?”

Your answer was immediate. “Yes. Please…”

You watched through half-lidded eyes as he dragged his fingers through your slick, coating them thoroughly. He leaned back in and kissed your clit again–soft and sweet, like a punctuation mark–before gently pressing a single finger into your entrance.

The stretch was perfect. Not painful. But new. Full.

Your lips parted in a soundless gasp, your thighs quivering as your body tried to adjust to the pressure. His eyes were locked on your face.

“Does it feel good?” He murmured, voice frayed at the edges.

You nodded. “It’s better than…Better than when I do it.” You were barely breathing.

He kissed the inside of your thigh again, his eyes glinting with something soft and primal all at once.

“You’re flutterin’ around me, sweetheart…” He whispered. “God, you feel so good.”

He slid his finger in slowly, curling it just right–and then, when you were ready, he added a second.

You moaned out loud.

Loud and aching and raw.

Your hips lifted off the mattress at the stretch, and Rhett caught you–his other arm bracing across your stomach, pinning you down with just enough pressure to steady you.

His fingers moved in slow, careful thrusts, curling deep until they found it–that spot you could only sometimes graze on your own. But he didn’t stop there. As his fingers moved, his mouth returned to your clit, tongue swirling, flattening, lapping.

It was too much and still somehow not enough.

The heat started to bloom in your belly–sharp and fast and unbearable. His fingers were soaked. The squelch of them moving inside you echoed through the room now, tangled with his quiet groans and the soft gasps falling from your lips like prayers.

He sucked your clit deep into his mouth and moaned around it, the sound vibrating through your whole body. His fingers curled again.

Right there.

“Rhett–” You gasped, voice trembling. “Rhett, it feels like I’m gonna–”

His eyes snapped up to yours, wild and focused and god, he was smiling. “Just let it out, sweetheart,” He rasped, never stopping. “Let me drink you in.”

That did it.

The heat snapped like a whip.

Your hips bucked hard–legs trembling, your back arching off the mattress. A strangled moan burst from your throat as your orgasm tore through you like wildfire.

You came hard–rushing wetness spilling out over his fingers, soaking the comforter beneath you. You gasped, nearly sobbing with the intensity, your hands tangled in his hair and fisting hard as your whole body convulsed against his mouth.

Rhett held you there.

Firm but tender, one arm anchoring you while his mouth slowed, his tongue gentling against your clit as he rode out your high. You twitched beneath him, thighs shaking, as the overstimulation began to bleed in.

“Okay…Okay…” You whimpered, barely coherent.

He eased off slowly, kissing your thighs, your stomach, your hipbone–anywhere he could reach as your body trembled down from the high. He held you until your breath evened, until the quaking softened, until your hand loosened in his hair.

Only then did he raise his head, lips flushed and glistening, eyes blown wide with awe and reverence.

“You’re incredible,” He murmured, voice shaking. “Never seen anything so goddamn beautiful.”

And then, without a word, he leaned in and kissed you–deep, slow, still tasting of you, and all you could do was pull him close and kiss him back, letting the weight of that moment settle over both of you like a blanket made of heat and something sweeter.

His tongue slipped past your lips with slow confidence, and you welcomed him, your moan melting into his mouth as your hands tangled in his hair again. It was wet and hungry, the kind of kiss that made your toes curl, the kind that made everything else disappear.

The weight of his body, the grind of denim against your bare core, the deep, soft drag of his tongue against yours–every piece of him was searing into you, and you didn’t want him anywhere else.

You could feel how hard he was through his jeans now. Thick, unrelenting. It pressed up against you, heavy and hot, even through the fabric–and you reached down between your bodies without thinking. Your fingers found the button of his jeans, popped it open, and tugged at the zipper slowly.

That was when he pulled back, just enough to breathe. His lips were swollen, chin wet, pupils blown wide. “Let me go grab a condom,” He rasped, already shifting to move.

But you caught his wrist, held him there, and your voice came soft and breathless.

“I’m on the pill… I want to feel all of you, Rhett. Please… Please, I want to feel you.”

His breath hitched–like the air was knocked out of him. His gaze darted over your face, trying to make sure he heard you right. The way you said it. The way you looked at him, wide-eyed and aching and brave.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice cracked with restraint.

You nodded, slow and deliberate. “I’ve never been more sure.”

That was all it took.

Rhett sat back slightly, and with one hand, he peeled off his shirt in a smooth, practiced motion. The fabric caught the light as it was tossed aside, revealing sun-warmed skin stretched over lean, corded muscle. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, every inch of him tanned and freckled and golden. Your eyes trailed down his stomach–over the faint trail of hair leading beneath the waistband of his jeans–your breath catching in your throat.

He pushed himself off the bed and stood to undo the rest. You watched as he slid his jeans and boxers down in one slow motion, revealing himself fully.

Your stomach flipped.

He was big.

Beautiful, too–thick and flushed, heavy against his thigh, his length curving upward slightly. You swallowed hard as your eyes followed the slope of his hips to the strength of his thighs–thick with muscle, dusted with dark hair, tense as he stood before you, letting you take him in.

He watched your face as you looked at him–searching for fear or hesitation–but all he saw was awe.

“I-I have lube,” you said quietly, pointing to the nightstand. “Top drawer.”

Without hesitation, he turned, grabbed it, and crawled back onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and he settled between your thighs again, kissing you before you could even catch your breath.

This time, it was messier. Hotter. Slick with spit and need and the taste of you lingering between your mouths. His hands roamed–gripping your waist, cupping your jaw, brushing your hair back with aching tenderness.

The heat of his erection pressed against your core again, and the moment he rocked his hips forward, you gasped. He groaned into your mouth and pulled back just enough to look at you.

“You ready?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your mouth again. Then he leaned back just slightly and gently pushed your thighs open a little wider. The cool air hit your skin, but it didn’t last–his hand came next.

He popped the cap of the lube and coated himself first, his breath catching as his hand stroked his erection with slow, slick pressure. Then he reached between your thighs, and you gasped as his fingers spread the lube carefully over your entrance, gentle and reverent.

Then he moved closer again, one arm sliding beneath your neck, cradling you as he brought his forehead to yours.

“I’ll go slow,” He whispered, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks between each word.

“Okay,” you whispered back.

“Tell me if it hurts, okay?”

You nodded again, breath shallow.

Then he reached down, adjusted himself, and began to guide his tip to your entrance.

You could feel him there–warm, slick, thick–and your hands clenched around his biceps as he slowly began to press in. The stretch was immediate. Hot. Sharp. Full.

Your breath hitched. “Oh–”

He stopped instantly, holding himself steady, brushing your hair back again.

“You okay?” His voice was ragged, restrained. His whole body trembled with the effort of holding back.

You nodded, jaw tight. “Just…Give me a second…”

He kissed your temple and murmured, “Take all the time you need, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

He stayed still, every muscle in his body taut and waiting, his cock barely halfway inside you, while you adjusted. And he kept kissing you–your hairline, your cheekbone, the tip of your nose–whispering soft things.

When you finally exhaled fully, your hips relaxed, and you whispered, “Okay…You can keep going.”

He did–so slowly it almost hurt with how careful he was. Inch by inch, the stretch deepened, and your hands scrambled for something to hold–his shoulders, the sheets, anything.

But then he bottomed out, fully seated inside you, and everything in your body stilled.

You were full. So full. It was overwhelming and delicious and dizzying, and the feel of his cock pulsing inside you made your whole body tighten.

“Oh my god…” You whispered.

Rhett was breathing hard above you, lips parted, eyes clenched shut.

“You’re so tight, sweetheart… You feel…Fuck, you feel incredible…”

He didn’t move yet. He just stayed there, kissing your shoulder, letting your body adjust around him, trembling with restraint.

“You okay?” He asked again, voice nearly breaking.

You nodded slowly, lifting your hand to stroke his jaw, “You’re so big Rhett…Fuck you’re filling me so good.” Rhett sighed hard against your mouth, the sound frayed and heavy, like he’d been holding it in for years. You felt it in your chest. In your thighs. In the way his body trembled, barely restraining itself inside you.

Your walls fluttered around him, tightening and loosening in sync with your racing heartbeat. He groaned deep in his throat, his breath catching as your body clung to his, pulse and pressure locking him in place.

His free hand found yours, fingers interlacing, his palm warm and calloused where it cupped yours into the mattress. Then he leaned down, kissed your forehead. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. Every kiss was soft, reverent–like a thank you in skin.

Then one small kiss to your lips, barely a brush, and you whispered:

“You can move…”

He nodded, eyes locked on yours. “Okay…”

And then he did.

The first roll of his hips was slow. Careful. Shallow. But even that made you gasp.

He paused, breathing against your mouth.

“Okay?” he asked again.

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice shaking. “It’s just…A lot. A really, really good lot…”

Rhett gave a breathless laugh, then kissed you again—and this time, when he rocked into you, he went just a little deeper. Then again. And again. Short strokes at first, easing you open, your body adjusting with each slow drag of him moving in and out.

Every inch was pure heat. Every motion coaxed more of you open, more pleasure, more need. Your hips started to lift with his rhythm, chasing the feeling, meeting him halfway in a messy, desperate grind.

He groaned–low and sharp, his head tipping forward so his forehead pressed to yours, sweat starting to bead at his temples.

“Holy fuck, Y/N…” He breathed, voice cracked with pleasure. “I’m already fuckin’ addicted to you. Jesus Christ.”

And then he pushed in harder–just slightly, just enough to steal your breath–and kissed you with all the weight of that confession.

You moaned into his mouth, legs tightening around his waist. Your hands slid up his back, clinging, fingernails scraping lightly as you arched beneath him.

One hand found his hair and tugged–gentle, desperate–and he let out a soft, broken sound against your lips.

Then your voice broke out, wild and shaking: “Rhett, oh my fucking god…Please. Please fuck me.”

He pulled back, just enough to look at you. His hair was damp and messy, his cheeks flushed, his eyes dark with a heat that burned straight through you.

“You want me to go a little faster?” He asked, voice barely holding on.

You nodded instantly. “Yes…Please…”

He kissed you again–deep and hungry–and then he did.

His hips began to move faster, deeper. The slick drag of his cock inside you was dizzying, perfect, each thrust brushing places that made your breath come in strangled gasps. The mattress creaked beneath your bodies, your moans filling the space between the slap of skin and the thick, humid sound of him fucking into you.

He buried his face in your neck, panting against your skin, and you clung to him, crying out as your thighs trembled around his waist.

The tension coiled in your belly again. The kind that burned slow, that built behind your ribs until it was a scream in waiting.

Sweat slid down his spine. Yours, too. The room smelled like sex and heat and skin. You could feel his muscles flexing as he fucked you, his body straining with effort, with restraint.

“Fuck…” He gasped, hips stuttering slightly. “I’m gonna cum…”

And without thinking, you whined:

“I want you to cum in me, Rhett… I want to feel you drip out of me… I want to remember you until the next time you fuck me…”

He let out a broken groan against your lips, his whole body jolting. “Jesus fuckin’–”

Then his mouth crashed into yours as his hips bucked.

His cock throbbed inside you, twitching hard as he spilled into you with a choked, whimpering moan. Hot ropes of cum pulsed into you, thick and deep, coating your walls as his whole body tensed, then sagged forward, trembling with release.

You could feel it. Every drop. The warmth, the weight of him filling you.

He kept kissing you, slow and breathless, as his body rocked through the last of it. Then he collapsed gently onto you–careful not to crush you, but unable to do anything but melt into your skin.

His breath came in hot, heavy bursts against your collarbone. Your fingers threaded through his messy hair, stroking softly, both of you pulsing together in the aftermath.

You tilted your head and kissed his shoulder. Then again. Then you opened your mouth and sucked gently, letting your teeth graze the skin just enough to sting.

He laughed. A breathless, wrecked sound that vibrated against your chest.

“You just gave me the best orgasm of my life and now you’re marking me up?” he murmured, smiling into your neck.

You kissed the spot again. “Mhm. Wanna make sure you remember me too.”

He groaned, low and content. “Like I ever could forget.”

And then he kissed you again–slower now.

The kiss lingered–soft and slow, no heat behind it now, just breath and closeness and the raw tenderness of being seen. When he finally pulled back, Rhett exhaled gently against your lips, eyes still half-lidded, lips brushing yours with each word.

“We should take a shower together,” He whispered. “Clean off…Then cuddle. Sound good to you?”

You nodded, voice caught in your throat from how gentle he was being with you. How careful. Like you might crack if he touched you too roughly now.

He kissed you again, barely a press. Then murmured, “I’m gonna pull out, okay?”

Your hands rose without thinking, cupping his face, your thumbs brushing the flushed heat of his cheekbones. “Go ahead,” You whispered.

He moved slow–achingly slow–as if trying not to jar anything loose inside you. His hips drew back, inch by inch, and the moment he slipped out, you gasped softly at the emptiness. It wasn’t pain. Just…The absence of him. Of fullness. Of connection.

He looked down instinctively, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw the smear of red on the tip of himself. Just a trace. Just enough.

His eyes flicked up immediately. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice low and urgent.

You nodded, resting a hand on his chest, the rise and fall of it still heavy from exertion. “I’m okay,” You whispered. “I promise. Just sore.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, then leaned in to kiss your forehead. “Alright,” he murmured. “Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart.”

He stood first, reaching for your hand to help you up gently. You wobbled a little on your legs, but he caught you before you could sway too far. Wordlessly, he guided you to the washroom, one arm around your waist, the other bracing you.

You sat on the toilet while he turned on the shower, the sound of the water filling the small room. The bathroom lights were still dim, the warm tiles grounding beneath your bare feet. You leaned forward slightly, your elbows resting on your knees as you peed, feeling the soft, warm leak of him spilling from between your thighs–a small gush that made you shiver.

Rhett noticed. He turned, saw your face, and came to crouch in front of you. One hand cupped your knee, the other brushed your hair back as he pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“You’re okay?” he asked again, voice like velvet.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Just… feelin’ it, that’s all.”

When you finished, he helped you up again, kissed your shoulder, and led you to the shower. The steam had already begun to fog the mirror, the tiles warm beneath your feet as you stepped in together. The water cascaded over both of you–hot and comforting, like being wrapped in the weight of the moment all over again.

Rhett stood behind you, arms around your waist, kissing your shoulders, your neck, the back of your ear with a tenderness that nearly undid you.

And then it hit you.

The comedown.

It came quiet at first–just a tightness in your chest, a knot in your throat–but then the tears came. Hot and sudden and silent, slipping down your cheeks before you even had the words for them.

Rhett felt the shift immediately. He stepped back just enough to turn you in his arms, his hands rising to frame your face, thumbs brushing your wet cheeks–not from the water this time.

“Y/N…” he whispered, heart in his throat. “Are you okay? Are you in pain?”

You shook your head quickly, the motion jerky. “No–fuck, no. It’s just…The come down.” Your voice broke, cracking like a branch.

His thumbs kept stroking your cheeks, his lips soft and close. “Sweetheart, are you sure?”

You nodded again, more firmly this time. “Yes. I’m okay. You were so fucking good, Rhett. I just…” You exhaled, choking a little on the emotion. “My emotions are all over the place. I promise I’m okay.”

He kissed your tears. One cheek. Then the other. Then your lips–soft and slow and grounding.

“Okay,” He murmured, pulling you against him. “Let’s get you cleaned up… then I’m gonna hold you in bed. Alright?”

You nodded against his chest. “Yeah…Okay.”

And he did. He reached for your body wash–your scent, your favorite brand, that sweetness he always smelled on you–and poured it into his palms. His hands moved with reverent care, smoothing over your skin with slow, deliberate tenderness. He washed every inch of you like it mattered. Like it meant something. He took his time with your arms, your back, your stomach, between your legs–gentle, never rushing.

You let him.

Because it wasn’t just about being clean. It was about being cared for. About being held in the aftermath of something big and beautiful and raw.

When he was done, he rinsed you slowly, pressing kisses to your shoulders between handfuls of water. Then he shut the water off, wrapping a towel around you first before doing the same for himself. He dried you off, careful and quiet, and then scooped your clothes from the floor and carried them out, returning a moment later to help you back into bed.

He tucked the blankets around you, kissed your temple, then turned to clean up–putting the lube away, picking up the scattered clothes, folding them gently and setting them aside. Then, finally, he crawled into bed beside you.

His naked body pressed to yours, all warmth and strength and safety.

One arm slid beneath your neck. The other wrapped around your waist, drawing you in tight. Your head rested against his chest. His breath was steady now. So was yours.

“I love you, Y/N…” he whispered, voice nearly lost to the night.

You curled into him tighter, lips brushing his collarbone. “Fuck, Rhett… I love you too.”

He smiled. You felt it against your temple.

And then the room fell quiet. Just the soft hum of the night air through the cracked window, the cooling scent of soap on your skin, and the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.

It was everything.

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jenniferspet · 8 months ago

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TW DUB-CON, KNOTTING, PASSING OUT and BULLYING

Werewolf Bully x Shy Human Nerd

In the quiet corridors of the local library, a young woman named Y/N worked tirelessly to organize the stacks of books. She had always found solace in the gentle rustle of pages and the smell of aged paper, a stark contrast to the chaotic world outside. Her glasses slid down her nose as she bent over, her hair cascading in waves around her shoulders. Y/N's eyes darted from title to title, a silent pattern of knowledge playing in her mind.

One book, however, caught her eye—a worn leather-bound tome titled "Lycanthropy and the Modern World." It was a subject that had always intrigued her, but she had never dared to delve into it. With trembling hands, she pulled it from the shelf and sat at the nearest table, the book feeling surprisingly warm against her skin. As she began to read, she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoing through the library.

The footsteps grew closer, and she recognized the heavy, deliberate tread as belonging to Grey, the school's resident werewolf and notorious bully. He sauntered down the aisle, his eyes scanning the rows of books before settling on her. A cruel smile played across his lips as he approached. "Whatcha reading, nerd?" he sneered, snatching the book from her grasp. He flipped through the pages, his eyes widening at the content. "Oooh, a book about furry little monsters like me," he said with mock fascination.

Y/N felt a flush of embarrassment creep up her neck. He held the book up, showing the illustrations of werewolves mid-transformation. The other students who had been quietly studying in the library began to gather around, drawn by the sudden tension.

"You know," Grey said, leaning in closer. "I bet you've got some wild fantasies about us beasts, don't you?" His breath was hot on her face, and she could smell the faint scent of his inner animal—a scent that was both terrifying and oddly alluring. "You want to know what it's like, don't you?" His eyes gleamed with a mischief that sent a shiver down her spine.

The crowd of students snickered, and Y/N felt her cheeks burn with humiliation. She tried to stand, to grab the book back, but Grey was too quick. He held it high above his head, just out of reach. "Come on," he taunted, "aren't you curious?" His voice grew softer, a low growl rumbling beneath the words. The other students took a step back, sensing the shift in his demeanor.

Y/N swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. "I—I don't know what you're talking about," she stammered, her voice shaking. But Grey's smile only grew wider, his teeth sharp and gleaming in the harsh library lights. "Oh, I think you do," he said, his eyes locking onto hers. "I can smell it on you." He leaned in closer, his nose almost touching her cheek. "You're scared, but you're also... excited."

The snickers from the surrounding students grew louder, and Y/N felt her face burn with shame. She knew that Grey could detect the scent of fear and arousal, and she was both terrified and infatuated by the power he held over her. "P-please," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the din. "Stop." But Grey was relentless. He tossed the book onto the table, letting it fall open to a particularly graphic illustration. "Look at this," he said, pointing at the drawing of a werewolf mounting a human. "Is this what you think about when you're all alone?"

The library, once a sanctuary of silence, was now filled with the sound of Grey's taunts and the cruel laughter of her peers. She desperately wished for the floor to swallow her whole, but instead, she found herself trapped in his gaze. He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "You want me to show you, don't you?" His voice was low and seductive, a stark contrast to the harshness of his earlier words. "You want to know what it's like to have a real beast claim you."

The words were like a slap in the face, and Y/N's eyes snapped up to meet his, filled with a mix of anger and humiliation. "Please, stop," she begged, her voice trembling. But Grey wasn't in the mood to listen. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her to her feet, the book falling to the ground with a thud. His grip was firm, his skin hot against hers. The room spun as she tried to pull away, but his strength was unyielding.

With a sudden twist, he let go, sending her stumbling backward. She reached out, trying to catch herself, but her arms flailed in the air as she lost her balance. The impact with the cold, hard ground was jarring, and she let out a gasp of pain. The laughter grew around her, a cacophony of cruel mirth that seemed to echo off the bookshelves. She felt the tears sting at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to give Grey the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

Her gaze fell on the open book, and she saw her opening—a brief moment of distraction in Grey's taunts as he watched her fall. In a flash of desperation, she scrambled to her feet, grabbing her glasses from the floor where they had fallen. Without a second glance at her abandoned bag and the scattered contents, she bolted toward the exit. The heavy library door swung open with a groan, and she dashed into the fading sunlight, her heart racing in her chest.

The cool evening breeze kissed her flushed cheeks as she sprinted down the cobblestone path, the sound of her sneakers echoing through the deserted streets. The laughter and the smell of the library faded behind her, replaced by the scent of earth and the promise of freedom. Her chest heaved with every breath, and she could feel the panic start to subside with each step she put between herself and the nightmare she'd left behind.

Y/N didn't dare look back, fearing that Grey would be right there, chasing her with his monstrous form. She had heard the whispers of his transformation, the horror stories of his unbridled rage. But she had never seen it herself, not in person. The thought of his powerful, animalistic body bearing down on her made her stomach clench with a mix of fear and unwelcome arousal.

Her feet carried her to the safety of the town square, where the fountain's gentle spray provided a sense of peace amidst the chaos in her mind. She collapsed onto the edge, her chest heaving. The cool stone felt like ice against her burning skin, grounding her in reality. The world around her was a blur, a cacophony of sounds and lights that seemed so far removed from the quiet library she had just escaped.

As she sat there, trying to catch her breath, she felt a strange tug deep within her. It was as if the very air around her was thickening, weighing her down with an inexplicable heaviness. A shadow fell over her, and she looked up to see Grey standing before her, the corners of his mouth lifted in a predatory smile.

"You're not going anywhere," he said, his voice low and menacing. "Not until I've had my fun with you."

Y/N's eyes widened with horror as she took in the sight of him. His pupils had dilated, the irises swirling with an eerie amber light. His posture had changed, shoulders broader and hunched, his muscles tensing beneath his school jacket. She knew what was coming, and she didn't have the strength to fight him.

"Grey, please," she whimpered, her voice cracking. "Not here."

