#I was struggling so hard with the fic and then I blinked and it was like 1700 words

[skzophreniic]

U, FILL UP MY MIND 24/7

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, exes to lovers, toxic relationship, breakup, mental health struggles, crying, grief, self-loathing, emotionally charged sex, reconciliatory but temporary intimacy, implied pregnancy. also, im well aware that you shouldn't let a pregnancy test sit for thirty minutes cuz it might show a false positive, but we are going to ignore this fact for the sake of dramatic tension ✨

notes: in which you and han jisung break up but can't keep away from each other — and things spiral from there.

to those of you who read my bartender minho fic, the minho that appears here is meant to be the same minho from that fic, so it's basically in the same universe ! you'll get a snippet of his lore here. happy happy birthday week to my lovely @angel-writes-skz-here and thank you for including me in ur birthday event !! (and happy 22nd birthday to me hehe)

“You never listen—you never fucking listen!”        

Han’s yelling. Again.

You’re not sure when his voice got this loud or when your eyes started to sting, but your hands are shaking, and the air in the apartment feels like it’s made of fire and glass.        

“You twist everything I say,” you spit, standing your ground even though your whole body is screaming run. “You make me feel like I’m going insane.”        

“Oh, I’m making you insane?” he scoffs, laugh bitter and wild. “You ignore me for three days, and I’m the manipulative one?”     

“I needed space!”        

“You never say that until after you’ve ghosted me! Until I’m left wondering if you’re dead or just fucking someone else!”        

The slap of his words hits harder than a scream. Your breath catches. You hate that it still hurts—that it always will when it’s him.        

“You think I’m cheating on you?” you whisper.     

“I don’t know what to think anymore!” he shouts, pacing now, hands dragging through his hair like he’s trying to rip the roots out. “You won’t talk to me, you won’t touch me, you act like I’m this fucking disease you’re trying to shake off!”

“And you act like I owe you every part of me just because you’re scared to be alone!” you snap, voice rising past your control. “I’m not your therapist, Ji. I’m your girlfriend.”  

“Were,” he bites out. “You were my girlfriend.”  

The silence that follows is sharp enough to bleed on.  

You laugh, high and humorless. “So that’s it? One fight and you’re already rewriting the story?”  

“Oh my God, it’s never just one fight with you,” he fires back, voice pitching up. “It’s every single week, every single night where I have to guess what mood you’re in, guess if you’re gonna kiss me or ice me out again—”  

“You don’t guess,” you growl, stepping forward. “You push. You push until I’m too tired to argue. Until I let you win just to keep the peace.”  

Han’s eyes go wide, something like betrayal flickering fast across his face.  

“You think I enjoy this?” he says, stunned. “You think I like this version of us?”  

“I think you like the chaos,” you spit. “I think you like knowing you can fuck up and I’ll still come back.”  

He breathes hard through his nose, nostrils flaring. His hands are trembling now too. For a second, he doesn’t say anything.  

And then he steps closer—close enough that you can see the bloodshot rim around his eyes, the pulse ticking in his jaw.  

“I come back too,” he says.

You blink. But you don’t back down.

He keeps going, like if he doesn’t get it out now, he never will.

“I come back even when I know you’re gonna shut me out again. Even when I know you’ll say things that make me hate myself. Even when I swear I won’t do it this time, I still—” He swallows hard. “I still come back.”

“Why?” you ask, and your voice cracks this time. “Why do we keep doing this to each other?”

He stares at you like it’s obvious. Like it’s written in your skin.

“Because it’s you,” he says. “It’s always you.”

You exhale like it hurts. Because it does.

And you don’t know if it’s better or worse that you believe him.

“Do you even hear yourself?” you whisper. “This isn’t love, Ji. This is dependency. This is obsession. This is two people clinging to each other just so they don’t have to fall alone.”

“Then let’s fucking fall together,” he snaps. “Let’s fall and burn and scream and make it mean something because I swear to god, being without you feels worse than this.”

You’re crying now.

You hate that you are. Hate that he still has that power. Hate that his voice—sharp and desperate and boyish and broken—still feels like home even when it’s slicing you open.

“Get out,” you whisper.

He flinches. Like you hit him. “What?”

“Get the fuck out, Jisung.”

He stands there, frozen.

“Now.”

Something shatters behind his eyes. Something that was holding him together.

He slams the door on the way out.