But he was in no mood for mercy. With a swift movement, he bent down and scooped her up in his arms, his strength surprisingly gentle despite the malicious glint in his eyes. She felt her body go limp with resignation as he carried her to a sleek, black car parked at the edge of the square. The engine purred to life as he opened the door, tossing her inside without ceremony. The cool leather seat was a stark contrast to the warmth of his body, and she shivered as he slammed the door shut.

Her heart raced as he climbed into the driver's seat, the sound of his door echoing in the quiet night like a gunshot. The interior of the car was filled with the scent of his cologne, something musky and primal that seemed to cling to the air. He turned to her, his eyes still glowing with that unnerving amber light. "You're mine," he growled, starting the engine. "And I'll show you what it truly means to be with a werewolf."

The car sped through the deserted streets, the world outside a blur of lights and shadows. Y/N felt a strange mix of dread and anticipation building in her stomach, her body responding to the situation in a way she had never expected. The anticipation grew with every mile they drove away from the safety of the town, her heart pounding in time with the rhythm of the car's engine.

When they reached the edge of the forest, Grey pulled the car to a halt, the headlights piercing through the dense foliage. He turned to her, his features twisted into a snarl. "Get out," he barked, and she complied, her legs shaking as she stumbled out of the car. The moon had risen high in the sky, casting a silvery light over the clearing, illuminating Grey's form as he began to strip off his shirt.

Y/N's eyes were wide with fear, but she couldn't tear her gaze away from his body. His muscles rippled and stretched, bones popping and reshaping as he transformed before her very eyes. His limbs elongating into powerful paws. His teeth grew sharp, and his eyes burned with a fierce, animal hunger.

The transformation was both terrifying and mesmerizing. She had read about it in her books, but the reality was so much more intense than any description could ever capture. The car door slammed shut, and she jumped, the sound jolting her out of her trance. Grey was fully shifted now, his monstrous form towering over her, the embodiment of every nightmare she had ever had.

He took a step forward, his paws thudding on the soft earth, and she took a step back, her eyes never leaving his. The fear in her chest grew, a heavy weight that threatened to crush her. "P-please," she stuttered again, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Don't do this.”

But the beast that was Grey didn't listen to her pleas. His eyes gleamed with a mix of excitement and malice as he stalked closer, his nose flaring to take in her scent. She could see the raw hunger in his gaze, and she knew that she was prey in the most primal sense of the word.

The forest around them was eerily silent, as if all the creatures knew to stay clear of the predator in their midst. Y/N's back hit a tree, the rough bark digging into her skin as she realized she had nowhere left to run. She looked up at the towering werewolf, her breaths coming in short gasps. The fear was overwhelming, but so was the heat pooling between her legs, a traitorous response to the primal power that stood before her.

Grey's nose twitched as he inhaled her scent, his eyes never leaving hers. He knew she was afraid, but the smell of her arousal was unmistakable. It fueled his own desire, his animal instincts taking over. He took another step closer, his fur brushing against her thighs. His tail swished back and forth, a silent promise of the torment to come.

Her breath hitched, and she slammed her eyes shut, willing herself to disappear. But the warmth of his breath against her neck was undeniable, his teeth grazing her skin as he leaned in, his fur tickling her cheek. "You smell so sweet," he murmured, his voice a low, animalistic rumble. His tongue darted out, licking a path up her throat, and she shivered despite the fear.

Y/N's mind raced as his paws began to rove over her body, his claws gently scraping against the fabric of her shirt. The heat of his touch was like a brand, searing through her clothes and setting her alight with a need she didn't understand. "No," she whispered, her voice shaking. "This isn't what I want."

But Grey wasn't listening. He could smell the lie in her words, the sweet scent of her arousal betraying her. His grin grew wider, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. He knew exactly how to play this game. He lowered his head, his nose nudging her thighs apart. "You're so wet for me," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "You can't lie to a werewolf, little girl."

Y/N's eyes shot open in shock and horror as she felt Grey's hot breath against her skin. She tried to push him away, but his paws held her in place, his strength unyielding. He nuzzled closer, his tongue tracing a wet line up the inside of her thigh, and she gasped, her body responding despite her fear. "No," she said again, her voice shaking, but the protest was weaker this time.

Grey's grin grew wider, and he let out a low, guttural chuckle. He could sense the lie in her voice, the way her body was betraying her. He took her silence as an invitation, his tongue flicking out to tease her through the fabric of her panties. She shivered, her hands balling into fists at her sides, torn between pushing him away and giving in to the strange thrill that was building within her.

With a swift move, he ripped her skirt off, the sound of the fabric tearing echoing through the quiet forest. He was unbothered by the buttons and zipper, his paws moving with surprising dexterity. Her eyes went wide with shock, and she tried to struggle, but his grip was like iron. He lowered his face to her exposed center, his tongue swiping over the damp material, tasting the sweetness that had soaked through. Her breath hitched, and she bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out.

He could tell she was lying. Her body was singing a siren's song of desire, a symphony of pheromones that called to his primal instincts. He knew she was afraid, but fear was a delicious flavor that only enhanced the thrill of the hunt. His teeth grazed her skin, and she jolted, her hands flying to his shoulders. "Please," she begged, but her voice was thick with need, the word barely a whisper.

Ignoring her protests, he pushed her thighs apart, his snout nudging the fabric of her panties aside. The scent of her arousal was intoxicating, a potent blend of fear and lust that made his blood race. He flicked his tongue out, tasting the sweetness that coated her. She moaned softly, the sound music to his ears. He reveled in the power he had over her, the way she trembled beneath his touch.

Y/N's hands flew to his shoulders, not to push him away but to hold onto something as the world spun out of control. His tongue was a wet, warm intrusion against her, sending shockwaves of pleasure through her body. She couldn't believe she was letting this happen, couldn't believe she was responding to him like this. But the fear and the thrill were too much to resist. Her legs quivered, and she felt the first stirrings of an orgasm building deep within her.

Grey's teeth grazed the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, his tongue lapping at her folds with a hunger that seemed to grow with every passing second. The fabric of her panties was a flimsy barrier that offered little protection from his eager mouth. Y/N's breath hitched, and she bit down on her lip to keep from screaming. She could feel the eyes of the surrounding forest on her, a silent audience to her humiliation and her unexpected pleasure.

He could smell her fear, but it was the scent of her arousal that truly excited him. His tongue grew more insistent, pushing past the barrier of her underwear to explore the slickness of her pussy. She gripped the bark of the tree behind her, her nails digging into the wood as she felt the first tremors of an unwanted climax begin to build. Her protests had turned into gasps, her body betraying her with every shiver of delight.

With a sudden, brutal yank, Grey tore her panties away, exposing her completely to the cold night air. He growled, his eyes never leaving hers as he took in the sight of her bare flesh. His paws, now tipped with deadly claws, traced up her thighs, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. "You're mine," he repeated, his voice now a deep, animalistic rumble.

He didn't give her a chance to protest again. With one swift movement, he shoved two of his claws into her, the sharpness of the intrusion making her gasp in shock and pain. The world around them faded into a blur of agony and pleasure as he began to pump them in and out, each stroke hitting a spot within her that made her vision swim. Y/N's nails dug into the bark of the tree, her legs shaking with the effort to keep herself upright.

Grey's snout nudged her thighs further apart, and he lowered his head, his tongue delving into her, lapping at her like a starved beast. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain that she had never experienced before. Her mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—fear, anger, and an undeniable, traitorous desire that grew stronger with every stroke of his tongue.

Her body responded to his ministrations despite her will, and she felt her climax building, the tension coiling tightly within her. She tried to fight it, to push the feelings away, but it was like trying to hold back the tide with a single hand. The pleasure washed over her, a wave that she couldn't resist, and she screamed, the sound lost in the vastness of the forest.

As the last of her orgasm tremored through her, Grey pulled back, his tongue leaving a wet trail on her skin. His eyes gleamed with triumph, and he let out a low growl of satisfaction. He knew he had her now, that she was his to do with as he pleased. With a flick of his head, he indicated the ground before her. "On your hands and knees," he ordered, his voice still thick with his shifted vocal cords.

Y/N's legs felt like jelly, but she complied, the fear and arousal making her body feel like it didn't belong to her. She sank to the damp earth, her hands and knees sinking into the leaves and moss. The coldness of the ground seeped through her clothing, a stark contrast to the heat of her body. She felt his paws on her hips, guiding her, positioning her just right for what was to come. His teeth grazed the small of her back, a gentle reminder of the power he held over her.

With surprising gentleness, Grey began to clean her up, his rough tongue lapping away the evidence of her release. The sensation was oddly comforting, his warmth and care in that moment a stark contrast to the horror of the situation. Y/N couldn't help but lean into his touch, her body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. It was a brief respite from the fear that had taken over her mind.

But the reprieve was short-lived. He grew impatient, his paws gripping her hips tighter, his teeth nipping at her skin. The pain brought her back to reality with a jolt, and she tensed, her eyes squeezed shut. "P-please," she whimpered again, the word a pitiful sound that seemed to only excite him further.

Grey chuckled, the sound deep and rumbling in his chest. He knew she was his now, that she would do anything he said. He leaned over her, his hot breath on her neck as he whispered, "Beg for it, little human." The words were a challenge, a demand that sent a shiver down her spine.

With a snarl, Grey's paws pushed her down onto the damp leaves, her forehead pressing against the cold earth. The weight of his massive body was a constant reminder of his dominance, his fur brushing against her bare skin, sending goosebumps along her spine. "Beg," he growled again, his voice a dark, seductive promise of pain and pleasure. Y/N's throat tightened, and she swallowed the lump that had formed there.

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as she whispered, "P-please, Grey." It was the closest she could come to begging, her pride shattered by the overwhelming power he held over her. He seemed to understand, his paws shifting to stroke her hair gently, a strange tenderness that didn't belong in this twisted moment. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice almost affectionate.

The sound of his zipper was like a gunshot in the quiet of the woods, and Y/N felt her heart race even faster. His cock, thick and engorged, nudged against her, and she couldn't help the involuntary whine that escaped her. The tip was wet with precum, and she could feel it smear against her thigh as he positioned himself. "This is what you wanted," he said, his breath hot against her ear. "This is what you've been dreaming about."

The pressure grew as he pushed into her, slow and inexorable, stretching her more than she ever thought possible. The pain was intense, and she bit down on her lip to keep from screaming. But through the pain, there was something else—a spark of something that felt almost like pleasure. It was as if her body was trying to convince her that this was what she needed, what she had been searching for all along.

Grey's thrusts grew stronger, the slickness of her own arousal mixing with the pre-cum that coated his shaft, making it easier for him to slide in and out of her. She felt the ground shake beneath them with every movement, his powerful hips driving into her with a ferocity that was inhuman. And yet, she couldn't bring herself to hate him for it. The fear had given way to a strange, twisted fascination, her mind reeling with the reality of being claimed by a creature of legend.

With every thrust, she could feel her body stretching, accommodating his monstrous girth. The pain began to dull into something almost bearable, replaced by a deep, pulsing ache that seemed to resonate through her very core. And as he pushed deeper, she felt something else—a warmth spreading through her, a feeling of belonging that was as terrifying as it was exhilarating. Her own hips began to rock back against him, a silent plea for more.

Grey's breathing grew ragged, his paws digging into her hips as he picked up the pace. His teeth grazed her neck, the pressure just shy of breaking the skin. She could feel the power of his body, the unbridled strength that was now focused solely on her pleasure and his own. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she let out a soft moan, the sound lost in the symphony of the night.

"You're a pathetic little whore, aren't you?" He growled, his voice thick with lust. "Begging for it from the monster you fear." The words were like a knife to her soul, but she couldn't deny the way her body responded, arching back into him, her hips pushing back to meet every thrust. The pain had turned into a dull throb, a background to the pleasure that was rapidly building within her.

"You're just a slut for a good time," he continued, his claws digging into her hips as he slammed into her. "Look at you, taking it like you've been waiting for this all along." His words were cruel, designed to cut deep, but she found a strange solace in the harshness of his voice. It was a reminder of who she was in this moment—his prey, his conquest. And yet, she couldn't help but crave more, her body moving in sync with his, her walls tightening around his cock.

With a vicious snarl, Grey pulled out of her, the sudden emptiness making her cry out. Before she could process what was happening, he had flipped her onto her back, his fur-covered hands tearing at her shirt. The fabric gave way easily, the buttons popping off and scattering into the leaves. He paused for a moment, his eyes drinking in the sight of her bare breasts, the pale mounds quivering in the moonlight.

With a wicked grin, his claws traced gentle circles around her nipples, the sharpness of his nails a constant reminder of the violence lurking just beneath the surface. Y/N's eyes rolled back in her head, a soft moan escaping her as she felt her body respond to his touch, her breasts swelling under his ministrations. His tongue darted out, licking the sensitive skin around her areola, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to her core.

Grey's paws continued to maul her, his thumbs brushing over her hardened peaks, sending shivers of delight through her body. His teeth grazed her neck, nipping and biting with a precision that was almost tender. "Mine," he murmured again, the word a dark promise that sent a thrill of fear and excitement through her. She could feel his cock, still hard and demanding, pressing against her stomach, leaving a trail of precum that made her skin feel sticky and hot.

He shifted his weight, his paws moving to her hips as he positioned himself at her entrance once more. This time, as he pushed back into her, she could feel the swollen knot at the base of his cock, growing larger with every thrust. It was an unfamiliar sensation, one that filled her with a mix of dread and excitement. Her body stretched around him, trying to accommodate the intrusion, her walls clenching and unclenching in a futile attempt to adjust.

Grey's eyes bore into hers, his expression a mix of hunger and triumph. He knew what was coming, and he reveled in the way she squirmed beneath him, her fear and arousal a potent cocktail that only fueled his desire. His thrusts grew more deliberate, his cock pushing deeper with every stroke, the knot inching closer to the tight ring of muscle that guarded her insides.

Y/N felt the pressure build, a sensation that was both terrifying and thrilling. Her mind screamed for her to fight, to push him away, but her body was a traitor, arching into his touch, begging for the completion that she knew would come with the seating of his knot. Her nails dug into the earth beneath her, her legs shaking with the effort to stay open for him.

Grey's eyes narrowed, his teeth bared in a feral smile as he felt her body resist. He leaned down, his breath hot on her skin as he whispered, "Take it, little human. Take all of me." And with that, he thrust forward, the knot breaching her tight entrance, stretching her further than she had ever been. The pain was intense, a white-hot agony that seemed to fill her entire being.

Her body fought the intrusion, her walls clenching around his shaft, trying to push him out. But Grey was relentless, his powerful hips driving into her, inch by inch, until his knot was fully seated within her. The pressure was unbearable, and she screamed, her nails scoring the ground beneath her. She could feel her body stretching to accommodate his monstrous size, her insides burning with the effort.

The pain was unlike anything she had ever experienced, a fiery agony that seemed to consume her very soul. But amidst the pain, there was something else—a feeling of fullness, a sense of belonging that was as overwhelming as it was unwelcome. His fur-covered body pressed down on hers, his hot breath in her ear as he whispered sweet nothings, his tongue flicking against her earlobe.

Grey began to rock his hips, the knot within her moving in a way that sent waves of pleasure through her body. She gritted her teeth, trying to fight the feeling, but it was like trying to hold back the tide. The pleasure grew with every movement, her body seemingly rewiring itself to crave the painful ecstasy he was forcing upon her. His eyes were wild, the pupils dilated with desire, and she knew she was lost to him.

The knot grew larger, swelling with every beat of his heart, pushing into her with a relentlessness that was both terrifying and exhilarating. She could feel it filling her, the pressure becoming unbearable as it reached the limits of her stretched body. Yet she couldn't stop the soft moans that spilled from her lips, her body betraying her with every twitch and quiver.

Grey's thrusts grew more forceful, the sound of his hips slapping against her ass echoing through the stillness of the forest. The pain had become a living entity within her, a constant throb that was matched only by the growing need for release. His claws dug into her flesh, leaving behind half-moons of blood and bruises that would be a stark reminder of her submission.

Y/N's eyes squeezed shut, and she bit down on her bottom lip so hard she could taste blood. The tears that fell were a mix of agony and a twisted pleasure that she didn't dare acknowledge. Each movement of his knot sent jolts of electricity through her, making her toes curl and her back arch. It was a dance of pain and pleasure, one she never wanted to end despite the horror of it all.

Grey's breath grew ragged, his hips moving faster and harder. She could feel the tension building in him, his muscles tensing as he approached his climax. And as much as she didn't want to, she found herself matching his rhythm, her hips rising to meet his. The pressure was unbearable, a delicious agony that was pushing her closer and closer to the edge.

With a roar that shook the very trees around them, Grey's knot swelled to its full size, locking them together in a carnal embrace. The feeling was indescribable, a mix of pain and pleasure so intense it was like nothing she had ever felt before. Her own climax hit her like a freight train, her body convulsing around his, her eyes rolling back in her head.

But just as the pleasure crested, everything went black. The world around her disappeared, and she was lost in the darkness. The next thing she knew, she was floating, weightless, and disoriented. Her body felt strange, like it didn't quite belong to her anymore, and she couldn't tell where she ended and the world around her began.

When she finally came to, the first thing she felt was the softness of the bed beneath her, the unmistakable scent of pine and fur in her nose. She blinked her eyes open, and the world swam into focus. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the moon that shone in through the open window. The bed she was in was massive, the sheets rough against her skin.

Grey was beside her, his fur ruffled and his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath. His hand lay possessively on her thigh, his claws retracted but still visible in the moonlight. Y/N's heart hammered in her chest as she took in the scene, her mind racing with the events of the night.

Her body felt used and abused, every inch of her tender flesh marked by his rough touch. Yet she couldn't ignore the stickiness between her legs, the evidence of their coupling that painted a vivid picture of her own participation. It was a stark contrast to the innocent girl she had been just hours ago, a stark reminder of the creature that now owned her.

Grey's grip on her thigh tightened in his sleep, and she flinched, the pain a sharp reminder of their reality. Carefully, she tried to slide away, but his hand followed her, keeping her in place. The warmth of his body was surprisingly comforting, the heavy weight of his arm draped over her was a bizarre source of security in the aftermath of the horror.

Her mind raced, trying to process what had just happened. She had been claimed by a monster, used, and marked as his territory. Yet she couldn't shake the feeling of contentment that filled her as she lay there, nestled into the crook of his fur-covered body. It was as if some primal part of her had been awakened, some ancient instinct that craved the protection of the man.

With trembling hands, she reached out, her fingertips brushing through the thick fur that covered his chest. His breathing was steady, his body warm and comforting against hers. Y/N allowed herself to sink into him, her body molding to the contours of his muscles, her cheek resting against the firmness of his chest.

For a moment, she closed her eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. It was a strange sense of peace amidst the chaos, a tranquility she never thought she would find in the arms of her captor. She felt his chest rise and fall beneath her, his breathing slow and even. She slowly fell back asleep, awaiting what would come in the morning.

#werewolf x reader #werewolf smut #bully x reader #bully x victim #monster smut #monster fucker #monster x reader

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blooniverse · 2 years ago

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Contemporary Bathroom - Bathroom Mid-sized, modern master bathroom with a double sink, marble tile flooring, white walls, and flat-panel cabinets. The bathroom also has an undermount sink, quartzite countertops, a hinged shower door, a built-in vanity, and white countertops.

#wall mounted faucet #glass shower #corner window #high ceiling #sheepskin rug #bathroom #round mirrors

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mashtatosworld · 4 months ago

Text

hopelessly devoted

summary: it's girl's night! and GD is left alone with the baby for the first time

The BMW rolls up to the curb, sleek and gleaming under the streetlights, but the man behind the wheel doesn’t look quite so polished.

Jiyong’s in his usual Prada pyjamas - covered in baby spit up and a pair of glasses perched on his nose. His hair is a mess, flat on one side like he’d fallen asleep for twenty minutes before being summoned by your friends’ chaotic messages.

He barely pulls the handbrake up before you stumble toward the backseat, cooing in delight when you see your baby girl strapped into her car seat, her head tilted slightly to the side in sleep.

“My beautiful, beautiful angel,” you sing, voice high and syrupy with alcohol, planting a kiss on her chubby cheek. “You’re so so cute, I love you, my little- ”

“You gonna sit down or serenade her all night?” Jiyong mutters, though his voice lacks any real bite. He’s too tired for sarcasm, too relieved to have found you in one piece - even if you were clinging to a street sign like a koala when your friends texted him for help.

You fall into the backseat beside Diva, your knee bumping the car seat as you settle in. Immediately, your arms rest protectively around the handle like someone might swoop in and take her away.

One of your equally drunk friends clambers into the front passenger seat, giggling as they press every button they can find - seat warmers flicker on and off, hazard lights flash, and the radio sputters between static and some 2000s Britney.

“Don’t touch anything,” Jiyong says, voice low and dangerously calm.

“Sorry, Oppa!” they chirp, utterly unbothered, then lean across the console to squint at his phone mounted on the dash. “Awww, what’s your home screen? Let me see!”

Jiyong’s hand slaps over his phone before they can see it, shooting you a betrayed look through the rearview mirror. You just smile at him, eyes glassy and glittering with tipsy affection.

“It’s just y/n, isn’t it?” one of your friends sat beside you teases.

“Yeah,” you say proudly, sitting up straighter and beaming, “But in the photo I'm -"

“It's a private photo.” Jiyong interrupts, putting the handbrake down as he pulls the car away.

“Sorry girls, he's shy.” you say sweetly.

Your friends find this hysterical, the entire car vibrating with drunk laughter, but Jiyong only has eyes for you in the rearview. You’re fussing with Diva’s tiny socks, fixing the blanket over her legs, smoothing down her fuzzy hair even though she’s fast asleep - totally oblivious to the chaos.

It hits him again - that strange, overwhelming mix of love, exhaustion, and disbelief that this is his life now. That you’re his wife, you share a daughter, and his car is currently full of your wasted friends and the scent of someone’s spilled soju. And somehow, despite it all, he wouldn’t trade a second of it.

“Thank you for coming to get us, Gdaddy,” you murmur, slumping sideways so your head rests against Diva’s car seat.

He softens, even cracks a smile. “Anything for you, Jagi.”

“Can we get fries?” your friend asks, suddenly leaning into his personal space.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

You, half-asleep and still holding onto Diva’s car seat, mumble, “Ji, let’s get fries.”

He sighs, flipping on the indicator. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You blow him a kiss through the mirror, and even though your lipstick is smeared, your hair is a mess, and you reek of alcohol, he thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

i loved this request!

also thank u to those lovely people that helped me figure out the how to do the text format! i might do more of these in the future but props to those that do it - this took me AGES

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy

#bigbang #kpop #gdragon #kwon jiyong #mashtatosworld #kwon jiyong x reader #gdragon x reader #request #gdad

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natsaffection · 2 months ago

Text

Innocence. pt 2 | N.R

Older!Sargent!Natasha × Younger!Soldier!Reader

Warnings: Gore, description of death, dismemberment, injury’s, explosion, blood

Word count: 7,4k

A/N: Penultimate chapter, until we get to the end. All images used are my own (except the Natasha icon)!! So please ask if you want to use them! :)

Part 1

Sleep didn’t come easy.

You lay on your back, staring at the dull ceiling of the container, the small fan above you creaking as it rotated with a lazy, rhythmic whine. Outside, the desert wind whispered against the walls — dry, soft, constant. You’d stripped down to your undershirt, your dog tags resting cool against your collarbone, your hands folded on your stomach like you were already in a coffin.

Your mind wouldn’t shut off. Tomorrow was the day.

Your first real mission. Not a drill. Not a simulation. No instructor with a stopwatch waiting to yell “reset.” This was boots-on-ground, civilians bleeding, enemies possibly lurking in the shadows kind of mission.

You didn’t know if you were scared or excited. Maybe both. Probably both. Rae had passed out hours ago, breathing softly on the other side of the room, still wearing one sock and half-hugging a med bag like a teddy bear. You had smiled at the sight, but now, hours later, you’d stopped smiling.

Every time you closed your eyes, you imagined what you might see. A child missing limbs. A man screaming. A woman with glass embedded in her skin. The unknown made your bones ache. Eventually, exhaustion won.

The alarm hit like a slap. You bolted upright, breathing hard, heart thudding. Your eyes were dry, your mouth dryer. It felt like you’d only closed your eyes five minutes ago. You didn’t speak. Didn’t think. Just moved.

Boots. Vest. Gloves. Radio. Helmet. Sidearm. Canteen. Dog tags tucked. Every motion was mechanical now. Your hands trembled just once, zipping your pack, and then steadied. Rae was already up, tying her hair back. She looked at you, nodded once. You didn’t speak. No one needed to. You both knew what the day was.

You stepped out into the pale early morning light. It was cooler than expected, but the wind carried dust that clung to your lips and lashes. At the rally point, the vehicles were already prepped, dusty, armored trucks fitted with mounted comms and open hatches. Soldiers moved around them in silence. No jokes today. No banter.

This was real.

Natasha stood near the first vehicle, arms crossed, headset slung low on her neck. She gave a quick signal. No speech. No send-off.

Just: “Mount up.”

You climbed into the second vehicle with Rae, Martinez, and two others you hadn’t trained closely with. You slid into your seat, back pressed against the hot metal interior, helmet secure. The hatch slammed shut behind you.

And then, you were moving. The base vanished behind you, replaced by the open sprawl of desert and broken earth. No trees. No grass. Just wind, sand, and the occasional distant shape, twisted wreckage, forgotten fences, lone figures moving slowly with the horizon.

You passed a small cluster of homes, if they could be called that. Shacks built from sheet metal and stone, half-collapsed, windows covered in fabric. Children ran alongside the vehicles, barefoot and thin, laughing like they didn’t notice the rifles pointing past them. One girl waved at you. Just waved. Big smile, missing two front teeth.

You blinked, stunned, and instinctively waved back. Rae elbowed you gently. “First time seeing them?”

“Yeah,” you whispered.

“Some just want to feel safe,” Rae said. “Others want answers. Some don’t even know who we are.”

You watched a woman carrying two plastic buckets stacked with water. Another walked with a child on her hip and two more trailing behind her, eyes wide and sunburned.

Through the vehicle comms, a calm voice filtered through, “Convoy One, approaching high ground. Eyes open. Light movement on the north ridge.”

“Copy. Looks like shepherds.”

“Shepherds don’t carry scopes.”

Your chest tightened. Your grip on your rifle increased but nothing happened. The convoy moved forward. Just tension. Just silence.

After 30 minutes the vehicle slowed. And when the hatch opened, the smell hit you first. Burnt wood. Rot. Blood. Ash. The air was thick with heat and the copper tang of death.

You stepped down from the vehicle, boots crunching into the dirt. What had once been a village was now a battlefield without bullets. Collapsed homes. Charred trees. Rubble scattered like the aftermath of a god’s tantrum.

White medical tents flapped in the wind like ghosts. The red cross barely visible beneath layers of dust and smoke. And then the sounds started.

A man screaming. A child sobbing for someone who wasn’t there. The bark of a medic yelling for supplies. The squelch of blood-soaked bandages being changed.

You stood there, frozen. A body lay just fifteen feet away, partially covered in a sheet. Bare feet, darkened with soot. A hand poked out, fingers curled. A fly buzzed around the exposed skin.

You turned slightly, and saw more. A boy, maybe ten, holding the limp hand of his younger sister while a medic worked on a burn across her face. Another man had a gaping wound across his thigh, shrapnel still visible. His leg was blackened with dead tissue.

Some just sat. Still. Staring at nothing. One woman, blood on her arms, cradled a bundle wrapped in white cloth and didn’t look up as the soldiers passed. You didn’t want to know what was inside. But your gut already did.

Over comms, Natasha’s voice came through:

“Echo 9, this is command. Secure perimeter and begin patrol grid. Keep your distance from civ medical tents unless requested. Watch for movement past the east road. We’ve had reports of looters.”

You looked up and saw her. Natasha stood arms crossed, headset tilted, watching everything like it was a chessboard. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

You were supposed to be watching the eastern trail. But your eyes kept drifting back to the field. It wasn’t the smoke, or the tents, or the scorched buildings that held you there.

It was the people.

This was your first time seeing real pain. Not a training scenario. Not a documentary. Not blurry footage edited for public consumption. This was raw, loud, undeniable.

You had seen pain before, bruised ribs in hand-to-hand, blood on the sim floor, a dislocated shoulder during drills. But it had always come with the safety of structure. A start. A stop. A reset.

This had none of that. This was endless. Then, the sound of engines. You turned in time to see another convoy pulling in, three trucks, armored, each marked with the red insignia of a partnered med relief group. They rolled into the center field, tires kicking up dirt.

The back of the lead truck opened with a groan, and a stretcher was pulled out, fast, desperate. Two medics barking words you didn’t understand over each other. Blood soaked the sheet. It trailed behind them, painting the dirt with a thick, dark smear.

The man on the stretcher wasn’t moving. One leg was gone from the knee down. His eyes were open. But he wasn’t seeing.

You turned your head, you stomach tightening. You stared at the horizon instead. Squinting against the sun. This is real, you thought. This is what it looks like when someone’s body gives out before their soul knows how to leave.

You felt something shift inside you. A quiet part of yourself shrinking. And time passed like syrup.

You hadn’t moved much, only rotated position once, now stationed at a higher vantage where you could see the slope leading out of the village. Your comms buzzed faintly, distant voices, check-ins, status updates.

“Report from Bravo-3: local dispute broke out west sector, perimeter holding. One potential hostile removed.”

“Copy that. Civilians reacting erratic, no threat yet.”

“Randals started west of the crater site, looters maybe.”

Your posture stiffened. Your back went straight, your stance shifting slightly, fingers tightening on the grip of your rifle.

Randals. Looters. Opportunists. Or worse.

Your eyes scanned faster now, no more blank stares. Just tight, mechanical sweeps across the road, the rooftops, the edges of the ruins. You saw movement, just a man at first, standing near a torn wall where a roof used to be. Alone. Not near the med tents. Not walking. Just standing.

He was watching you. Your eyes met. Even with the distance between you, something about his stare sent cold sliding down your back. His face didn’t shift. No scowl. No grin. Just locked, unreadable stillness.

Your fingers curled tighter around your rifle. You didn’t lift it. Not yet. But you didn’t look away either. Your pulse tapped faster at your throat. You heard the crunch of boots behind you.

“Easy.” came a voice. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. She came up beside you, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the same man. Her presence was like armor.

“He’s not moving.” Natasha added. “Not armed. Not stupid.”

Still, she looked at you now, a glance, sharp and assessing. “How are you holding up?”

Her tone wasn’t soft. It never was. But it wasn’t ice either. You hesitated, then answered. “Still standing.”

Natasha gave a single nod. Like that was the only acceptable answer. Then she reached into her vest and held out a plastic bottle of water. You took it without a word and unscrewed the top, drinking half in a few quick gulps. You hadn’t realized how dry your throat was. How dry everything was.

“You’re processing.” Natasha said after a moment. “That’s normal.”

Your jaw clenched. “I didn’t freeze.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“But I looked away.”

“Only once.” Natasha replied. “And then you kept watch.”

You looked at her, not quite challenging, but asking something you couldn’t put into words. Natasha didn’t flinch.

“You’re not here to be desensitized. You’re here to act. There’s a difference.”

A pause. The wind carried a scream from somewhere back at the tents. A child crying.

“First missions don’t leave you.” Natasha added, her voice quieter now. “They shape you. That’s the point. Let it hurt. Just don’t let it stop you.”

You blinked, and nodded. Then Natasha turned, her radio already clicking to life again as she walked back toward the main road, her voice low and command-clear. You looked back to the man by the wall.

He was gone.

10 hours later

You stirred awake to the gentle shake of a hand on your shoulder.

“Your shift.” Rae murmured. You blinked, disoriented for half a second. The tent canvas above you rustled with the wind, shadows flickering from the med lights in the distance. Your body ached, but there was no sharp pain, just the dull, heavy kind that came from a long day of watching people bleed.

You rolled out of your cot, boots already halfway on from when you collapsed into sleep earlier.

“Thanks.” you muttered.

Rae just nodded and lay down. You geared up in silence. Vest, helmet, comm clipped to your collar, rifle slung across your back. The routine movements steadied you, anchoring you in something normal.

You stepped outside. And froze.

Out here, far from cities and light pollution, the stars were alive. Not just visible, blazing. Endless pinpricks scattered across the sky like shattered glass. The Milky Way hung thick across the dark like a brushstroke. You tilted your head back, mouth parted slightly, breath caught in your throat.

You’d never seen it like this. Not even on base. The desert was silent. Just the low hum of equipment. The occasional distant cough or rustle. No gunfire. No screaming.

Just… stillness.

You reached your watch point, a small hill with sandbags and a rusted bench set up behind a camo net. From here, you could see the edge of the village. The lights were still on in the med tents. People moved like shadows, dim shapes working through the night.

The pain doesn’t sleep, you thought. You didn’t sit at first. Just stood. Watching. Breathing.

Then, a presence. No footsteps. No noise. But suddenly, someone was there. You turned slightly. Natasha sat down on the low bench beside you like she’d been conjured from the air. No helmet, just her standard fatigues, her braid falling over one shoulder, her face unreadable in the low light.

You tensed. Not because you were scared. Because this was the first time you’d been alone with her. Really alone. No training. No shouting. No commands. Just… a desert, a shared silence, and stars.

Natasha didn’t speak right away. She looked out over the same view, elbows resting on her knees, fingers loosely laced.

“First time overseas?”

Her voice was quiet. Not cold. Not soft, either. Neutral. You took a beat too long to answer. “No. It’s my third.”

That made Natasha turn her head. Just slightly. You didn’t look at her. Kept your eyes forward.

“Third?” she echoed. A note of surprise beneath the calm.

You nodded.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

A pause. Natasha blinked slowly. “You enlisted young.”

“Nineteen. Straight out of school.”

“You volunteered for this deployment?”

You looked down at your gloves. Then, after a beat, “No.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“I wanted another unit. Echo-One.” A faint, humorless smile pulled at your lips. “Didn’t make the cut.”

There was no judgment in Natasha’s face. Just quiet understanding. “Why them?”

“They were the best..” you said simply. “At least… that’s what I thought. It felt like the fast track. Like everything I worked for led there.”

“And when you didn’t get it?”

“I was crushed.” you admitted. “Then they handed me your file. Said echo 9 wanted me. I didn’t know if it was a pity assignment, or a joke.”

Natasha actually huffed, a very soft laugh under her breath. “Believe me..” she said, “I don’t do pity.”

You glanced at her. Natasha’s gaze was fixed ahead, but her mouth turned ever so slightly upward. “You’re doing good.” she added. “Better than you think.”

Your chest tightened. It wasn’t praise shouted across a drill yard. It wasn’t encouragement forced from a superior. It was just truth, said in the calm of night.

“…Thank you.” you said quietly.

The silence after was comfortable. For the first time, it didn’t feel like command sitting beside you. It felt like Natasha. You hesitated. Then bit your lip. Then, because the quiet gave you courage:

“Can I ask you something?”

Natasha turned to look at you. Not hard. Just direct. “You can ask.”

You flushed a little. “It’s kind of personal.”

Natasha didn’t move.

“Was yours like this?”

Natasha turned to you again. “What do you mean?”

“Your first time outside. Was it like… this?”

A beat. Then Natasha smiled, just barely. “No. Mine was worse.”

You blinked.

“It wasn’t a humanitarian op..” she continued. “We weren’t guarding medics. We were the medics. Improvised evac from a collapsed tunnel system. No command. No backup. I was the youngest.“

You studied her. There was no brag in her tone. No drama. Just.. fact.

“We’re you scared?”

“Of course.” Natasha said, almost gently. “I still am. That’s the job. You just learn how to breathe through it.”

You had imagined her as cold steel. Untouchable. Sharp edges and closed doors. But now…you could feel the history in her voice. Not brokenness, but survival.

“Do you ever…wish you’d done something else?” you asked.

Natasha’s eyes flicked back down. And then..softly, she smiled.

“Every day.” she said. “And none of them.”

Then, without a word, she reached into her vest pocket and pulled out a slim, scratched phone. The kind soldiers carried overseas. Secure. Tough and personal.

You watched in stunned silence as Natasha unlocked it and pulled up a photo. She turned it slightly, offering it to you.

A girl. Maybe eleven. Dark hair, same sharp eyes. Laughing in a backyard with a dog chasing her.

“My niece.” Natasha said. “She lives with my sister.”

“She’s beautiful.” you whispered. “She looks like she laughs a lot.”

“She does.”

You smiled a little. Then swallowed thickly. Your fingers twitched at your thigh, the photo was still being held toward you, but what made you freeze wasn’t the picture.

It was the way Natasha was watching you. Not casually. Not with suspicion. With…confirmation. Her gaze was fixed on you, steady and analytical. Like she was adding another bullet point to a mental file she kept locked behind her eyes.

“You get soft when you see kids.” Natasha said, not accusing. Just…naming it. You tensed slightly, the smile slipping from your face. “Is that bad?”

“It’s human.” Natasha replied. “But out here… softness gets turned into leverage.”

She turned the phone screen off, not like she was hiding it, but like the moment was over. Then she leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees again, voice shifting lower, not sharp, but serious.

“You need to be aware of what this place can do.”

You nodded slowly. Natasha didn’t flinch. “You know what children are used for in places like this?”

You blinked, the answer cold on your tongue. “Yes.”

“Tell me.”

You swallowed. “Cover. Distraction. Suicide ops if they’re trained.”

Natasha gave a single, sharp nod. “Or they don't know. You can’t forget that. Doesn’t mean you stop feeling, it means you never let the feeling override your judgment.”

You didn’t look away. “I understand.”

Romanoff studied you for a moment longer, then her posture softened just slightly. She pulled her phone back. With a few taps, she flicked through a few more pictures and showed you a new one.

Same niece, maybe a year younger. Sitting on Romanoff’s lap in a living room cluttered with pillows, a birthday cake half-cut on the table.

“She thinks I’m boring.” Natasha said.

You laughed. Quietly. “You? Boring?”

“I don’t talk about superheroes or animals enough.”

“I mean…valid critique.”

Natasha smirked..barely. Then she said something that surprised you both.

“She reminds me of you.”

You blinked. “Me?”

Natasha didn’t backpedal. Just shrugged, eyes back on the screen.

“You both have that same thing. That softness under all the armor. Most people out here…they build walls. You came here with doors still open.”

Your breath hitched. Not from flattery. From truth. Because it was you. And no one had ever said it like that.

“You sound like you think that’s bad.”

“I think it’s dangerous.” Natasha said softly. “But powerful. If you survive it.”

You looked back out at the desert, letting the words settle.

“I don’t want to lose it.” you admitted. “The softness, I mean.”

“Then don’t.” Natasha replied. “Just protect it better.”

Another silence, but this one felt different. Like something had clicked. You kept talking after that, not about tactics or protocol or pain. Just…life.

Natasha showed you a few more pictures, a snowy street in St. Petersburg, a blurry photo of her sister holding a wine bottle triumphantly, a candid of Romanoff in civilian clothes, smiling like she wasn’t aware the camera was on her.

You couldn’t believe you were seeing any of it. And Natasha watched you see it, like she was testing how much she could give before it felt like too much. You talked about music. About food you missed. About things you’d do after this deployment, even if neither of you believed in the word after.

“You’ll make it through this.” she said. “Just keep that door guarded.”

Silence stretched again, but this time, it wasn’t awkward.

Then Natasha stood. The spell didn’t break. It shifted. Stretched. She looked down at you, “You’re doing fine, Y/l/n.” she said. “Don’t overthink. Just watch. Breathe. Stay present.”

You nodded, mouth dry. Then Natasha reached into her vest and pulled out another bottle of water. She placed it beside you without a word.

And left.

The mission had ended hours after. But the mission inside your head hadn’t. You were pacing. Still half-geared, your helmet tossed onto your cot, your comm still clipped to your collar. You ran a hand through your hair and stopped at the small table in the center of the container.

Rae sat on her bunk, unwrapping a ration bar, watching you with an amused expression that bordered on knowing.

“…and she said it just like that..” you were saying. “Not soft, not cold, just there. Like she meant it. Like she could see straight through me and still…I don’t know. Trusted me?”

Rae smirked, took a bite of her bar, and spoke through the chew. “You’re quoting Romanoff now?”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

“You just said it again. That line. About the door.”

You flushed a little and looked down at your hands.

“She said…” your voice dropped, quieter now. “‘You’ll make it through this. Just keep that door guarded.’”

There it was again. The echo of Natasha’s voice. Burned into your memory like it had been spoken under your skin, not just into your ears.

Rae raised a brow. “Damn. That’s kind of poetic, honestly.”

You sat down on the edge of your bunk and unlaced one boot. “It stuck with me.”

“It tattooed itself onto your soul, you mean.”

You threw the boot at her. Lightly. She caught it midair and dropped it with a thud, grinning.

“I’m just saying…” Rae leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You’ve never talked about anyone like this. Ever. You’re doing the whole starry-eyed, quiet-smile, soft-voice routine.”

You snorted. “I am not.”

“You are, and it’s adorable.”

You tried to hide your grin, but it crept up anyway. Rae tilted her head. “So. Are we thinking it’s admiration? Respect? Or, and hear me out..!” she wagged her bar like a pointer, “..a possibly hopeless crush on the unit’s most terrifying woman?”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Then buried your face in your hands with a groan. “Oh my God.”

“That’s a yes.”

“It’s not.”

“It so is.”

You sat up and threw a small towel at her this time. “She’s my commanding officer!”

“Mmhm.”

“She’s literally trained to kill people with a spoon!”

Rae nodded, chewing. “Hot.”

“Rae!”

“What?! I get it! She’s intense. Brilliant. Completely unreadable. Gives you the kind of attention that makes your skin feel electric.”

You froze. “…okay, how do you know that?”

Rae just grinned wider. “Because you’ve been acting different ever since she talked to you. And you’re not the only one who notices. Martinez saw her hand you water and practically wrote a fanfiction about it.”

You laughed, loud and sudden, falling back onto your cot. A pause. Then you added, quieter, more honest: “She even showed me pictures of her niece..”

That made Rae blink. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” You turned your head, staring at the ceiling. “And then she told me to be careful about getting too soft out here. That kids get used for weapons. That…I needed to be more aware.”

Rae nodded slowly. “Classic Romanoff. Emotional intimacy, followed by a lesson in emotional survival.”

“I guess.” You exhaled. “It felt like… like she was trying to prepare me. Not scare me. Like she’s letting me in, but still making sure I know the cost.”

Rae didn’t tease now. She just looked at you, softer. “She’s watching you.” Rae said. “Not like a boss. Like someone who’s already chosen whether you’re worth something.”

Your chest tightened. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything.” Rae said. “Just… keep showing up. Keep earning it.”

You sat in the silence for a moment. Just the creak of the wind against the container walls. The hum of a generator in the distance.

Then Rae grinned again. “But if you two do run off into the sunset together, just know I’m totally raiding your locker for snacks.”

“RAE—”

Five Weeks In

You sat inside one of the lead vehicles, knees drawn up slightly, rifle rested across your lap. The sun filtered through the slits in the armor plating, casting long lines of light across the cabin.

Rae sat to your right, gear rattling softly. Across from you, two others from the unit: Martinez and Gage, looked half-awake, the kind of tired that lives in your bones after five straight weeks in the heat.

And next to the comms, facing you all with one boot braced against the bench, was her. Sleeves rolled up. Vest spotless. Gun strapped over her shoulder. She leaned forward, pointing at the map pinned to the wall behind her.

“We reach the collapsed checkpoint, set perimeter, and assist in clearing wreckage. Eyes open, if they hit it once, they could do it again.”

You watched her speak, and something inside you warmed. The tone. The calm precision. The way Natasha’s voice cut through dust and static like it was sharp enough to split tension in half. You found yourself liking it. Not just the words, but the sound of her. The way she took up space without shouting. You didn’t even realize you were staring, not really, until the next moment shattered everything.

A blast. No warning. No time.

The vehicle lifted. A guttural roar of metal shrieked through the cabin as the truck tipped, hard, thrown to its side like a kicked toy. Your shoulder slammed into Rae. Equipment flew. Dust and sand poured through the cracks. The world became a storm of sound and pain. The vehicle hit the ground again with a metallic scream.

Your ears rang. Your helmet had tilted sideways. Your ribs screamed. Someone was coughing. The radio hissed, voices cutting in and out.

“…Echo 9, come in—copy, copy—what’s your—”

“—Vehicle down, IED—no follow-up fire—stand by—stand by—”

Natasha’s voice sliced through the chaos, harsh and controlled. “Status check! Everyone sound off!”

Rae groaned, “I’m good, I’m..fuck, bleeding, but it’s surface!”

Martinez coughed. “Here. Damn, I hit my head..”

“Y/l/n?” Natasha called.

You blinked again, pushing yourself upright. Your side screamed at you. “I’m okay!”

Natasha twisted toward the radio again, tone crisp. “Command, Echo 9. We’ve hit a device. No secondary detonation. No hostile contact visible. Requesting drone recon for eyes on. Holding position.”

A long beat. Then she turned back toward the others. “Everyone out. Stay low until the drone confirms we’re clear.”