Leaves you crying in the middle of your apartment, heart cracked open on the floor, hands shaking from a love you know you’ll never be able to scrub out of your soul.

And now, three months later, you’re out with some guy named Caleb. You think it’s Caleb. Or maybe it’s Cameron.  You can’t remember, and you don’t care enough to check.    

He’s sweet.

Safe. 

The kind of guy who sends “good morning” texts and apologizes when he talks over you. 

The kind of guy who holds your hand across the table and calls you beautiful instead of baby.    

The kind of guy who’d never scream at you in the middle of your kitchen at 2 a.m.    

The kind of guy who doesn’t know you still think about someone else when he leans in.    

“You’re quiet,” he says, smiling nervously over his drink.    

You blink. “Sorry. Long day.”    

He nods. He doesn’t press. You kind of wish he would.    

Because the truth is, it’s not just today. It’s every day since the last time you fucked Han against the door of your apartment and told him not to text you ever again.    

And he didn’t.    

For a week.    

Until 1:32 a.m. on a Thursday, when your phone lit up with “are you awake” and nothing else. And somehow, somehow, he was back in your bed before the hour was up. And you were back in his arms like nothing had ever broken.    

And now here you are, sitting across from a man with kind eyes and steady hands, trying not to remember what it felt like to be pinned under someone who only ever touched you like he was begging for forgiveness.    

“Do you wanna get out of here?” Caleb asks, voice soft.    

You hesitate.    

It wouldn’t mean anything.

You could let him kiss you. Let him take you home. Maybe it’d be nice. Maybe it’d be quiet.    

But it wouldn’t be him.    

“I’m actually kind of tired,” you say instead, offering a faint smile. “Raincheck?”    

He nods. Disappointed, but polite. “Yeah. Of course.”    

You hug him goodbye.    

You don’t feel anything.    

Your apartment is too cold when you get back. You kick off your shoes. Drop your bag. Stare at the couch for a long time.    

He fucked you there last week. Didn’t even make it to the bedroom. Just had you bent over the cushions, whispering I missed you into your spine like a curse.    

You press the heels of your hands into your eyes and exhale through your teeth.    

This is pathetic. This is what pathetic looks like.    

Your phone buzzes on the counter. Your heart knows it’s him before your eyes even move.    

1 new message — Ji.    

"I'm outside."

You don’t respond to the text. You just open the door and he’s already walking in like he owns the place.

Like he didn’t leave.

Like he hasn’t been doing this—you—on and off for months.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

It’s the only word either of you get out before his hands are on your hips, pulling you into him like he’s been starving for it. Like he needs to feel you under his mouth before he says something fucking stupid again. You gasp as his lips crash into yours—fast, clumsy, open-mouthed.

You kiss him back anyway.

Because that’s the thing about Han Jisung: You don’t know how to not kiss him.

You only know how to burn.

His teeth catch on your bottom lip and you whimper, fingers fisting in the back of his hoodie.

“Fuck,” he breathes, kissing down your jaw, your neck, dragging his tongue across that spot that always makes your knees buckle. “You smell the same. Like the shampoo I like and that—fuck, that vanilla thing I always tell you to wear.”

You shove him backward. Not hard, but enough.

“You don’t get to do this,” you snap, chest heaving. “You don’t get to show up after I haven’t heard from you for—what, ten days? And act like you never left.”

“I didn’t leave,” he hisses, voice already shaking. “You told me not to text. What the fuck do you want from me?”

“I want you to stop showing up when you’re lonely and horny and—god, Ji, just—” you push your hands into his chest again, “—stop acting like this means something if you’re not gonna stay.”

His lips part. But you don’t give him time to answer.

You kiss him.

Harder this time.

Like maybe if you press hard enough, you’ll feel something real.

His hands are under your shirt within seconds, fingers hot and frantic against your ribs. He groans into your mouth when your nails rake down his neck.

“You think I don’t want to stay?” he pants, backing you into the hallway wall. “You think I don’t fucking think about you every single day?”

You moan when he bites your collarbone—no finesse, just desperation—and you hate how fast your hips are already grinding up against his thigh.

“You don’t act like it,” you spit. “You disappear.”

“You make me disappear,” he growls, dragging your shirt off over your head. “You tell me to go. You tell me we’re done. You’re the one who keeps breaking this.”