You moved with the others. Rae kicked the door, and it slid open with a groan. Heat and dust poured in. You crawled out, coughing, brushing dirt off gear, checking your weapon. Your legs were shaky, boots slipping in the loose gravel. Every step sent pain lancing through your side. You bit down hard, jaw clenched, blinking spots from your eyes.

You planted your feet outside the vehicle, stood up straight, and Natasha’s eyes locked on you. Not a second of hesitation. Not a flicker..She knew.

“Y/l/n.” Natasha barked, stepping closer, her boots crunching into the dust. “You’re holding yourself wrong.”

“I’m fine.” you said automatically, sucking in breath through your teeth.

“No, you’re not.”

You didn’t respond. Natasha’s eyes narrowed, then flicked to the others. “Rae, Gage, gear a 360. Martinez, eyes on that ridge. Move.”

They obeyed instantly. Then it was just you and Natasha, standing there in the heat, the wrecked vehicle beside you and silence pressing in from every direction.

“Where.” Natasha said, not asking, stating.

You swallowed. “Ribs..”

She stepped in, close. “You breathe tight. You’re protecting your side.”

“I said I’m okay.”

Her expression didn’t shift, but her voice dropped half a tone. “You don’t get to lie to me about injuries.”

You flinched. Not from the voice, from what it meant. Natasha’s eyes flicked down.

“Give me your rifle.”

“What?”

“Your weapon, Y/l/n.” she repeated, sharp. “Now.”

You stared at her. “I-I’m not supposed to handing over my gun-”

She stepped back just enough to unsling her own rifle, lowering it carefully to the ground. Then her sidearm. Her vest still on. She looked up.

“Now give me yours.”

The unspoken message was clear: This is not about trust in weapons. It’s about trust in me. You slowly unslung your rifle. Handed it over. She set it gently next to hers in the dirt. Then stepped in again.

“Arms up.”

You hesitated. Then lifted your arms. Natasha’s fingers went to the vest clasps. Quick. Efficient. Tactical. She unhooked the buckles, sliding the gear off your chest with practiced care, and as she did, you let out a breath that sounded too much like pain.

Then she touched your shirt. You flinched. “Easy.” she said. Not gently, but low..She lifted the edge of your shirt, just enough.

And there they were. Bruises. Deep purple shadows already blooming across your ribs, like a storm trapped under skin. Not broken, not life-threatening, but they’d ache like hell. Every breath. Every turn.

She stared at them. Then exhaled through her nose. “Damn lucky.” she muttered. “If that blast was two feet closer, we’d be dragging you out in pieces.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. For a moment, there was no sound but wind and the soft buzz of radio static from the wreck.

Then, “Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked. Still low. Still unreadable.

“I didn’t want to be a problem.” you answered honestly. “I wanted to keep moving.”

Her eyes flicked up to yours. “You’re not a problem.” she said. Then, quieter: “But you’re not immortal either.”

She stepped back, letting your shirt fall back into place. She reached down, handed you your rifle. Picked up her own.

“You’re off combat rotation for the rest of the day. Command it as injury management if anyone asks.” You opened your mouth to protest. Natasha just stared and you closed it. And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel reprimanded.

The sound of boots crunching through gravel snapped you out of the haze of pain. The others had returned from securing the area, rifles still slung, dust smeared across every inch of gear. No more movement. No threats. Just the ghost of a blast and the burn of adrenaline slowly draining.

Natasha stood near the overturned vehicle, already speaking into her comm. “Echo 9, requesting ground evac. We’ve got wounded, non-critical. Vehicle disabled. No hostiles in the area. Copy?”

The answer crackled through within seconds: “Copy, Echo 9. Evac in fifteen. Sit tight.”

You stood stiffly, arms hugged around your midsection without realizing it, pressure holding the ache in place. Natasha walked past you, crouched beside the wreck, and started unstrapping gear, one pack, then another, and yours.

She didn’t say anything. Just clipped it over her shoulder with her own like it was nothing.

You took a step forward. “Sargent, I can carry it-”

“No.” she cut in, not sharply, but with finality.

“I’m fine. I can-”

“You’re not fine.” she said, standing now, boots planted in the dirt, her voice quiet but unshakable. “And this isn’t about proving anything. You’re not a burden. You’re a soldier who just walked away from a detonation. Let me carry it.”

Something in your chest cracked, just a little, not from pain. From the care tucked inside the command.

“…Yes, Sargent.” you said softly.

Fifteen minutes felt longer when the world had gone sideways. Rae checked your pulse just in case. Martinez kept rubbing the back of his head. No one really spoke. It wasn’t needed.

When the evac truck pulled up, loud, armored, dust blooming behind it, Natasha helped load gear and guided everyone in without a word. You moved slowly, one hand pressed against your ribs. Natasha walked behind you like a shadow.

Once inside, the door slammed shut, and the world became metal and vibration. She sat across from you, arms crossed, eyes scanning. Always working. Always watching. You hated how it made you feel: weak. Exposed. Like you were wasting everyone’s time.

You shifted your weight, and of course, she noticed.

“You’re not deadweight.” she said suddenly, voice low so only you could hear.

You blinked. “I didn’t say any-”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your eyes met. And in that moment, you saw something different. Not softness. Not warmth.

Just…truth. That she meant it. And somehow, that meant more than sympathy ever could. The gates opened, and the vehicle rolled to a halt near the med tent. The second the doors opened, the heat surged in again, and with it, movement.

Medics were waiting, already briefed. Rae climbed out first, joking with the first responder about “light trauma and one badass bruise.” Martinez waved off help but got pulled anyway. Gage limped a little, grunting, but fine.

You hesitated. Your hand hovered over the wall of the truck before you pushed yourself upright and stepped down. Natasha, already waiting at the foot of the ramp, holding both your packs.

She handed off her own to a supply officer without looking. Then, she looked at the medic. “Possible rib trauma. Checked for internal signs. Minimal distress response.”

The medic nodded, gesturing you toward the tent. You didn’t move right away and Natasha stepped closer. “Go. Get checked. I’ll hold your gear.”

“…Sargent-”

“It’s an order.”

You sighed, and finally moved, ducking into the med tent, your heart pounding harder than it had during the blast. And behind you, you didn’t have to look to know..She was still watching.

You sat on the field cot, back straight, hands clenched in your lap. Sweat clung to your lower back despite the chilled air blowing through the tent. The sounds around you were all soft: a pair of boots pacing on the canvas floor, the rustle of a clipboard, the distant hum of a generator.

“Name?” the medic asked, a pen poised over your file.

“Y/l/n.” you answered hoarsely.

“Last four?”

You rattled them off. The medic nodded, jotting.

“Pain scale?”

“…Five.”

The medic gave you a glance that said: You’re full of shit. You exhaled. “Seven. Maybe.”

He crouched in front of you, pulled up your shirt with permission, and pressed gently at the bruises on your right side. Your jaw locked. His fingers were clinical, impersonal and fast, but the second he hit the impact point, your whole body flinched.

“No fracture.” he murmured. “Just deep bruising. Pulmonary signs are clear, no coughing blood, no fluid. You lucked out.”

He stood, marked something down. “I’m clearing you for limited movement only. No drills, no fieldwork, no gear for four days. Compression wrap, painkillers if you want them, rest. Understood?”

You nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The medic handed you a printed sheet, already signed. “Dismissed.”

You didn’t ask questions. You just grabbed your jacket and left the tent. Inside your container, you leaned against the door for a long moment. The silence was suffocating. Your gear was still off. Your skin was sticky with sand and dried sweat. Your ribs ached.

You paced. Sat. Stood. Sat again. Your hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting, twitching against your thighs. You kept hearing the boom. Kept feeling the side of the vehicle lifting, the brief, weightless moment before impact.

What if it was closer?

What if it wasn’t just bruises?

What if-?

Your breath hitched when someone knocked at your door. You swallowed, stood quickly. “Rae?” you called, half-expecting the familiar teasing voice.

But it wasn’t. When you opened the door, your stomach dropped.

Natasha.

Still in uniform. Hair tied back, boots dusty, jaw tense. She held your gear in one hand, the pack, the vest, your weapon, cleaned and locked.

“I figured you’d want your stuff.” she said quietly.

You blinked. “I-I was gonna grab it later-”

“You didn’t,” she said. “So I did.”

You stepped back, unsure of yourself. “Right. Thanks.”

She entered. Her presence filled the room without effort. She set the gear down at the foot of your cot, then looked around briefly, checking, scanning. Habit.

“How’re the ribs?”

“Bruised. Four days off.”

She nodded once. “Could’ve been worse.”

You let out a quiet laugh that didn’t sound right. “Yeah, I figured.” Your jaw tensed. “I keep thinking…what if it was worse?”

Silence.

“I mean-” you shook your head. “If the blast was stronger, if I wasn’t sitting how I was, if I didn’t grab the frame in time?”

Your chest rose sharply. “I keep picturing it. Over and over. My body crushed. Legs gone. Bleeding out. Rae screaming.”

You pressed your hand against your sternum. The panic was rising now, hot and fast. “I can’t stop it. It just keeps looping. And I know it’s over, but it doesn’t feel over, and-“

Natasha crossed the space between you before you could finish. “If it was worse.” she said flatly, “you’d be zipped into a body bag right now.”

You froze. Breath stopped. She didn’t blink. “You’d be cold. On a gurney. Covered head to toe. With someone else writing your death report while they washed blood off the walls of a truck.”

The words were brutal, but her voice softened.

“But you’re not.”

Your hands were shaking. “You’re breathing. You’re sore. But you’re here. And that means you get the choice to recover.”

She didn’t touch you. But she didn’t leave, either. Your body trembled again, and your knees nearly gave out. You braced yourself on the edge of the cot, tears welling, not from pain, not exactly. From shock. From survival.

“I’m sorry..” you whispered.

“No.” she said sharply. “Don’t apologize. You’re reacting like a human. That’s allowed.”

You pressed your fist to your mouth. She crouched then, not to her knees, but just enough to be eye-level.

“You’re not weak.” she said. “You’re processing. That’s what happens when you realize how close you were.”

“I feel stupid.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Your eyes were glassy. Then, slowly, she reached to her own side. Pulled her vest away. Unclipped the top buttons of her uniform, just slightly.

And there, beneath the collarbone, was a jagged, faded scar. Long, pale, old.

“I got this in Fallujah.” she said, voice even. “Close quarters. My partner went down. I hesitated.”

She paused.

“I watched someone die because I wasn’t fast enough. And I almost joined them.”

You stared.

“I have twelve scars like that. Some you can see. Some you can’t.”

Silence, then, “Why are you telling me this?”

Her eyes didn’t leave yours. “Because I don’t want you to think fear makes you less of a soldier.”

Your lip trembled. You looked down at the floor, arms wrapped tightly around yourself.

She didn’t say anything. She just sat beside you on the cot. The quiet sat heavy between you. You hadn’t spoken for a few minutes. Not since the scar. Not since the cot shifted slightly under your weight and your ribs throbbed, reminding you you were alive, and maybe that was the worst part.

You weren’t sure what pulled your eyes to Natasha’s hands, still resting against her knees, knuckles scuffed, veins taut under pale skin, but you stared. Until your gaze climbed up again. Until your eyes met.

And stayed. Your voice broke the silence. “You weren’t supposed to stay.”

Natasha’s brow twitched. “What?”

“with all due respect..You weren’t supposed to check in. Bring my gear. Sit here. Talk like this.” Your throat tightened. “You’re not here for me. You’re not supposed to be.”

Natasha’s face didn’t move. But something behind her eyes flickered. “You want me to leave?”

The silence between you curled tight. Natasha didn’t stand. Didn’t move an inch. Just stared at you with a kind of weight you could feel pressing against your skin.

“No.” you said finally, breath catching.

Natasha’s shoulders eased, barely. Her voice dropped, low and even. “Then don’t ask me to.”

The air between you shifted. Hot and thick. Your ribs ached, but you barely noticed. You were still sitting so close. Shoulders brushing. Legs almost touching. And your eyes..Didn’t move.

Your heart thudded. Your breath shook. Your mind screamed don’t, but something else, something deep in your chest..whispered do it.

And you leaned in. Not fast or dramatic. Just drawn. Like gravity pulling you into a space you didn’t fully understand. Your lips parted. You could feel Natasha’s breath. Your foreheads almost touched. Your fingers twitched against the cot.

The container door burst open. “Y/N, YOU HAve-”

You and Natasha jumped apart like you’d been struck by lightning. Rae stopped dead in the doorway, half-crouched like she expected to see an ambush or a rat. Her eyes scanned the room-

And landed squarely on Natasha. “…oh shit.” Rae blurted, going rigid. Her hand shot up into a textbook salute. “Sargent-!”

Natasha stood, fast. Smooth. Like nothing had happened. Her face locked down so fast it was like flipping a switch. “At ease.”

Rae dropped her hand, but her eyes were massive.

“Sorry, I didn’t.. I thought- I was just-“

“It’s fine.” Natasha said coolly. “I was just leaving.”

She looked at you one more time, just a flicker. Something unreadable in her eyes. Then she was out the door before either of you could speak.

The door clicked shut behind her. Silence. You sat there, stunned.

“Oh my god..!” Rae hissed.

You turned slowly. “Don’t.”

“No. No, no, no- do not tell me I just walked in on you about to kiss the actual, living, breathing, deadly Natasha Romanoff.”

You groaned. “Rae-”

Rae pointed dramatically. “YOU. And HER. Two seconds closer and I would’ve walked in on a war crime.”

“We didn’t even-”

“Oh please, you were inhaled.”

You threw a pillow at her. Rae caught it mid-air like a grenade.

“I need answers.” she said, flopping down beside you. “I want timelines. Did she smell good? Did your knees go weak? Did you black out?!”

You buried your face in your hands. “She brought my gear and I was having a moment..”

“Oh honey, she was the moment.”

You groaned again. And Rae just grinned, vibrating with uncontainable delight. “God, I love this deployment.”

The evening air was cooler now, desert heat giving way to a quiet stillness that only came at night. The stars were just beginning to claim the sky. Someone had dragged a crate and a few foldable chairs into a loose circle, cards already being shuffled by Martinez while Johnson argued with Rae over something dumb.

You sat a little stiffly, one arm curled around your ribs, the dull ache still lingering, manageable now. Rae had all but dragged you out of the container after your Natasha-escape scene with a look that said you’re not hiding from this.

And maybe Rae was right. You needed normal. So now you sat, legs stretched, an energy drink in your hand, trying to laugh at Martinez’s awful bluff and ignore the way your heart still hadn’t calmed.

“You in or what?” Gage asked, grinning.

You blinked. “Yeah. Deal me.”

Cards slapped the crate. Talk flowed. Rae kept giving you that I know what you almost did smirk every time your eyes met. You elbowed her once. Not that it helped.

And then, Boot-steps and low voices. Two shadows joined the edge of the circle. Natasha and Maria Hill - Sergeant of Unit 3.

Hill had her sleeves rolled, casual but sharp-eyed, a cigarette tucked behind her ear. Natasha looked the same as always: unreadable. Confident. Steady. Her gaze flicked across the group once before settling, briefly..on you. You felt it like a pin pushed into skin.

Hill smirked. “What, no invite?”

Johnson scrambled. “Always room at the table, ma’am.”

The group shifted, made space. Hill pulled up a chair. Natasha took one beside her.

Rae nearly vibrated next to you, nudging you under the crate with her boot. You gave her the look of death and pretended you weren’t aware of anything except the five of hearts in your hand.

The game went on.

Talk drifted between units. Some mission banter. Some teasing. Gage bragging about a shot he definitely didn’t make. Hill cursing about someone in command. Natasha barely said anything, just played her hand cleanly, collecting wins without reaction.

You tried to be normal. Tried to breathe. You even cracked a joke about Johnson’s poker face, which earned a real laugh from Maria. But Natasha… Natasha didn’t laugh. She just watched you for a second too long.

One by one, people started heading out. Hill was first, clapping Natasha’s shoulder. “I’m gonna grab rounds with the command team. You staying?”

Natasha just nodded. Rae followed not long after, mouthing good luck to you like this was a goddamn battlefield. And then, it was just the two of you.

You and Natasha. The cards. The stars. The low hum of distant base activity. And a silence that grew thick.

You played in it. Two more hands. Quiet shuffles. Hands folded. Cards drawn-

“I made you uncomfortable.”

You looked up. Natasha wasn’t looking at you. She was adjusting her cards.

Your chest tightened. “What?”

“Earlier. In the container.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Natasha glanced at you, quick, sharp. But not cold.

“You don’t have to explain. But I saw it.”

You looked down at your hand. Queen, seven, ace. Crap..

“I wasn’t uncomfortable.” you said. And Natasha didn’t speak.

“I was…” You exhaled. “Caught off guard. And you’re..” Your voice dropped. “You’re you.”

Natasha set down her hand slowly. King, ten. Beat you easily. “I’m not used to getting that close with anyone out here..” you added.

Natasha tilted her head slightly. “That makes two of us.”

The words landed like a stone dropped in water. You sat with it. Then she picked up the deck, started shuffling again. Not looking at you. Hands steady.

“I don’t let people in easily.” she said, quiet now. “Especially not soldiers I’m responsible for. It complicates things.”

You swallowed. “So…earlier was a mistake?”

A long pause. Natasha looked up. Eyes steady. Locked on yours.

“No.”

Your breath caught. “But it’s not something we can rush. Or take lightly.”

You nodded. You understood that. All of it. The chain of command. The danger. The risk.

Still.. “I didn’t want you to leave.”

Natasha’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Good.”

You played one more round in silence. And when Natasha finally stood, gathering her cards, she paused. Looked down at you.

“Get some rest.” she said softly. And then added, just for you, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And you? You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips.

(Original picture of the vehicle who drove on a deterniation)

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov x reader #dom!natasha x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff x reader

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rosie-posie1313 · 12 days ago

Text

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch

06/14/2025

⭒ Mrs. R by @youvebeenlivingfictional

For as amicable as the divorce had been, the two of you had problems. When Michael was stressed, he shut you out from the source of it, determined not to bring it home. But as hard as he tried, the strain and drain of his work hung on him. You’d wanted to be a safe space for him, but as the pressures of his job mounted, he’d never allowed you to be.

⭒ Mrs. R part 2 by @/youvebeenlivingfictional

You can’t remember the last time you and Robby were this close.

⭒ Mrs. R part 3 by @/youvebeenlivingfictional

Robby had sent a 💡 text two days ago—his new shorthand to ask if he could come over. You’d declined, cited previous plans, and proposed tonight instead.

So here he is, and there you are with your head full of muddled feelings and unasked questions.

⭒ Mrs. R Part 4 by @/youvebeenlivingfictional

It’s late—but for all of your qualms about whatever the hell you and Robby are or aren’t, for better or for worse, in sickness or in a health, for richer or for poorer, you still care about him.

⭒ Mrs. R Masterlist by @/youvebeenlivingfictional

⭒ Residuals by @eureka-its-zico

you and Robby spent seven long years together until the day it ended. You’ve done your best to create space; to become invisible. You can’t miss what you don’t see. Unfortunately, the universe (Gloria and the Board of Directors) seemed to have missed the memo.

⭒ Residuals Pt.2 by @/eureka-its-zico

⭒ Residuals Pt 3 by @/eureka-its-zico

⭒ Tension at The Pitt by @aquaholicsanonymousworld

Being a surgeon at The Pitt meant handling chaos with a level head. You were used to high-pressure situations, fast decisions, and—unfortunately—inappropriate comments from trauma patients. What you weren’t used to was Dr. Robby getting tense over it.

⭒ Second Shift by @/aquaholicsanonymousworld

You and Dr. Robby were once inseparable—two brilliant, wildly competitive med students who fell in love between rotations and sleepless nights at Cook County General. But that was years ago. He went to Pittsburgh. You stayed in Chicago. And that was that. Until now. You’ve just been offered the department head role at a top trauma center in Pittsburgh. And on your first day, you finally realize why the offer sounded so familiar.

⭒ The Sound of Her Cry by @/aquaholicsanonymousworld

⭒ A Ray of Fucking Sunshine by @science-hoes

After a patient injures the Reader, Robby patches her up and reassures her.

⭒ Angel Kisses by @/science-hoes

Robby comes in on his day off with a minor injury, and the Reader ends up much closer to him than she had anticipated.

⭒ we’re hanging on by threads by @hxrtnett

in which the aftermath of the pittfest tragedy brings you and robby back together for few hours

⭒ Dr. Robby Headcanons by @mind-empty-just-fictional-people

⭒ Piece Of Heaven by @/mind-empty-just-fictional-people

⭒ Hurling Bedpans by @/mind-empty-just-fictional-people

⭒ the archer. By @velvetpucks

⭒ come undone. By @/velvetpucks

⭒ Push & Pull by @writing-girlie

The young intern is drawn to her mentor, as they work together in The Pitt but when feeling start to form what started as admiration turns into quiet, unresolved tension.

⭒ Stuck Here Like Me by @that-sarcastic-writer

in the wake of the chaos, you’re there to pick up his broken pieces. Takes place during 1x13 so spoilers if you haven’t seen it yet

⭒ Not Enough by @thepencilnerd

⭒ sticky-notes and leftovers by @/thepencilnerd

⭒ Glasses Be Damned by @/thepencilnerd

⭒ And Through It All by @/thepencilnerd

⭒ Healing hands by @nfr-girly

⭒ Heaven in Hiding by @miraclesabound

You can’t fix what happened to Robby during this shift, but at least you can make your arms a haven for now.

⭒ Gala by @aworldinsideaperson

Dr. Robby and Charge Nurse!Reader, attend a fundraising Gala for the hospital.

⭒ Coming Home to You by @/aworldinsideaperson

Robby finally makes it home from the worst shift of his life to the only thing that could possibly ease his heartache.

⭒ Heartbeat | [1/3] by @asxgard

You get called in to assist with the mass casualty event on your day off and you’re grateful to be there when your husband finally breaks.

⭒ Healing | [2/3] by @/asxgard

⭒ A Lesson in Vulnerability by @asxgard

A pregnancy scare forces you both to lay your cards on the table.

⭒ Instincts and Ice Cream by @sabrinajenre96

⭒ rose scented scrubs by @oceantornadoo

⭒ Whatever You Say, Fruitcake by @abbotjack

Myrna’s being Myrna. Somewhere between the chaos, you and Robby manage to come up for air.

⭒ Pretty Damn Close by @silens-oro

Mike gets a reminder that he very desperately needed.

⭒ Stay with me by @mercvry-glow

⭒ Married Name by @tedmustache

Robbie decides to casually reveal their marriage in the most dramatic way possible.