You slap your palm against the wall behind you as he mouths at your chest through your bra—hot, wet, maddening.

“You think this is my fault?” you breathe, tilting your head back. “You’re the one who said ‘I’m not coming back’ and then crawled into my bed three weeks later like nothing fucking happened—”

He yanks your bra down and latches onto your nipple with a groan.

You choke on your words.

“Oh my god, Ji—”

“That’s the problem,” he grits out, switching to the other breast, licking, sucking, biting down until you’re gasping. “I can’t stay gone. I say I will, I mean it—and then I get one fucking whiff of your perfume and I’m—” he thrusts his hips up against yours, “—right fucking back here.”

Your head knocks against the wall as he lifts one of your legs up over his hip, grinding his cock against you through both layers of clothing, friction maddening and not enough.

“You’re so full of shit,” You gasp.

But so are you.

You don't say it out loud—but the truth hangs heavy between your teeth, curling on your tongue like smoke. Because you’re not pushing him away. You’re clutching at him. Digging your nails into his shoulder blades like maybe this time you’ll leave a mark that lasts longer than the bruises.

“You like this,” he growls, rutting against you like he’s lost the ability to slow down. “You pretend you hate me but you always—fuck, baby—” he groans when your fingers dip under his hoodie, dragging across the hot skin of his waist, “—you always let me back in.”

“I shouldn’t.” Your voice is shaking. Angry. Breathless. Wrecked. “You know I fucking shouldn’t.”

“But you do.”

His hand slips between your legs—over your shorts, right against the heat of you—and presses down.

“Because this pussy,” he pants, biting your earlobe, “still fucking wants me.”

You sob his name like it hurts to admit it. Like it always does.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down just enough, and then he's sliding them right under your panties, knuckles brushing slick heat. His eyes flutter for a second—just a second—before they snap back open.

“Dripping,” he mutters. “Fucking knew it.”

And then he's rubbing slow circles over your clit, two fingers pressed in just enough to tease and torment but never give.

You bite down on your own lip to muffle the sound that comes out.

He grins against your throat, breath hot. “Don’t try to be quiet now. You weren’t quiet last time. Remember?” He pumps his fingers deeper, curling them just right—your hips jerk. “Bent over the arm of your couch, crying on my cock? Begging me to say I loved you?”

“Shut up,” you hiss.

“Why?” he laughs, breath hitching as you grind down onto his hand. “Because you know I did? Because I do?”

You shake your head. You don’t want to hear this. Not when you’re already clenching around his fingers, not when he’s making you unravel with just his hand and his fucking mouth and that voice—

“I hate you,” you whisper.

His fingers thrust faster.

“So why are you still letting me in?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Not when your thighs are shaking and your back is hitting the wall with every grind of his hips and he’s watching your face like it’s the only thing in the world he gives a fuck about.

“You gonna come for me?” he murmurs, breath ragged. “Huh, baby? You gonna come just from my fingers like you always do?”

Your head rolls back against the wall.

He leans in close, nose brushing yours, lips barely touching.

“I’ll stop if you want me to,” he says, softer now. “You want me to?”

You don’t nod. Don’t speak.

You just breathe. Shaky. Hitched. Lips parted, body trembling in his grip.

And then your fingers fist in his hoodie and pull him down into you—kiss desperate, wet, open-mouthed—like your answer’s ever been anything but yes.

He groans into your mouth like he’s starving for it, thrusting his fingers harder, faster, knuckles deep and relentless until your moans turn high and choked, every muscle in your body pulling taut.

“That’s it,” he rasps, thumb circling your clit now with dizzying pressure. “Come on, baby, give it to me—let me feel you fall apart.”

You do. Loud. Sudden. A whine rips through you, and you clamp down around his fingers so hard he curses and presses his forehead to yours, breath stuttering.

“Fuck, you’re so—so fucking pretty when you come.”

You’re still twitching when he slips his fingers out, sticky with you, and shoves them in his mouth without hesitation. Groans like he’s been dying for the taste.

You hate how hot that makes you.

No, you don’t.

He doesn’t even wait for you to recover.

“Turn around,” he breathes, already dragging your shorts down the rest of the way. “Hands on the wall.”

“Seriously?” you snap, breathless, still dazed from your orgasm. “You think that I’ll—”

“Now,” he growls.

And you hate him for it—hate him for how fast you listen.