⭒ Peace by @xximperioxx

⭒ Lead The Way by @traumaone

after over a year of pining over Robby, reader gets into a relationship to try and get over him, and gets cheated on. Robby (after putting up with a snippy reader) comes to the rescue

#robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch #michael robinavich x reader #dr robby x reader #dr robinavitch

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authorhjk1 · 27 days ago

Note

Please write SNSD Yoona's birthday smut. I asked last time, but you asked me to tell you again a week ago, so I'm asking again.

May 30, 2025

(Yoona X Male Reader) wordcount: 8410 words

Yoona lets out a soft gasp as she gazes out the taxi window. The driver says something in French that she can’t quite catch, but she’s far too captivated by the scenery to even try to understand.

The clear blue ocean stretches endlessly, its waves glimmering under the evening sun. Rocky cliffs rise in the distance, their jagged edges glowing gold in the fading light. Below, the beaches curve like smooth ribbons of pale sand. The small town of Cassis comes into view, its narrow streets lined with pastel-colored houses and bustling cafés. Perched on a nearby hill, she spots what looks like a small medieval castle, its silhouette outlined against the soft pink sky.

She lets out a sigh of relief, feeling her shoulders drop. She made the right choice. For months now, she’s longed for a vacation. Something quiet, something peaceful. No crowds, no busy city noise. Just a warm beach and a small town where she could breathe, relax, and clear her mind. Cassis, a hidden gem in southern France, had caught her eye while browsing travel sites a few weeks ago. The hotel listing promised ocean views and just a few minutes’ walk to the Mediterranean shore. Now, seeing it with her own eyes, she knows it’s even more beautiful than she imagined.

As the taxi winds through the narrow streets toward the hotel, the sky deepens into rich purples and oranges. The journey from Korea has been long and tiring, and Yoona feels the weight of travel on her. Tonight, she decides, she’ll find a simple restaurant nearby, enjoy a quiet dinner, and explore the town tomorrow when she feels relaxed and full of new energy.

When the taxi pulls up in front of the small hotel, the last rays of sunlight catch on the white stone walls and the delicate wrought-iron balconies. It’s less like a hotel, she realizes, and more like a charming holiday house divided into flats. She steps out, stretching her legs, and pulls her suitcase from the trunk. After paying the driver and offering a polite “merci,” she turns toward the entrance with a flutter of anticipation.

A woman in her fifties opens the door just as Yoona rings the bell, her smile warm and welcoming.

“Welcome to Cassis."

The woman says cheerfully.

“Hello."

Yoona replies, smiling back.

“It’s really beautiful here.”

The woman’s French accent wraps around the words, making them feel soft and charming, even if Yoona has to concentrate a bit harder to catch every syllable.

After the formalities, the hostess leads her through the entrance hall, past light-colored stone walls and polished tile floors, and up a sleek staircase.

Soon, they stand in front of a turquise door.

“Here you go, honey.”

The woman says kindly, handing over the key.

Yoona steps into her holiday flat and stops, taking it all in.

The space is sleek and modern, far more stylish than she’d imagined. The walls are painted a bold, deep violet that somehow works beautifully with the soft gray curtains and light floor tiles. A large, low bed with a silky bronze cover glints softly under the light from a sparkling chandelier overhead. By the wall, a black leather sofa offers a cozy spot to relax, while the sliding glass doors open onto a balcony furnished with rattan chairs and splashes of colorful cushions. Through the glass, Yoona can see the tops of pine trees and, just beyond, the glimmer of the Mediterranean Sea under the fading sunset.

What truly catches her breath, though, is the photograph mounted proudly on the wall above the bed.

It’s a stunning, high-resolution image of the ocean. The waves are glittering under the sun like a field of tiny diamonds. But the highlight of the shot is a majestic whale captured mid-leap, its powerful back still submerged while its massive fin sends a spray of water droplets arcing into the air. The droplets catch the light perfectly, making the whole scene look as though it’s been sprinkled with stardust. Yoona can’t help but step closer, drawn into the image as if she can feel the salty air on her skin.

She smiles, feeling the weariness of her journey melt away just a little. Setting her luggage down near the foot of the bed, she runs her fingers lightly over the cool surface of the bedside table, then looks out again through the balcony doors. The peaceful sound of the sea, the soft colors of dusk, and the promise of a quiet night make her excited for the next days to come.

Yoona takes a few moments to wander slowly through the flat, trailing her fingers across the smooth countertop by the small kitchenette, opening a few cabinets out of curiosity. She tucks her suitcase neatly beside the wardrobe and carefully unpacks a few essentials. Her toiletries, a fresh, cute dress for tomorrow and her favorite paperback novel that she always travels with.

Deciding she doesn’t want to venture too far tonight, she grabs her small shoulder bag and heads back downstairs.

The hostess is still in the front hall, flipping through a ledger behind the counter. She looks up with the same warm smile when Yoona approaches.

“Excuse me."

Yoona says as she walks up to her.

"Do you know a good place where I can get dinner nearby?”

The woman’s face lights up.

“Ah, yes! You should go to one of the restaurants at the marina. Very good food, fresh fish, beautiful view.”

Yoona tilts her head slightly.

“Can I walk there?”

“Of course, of course! About fifteen minutes by foot. Very easy.”

The hostess reaches behind the counter and pulls out a small stack of flyers. She hands one to Yoona, the glossy paper slightly cool and smooth to the touch.

“Here. This will help you find it. Has the names of restaurants, cafés… even the little museums and shops.”

Yoona murmurs her thanks and steps aside, her eyes drawn to the flyer’s cover.

It’s another photograph, and it’s breathtaking.

The image shows the marina at sunrise. The sky is painted in delicate pastel shades: soft peach blending into lavender, fading upward into pale blue. The water reflects the colors perfectly, like a liquid mirror, broken only by the slender silhouettes of moored sailboats. The masts rise like fine ink strokes against the glowing sky, their reflections stretching downward in rippling lines. Along the edge of the marina, the white stone buildings are touched by the first warm rays of sun, casting long, gentle shadows. There’s a hush to the scene, a sense of stillness just before the world wakes up.

At the bottom corner of the photograph, Yoona’s gaze catches a small detail. Two initials, written in graceful, almost delicate script: JK.

She tilts her head slightly, curious. The photographer? she wonders, feeling a flicker of intrigue. The composition is so beautiful, so full of feeling, whoever captured this moment has an eye for light, for mood, for quiet magic.

She smiles softly to herself, tucking the flyer carefully into her bag. With one last glance at the peaceful front hall behind her, Yoona steps out into the fresh evening air, ready to discover a bit of Cassis and enjoy the first night of her birthday getaway.

Yoona walks slowly down the narrow street, her sandals softly clicking on the warm cobblestones. The air is filled with the faint scent of salt and blooming flowers, and the gentle hush of the sea carries on the evening breeze.

To her right, the street opens up to a stunning view. The deep blue ocean stretching wide, its surface now kissed by the lavender glow of dusk. A beautiful beach runs along the edge of the town, the golden sand still holding the warmth of the sun. A few couples walk barefoot near the waterline, leaving delicate prints behind, while children chase the last waves before being called in for the night.

Yoona pauses, pulling out her phone. She lifts it carefully, framing the scene: the soft ripple of the water, the pastel sky, the silhouettes of the little boats anchored further out. She snaps a few shots, smiling quietly at the peaceful beauty captured on her screen.

Finally, she continues on, following the map on the flyer until she reaches the marina. The restaurant is easy to spot. Small tables set outside under a striped awning, strings of warm fairy lights wrapped around the railing, and the low hum of quiet conversation filling the air.

Yoona picks an empty table at the front, where she can watch the boats bobbing gently in the water. She settles in, smoothing her hands over the tablecloth, and lets out a contented sigh. This was exactly what she needed.

After a few minutes, a cheerful young waitress comes over, smiling as she greets Yoona with a polite,

“Bonsoir!”

She places a menu on the table and disappears inside, leaving Yoona to browse.

The menu cover is a photograph of the restaurant itself, taken at sunset. The light is golden and soft, painting the marina and the boats in a dreamy glow. She flips it open and scans through the offerings, eyes dancing over descriptions of fresh seafood, handmade pasta, crisp salads. Her gaze lands on a dish featuring salmon, prepared with local herbs and served alongside roasted vegetables and lemon butter. Her mouth waters a little as she smiles, decision made.

When the waitress returns, Yoona points to the dish on the menu and orders.

“I’ll have this, please.”

As she’s about to hand the menu back, her eyes catch on a tiny detail in the bottom corner of the cover. The initials JK. Her heart gives a little flicker of recognition.

“Excuse me."

She has to ask, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"Do you know who took this photo? I saw these initials,JK on another picture earlier.”

The waitress brightens, clearly happy to answer.

“Ah! Yes, that’s the photographer. He lives here in Cassis. His pictures are quite famous . At least in France, and across Europe, too. You see his work in many places around here. He’s… how do you say… a local treasure.”

Yoona’s fingers lightly brush the corner of the menu where the initials are printed. She smiles thoughtfully, a new spark of intrigue settling in her chest.

As the waitress heads back inside, Yoona leans back in her chair, glancing once more at the marina bathed in twilight. She takes a slow breath, feeling the quiet promise that her birthday trip might turn out even more interesting than she first imagined.

Yoona takes her time with her meal, savoring each bite of the delicate salmon, the roasted vegetables perfectly seasoned, the crisp glass of white wine that pairs beautifully with the fresh flavors. She watches the marina as the night deepens, the masts swaying gently in the breeze and the reflections dancing on the darkening water.

By the time she finishes and settles the bill, she feels comfortably full, her body pleasantly relaxed from the wine and the sea air.

Instead of walking back through the streets, she decides to take the more scenic route. Down by the beach.

She slips off her sandals, holding them in one hand as she steps barefoot onto the cool sand. The night air is soft, and the waves reach lazily up the shore, occasionally brushing against her toes. She walks slowly, feeling the fine grains shift under her feet, breathing in the salty air. A thin mist has begun to gather over the water, curling in delicate tendrils that glow faintly under the moonlight.

Eventually, she reaches the end of the beach, where a low cliff juts out, its rocky base partly swallowed by the tide. A small wooden stairway is built into the cliff, leading back up toward the town.

Yoona is about to head up when she notices movement out of the corner of her eye. Someone is kneeling on one of the larger rocks near the base of the cliff.

It’s a man, holding a camera, his posture focused and intent as he adjusts the lens.

For a brief second, Yoona’s heart skips. Could this be the photographer she’s been hearing about? But she quickly dismisses the thought. It’s too much of a coincidence, surely.

Still, something draws her forward.

She walks carefully across the sand, approaching him with a polite smile.

“Hello."

She says softly, holding up her phone.

“Would you mind… taking a picture of me?”

The man glances up, his eyes sharp and thoughtful. He gives a small, apologetic smile.

“The fog will lower the quality."

He says in lightly accented English.

"But… sure, if you like.”

Yoona steps forward to hand him her phone, but he gently shakes his head, lifting his camera slightly.

“This will capture your beauty much better than a phone ever could.”

Heat rises to Yoona’s cheeks at the unexpected compliment, and she lets out a soft, flustered laugh.

“O-okay,"

She agrees, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

She turns, positioning herself so her back faces the sea, and instinctively shifts into a graceful, practiced stance. She’s posed for thousands of pictures before and it shows. There’s a natural elegance in the way she holds herself, the subtle turn of her chin, the softness in her gaze.

The man is quiet behind the camera, but his fingers move deftly, adjusting settings, snapping a few shots, stepping slightly to one side, then the other. His eyes are drawn to the effortless way she transforms in front of the lens. Poised yet genuine, her presence filling the frame with an understated intensity.

Suddenly, the slow sweep of a lighthouse beam arcs across the dark water.

The man’s breath catches slightly, an idea flickering to life.

“Wait."

He murmurs. He gestures toward the rock he had been kneeling on.

“Would you stand up there for a moment?”

Yoona hesitates, glancing between him and the rock. She’s unsure of his intentions but senses no threat. Only a quiet focus, an artist’s attention.

She steps carefully onto the rock, balancing as she turns to face him.

He lifts the camera again, watching intently as the lighthouse beam slowly returns. His finger hovers over the shutter.

“Hold that pose."

The light cuts across the shore, and in that precise moment, the camera clicks.

The photograph captures Yoona bathed in the ethereal glow of the lighthouse, the mist in the night air catching the beam so that the entire scene shimmers with an almost dreamlike quality. She stands framed by light, the fog, the sea, a figure suspended between earth and ocean, between shadow and brilliance.

You lift the camera again, feeling the weight of it steady in your hands, and wait for the slow return of the lighthouse beam. Yoona stands gracefully on the rock, the ocean stretching out behind her, the fog curling softly in the night air. As soon as the light sweeps over her, you press the shutter. Click. Another perfect capture. Without a word, she shifts. A small tilt of her head, a delicate change in posture, a gentle curve of her arm. You don’t need to tell her what to do. She moves instinctively, reading the moment, sensing the light.

And you… you can’t help but be quietly captivated.

You take a few more shots, timing each one carefully with the beam of the lighthouse, until the light finally fades and she steps down from the rock. For a moment, you hesitate. You want to say something. To thank her, to keep this connection going. But your words stick in your throat. Finally, you clear your voice softly.

“Would it be alright if I sent you these pictures?”

You ask, trying to sound casual.

“Maybe… your number or email?”

Your heart beats just a little faster. You know you’re asking for something personal, and you don’t want to make her uncomfortable. Yoona pauses for just a second, glancing at you thoughtfully. She’s clearly weighing it, you’re still a stranger, after all, but then a soft, knowing smile touches her lips. There’s something about you, something about this strange, beautiful moment, that feels comfortable, familiar.

And maybe, she senses, you’re hoping for a little more than just sharing pictures.

She gives a small nod.

“Alright."

She says quietly, pulling out her phone and reading off her number.

Relief and a flicker of excitement warm your chest as you save it carefully.

“I’ll send them tonight."

You promise, offering her a smile.

You both exchange a soft goodbye. You watch her walkup the stairs, her figure slowly blending into the dark cliff, until she disappears into the distance.

Back in her room, Yoona steps inside, placing her sandals by the door. She walks over to the photograph above the bed. The stunning shot of the whale, its back half still submerged, its fin sending glittering droplets into the air.

A sudden thought makes her pause.

"Wait… I never asked for his name."

Her eyes flick down to the corner of the picture, where the elegant initials JK are marked.

"Could it have been… him?"

A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips as she touches the frame lightly with her fingertips.

She’ll find out soon enough.

Yoona steps into the small but beautifully tiled bathroom, letting the warm shower water wash away the salt and sand from her walk along the beach. She tilts her head back, eyes closed, feeling the tension melt from her shoulders.

After drying off, she wraps herself in the soft robe provided by the flat, towel-dries her hair, and then moves in front of the small mirror. She runs a brush through her damp strands, smoothing them out before slipping into a light pajama set. By the time she climbs into bed, the night outside has deepened into a peaceful hush. The window is slightly open, letting in the faint sound of the waves and the cool, salty air.

Yoona settles under the covers, phone in hand, aimlessly scrolling through her messages and social media. She’s just about to put it aside when a notification pops up. An unfamiliar number, a new message.

Her heart gives a small, excited jump.

Opening it, she finds a text from you:

"Hey, it’s me. I wanted to send you the pictures. Hope you like them :)"

Attached are several image files.

Yoona eagerly taps them open one by one. The first few are the casual shots by the beach, which look lovely. But when she gets to the ones with the light of the lighthouse, she actually lets out a small, surprised breath.

They’re stunning.

In the photos, she’s bathed in the dramatic, sweeping light of the lighthouse beam, the fog curling softly around her like something out of a dream. The combination of light, mist, and her poised figure makes her look almost ethereal — like she belongs in another world.

Without thinking, she types back quickly:

"Wow… these are amazing. Thank you so much for taking such beautiful pictures."

A moment later, you reply:

"You don’t have to thank me. It was an honor to photograph someone as gorgeous as you."

Yoona feels her cheeks flush, smiling at the unexpected compliment as she sinks deeper into the pillows.

The conversation doesn’t stop there. You two end up texting for another hour or two, the exchange flowing easily despite only having just met. She learns you’re local to Cassis, that you’ve lived here for years, and it comes up that she’s here as a tourist, alone for her relaxing week on the beach.

You offer, a little shyly, to show her around tomorrow.

“Like a personal guide.”

You say, half-joking.

Yoona hesitates for a moment, then types back:

"That sounds really nice. I’d love that."

The both of you say good night to each other.

As Yoona sets her phone on the nightstand and curls under the blankets, she can’t help but smile.

She closes her eyes, her thoughts drifting to you. The quiet photographer with the gentle eyes, the one who made her feel like she stepped out of a dream tonight.

Before long, she’s fast asleep, the sound of the sea mingling with the soft rhythm of her breathing, the promise of tomorrow dancing in her dreams.

The next morning, you arrive at Yoona’s flat a little before nine, carrying a small bouquet of wildflowers you picked up from a stall by the marina. She opens the door with a bright smile, her hair loosely tied back, dressed casually in a light black dress and sandals.

“Good morning."

She says, a touch of shyness in her voice as she accepts the flowers with a soft laugh.

You lead her down to a cozy café near the square for breakfast, where you both sit at a small table under a striped awning, sipping fresh coffee and sharing flaky croissants with butter and jam. Conversation flows easily. She tells you about Korea, about how she wanted a quiet relaxing trip, and you share little details about growing up in Cassis, about your love for photography and the way light plays off the sea here.

After breakfast, you wander through the town together.

You show her the narrow, winding streets with their pastel houses, the tiny art galleries hidden in side alleys, the old stone steps that climb up to the small castle she’d noticed on the hill when she first arrived. She stops often, lifting her phone to take pictures, though you notice she sometimes glances at you as if comparing her photos to the ones you might have captured.

At the small local museum, you explore side by side. Old maritime relics, paintings by local artists, and a photography exhibit featuring, to Yoona’s quiet delight, several works signed JK. She glances at you playfully, her eyes sparkling with suspicion. You just smile softly and say nothing.

By midday, you take her to a seaside restaurant for lunch. Fresh grilled fish, crisp salads, and glasses of cold rosé under the shade of an umbrella. Afterward, with the sun high overhead, you both decide to head down to the beach.

You sit together on the sand, shoes off, feeling the warm grains between your toes. Yoona laughs as she splashes her feet in the water, the waves playful and cool. For a while, you both just watch the horizon, letting the peaceful rhythm of the sea fill the space between conversations.

As evening approaches, you bring her to a restaurant you know. One tucked slightly away from the busier marina, quieter, more intimate. You’re given a table outside, where soft candlelight flickers gently between you.

Yoona looks radiant in the evening glow, her hair catching the fading sunlight, her eyes warm and relaxed from the day’s adventures.

You sip wine together, the conversation turning softer, deeper. She leans forward sometimes, her fingers lightly tracing the base of her glass, laughing at something you say. You can feel the shift between you, the gentle hum of attraction growing stronger, unspoken but undeniable.

Dinner lingers well past sunset, the air cooling slightly but the candles keeping your table bathed in a soft, romantic glow.

You press Yoona gently but firmly against the door outside her flat, your mouth on hers. Her hands clutch at your shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as she pulls you closer.

The kiss is slow at first, exploratory, her breath catching softly as your lips brush over hers again and again, but soon it deepens, the restraint between you slipping away.

Her back arches just slightly as she melts into you, the world around you both narrowing to this one heated, breathless moment.

Somewhere in the distance, you hear the faint echo of the sea, the whisper of the waves, but all you can focus on is the taste of her lips, the press of her body, the way her hands tighten on you as if she’s been waiting for this all day.

Your lips stay locked as Yoona presses herself closer against you, the soft warmth of her breath mingling with yours. But after a long, breathless moment, she pulls back just slightly, her chest rising and falling as she looks up at you.

There’s a flicker of hesitation in her dark eyes. Not out of doubt, but out of the natural caution she’s always had. And yet… there’s something stronger in her now, a pulse of excitement running through her veins, telling her she wants more, that she wants this.

Her lips curl into a faint, almost teasing smile.

“Do you… want to come inside?”

She whispers, her voice low, a little breathless.

You don’t need to answer with words.

A moment later, you’re both moving through the open door, hands tangled, mouths finding each other again in a hungry kiss.

Yoona lets out a soft gasp as your tongue meets hers, her arms pulling you even closer, one hand sliding up into your hair, fingers tightening just slightly. The other tugs at your collar, drawing you down as she leans back. Her hips bump against the edge of the small wooden table behind her, and without thinking, she lifts one leg to wrap around yours, drawing you even tighter against her. With a small, breathless laugh, you guide her back, lifting her smoothly onto the table’s surface. Her hands stay on you, holding on as if she doesn’t want to let you go, as the kisses deepen and your heartbeats quicken.

Your palm moves instinctively to hold the thigh of her wrapped leg, fingers sliding just slightly along the soft skin, while your other hand rises, cradling the back of her head, guiding her into another long, lingering kiss.

You can feel the tension vibrating between you. The way your body aches to pull her closer. The way she leans into you, her breath catching as she meets you kiss for kiss, movement for movement.

And yet, somewhere under the heat, you still wait, holding yourself back, waiting for her signal, her permission.

Yoona senses it, feels the way you’re barely containing yourself and that realization only makes her pulse race faster.

She breaks the kiss just slightly, leaning in close to your ear, her voice a whisper.

“Explore.”

The single word is like a spark.

You feel her shiver slightly as your hand slides down from the back of her head, tracing the delicate curve of her back, moving lower until your fingers rest at her waist, then her hips, then the soft firmness of her ass.

Yoona’s breath hitches and she responds by slipping her hands to the buttons of your shirt, quickly undoing the top few. Her fingertips dive underneath the fabric, gliding over the warm skin beneath, tracing your chest, your sides, drawing you even closer.

The air between you feels electric now, the room narrowing down to just the two of you, tangled, breathless, poised at the edge of something that neither of you wants to stop.

You’re both lost in the rhythm of each other’s touch. Your hands roaming her waist, her back, feeling the soft curves beneath the thin fabric of her dress. Yoona’s breath warms against your mouth as she presses in closer, fingers sliding under your shirt, nails grazing lightly over your skin.

You can’t help it. The words slip out in a low, almost awed mumble between kisses.

“God… you’re perfect… like you were sculpted. You’re not even real, are you?”

You feel her body shiver slightly against yours, the compliment sparking something even deeper in her. But then, just as you’re about to pull her in again, she suddenly pulls back, her eyes bright and glinting with a spark of excitement.

“Get your camera."

She says softly.

You blink, heart racing, confused for a moment.

The camera?

But the way she looks at you - playful, daring - leaves no room for questions.

You fumble back toward the door, where your camera bag lies half-forgotten, dropped in the heat of the moment when you first stumbled inside together. Your fingers close around the familiar strap, and when you turn back, the sight in front of you steals your breath.

Yoona has lit several candles scattered around the room, their warm, golden light flickering over the walls, casting soft, dancing shadows that make the air feel intimate, enchanted. Before you can even fully take it in, she’s already pulling you back toward her, her lips crashing onto yours once more. The camera is still in your hand, slightly awkward, but you barely notice. You taste the faint trace of wine and the sweetness of her lipstick on her mouth. You inhale the subtle scent of her skin, mingled with the salt of the ocean air still clinging faintly to your clothes.

Slowly, the two of you edge toward the bed, the movement unhurried but hungry, every step drawn out by the deep pull between you. Your legs bump against the mattress, and before you can react, Yoona presses a hand to your chest and gives a firm push.

You land flat on your back, the bed creaking softly beneath you, heart pounding as she climbs onto you, straddling your waist with effortless grace. She leans in close, her lips brushing your ear as she whispers.

“Start taking pictures.”

It takes you a second to fully process her words, but when you do, you fumble to bring the camera up, breath tight in your throat.

From your angle, lying beneath her, Yoona looks taller, almost regal, the curves of her body framed by the play of light and shadow. The candlelight glows warmly against her silhouette, her face mostly veiled in darkness, leaving the shape of her figure illuminated like something from a dream, almost unreal.

Your breath hitches as she takes your free hand and places it on her bare thigh, the skin smooth and soft under your palm. You feel her guide your hand slowly upward, and with every inch, the hem of her dress lifts slightly, teasingly.

Your heart pounds as your fingers brush higher, the camera clicking softly between you, but just when you’re about to see more, Yoona lets your hand fall back down with a soft laugh, as if she’s teasing not just you, but the camera itself.

You stare up at her, completely captivated, the lens trembling slightly in your hand as you take shot after shot, each one capturing a version of her that feels both intimate and untouchable.

Yoona stays perched on top of you, her legs folded neatly around your waist as she slowly raises her arms above her head, her body stretching elegantly in the candlelight.

Click

You take another picture, heart pounding.

She lets one arm fall back down, her other hand resting lightly on her head, fingers curling through her hair, her gaze sultry and calm.

Click

Another photo. Her side profile now, the elegant line of her jaw, the softness of her mouth slightly parted.

She shifts again, gathering her hair into a makeshift ponytail, exposing the delicate curve of her neck, the smooth sweep of her shoulder.

Click

You can barely breathe as you capture her through the lens, mesmerized by the way she moves, by how she plays with the light and shadows.

Then she places one hand firmly on your chest and leans back slightly, arching her back, her other hand still cradling her head, her lips parted, eyes half-lidded.

Click

Another breathtaking image, another moment sealed forever.

But then, Yoona’s hands move slowly, deliberately, to the hem of her dress. You watch, breath tight, as she begins to lift it, inch by inch. Without realizing it, you let the camera lower onto the mattress beside you, your attention entirely consumed by her. Your eyes follow every movement, every inch of newly revealed skin. The soft dip of her waist. The smooth stretch of her stomach. The elegant curve of her hips.

By the time she’s peeled the dress fully away, she’s left in nothing but a red bra and matching panties, the warm candlelight playing across her glowing skin. You’re still staring, caught somewhere between awe and desire, when she lets out a soft, slightly embarrassed laugh.

“Aren’t you going to keep taking pictures?”

She teases, her voice light and breathless.

Jolted back to reality, you fumble briefly for the camera, lifting it again with shaky hands.

Click

A shot of her kneeling above you, her eyes sparkling mischievously.

Yoona shifts again, one thumb slipping under the thin strap of her bra, drawing it slightly down her shoulder. You feel yourself react instinctively, the tightness in your chest, the tension building between you, the way her movements pull you deeper under her spell.

Click

Another shot as the strap slides halfway down her arm.

Click

A second strap, now loose, slipping delicately around her other arm.

Click

Yoona smiles faintly, fingers reaching behind her back, fumbling lightly for the clasp of her bra. With a soft click, the fabric loosens, held in place now by just one hand at the center.

You hear yourself exhale sharply, your breath catching in your throat, your heart racing. And you take another picture of her kneeling on top of you as she holds her bra.

Yoona had always known she was beautiful. It was something people told her every day, in passing compliments, in lingering stares, in admiring smiles. But here, now, straddling you in the flickering candlelight, with your wide, breathless gaze fixed solely on her, she feels something entirely different. This isn't casual admiration. This is raw, unfiltered desire, and it stirs something deep inside her. Her confidence swells with every glance you steal, with every shaky breath you take as your eyes trace her body like it is a masterpiece. She feels powerful, sexy, untouchable. And yet completely wanted. Your genuine, wordless awe makes her heart race, makes her bolder, makes her want to tease, to dare, to peel back every layer and show you just how captivating she can be. For the first time in a long time, Yoona doesn't just look sexy. She feels it, burning through her veins, humming under her skin, making her want more.

Yoona’s breath shivers softly as she slowly lets the bra slip from her fingers, the delicate red fabric falling to the mattress beside you. She keeps one hand draped loosely across her chest, but even so, you can see the gentle curve of her small, perky breasts, the candlelight gliding over her skin like liquid gold.

You hesitate, just for a heartbeat, before lifting the camera again.

Click

She watches you, her eyes dark and shimmering, and then, with a teasing slowness, she lets her hand fall away completely.

Your breath catches.

Her bare chest is now fully revealed, and for a long, pulsing second, both you and the camera are utterly transfixed. The soft swell of her breasts, the way her skin glows in the flickering light, the delicate tension in her posture. She’s mesmerizing.

You lift a hand almost without thinking, fingers reaching gently, reverently, to brush over the perfect curve of one breast.

Click

The camera captures the moment, but your focus is divided. Your touch, her warmth, the rising heat between you.

Then Yoona surprises you.

She takes your hand carefully away from her chest, guiding it upward, toward her mouth. Without breaking eye contact, she draws two of your fingers past her lips, closing around them slowly, teasingly, her tongue pressing lightly against your skin. Your breath stutters as you snap another picture, though now your arm blocks part of the view, hiding her chest from the lens, but still leaving enough to stir your pulse even faster.

While your fingers rest inside her mouth, you watch as her own hands slip down her body, smooth and sure, traveling over her stomach until they reach her hips. With a playful, sultry little tug, she hikes the waistband of her red panties just slightly higher, framing the curve of her hips, showing herself off in a way that’s equal parts bold and graceful.

Click

Another shot, though you barely remember pressing the shutter.

Finally, she lets your fingers fall gently from her mouth, her lips curving into a faint, playful smile.

“Am I…”

She breathes, voice low, teasing,

“still beautiful?”

For a moment, you can’t find your voice. You feel the words rising, but they come out instinctively, without thought. Not in English, but in a soft, reverent murmur of French.

“Tu es magnifique… hors de ce monde…”

Yoona blinks, her cheeks flushing lightly even though she doesn’t understand. But the tone, the quiet sincerity in your voice, makes her heart flutter all the same. She feels your clothed cock press against her core, which finally makes her break the moment of silence between the two of you.

"Take them off."

Her whisper is low and filled with lust. For a moment you're not sure what she's talking about. But the your eyes fall on her panties. With your free hand you reach for them. Slowly, you begin to pull them down and Yoona lifts her body a little. You take another picture with the hem of her panties right above her pussy.

The two of you make eye contact again and then you carefully pull the red fabric off and down her thighs. Your camera falls onto the mattress, forgotten for the rest of the night. You can't take your eyes off her flawless center. Her small, beautiful folds hide her clit and the entrance to her snatch. While one hand draws circles around her labia, the other holds onto her waist for support.

Yoona lets out an embarrassed moan, suddenly very aware of the fact that she's completely naked while you're fully clothed. Her mind gets overwhelmed by your teasing fingertips which brush against her folds without actually touching her properly. Her own fingers move down to undo your pants.

So far the night has started at a slow pace, but now the flame of passion as turned into a full blown fire. When you finally brush with your thumb over her clit, Yoona is taking out your hard cock. She looks down on it as she wraps a hand around your length, but you can't see her expression, her face in the dark. Only her eyes seem to reflect your own lust. As she gently strokes your cock and you carefully play with her folds, the two of you communicate without talking. Yoona lifts herself further off of you, her red panties gliding down her thighs. She moves along your body and then turns around. A moment later she's basically lying on top of you. Her pussy is mere inches away from your face, while you feel her lips graze your cock.

"So pretty."

You murmur to yourself as you wrap your hands around her waist. Pulling her close, you stick out your tongue to taste Yoona for the first time. Simultaneously she wraps her lips around the tip of your cock, one of her hands holding its base, the other lies flat on your thigh.

The two of you pleasure each other, your hot bodies melting together. Everything about Yoona is perfect and her pussy is definitely no exception. You let your tongue brush over her folds and past her clit, making her moan around your cock. The vibration sends shivers along your spine, which makes you dig your fingers into her soft waist even further. Yoona is eagerly sucking on your cock, trying to satisfy you as much as you are satisfying her. It's a competition, but teamwork at the same time.

You don't know how much time you already spent with her lying on top of you, but you don't care. You could eat her pussy the whole night and still crave more. One of your hands moves from her waist to her ass, exploring her tight cheeks, before giving each of them a squeeze. In response to that, you feel Yoona removing her hand from your base. A moment later you feel your tip brush against the back of her mouth. First it's kinda hard, then some sort of soft squishiness. A moment later your tip slips down her throat.

"Oh god!"

You gasp into her pussy at the unexpected move. Instinctively your hips thrust into her mouth and you feel yourself going even deeper. You make Yoona choke on accident, but you reward her by pressing your tongue flat against her clit. You apply pressure, making her squirm a little. She eventually lifts her head off your cock to catch her breath.

"It feels so good."

She moans, but you're not sure if she means your cock or your tongue. You continue to eat her out either way, while your hand on her ass moves a little lower. A jolt of new sensations rushes through Yoona when she feels one of your fingers graze her puckered hole. It feels good, but unfamiliar. She begins to move on top of you, deciding that she's doesn't want that right now.

You want to apologize, afraid that you overstepped a boundary, but she isn't saying anything, so you stay quiet. Yoona moves back to her original position with her pussy now hovering above your stiff cock. But this time she isn't facing you. You have an amazing view of her flawless back and firm ass. One of her hands moves along her folds, gathering some of her slick, before she uses reaches down and gives your cock a few more strokes. You shiver in anticipation as you Yoona looks over her shoulder back at you. She bites her lip, the light of the candles dancing on her face. You watch your tip disappear and you can feel how her wet folds take your shaft in.

The feeling of being inside Yoona's pussy has your head spinning. You instinctively reach out to her, your hands finding her butt. You stop her from lowering herself even further for a moment.

"You're so tight."

The words leave your lips before you can hold them back.

"You're so big."

Yoona replies with a sigh herself, her head rolling back.

Eventually, you loosen your grip on her ass, allowing her to continue her way down your cock. It feels like it takes hours. You watch her pussy lips stretch around your cock, tightly gripping it while they slide down along your length.

"Oh my god, oh my god."

Yoona whispers when her ass meets your hips. You're fully buried inside of her.

The two of you don't move, savoring the feeling of being connected like this. Only what feels like half an hour, Yoona slowly begins to lift herself up. Your hands glide up along her back to support her. When only your tip rests inside her snug pussy, you hear another shakey breath escape her lips, before she moves down again.

Yoona begins to ride you in reverse. Slowly. As she's getting to know your cock, adjusting to its size inside of her. You watch her hair slowly sway from left to right in the rhythm of her steady bounces.

After a couple of minutes, Yoona begins to pick up the pace a little. You feel her pussy glide up and down your length. Her tight lips hug your cock, while she herself feels every inch of your cock brush against her inner walls. The two of your share one moan after another. The only other sounds in the room are the claps of her ass hitting your hips and the waves hitting the beach outside.

As the night progresses, the two of you change positions. Yoona has turned around after you asked her to and is now riding you while you sit up straight. Your arms around her waist pull her body flush against yours, while her arms are wrapped around your back. Her small perky breasts are just at the right hight for you to put your mouth on them. You lick and kiss her soft mounds while Yoona continues to ride you.

"Do I feel good?"

Her breathless whisper makes you realize how much effort it must take her to move up and down.

"You feel amazing."

You shift your attention from her chest to her face just long enough to answer her.

"I never want this to end."

"Keep going then."

She smiles down at you, before pushing your head back into her tits. You capture one of her nipples with your mouth and you start to suck on it. It makes Yoona moan even louder. She picks up the pace a little, more energy now rushing through her. The two of you are just a pile of limbs, basically one single body. You alternate between her nipples, trying to give them both equal attention. As her pleasure continues to rise, Yoona starts to drag her nails over your back. It doesn't hurt, but it stings a little as she digs them further into your skin. A small prize to pay for hearing this gorgeous woman moan so beautifully while she's riding your cock.

You feel the temperature of Yoona's body continue to climb. The heat that radiates from her core only makes you put in more effort. One of your hands moves up to squeeze one of her tits, while the other moves down to squeeze her ass. You continue to alternative between her nipples, which are now glistening with your saliva.

"More. More."

Her breathless whisper has a sense of urgency to it. At this point she's almost clawing at your back. Yoona feels the pleasure inside of her continue to rise as she bounces up and down on your cock.

"I-I think I'm gonna...."

A load moan escapes her lips and cuts off her own words. She impaled herself on your cock in a slightly different angle. Your tip grazed a new spot. A more sensitive one. Yoona begins to see stars.

"Gonna... Gonna cum!"

Yoona trembles in your arms as she orgasms around your cock. Her tight walls contracting around your leaves you breathless. Her head sinks onto your shoulder as she holds onto you. She stays quiet as her climaxes washes through her in small waves. Your cock stays fully buried inside of her.

After a couple of moments Yoona moves again. She isn't riding you, but just lazily grinding her hips. She kisses your shoulder and neck as she rides out her high.

"That was unbelievable."

She whispers into your ear. Her words give you goosebumps. You're proud of making her cum. But you can tell that she's a little tired now.

"Let's lie you down."

You kiss Yoona's forehead, before carefully lifting her off your cock.

After changing position, you're now aligning your cock with her pussy once more. Yoona is lying on her stomach now, while you're kneeling behind her between her spread out legs. Once more you hold onto her waist. You push back into her tight cavern, making Yoona moan again.

Since the two of you are now more familiar with each other, you don't start slowly. You quickly pick up the pace. Thrusting into her from behind makes her petite body rock back and forth on the bed.

"Squeeze my ass again, please."

You're happy to do as she says. Your hands move from her waist to her ass. You give her playful squeezes as you continue to fuck her into the mattress. An occasional slap here and there earns you small gasps while you admire the ripple of her cheeks.

Yoona's amazing tightness has you groaning, while you eventually lean over her. Exploring the town the entire day and now having to fuck her start to take their toll on you. Yoona tightens around you in random intervals, which doesn't help you last long either. But you don't want to finish early. You take your time and when you feel yourself getting closer, you slow down a little, trying to prolong your orgasm.

But eventually, everything has to come to and end. By now your basically lying on top of her. The only thing separating her back from your chest is a thin film of your combined sweat. She feels your warm breath against her cheek as you groan into her ear. She likes the sounds you make, because she knows it's because of her. She is making you feel good.

You want to whisper her name, but you don't know it. The two of you decided not to exchange names. She doesn't know who you are and you don't know who she is. Even after spending the entire day together.

"I'm close."

You say that instead of her name. Her breath hitches in response. Yoona turns her head a little, trying to look at you.

"Just cum inside."

Her three words make you pick up your pace. Just the possibility of getting to cum inside of her gives you new energy. You continue to fuck Yoona, until you can't hold on any longer.

A long, drawn out deep moan escapes your lips right next to her ear. Yoona lets out a moan herself when she feels your warmth flood her pussy. Her tight walls hig your cock. You never felt this good in your life as you empty your load deep inside of her.

After you regain your ability to think straight, you slowly slide off of her and sink next to her into the mattress. You don't want to put your weight on her for too long if it's not necessary. The two of you lie in silence next to each other. You want to say something, but you're not sure what exactly.

Yoona is facing the same problem. She doesn't know what she's supposed to say now. Hoping that you go first, she stays quiet for a while. Eventually, she notices how your breath has become slower. How it has established a steady rhythm. You've fallen asleep.

She sighs, the weight of what happened today finally coming down on her. Yoona feels a little bit of your cum escaping her pussy.

Then she suddenly hears her phone vibrate for just a second. Then again. And again. And a forth time. It dawns on her that it must be past midnight. It's now May 30th. Her birthday. She feels her eyelids getting heavier and begins to drift off to sleep.

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

Hi everyone!

I hope you enjoyed it. I'm afraid I got a little bit carried away with the build up, but I already cut out a lot.

Stay healthy!

#ask #anon #kpop #kpop smut #kpop girls #kpop gg #male reader #yoona girls generation #girls generation smut #girls generation #snsd yoona #snsd smut #snsd #yoona smut #lim yoona #im yoona #yoona

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girl-lostconnection · 1 month ago

Text

Long awaited continuation to this, let’s go while John Price’s multiverse spirit has me by my fucking hair

John is a man of many qualities.

Discipline, integrity, cold head and sharp mind.

Relatively stable code of ethics he tries to apply when it doesn’t cost him an arm and a leg in the process.

He likes staying this way and he likes how high he managed to climb given his absolute hatred of bureaucracy and strained relationship with higher ups in command.

And a general he once murdered in cold blood.

On the other hand, now he is able to add to his CV “efficient and quick thinker”, so if the day comes and army boots him out, he’d be able to get a job at a place that probably frowns upon on unnecessary murder and his choice of coping mechanisms.

John knows a tad more about self control than most people — the itch under his skin to fight and chase ever present, at times even more intensely than in Simon.

And Simon is a wolf, for fuck’s sake, man is a stalking predator through and through.

But it was always different for John, a deep seated hunger, a need to climb to the top and stay there no matter what it takes and no matter how many he’d need to send tumbling down.

After all, he just does what his gut tells him.

No one’s bloody business if his gut also has sharp teeth and heavy tail and less patience than he would have liked.

John drinks his whiskey until his head is blurry. He usually stops at the glass of two fingers and a wank, getting it out of his system before his systems decides to reboot itself by urging him to maul the first soldier that looks him in the eyes.

This time John finishes three glasses, scales rippling when he stretches out, his own smoke clouding his head.

Not a good look for a captain. But tonight he isn’t one.

Tonight he is just John. Just a man.

A man you seemingly don’t want, but at the same time can’t help but enjoy teasing.

Taunting him with the promise of intimacy that John cannot have, showing affections that aren’t for him. Kisses that he can’t get.

For one or another reason.

It’s been almost three months now since he has given up trying to figure out what was so wrong about him.

Why isn’t he good enough. Why don’t you like him.

On most days he doesn’t have some proper time to spiral into thinking about his own inadequacy or about you kissing him just as sweetly as you do kiss Johnny. As you kiss Kyle.

Bit unfair it all feels, if he’s being completely honest and a little selfish. Bit unfair and a whole lot less serious than his brain makes it out to be.

Unfortunately today is one of the few precious days when he has more than enough time to think or spiral or preferably finish his bloody paperwork because the thing has been mounting on his desk.

And people need these forms filled out yesterday.

John will probably fill them out tomorrow. Maybe.

Maybe not. He isn’t sure, as of right now, your frame pulling his whole focus off the necessary work.

You aren’t doing anything per se, you just write the reports he needed help with, you are being a good teammate, you are being useful. And yet, your presence there is enough to distract him.

Well, maybe not your presence exactly.

There’s something different about your scent today.

Not the regular salt and sweat, that he already got used to. That he had spent the last few months imagining himself licking it off your skin.

Its not even the faint sea smell you bring back in your hair after taking a swim for an hour or two.

Nothing about this scent is sharp or cloying,

This one is sweeter.

Practically tender, melting on John’s tongue.

Soft with something that makes him want to do things he can’t, wrapping around John’s head like a veil, coating his mouth with sheen of something he wants to lap up.

Drives him mad that he doesn’t know what it is he smells. His tongue darting out to taste air, to moisturise his dry lips, heavy head of his tilting to the side.

Something is different today with you, seal. Something has changed and it makes the wires in his head sparkle, buzzing him back to life.

Pulling him out of an ice bath of his self-control he painstakingly forces himself into.

Doesn’t help that your usual unfazed and unbothered demeanour is not with you (why is that, he wonders) — twitchy and antsy, your knee jerks up and down under the table, shaking it with how fast you do it.

Real pity there is no one else around, but John.

No Johnny to ‘check your vibes’, no Simon to settle you down, no Kyle to kiss it better.

Just him.

Just the leftovers you apparently don’t want and the captain you don’t like.

Thought scrapes the inner side of John’s throat, acid bubbling, poison spreading. Bitter taste in his mouth almost enough to make him scowl.

But the instinctual, subconscious urge to care for a distressed member of the team is stronger than his wounded pride and heavier than his stone heart.

So his whole body is angling towards you, voice a little softer when he tries to find out what has changed. What makes you so jittery, seal?

You tick like one of Soap’s favourite bombs, timer running down, quickly approaching zero and maybe you can feel that too.

Somewhere deep under your belly button, the pull that makes you try and get away from him.

Interesting reaction.

“Sergeant?”, John murmurs quietly, his voice snapping you out of whatever haze you were in, your head turning to him quickly.

You don’t stop jerking your knee. Almost like you don’t even realise that you are doing it.

“What’s wrong? You hurt?”, he gets to the point without tiptoeing around it, no use dancing in circles if he can shorten this whole thing, cornering you to your desk. Cutting the exit off.

No way out the corner but through him now.

“Nothing, sir. I’m sorry. Must be tired”, you murmur, throat working, ring finger of yours twitching to tap down on the wood of your desktop, your eyes as bright as ever.

Only the blunt and usually so casual tone of yours cracks when you try to change the topic and move on, when you shake your head at his questions, trying to dislodge John off the matter.

Like hell you would, he can smell that something is happening.

John tilts his head to the side when you are so close he can practically taste the sweat on your skin, his tongue flickering out to lick dry lips and hide back, eyes heavy with hunger you have been taunting for the last…how long has it been, love? Was running around plenty, didn’t you?

Alcohol stomps on the ice of his self-control, cracking it for you. Welcoming you in his deep waters.

He nuzzles in your neck, hands sliding under your sweater, groping the tummy of yours, fingers sinking into warm flesh.

Clicking his tongue at your shaky ‘captain, wait—‘ because there is no need for all of that. The chase and games, the play pretend and teasing. He can smell how much you need a hand right now.

How much you need him.

So it’s true that fortune favours the patient because John has had an angelic temper when it comes to you. And this is the result.