You spin around, plant your palms flat against the cool drywall, feel him step right in behind you—one hand gripping your hip, the other fumbling with his jeans.

“I missed you,” he mutters, voice rough with something that almost sounds like pain. “Missed this. Missed you.”

“You didn’t even call,” you gasp, pushing your hips back into him. “You didn’t even try—”

“I wanted to,” he hisses, lining himself up. “I wanted to a hundred times—fuck—”

He slides into you in one deep, unforgiving thrust.

You cry out, head dropping forward, nails scraping the wall.

“Don’t say I didn’t want to,” he grits, cock buried in you, unmoving for one split second. “I always want to.”

And then he’s moving—pulling out halfway, then slamming back in, over and over, hard enough that your knees buckle.

You moan through clenched teeth, arms trembling with effort.

“You think I can fucking sleep at night?” he pants, thrusting so deep your breath stutters. “You think I don’t hear you in every goddamn silence? You think this is easy for me?”

“Then why do you leave?” you cry, voice cracking. “Why do you always leave?”

He grabs your hair, tugs your head back, bites down against your shoulder.

“I don’t know,” he breathes. “I don’t fucking know. I just—”

Another brutal thrust. You choke on a sob.

“I always come back.”

And he does.

Every time.

Like clockwork. Like gravity.

And you let him.

You always let him.

Because even when he’s a storm—howling and reckless and impossible to hold—he’s still yours.

Even when it hurts.

Especially when it hurts.

“Put on the hoodie.”

Jisung groans into the couch cushion. “No.”

Minho doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t raise his voice. Just picks up the hoodie off the floor and tosses it directly at Jisung’s face.

“Now.”

Jisung sits up with a scowl, hoodie in his lap, hair a disaster. “I didn’t ask for a babysitter.”

“You didn’t,” Minho agrees. “You just stopped showing up to work, stopped texting back, and started living like a fucking ghost.”

Jisung glares. “I’m grieving.”

“You’re rotting.”

That gets a faint laugh—dry, bitter. “Thanks.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, jaw tight. “I’m not here to make you feel better. I’m here to make sure you don’t drown in your own self-pity and start sexting her from a burner account again.”

Jisung flushes. “That was one time—”

“That I know of.”

He has no comeback. Just pulls the hoodie over his head and mutters something about emotional abuse.

Minho doesn’t bite.

They park on a side street a block from the night market. It’s already buzzing—strings of lights overhead, food smoke curling through the air, couples brushing past each other with sticky fingers and soft laughter.

Jisung hesitates at the curb.

Minho locks the car and doesn’t wait. “Let’s go.”

“I don’t want to be here,” Jisung mutters.

Minho doesn’t stop walking. “You think I wanted to spend my night dragging your melodramatic ass through stalls of overpriced takoyaki and teen girls in bunny-ear headbands?”

Jisung huffs, jogging a few steps to catch up. “You love it. You live for this shit.”

Minho doesn’t dignify that with a response. Just hands him a skewer from a stall they pass and shoves it into his palm. “Eat. Or I’m ratting you out to Chan and telling him you’ve been surviving on monster energy and vape juice.”

Jisung takes a reluctant bite. “That’s slander.”

“That’s documented truth,” Minho says, then lowers his voice as they blend into the crowd. “Look—don’t be weird, alright? You need fresh air. You need noise. You need to see that the world’s still turning even though you fucked up.”

Jisung doesn’t argue.

But he doesn’t look convinced, either.

They move together through the stream of bodies, stopping at a bubble tea cart, then a stall selling bootleg plushies of horror movie villains in pastel outfits. Jisung cracks a smile at a pink Michael Myers keychain. Minho buys it for him.

It’s not good, exactly. But it’s…something.

Until Jisung goes still.

Like prey catching the scent of a trap.

Minho follows his line of sight—

—and sees you.

Hair down. Eyes lit from the neon overhead. Laughing at something your date says, head thrown back in a way Jisung hasn’t seen in weeks. Months.

And you’re holding hands.

Minho barely has time to react before Jisung mutters, “I need a smoke,” and turns abruptly, walking away.

Minho catches up fast.

Doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks beside him as they push through the crowd, winding past a fried squid cart and a group of tourists taking blurry selfies.

Jisung pulls out the crumpled pack from his hoodie pocket, fingers clumsy. “You got a light?”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “You know I don’t.”