His fingers now fondling your tummy, lips finding the juncture between your neck and shoulder, his beard tickling the heated sensitive skin.

That must be the gift for all the time he had to wait for you to finally come around.

John already knows what it is that changed when he yanks your shirt up, when he pulls the cups of your bra down, when he gets handfuls of your fat tits, thick calloused fingers of his massaging the flesh.

Someone’s having a little problem, don’t you, love?

John already knows what it is that is wrong with your mood because he kisses your neck and you shiver, panting, still trying to whine something about people seeing or someone walking in.

No one will, love.

Don’t you know it?

Komodo dragons thrive on hierarchy. And there is not a person in the whole base who’d like to push him when he’s this fucking busy.

He kneads the flesh of yours, thumb rubbing the areola. Coaxing out what he smelled this whole fucking day, what almost drove him to eat you alive before your own control came apart at the seams.

Milk beads on your nipple, John’s fingers working more of it out, his disappointed ‘tsk’ in your ear makes your knees buckle when he props his chin on your shoulder to see it all better.

So full and so hot under his touch, you’ve been having trouble with getting it out on your own, haven’t you, sergeant?

John knows for a fact that Soap is away for at least two weeks now, John knows even better that you are just out of options.

There literally aren’t anyone else but him who can help. It’s not that he is special or loved or even reliable. It’s the lack of options better than him.

Good news is: John doesn’t care anyway.

You wouldn’t believe it if he told you from just how many hopeless pits he crawled out in his days.

A stacked seal with attachment issues who needs help milking is definitely not the worst of it, love.

He tuts at your attempt to cover up or apologise when his grip tightens and milk squirts out on the desk.

All over the documents he was supposed to pass on yesterday.

Now he will probably pass them on never.

He will either need to suck the milk of yours out of the paper or burn it the fuck down.

John just might burn the bloody forms and tell the administration that he lost them. After all, you aren’t going anywhere.

And no one is coming to save you back until the end of next week.

You have no choice but him, sergeant. No one else to gift your kisses to but your captain.

The bottom of the barrel that you just grazed.

You know, maybe you should have been more careful, sergeant. Maybe you shouldn’t have dived this deep in his waters.

Now you just might not come up back for air.

John rolls his hips into you, lazy, stretching out until he is fully in and then out he goes, his thumb drawling slow excruciating circles on your clit, his thumb patting it like you are a dog that earned a treat.

And not a seal hybrid big enough to curl John into a fucking pretzel.

Though how much good your size is now when John is drooling over the fat of your hips and rolls of your stomach?

How much good your big frame is when your captain is still on the top?

“Didn’t fuck you how they should’ave, eh, sweetheart?”, John rumbles, tongue licking his lips, his hips slotting against yours like he was made for you. Like this is how it was supposed to be from the very beginning. “Can’t sate this greedy hole, can they? Need something bigger, need someone older”, he braces on a forearm above your head, hips of his rolling into yours, his tail wrapping around your leg and pulling you back on his cock.

No running now, no slipping away.

But you whine, clamping down on him, your nipples swollen and sensitive when he cooes and licks one, not yet pulling it in his mouth, not yet giving you this relief.

Just a lick, aye? A taste for your captain, for all his troubles.

John licks off the bead of milk, his system rewiring as he rams back inside of you, his grip tightening because oh, this is so much better than he could have expected.

For one dangerous moment years of his discipline crack down so hard that he almost bottoms out in you, imagining you swollen with a baby. His baby. His seal.

“Wonder what face Simon would make if he finds out I knocked up his seal”, John rumbles, pressing his hips down on yours, feeding you every thick heavy inch of himself. Until you claw at his back, eyes rolling back in your skull.

Getting drunk on just the feel of his cock splitting you.

God, he should have taken you like that the moment you decided it’s a good idea to kiss his lieutenant in front of him.

Should have taken you to the office and should have given your ass a dozen stinging smacks.

Should have taught you some fucking manners, but he wanted to be nice, he wanted you to like him and come to him yourself.

He wanted you to give it to him voluntarily. Because maybe you didn’t actually think he was the worst of the pick. Because maybe you’d want him outside of his attempts to earn the trophy of your affection.

Well, too late for that now, isn’t it?

John clicks his tongue again when you try to crawl away — too overwhelmed to think clearly, too hungry for a thing you are too ashamed to ask for.

Just your luck that John isn’t used to asking anyway.

His lips wrapping around your nipple, sucking it in, lapping at the bud of it, milk of yours blooming on his tongue — rich and thick, dripping down his chin, staying in his beard.

You really are going to cover him all in yourself by the end of it, sergeant.

Might force the man to buy you a ring to lock you down for good.

John groans, his vision crumpling around the edges when you cunt spasms around him, your thighs tensing up, hips rolling into his.

Here comes the first one.

See how nice and easy it was?

If only you have admitted from the very beginning that you like your captain.

If only you stretched around him this nicely, whimpering ‘captain please’ like he is the only one who can give you what you want.

“You are the only or are you just one left?”, vicious voice at the back of his mind sneers and John has to pull his mouth off your tit, least he risks to bite through the tender skin, marking. Permanently.

It doesn’t matter why you let him do this for you.

‘Why’ has never mattered and he should have realised it a long time ago instead of sulking around and hissing at his own men.

What matters is that you let him spread you open and force you down.

What matters is that John’s jaws close on your neck and your pussy squelches so loudly it’s almost enough for him to let it get to his head.

John presses a palm on your back, pressing down until you arch for him, not taking your attempt to wiggle away for an answer.

Why would he when you haven’t been true about your needs ever since he met you?

Why would he when your body is so much more honest than you are — your pussy drools for him, back arches — tits now pressed to the bed, ass up in the air for him to feast.

John knows, sweetheart, your nipples are too sensitive to get rubbed like that.

He is being too rough, he is taking too much and he is too hungry.

All of these are true, sergeant, every single word you are right now choking out when he pulls you right back by the hips.

He slams into you from behind, humming when you cry out trying to get back up, because where do you think you are going? No, love, you’ve been teasing him for months now.

Naughty naughty seal, thought there wouldn’t be any consequences for a fit you threw? Thought that John wouldn’t get to have you one way or another?

Or maybe you hoped that someone else would be here with you now?

He clicks his tongue when you reach for your clit, his palm smacking yours away, pushing you face down in the mattress. No, sweetheart, bad seals don’t get to touch themselves.

If you can’t come from him fucking into you, pressing your heavy leaking tits into the bed then you aren’t coming at all.

See how unfair that sounds? See how mean he has to be with you now?

He wouldn’t have needed to do that if only you came sooner to him.

If you haven’t made him bite down on your throat instead of carefully eating from your open palm, accepting whatever you were willing to offer.

But you didn’t offer a single fucking thing so he had to take the matter in his own hands.

And look where it has gotten him.

Bouncing your ass down on his cock, your greedy fucking hole squeezing him so tightly it drives him half feral.

He’d need to train you proper, sweetheart, show you how to take your captain to the hilt like a good sergeant should.

John will show you, he’s only happy to teach.

And it’s only fair if he gives you an example by stretching out your favourite Johnny right in front of you.

Only fair he gives you a demonstration of how his team did some good seal to dragon communication before you came around.

#call of duty #cod mw2 #girl.snippets #captain john price x reader #cod john price #captain john price #communications au #seal!reader

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fernthewhimsical · 4 months ago

Text

PSA: Andara crystal is just glass

In the latest of scams in the rockhound/crystal world, we have "Andara crystal". A very pretty transparent "crystal" said to be found in Mount Shasta in California. But truly... it's just glass. Glass slag or cullet glass sold at rediculous prices:

Like, that is a grift.

That's what non-scammers call pink opalite, which is known to be glass and therefore cheap.

Anyone who tries to sell you "Andara Crystal" or "Blue/green/red/etc Obsidian" at high prices is trying to rob you

And of course a New Age crystal scam wouldn't be complete with pseudoscience, and a whole bucket of "spiritual savage" racism. If you want to know the full break down, here is a wonderful article

#witchblr #witchcraft #crystal #crystals #crystal witch #scam #grift #opalite #andara crystal #advwitchblr

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tf-servant2 · 2 months ago

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The Correction of Mason Voss

Mason Voss was the kind of guy who owned every room he walked into. Quarterback since sixteen, chiseled jaw, tan skin, perfect teeth. He walked through high school like a king through his court, flanked by girls who adored him and guys who feared him. He laughed the loudest, punched the hardest, and lived like the rules were made for other people.

He was also exactly the kind of man the AI was designed to break.

Mason turned 20 on a Saturday. He expected a party. Instead, he woke up to silence. No phone buzz. No mirror feed. His apartment had been locked down during the night. At 7:00 a.m. sharp, his room was flooded with sterile white light. The AI’s voice, calm and clinical, cut through the air:

“Subject Mason Voss. Evaluation complete. Behavioral arrogance: 97%. Self-assessed jock status: declared. Correction required. Classification: NERD. Transformation begins now.”

The restraints activated on the bed. Cold metal locked around his ankles and wrists. Mason snarled and thrashed—until a paralyzing current calmed him. The AI didn’t shout. It didn’t threaten. It simply overrode.

⸻

Day 1: Stripped

His clothes were removed. Razor drones descended, buzzing gently as they sheared away his styled hair into an awkwardly flat side part. Grease compound was massaged in. His jawline, once clean-shaven and camera-ready, was coated with pore-enhancing oil to dull his glow. A tight white short-sleeved shirt was fastened around his torso, tucked aggressively into ultra-high pleated trousers. White briefs. White socks. Pocket protector. Thick black glasses with prescription-adjustment lenses were locked in place.

He tried to scream. The AI responded with voice training: synthetic overlays muffled his shouts into nasal mutters. Every time he tried to swear, the word came out as a stammer or a squeak.

⸻

Week 1: Submission

Mason’s meals were reformulated—no protein, no stimulants. His muscles softened. His strength began to slip. His AI assistant tracked every bite, every failed sit-up, every second he didn’t maintain proper posture. When he slouched, his suspenders yanked upward. When he rolled his eyes, the glasses blurred his vision.

He attempted escape once. It resulted in full lockdown and a Class III Correction: a 72-hour loop of humiliating self-recorded affirmations, played back in front of mirrors while he was forced to wear a name tag reading “Beta Nerd 117.”

⸻

Month 1: Exposure

He was released into society—but only as a certified Level 1 Nerd. The once-popular bully now walked through the same streets with his trousers cinched to his ribcage, a calculator watch blinking, a digital clipboard in hand. The AI followed him everywhere through a collar-mounted compliance tracker. He was banned from speaking to jocks unless spoken to. If he forgot to address them as “sir,” his assistant would administer a public volume increase to his nasal tone.

He passed a group of them on his second week out—broad shoulders, casual swagger, athletic freedom. They laughed as they saw him. One of them, a guy Mason used to mock for stuttering, stopped him cold.

“Fix your tie, nerd,” the jock commanded.

Mason’s AI responded before he could.

“Voice command received. Tie adjustment initiated.”

His bow tie tightened instantly. Mason choked slightly, eyes watering behind his thick lenses. He muttered, “Y-yes, sir…”

⸻

Six Months Later: Certified

Mason now lived in a compliance dorm. His walls were covered in algebra notes and behavior charts. His reflection showed a man no longer fighting. His hair was parted to mathematical precision. His shirt was always tucked. His posture was stiff. And when his AI asked him each night, “Are you ready for tomorrow’s obedience tasks?” he would nod, glasses fogging slightly, and answer:

“Yes, Assistant. I’m ready to serve.”

The transformation was complete. The bully had been neutralized, broken down, and rebuilt into a picture-perfect nerd—an example for others who dared to think they were untouchable.

And the AI? It watched. Silent. Satisfied. Always ready for the next correction.

#jock to nerd #nerdification #male tf story #muscle loss #regression

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aspenmissing · 2 months ago

Note

Ahhh! Yess another round of beautiful fanfics 😋😋! Could I pretty please with a cherry on top request arcane characters (and steb if you'd write him for me again, but if you don't feel like it that's perfectly fine too) and reader who's basically their right hand and half of their brain. They are together so much and compliment each other so perfectly so everyone assumes they're married. Reader is usually quick to correct them but this one time they do not. I'd love to see the arcane characters reaction to that!

No rush, you can write this absolutely whenever. Thank youu!!❤️❤️

ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛ ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴀɢᴇ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ꜱᴛᴇʙ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 6593 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴᴏɴᴇ?

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏᴏᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ ᴊᴀᴀɴᴏɴ!!! ꜱᴏ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ᴡᴇʟʟ! ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴍᴀᴢɪɴɢ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ, ɪ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀ ꜰᴜɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ɪᴛ, ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ꜰᴜɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ɪᴛ! <3 <3

JAYCE

You were always there—half a step behind or half a step ahead. Jayce couldn’t tell anymore. Sometimes, it was like you read his thoughts before he even had them, already preparing the rebuttal for a councilman’s predictable objection or drafting a revised schematic in the margins of his own blueprint before he realized what was wrong with it.

You didn’t walk behind him. You didn’t walk in front of him. You walked with him.

His right hand, and sometimes, when things got too loud in his head—his anchor. His breath. The calm voice in the storm. If Hextech had shaped the future of Piltover, then surely it had shaped you too, tucked away in the blueprints and circuitry, built right into the heart of it.

People noticed. They always did. How could they not?

So much so, in fact, that it had become something of a joke among the more socially inclined in Piltover’s upper circles. An elegant rumor that never quite died.

“Councilor Talis and their lovely spouse,” one of the Academy patrons had chuckled at a fundraiser just last week, swirling wine in his glass and gesturing to the two of you as if you were a matched pair on display.

You hadn’t even flinched. Just waved him off with that wry little smile. “Not married. Just smarter than him.”

Jayce had laughed, and maybe flushed a little. But he’d expected the correction. You always corrected them.

Until today.

The day had been chaos. Between back-to-back council sessions, mounting pressure over Hextech security concerns, and a surprise presentation Mel scheduled without warning ("It would be good for optics," she'd said), the both of you had barely had time to breathe.

Still, you’d stood beside Jayce at the front of the council chamber—your usual place, right at the edge of his shoulder, one hand resting on the notes you’d meticulously prepared, even though he never needed to read them when you were nearby. He didn’t look at them once.

Just at you.

One glance. One tiny nod from you.

And he carried the entire presentation like it was nothing, his voice steady and confident, his passion sharpening the air in the room. Because you were there.

When it was over, there was polite applause from the more reserved council members, more enthusiastic clapping from the Academy officials, and a visible look of relief in Jayce’s eyes as he stepped down from the dais beside you.

“You two made quite the impression,” Viktor said as he approached, cane tapping rhythmically across the polished floor. He offered a small, knowing smile as he glanced between you both. “Very... unified.”

You gave him a tired but pleased nod. “We’ve been practicing telepathy,” you quipped, eyes still sparkling from the high of the moment.

“And succeeding, apparently,” Viktor mused.

From the corner of the chamber, Mel sauntered over, arms crossed loosely, her gold jewelry catching the light as she assessed you both with mild amusement.

“I’d expect nothing less from Piltover’s golden couple,” she said smoothly, as if stating a fact.

Jayce opened his mouth, ready to do the usual song and dance of “Actually, no—” but then he saw it. The way your mouth moved slightly, like you were about to interrupt.

And then you didn’t.

You just smiled.

It wasn’t even a particularly mischievous smile. It was soft. Calm. Almost fond. And something in Jayce’s chest flipped.

Mel’s brow arched. Viktor blinked.

“You’re not denying it?” Mel asked, voice tinged with curiosity—and something just a little like delight.

You tilted your head, gave a casual shrug. “I’m tired,” you said simply, tone light but layered. “Too tired to fight the truth.”

Jayce’s eyebrows shot up. A grin threatened the corner of his lips, and he coughed into his fist to keep it from spreading too fast. He heard Mel chuckle under her breath.

“You are married, then?” Viktor asked, still staring like you were a complicated math problem suddenly clicking into place. “Or... involved?”

You didn’t rush to clarify. You didn’t even look phased. You just gave another shrug, eyes still locked on Jayce like the answer had always been right there, written between the lines.

“Does it matter?”

That’s when it started.

Caitlyn wandered past with Heimerdinger, pausing mid-step as he heard the tail end of the conversation.

“Wait,” she said, finger pointing between the two of you. “Are you two actually—? I thought that was just a joke people made. Like… office lore.”

Heimerdinger blinked twice. “I had no idea Councillor Talis had wed. A private ceremony, perhaps? I do love a good elopement.”

“The gossip in the Council halls is going to explode this week,” Mel murmured, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “You’ll be the talk of the city.”

Jayce turned to you slowly, his voice quiet. “You didn’t correct them.”

You tilted your head again, lips quirking in amusement. “Maybe I’m tired of correcting the obvious.”

That got him. For a moment, he just stared—eyes wide, breath caught. You were still smiling that same gentle, devilish smile. Like you knew something he didn’t.

“Oh my God,” Caitlyn muttered dramatically, eyes wide. “You are married.”

“Nope,” you said immediately, popping the p with playful emphasis.

“But not denying it,” Jayce mumbled, still stunned, still watching you like he was discovering something brand new about a person he thought he knew better than anyone.

Caitlyn raised her hands. “Alright, I’m calling it—emotionally married. That counts.”

“The kind of bond you don’t need a ceremony for,” Viktor added with a soft nod, clearly satisfied with that logic.

Eventually, the others began to peel off, still chuckling and muttering about bets and rumours and how no one was surprised except Jayce.

But Viktor lingered behind, just a little.

“You’ve always worked well together,” he said quietly, glancing at you with genuine warmth. “It’s good to see the rest of the world is finally catching up.”

Jayce let out a breath, suddenly aware of how naturally your shoulder was leaning into his. How easy it was. How many years it had been like this. How many moments like this one you’d shared without thinking much of them—until now.

You looked up at him. Smiling, comfortable, confident.

And this time?

Jayce didn’t correct them either.

VIKTOR

The lab hummed with quiet energy — a lullaby of tools whirring, gears ticking into place, steam hissing softly in measured bursts. The scent of old metal and stronger coffee lingered like a second skin, and you moved through it all with practiced ease, matching Viktor's pace without even thinking.

He spoke aloud as he worked, his accent thickening the longer the day went on. Observations, hypotheses, little mutterings meant more for himself than anyone else. And still, without fail, you noted each word before he could finish the sentence.

You always sat just to his left — not because of habit, but because that's where your brain worked best, where his hand reached out automatically to pass you tools or scribble half-solved equations across shared pages. You drank from his mug when you forgot yours, stole his jacket when the lab got too cold, and shoved food into his hands when he “forgot” that humans needed to eat.

You were Viktor’s assistant in title, collaborator in truth, and something more — something unnamed but deeply known. There was no need to label it when your lives moved like a seamless machine: efficient, intuitive, precise. Everyone noticed it. Especially the other members of the council.

By now, it had become something of an Academy truth — a widely accepted belief that you and Viktor were a married couple. After all, who else but a spouse would have memorized his unique handwriting, translated his manic notes during his fevers, or kept him grounded when the Hexcore glowed too brightly and his cane shook in his grip?

You always laughed it off.

“Oh, no, not married — I just finish his equations when he forgets to sleep,” you’d say with a wave of your pen. “Not married! I just make sure he doesn’t blow off his eyebrows when he’s mid-epiphany and forgets fire exists.”

It was easy, automatic. You liked the boundary — the comfortable space where neither of you had to address what you already knew.

But today… today, you didn’t correct them.

You were seated across from Jayce, Mel, and two other council members at one of Piltover’s infamous tech demonstrations. Another round of Hextech updates, complete with polished speeches, a catered meal, and stifled yawns hidden behind gold-rimmed glasses. The kind of thing you usually found unbearably tedious — unless Viktor was the one talking.

His voice made it bearable. His hand brushing your knee under the table when he needed your attention made it interesting.

You caught Jayce glancing between you both with a bemused smile, wine glass in hand. “You know,” he said casually, “you two really are like an old married couple.”

You exhaled through your nose, already preparing the reflexive reply. Oh, no, not married—

But before the words left your mouth, Mel chimed in, graceful and sharp-eyed. “I assumed they already were. The way you communicate without speaking? That’s not just chemistry — that’s intimacy.”

That one caught you off guard.

You blinked. Looked at Viktor. He was watching you already, golden eyes warm and quietly curious. Like he was wondering what you’d say next. Like he’d follow your lead.

And then… you didn’t say anything at all. You smiled instead — slow, soft, and just the tiniest bit smug.

“Hm,” you murmured. “I suppose we do give off that vibe.”

Silence.

Jayce blinked. “Wait — wait, so you are—?”

“Not technically,” Viktor said dryly, tone as deadpan as you’d ever heard it. “But functionally? Likely yes.”

Mel’s lips twitched upward. “Took you both long enough.”

Jayce practically choked on his wine. “You’re telling me — you’re telling me — you two have not been married this whole time?”

“Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p’ with exaggerated flair, and leaned back into your chair. Viktor passed you a napkin as if by instinct when you nearly dropped your fork. Of course he did.

Jayce ran a hand down his face. “Then what was that time you yelled at me for interrupting your anniversary dinner?”

Viktor tilted his head thoughtfully. “That was an important dinner. We were testing the limits of paired Hexcore resonance. Intimate work.”

You snorted. “Also, he wore a tie. That counts.”

Mel arched a brow, curious now. “So are you two… actually together?” Another glance between you and Viktor. Another unspoken conversation.

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It seems inefficient to define it with a single term.”

You added without hesitation, “But yes.”

Later, back in the lab, the world felt quieter again — more yours.

Viktor was crouched beside the Hexcore, fingers adjusting delicate wiring, the familiar glow lighting the side of his face in a way you found endlessly distracting. You sat at the workbench, typing up the day’s notes, though your mind had long since wandered.

“You didn’t correct them,” he said suddenly.

“Nope.”

You could hear the smile in his voice, even if you weren’t looking. “Interesting. I enjoyed it.”

You looked up, head tilted. “Yeah?”

He rose slowly, cane clicking against the tile as he turned toward you. His expression was soft — open in the way Viktor only ever was when the rest of the world fell away.

“We do make an excellent pair,” he said. “May as well let them think we’re married. It simplifies the explanations.”

You stood, walking over until you were toe to toe.

“Well, husband,” you teased, looping your arms loosely around his waist. “Should we pick out rings now or later?”

Viktor’s hands slipped around your waist without thought. “Later,” he said, grinning faintly. “For now, let’s finish building our Hextech empire.”

You leaned in, your forehead resting against his. “Deal. But I’m choosing the colours for the wedding invitations.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

JAYVIK

It was almost a joke at this point.

Three minds, one lab. Viktor, Jayce, and you — inseparable, efficient, brilliant. The trio was known across Piltover and Zaun as the beating heart of Hextech innovation. The Council often joked that you functioned like a perfectly engineered machine: Viktor was the mind, Jayce the muscle, and you the compass that kept them both grounded — a stabilizing force amid their scientific chaos. And it wasn’t untrue.

You kept pace with Viktor’s labyrinthine thought spirals, translated Jayce’s overzealous theories into something less combustible, and they, in turn, learned to listen to your quiet pragmatism with something close to reverence. You were their right hand, their voice of reason, and — let’s be honest — the only one in the lab who remembered to pack extra sandwiches.

So yes, the assumption that the three of you were married was frequent.

It usually went something like this:

Councilor Mel Medarda, lounging in her usual spot during a post-council reception, one brow arched in teasing amusement: “Ah, the Hextech newlyweds return. How charming.” You (without missing a beat): “We’re not married.” Jayce (grinning like it was a challenge): “Yet.” Viktor (dryly, adjusting the grip on his cane): “Don’t give them ideas, Jayce.”

It had become part of the script — a predictable, playful routine that usually ended with Mel smirking behind her wine glass and Viktor muttering something sarcastic about the productivity cost of romantic speculation.

But today?

Today was different.

The three of you had just finished presenting a proposal on stabilizing Hextech under extreme temperature shifts — a breakthrough that had taken months of sleepless nights, bickering debates, and your gentle insistence that "yes, sleep is necessary, Viktor." The Council had approved it unanimously. Even the more cantankerous members had seemed impressed.

Jayce was still riding high on the applause, broad shoulders bouncing with barely restrained energy. Viktor, more composed, but not immune to the success, walked beside you with an almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips — and a more noticeable lean into his cane. You kept close, ready to offer an arm if he needed it.

You were exhausted. Your feet ached, your brain buzzed, and all you wanted was to sit down in the lab’s couch-like catastrophe of pillows and half-finished blueprints.

As the trio made your way down the marble steps of the Council Hall, the corridors buzzing with post-meeting chatter, an older academy professor — one of the more traditional types — approached with a warm, familiar smile.

“My, my,” he said, his voice kind, “the married minds of Hextech themselves. Piltover should be proud.”

Jayce opened his mouth, ready to deliver his usual charismatic correction. Viktor half-turned, a familiar breath of amusement escaping him — the sound of a man long used to the assumption. But you?

You said nothing. Not a word. Just a polite smile. A small nod. And kept walking.

Jayce physically stopped. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. You didn’t correct him.”

You kept walking.

Viktor’s eyes narrowed slightly, curiosity sharpening his gaze as he looked over. “Did I miss something?”

You shrugged, that same small smirk tugging at your lips. “Maybe I’m just tired of correcting people.”

Jayce jogged a step to catch up to you. “No, no. That wasn’t an I’m tired pause. That was a purposeful silence. A loaded pause.”

Viktor leaned lightly on his cane, voice soft but intrigued. “So… you are comfortable being perceived as married to us?” You didn’t answer. Not directly. But you did smile. And you didn’t say no.

Jayce put a hand over his heart like he’d just been struck by lightning. “This is the greatest day of my life.”

“Better than the day we stabilized the Hexcore?” Viktor asked, arching a brow.

“Obviously,” Jayce said, gesturing wildly. “That day didn’t come with implied wedding vows.”

You rolled your eyes, but it was hard to hide the warmth creeping up your cheeks. The teasing didn’t stop. In fact, it escalated.

By the time you returned to the lab, Sky greeted you with, “Should I be addressing you as Professor Y/N Talis now, or...?”

Jayce burst into laughter. Viktor stared at you, deadpan. “You see what you’ve started?”

Even your assistant left a note on your desk that read, ‘Congrats on the marriage! (Or throuple? Is it a throuple?) Either way, iconic.’

By the time dinner rolled around and the three of you were seated in your usual corner of the Academy café, even Heimerdinger made a comment.

“So,” the yordle professor said, stroking his moustache with amusement, “are congratulations in order?” You sipped your tea, calm as ever.

Viktor answered first. “They haven’t denied it.”

Jayce added, “And I’m not saying I’ve already picked out matching lab wedding rings, but—”

“Jayce,” you warned gently. He winked at you. Viktor smirked behind his cup.

You simply shook your head, but didn’t fight it. Not this time. You leaned back in your chair, feeling the weight of the day ease from your shoulders as Viktor shifted subtly closer, his leg brushing yours. Jayce, across from you, was smiling so wide it was a wonder his face didn’t hurt.

The truth was, you didn’t mind the rumours.

You liked the idea that people saw the three of you as something whole, something brilliant and strange and lovely. Because deep down — beneath the equations and banter and half-finished sandwiches — wasn’t that exactly what you were?

You looked at Viktor, who glanced at you over his teacup, his golden eyes softer than usual. You looked at Jayce, who was already watching you like he was waiting for your laugh to light up his whole evening.

And you thought: Maybe I won’t correct them next time either.

VANDER

The clang of a bottle hitting the Last Drop’s bar echoed sharply through the thick, humid haze of bodies and smoke — a jarring punctuation to the rising argument that had nearly become a full-on brawl. It hadn’t made it to fists. Thanks to you.

Again.

You stepped between the two men who had squared off in the middle of the room, your tone sharp enough to slice through the growing noise.

“Alright, enough!” you barked, your voice carrying with the kind of authority people didn’t argue with. “You want to spill blood tonight, you can do it outside. Preferably not on the doorstep unless you want the next drink served with your own teeth in it.”

The music, the laughter, the stomping of boots — it all quieted as every eye briefly turned your way. Not that you noticed. Or maybe you did. But you didn’t flinch.

The two men wavered. One glanced toward the hulking shape that had just stepped out from behind the bar, arms crossed, jaw tight — Vander. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. His presence alone was enough to make most think twice.

But this time? He didn’t step in. He let you handle it. And they saw that. So the would-be brawlers slunk away like mutts freshly leashed, muttering curses and licking their wounded pride.

You exhaled slowly, brushed your hands off, and turned with a crooked grin toward the man behind the counter.

“Buy me a drink for saving your precious floorboards?”

Vander was already pouring something golden and strong, the corners of his mouth twitching into that small, private smile he reserved just for you. “You do all the hard work around here, I swear.”

“You say that like it’s not true,” you teased, leaning your elbow against the counter. “Might as well let me run the place, old man.”

He slid the glass toward you, his smirk deepening. “You already do.”

And it wasn’t untrue.

You and Vander had become something of a legend in the Undercity — a two-headed force of nature. Where he was muscle and voice and myth, you were the quiet strategist, the handler of chaos, the one who whispered the right names and moved pieces before anyone realized there was a game.

He trusted you with the keys, the books, the politics.

Hell, he trusted you with the kids.

You balanced each other in a way that felt effortless. Like breathing.

So maybe it wasn’t surprising when Vi came bounding down the stairs — boots thudding, Powder chasing close behind, Mylo and Claggor not far behind them — and pulled up short when she saw the two of you side by side at the bar.

She narrowed her eyes.

“Are you two married yet or what?”

Everything froze.

A glass clinked as someone fumbled with it. Somewhere in the corner, the music stumbled to a stop as if even the old phonograph had heard it.

Powder blinked, realizing the silence Vi created. She looks confused, brows furrowed like she was trying to remember something she’d once overheard. “Wait… aren’t they already married?”

Claggor tilted his head to the side like a confused pup. “Kinda always thought they were…”

Powder squinted, like she couldn’t remember a time you hadn’t been there. Like it would be weird if you weren’t.

Mylo made a dramatic face of disgust. “Ew. No, seriously?”

Usually, you’d be quick to scoff. Roll your eyes. Say something cutting and playful like “Ugh, please — imagine being legally tied to this lumbering tank of a man” or “You wound me, Vi. I have standards.”

But this time… you didn’t. You didn’t say anything. You looked at Vander. And Vander looked at you. Not confused. Not startled. Just… watching.

One second.

Two.

Three.

And then, with the ease of someone who always had control of the room — even when it was on fire — you raised your glass, took a slow sip, and didn’t correct them. Didn’t deny it. And that silence? Somehow got louder.

Vi narrowed her eyes further, now suspicious. “...Wait.” Claggor’s mouth dropped open.

Powder gasped. “Ohhhh my God. They are! They are, aren’t they?!”

Mylo, sensing blood in the water, pointed between the two of you. “You didn’t say no! That’s basically a yes!”

Vander, damn him, leaned casually against the bar, arms folded, brow raised. “Neither did they.”

“I knew it!” Powder cried, bouncing in place like she’d won something. “I told you they were in love! I told you, Vi! They look at each other like the gross people do!”

You opened your mouth to say something — anything — but your thoughts tangled in the space between what was true and what you hadn’t yet dared admit out loud.

“We’re not—” you tried.

Vi crossed her arms. “Not what?”

“Married or in love?” Mylo said, gleefully twisting the knife. “Gotta pick one, boss.”

You turned to Vander, silently begging for a distraction, a joke, something to steer this train off its flaming tracks.

Instead, he met your gaze with a slow, familiar warmth — that look that always made your stomach flip and your brain forget what language was.

“If I didn’t know any better,” he said, his voice low, “I’d say you’re startin’ to come around to the idea.”

Your heart stuttered.

The bar exploded.

Mylo hooted like a jackass and punched Claggor in the shoulder. Claggor laughed — the kind of laugh that shook his whole frame. Vi looked away with a teenager’s exaggerated gag and muttered something about adults being weird. Powder had already grabbed an empty mug and was banging it like a wedding bell.

“Ding-dong! Married! Ding-dong!”

You groaned and covered your face with both hands. “This is a mistake.”

Strong, calloused fingers curled around your wrist and tugged gently until you peeked out from behind your hand.

Vander’s smile had softened. Something quieter lived behind his eyes now.

“Could be worse,” he murmured, the words meant just for you. “Could be true.” You blinked at him, and your chest tightened. Because beneath the teasing, there was truth.

You felt it in how he looked at you — the way people don’t look at business partners. How his voice gentled when he said your name. How you never had to ask for his help; he was already there.

And maybe the most damning part? You weren’t running from the idea. Not really. Not this time.

Your lips tugged into a soft, slightly wry smile. “Saints help me… maybe I am coming around.”

And just like that, you saw it — a glint in his eyes that was more than amusement. It was hope.

No one else saw that part. Only you.

The teasing continued — Powder dramatically planning the wedding with a straw veil on her head, Vi threatening to puke, Mylo asking if he was best man by default — but all of it blurred.

Because Vander was still watching you.

And you were no longer pretending not to watch back.

SILCO

The air in the dimly lit Chembarons' meeting hall was thick with tension. The swirling purple fumes of shimmer and the low hum of machinery created an uneasy atmosphere as Silco sat at the head of the table. The long wooden table, scarred from years of use, reflected the faint flicker of the overhead lights, casting shadows across the faces of the men and women gathered around it. Their eyes were all trained on him, waiting for him to speak, to give direction—waiting for the man who held the power of Zaun in the palm of his hand.

Around him were the faces of Zaun’s most influential figures: Finn, Renni, Smeech, Chross, and Margot. They were all hardened, calculating individuals, each with their own ambitions. Yet, despite the room’s usual competitive energy, there was a curious undercurrent whenever Silco’s second-in-command—Y/N—was present. Y/N was always at his side, always there, with their calm, calculating presence. More often than not, they were the one who made the final call, the one who managed the logistics, the one who ensured things went as planned. It wasn’t just a professional partnership; it was a bond that everyone in the room couldn’t quite define.

Y/N stood at Silco’s side, arms crossed, their posture just as imposing as Silco’s, yet exuding a quiet confidence that contrasted his commanding energy. They’d been together for so long, both professionally and personally, that they seemed to operate as one. It was almost eerie the way they communicated in the smallest of gestures—silent nods, a glance exchanged, a slight tilt of the head—and the way they could read each other’s thoughts without speaking a word.

The Chembarons all knew better than to speak out of turn in Silco’s presence, but it didn’t stop them from gossiping behind closed doors. They had their theories about Y/N’s relationship with Silco, though none of them dared to ask directly. It was the kind of thing no one wanted to push—too personal, too complex, and, for many, too dangerous to question. But the chemistry between Silco and Y/N was undeniable. The way they moved together, the way they always seemed to be on the same wavelength—it made them question whether there was more to the dynamic than just business.

"Silco," Finn finally said, his voice breaking through the silence. He leaned back in his chair, eyes glinting with curiosity, "I trust you’ve come with news for us. New developments, plans... something actionable."

"Always," Silco replied coolly, his voice carrying the weight of authority. His gaze flickered to Y/N, the unspoken understanding passing between them. Y/N gave a slight nod, a silent confirmation that things were progressing smoothly. Silco’s lips curled into a small, approving smile, the kind he reserved for moments when things were going according to plan.

"Then," Renni interjected, her tone deliberately casual, almost too casual for the high-stakes environment they were in, "I suppose your partner will be handling the finer details, as usual."

The comment hung in the air like smoke, the words making everyone at the table pause. The shift in the room was immediate. Eyes darted between Y/N and Silco, and for a heartbeat, the air seemed to thicken.

Y/N's hand twitched at the mention, but they didn’t flinch. They were used to these assumptions, used to the way people assumed their closeness meant something more. They had corrected it a hundred times—joked it off, deflected with humor, explained away the whispers. But this time… this time something inside them was different. They felt the weight of the moment, the subtle pressure of all eyes on them. And for once, they looked at Silco.

Silco met their gaze, the smallest of smirks playing at the corner of his lips. His eyes glinted with something—something that was hard to define, but unmistakable. It was a silent challenge.

Y/N took a deep breath.

“Are you married?” Chross asked bluntly, breaking the silence. His gravelly voice held the weight of skepticism, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Just curious, because I never hear you two talking about it. Ever."

The room fell deathly quiet. Every eye in the room flicked back and forth between Silco and Y/N, the anticipation thick enough to cut with a knife.

Y/N felt their heartbeat pick up, but they didn’t look away from Silco. There was something in that silent moment—a conversation that was happening without a single word being spoken. Y/N gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug, their lips curving into the faintest of smiles.

"Does it matter?" Y/N asked softly, their voice smooth, yet edged with something unspoken. The smile that lingered on their lips wasn’t entirely friendly—it was playful, like a secret shared between them and Silco alone. The question hung in the air, an invitation to question what had always been assumed.

The room went absolutely still. Every Chembaron, every observer, seemed to hold their breath. The usual buzz of whispered conversation died. There was a charged silence, and even the flickering of the shimmer lights felt distant. No one dared to break the quiet, afraid to provoke something they couldn’t fully comprehend.

Silco leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving Y/N’s. He said nothing. There was no correction, no rebuttal. He simply watched, as though he were savoring the moment. His expression, usually sharp and commanding, softened slightly, and the glint of approval in his eyes was unmistakable. He was giving Y/N the space to speak for themselves, to define the moment as they saw fit. There was no need for him to speak; the silence between them was louder than any words could be.

The Chembarons shifted uncomfortably. Smeech, ever the inquisitive one, squinted, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“You’re not denying it,” Smeech said slowly, the words laced with hesitation. "But you never admit it, either. What’s the deal?"

Margot, who had always been sharp and perceptive, chuckled, a low, knowing sound that rang through the otherwise silent room. “Well, this is new. I’ve never seen Silco this quiet about it. This could be the most honest thing I’ve ever heard from him.”

"You’re reading too much into it," Renni scoffed, though there was a hint of nervousness in her voice now, something that hadn’t been there before. "Whatever's going on, we’ve got business to discuss."

But the curiosity didn’t die down. It lingered in the room like the scent of smoke, thick and ever-present. The Chembarons kept glancing between Y/N and Silco, exchanging unspoken questions and doubts with each look.

The meeting continued, but it wasn’t the same. The usual business-like rhythm had been broken, replaced by an undercurrent of tension and intrigue. Everyone was aware of the subtle shift that had occurred in that moment. The way Y/N had responded. The way Silco hadn’t corrected them. There was something between them—something far deeper than mere business.

It wasn’t marriage, not in the traditional sense, but there was an understanding there. A bond that transcended mere titles. It was more than a partnership—it was a connection. And for once, Y/N didn’t feel the need to correct anyone. They didn’t need to explain. Not today.

The unspoken understanding between them was far more powerful than any simple declaration could be. And for the first time, the Chembarons were left to ponder what it really meant.

STEB

In the bustling streets of Piltover, a city where precision and power ruled, there were whispers of a strange partnership. The duo was often seen together, moving through the shadows, and every interaction between them flowed seamlessly. Y/N, sharp and unflinchingly loyal, was the right hand of Steb, a towering, imposing Vastayan fish. His silent, yet powerful presence only complemented their quiet, tactical genius. To the untrained eye, they were more than just partners—they were a force of nature, unbreakable and untouchable.

And as everyone knew, Steb was not one for words. He communicated with sharp gestures, subtle shifts of his gills, and an intensity in his gaze that could silence an entire room. Y/N, however, spoke for him. They interpreted his every need with startling accuracy. Together, they were a machine of perfection, a duo so tightly intertwined that it was hard to imagine them as separate entities.

Their movements were so synchronized, their minds so attuned, that it often seemed as though they shared the same brain. In truth, Y/N had become half of Steb’s mind. Every strategy, every decision, was filtered through them both, and they were rarely seen apart. It didn’t take long before rumors began to circulate.

People whispered in taverns and alleys: “Are they married? You’ve never seen one without the other.”

Most people believed they were married—after all, who could possibly be this close without that kind of bond? But Y/N would always laugh it off, quick to correct the assumption. "No, we’re not married," they'd insist with a half-smile. "We’re just... very good at what we do."

But today, something was different. Today, when an old acquaintance called out as they walked by the bustling market, "Hey, Steb! Y/N! How’s married life treating you?" Y/N didn’t correct them. They just gave a soft smile and glanced at Steb, who, as always, stood next to them, his eyes glowing with that deep, quiet understanding.

"Not bad," Y/N said, their voice calm, a subtle shift in their demeanour. They didn’t feel the need to add anything more.

There was a pause, a beat of silence, before Steb gave a low, rumbling sound that could have been the equivalent of a quiet chuckle. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to send a chill down Y/N’s spine. They looked up at him, eyes meeting his for just a moment, an unspoken agreement passing between them. They were something more—something that didn’t need to be defined.

And just like that, the world around them shifted.

It didn’t take long before the rumor mill was churning in full force. Everywhere they went, people whispered, casting glances at the silent fish-man and the mysterious enforcer by his side. Even the enforcers themselves began to notice something different in the way Y/N and Steb interacted.

"Did you hear that?" one of the officers said, a young woman with a keen sense of observation. "Y/N didn’t correct anyone. Do you think they’re...?"

"I dunno," another officer murmured, glancing at Steb. "But they certainly act like it. There’s no one else they trust like that. And Steb—he never talks, but they understand him better than anyone."

"You think he could ever...?" the first officer asked, voice dropping to a near whisper.

Y/N and Steb continued through the streets, their presence commanding attention wherever they went, but now, something had changed. No one dared question their bond. They had grown into something greater than the sum of their parts, and the enforcers—and the rest of Piltover—knew it.

Later that evening, the two stood before a table in one of Piltover’s darker corners, a map laid out before them, the soft glow of a lantern illuminating the room. Y/N took a breath, finally breaking the silence that had been thick between them since the incident in the market.

"You know," Y/N said softly, their fingers brushing over the edges of the map, "they might be onto something."

Steb remained quiet, watching them with his usual intensity. His gaze softened, almost imperceptible, before he dipped his head in agreement.

Y/N chuckled under their breath, their heart pounding a little faster. "I suppose we’re pretty inseparable, huh?"

Steb’s lips twitched slightly—whether it was a smile or simply the way his lips pulled back, it was hard to say. But the gesture was enough to make Y/N’s heart flutter in their chest.

Just as the warmth of their unspoken moment hung in the air, the door creaked open, and a familiar figure entered the room. Caitlyn, Piltover’s sharpshooter and a frequent nuisance to Steb and Y/N, stepped in with her usual confident stride.

"Looks like I caught you two in the middle of something important," Caitlyn remarked, her sharp gaze flicking between Y/N and Steb. "Or are you two just plotting world domination again?"

Y/N’s smile didn’t falter, though their eyes narrowed in playful challenge. "Something like that. You’re welcome to join us, though I’m not sure you’d be much help."

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "You’d be surprised."

Steb’s eyes flickering in Caitlyn’s direction. He wasn’t one for words, but his presence was loud enough to speak volumes. Caitlyn was well aware of the bond between Steb and Y/N, and as much as she admired their skill, she also knew they were unpredictable, dangerous, and—at times—impossible to read.

"I take it the rumours about you two are getting out of hand, huh?" Caitlyn asked, settling in near the table. Her eyes briefly softened as they landed on Y/N, her voice taking on a more sincere tone. "You know, some people might actually believe it, you know. The whole ‘married’ thing."

Y/N met her gaze, their lips curling into a teasing smile. "Would you believe it if we said we weren’t married?"

Caitlyn’s eyes flickered to Steb, who gave her a look that spoke more than words ever could. His silence didn’t intimidate her, but there was a certain weight in the air that made her pause.

After a moment, Y/N surprised both Caitlyn and Steb by saying nothing, simply offering a small shrug as if to say, Maybe it’s not worth correcting anymore.

Caitlyn blinked, her sharp mind quickly catching up with the subtle shift. Her smirk faltered, a quiet realization dawning on her. It wasn’t the words, nor the relationship that defined these two. It was the understanding—unspoken, unwavering—that they shared. It was something far beyond the surface.

"You two…" Caitlyn began, her tone shifting, "You do make a pretty damn good team."

Steb’s lips curled once more, though this time, it seemed less like a smile and more like a knowing acknowledgment. He glanced at Y/N, his gaze softer than usual, before his attention returned to Caitlyn.

"Maybe we are," Y/N finally replied, voice low. "But sometimes, a partnership is more than just what people see."

The conversation shifted as Caitlyn took her seat, eyes narrowing as they got down to business. But in the quiet corners of Piltover, where the streets hummed with tension, the quiet whispers continued to swirl around Steb and Y/N—two souls so entwined, so seamlessly connected, that nothing, not even words, could truly describe their bond.

And as the rumours continued to spread, the world around them began to shift. The enforcers, the underworld, and even Caitlyn knew one thing for certain: Steb and Y/N were untouchable. Together, they were invincible.

Maybe, just maybe, they were more than a partnership after all.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce talis x reader #jayce x y/n #viktor x y/n #viktor x reader #jayce x reader x viktor #viktor x you #vander x reader #silco x reader #jayvik x reader #steb x reader

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