“Right.” Jisung snorts, bitter. “Your girl broke—never mind I found one—” He fumbles with a lighter he found in his back pocket. “—your girl broke you of that too, huh?”

Minho doesn’t respond immediately.

Just walks.

Shoulders tense.

Eyes forward.

“She tell you to cut your hair? Wear beige now? Drink tea instead of beer?” Jisung lights the cigarette and exhales hard, words curling out with the smoke. “What’s next, matching aprons?”

“Shut up, Ji.”

“Oh, come on. We used to clown guys like that. Remember?”

Minho stops walking.

Dead stop.

Jisung nearly crashes into him, but barely manages to pivot, swaying unsteadily in place.

“You done?” Minho says, voice calm in that dangerous way that means it’s anything but.

Jisung takes another long drag. “Does she know you used to finish entire packs in one night? That you used to ash into beer bottles and pretend you were ‘cutting down’?”

“She does,” Minho says simply.

Jisung scoffs. “Bet she doesn’t know you used to hotbox your shitty Corolla behind the bar on your break. That you once hooked up with a girl in the alley just because she asked for a light.”

Minho doesn’t flinch. “She knows.”

“She know you almost OD’d in your apartment senior year?”

Minho looks at him.

Not angry. Not even hurt. Just… sad.

“Yeah,” he says. “She knows that too.”

Jisung exhales sharply. The smoke burns his throat on the way out. Then he laughs. Bitter. Mean. “And she still lets you hit?”

Minho doesn’t flinch. Just tilts his head slightly. “You really wanna do this?”

“I hate that you’ve changed,” Jisung snaps. “I hate that you’re soft now. I hate that you say you quit and mean it. I hate that you go to bed before midnight and take vitamins and wear shirts that tuck in.”

Minho nods. Once. Calm. “Okay.”

Jisung scoffs. “You don’t even care.”

Minho looks at him. Quiet. Steady. “No, I just don’t need to prove anything to you.”

That cuts deeper than it should. Jisung turns his face away like it stung.

“I hate that you’re lame now,” he spits, jaw tight. “I hate that you’re that guy. The guy with a girlfriend and a morning routine and fucking—boundaries—”

“Sungie.”

He tries to laugh again—tries to bury it—but the sound comes out strangled. Ugly. And then his face is crumpling and his chest is hitching and the tears are coming too fast to stop.

“Fuck,” he chokes, dragging the back of his hand across his face like it’ll help. “Fuck, I—god, I hate this shit. I hate this shit.”

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t offer a hug. Doesn’t tell him to breathe. Doesn’t do any of the things people think they’re supposed to do when someone starts unraveling.

He just stays. Like an anchor in the middle of the storm.

“You don’t hate that I changed,” Minho says eventually, voice even. “You hate that I got better and you didn’t.”

Jisung flinches. Like the words hit bone.

Minho sighs.

“You want to stay angry, fine. You want to act like this is about me? Sure. But we both know it’s not.”

Jisung stares at the pavement.

Hot tears sliding down his cheeks, dripping onto his hoodie.

“I miss her,” he whispers.

“I know.”

“I miss the way she smelled in the morning,” he says, voice cracking. “I miss how she used to hum when she washed her face. I miss her leaving her charger on my side of the bed. I miss her in every fucking room, in every fucking second, in between every fucking heartbeat.” 

Minho plucks the still lit cigarette from between Jisung’s fingers.

“I miss her like a lung,” Jisung says, eyes wild and wet. “Like I can’t fucking breathe without her and I hate it, I hate it so much—”

“You don’t hate it,” Minho says softly, dropping it to the floor and crushing it under his heel. “You’re scared of it.”

Jisung squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to bite it back. Tries to hold it in.

But it’s too big now. Too heavy.

“I ruined it,” he gasps. “She was everything and I fucking ruined it.”

Minho doesn’t argue.

“You did.”

Jisung breaks. Really breaks.

Like his knees might give out. Like the words were the last weight he could carry.

His breath comes in shallow bursts now, ragged little gasps as he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to stop the tears like it’ll somehow stop the shame too.

Minho sighs again. Then steps forward. 

He reaches out, grabs a fistful of Jisung’s hoodie near the collar, and gives it a firm tug—enough to jolt him, enough to ground him.

“You ruined it,” he repeats. “And now you have to decide if you’re gonna keep ruining yourself too.”

Jisung says nothing.

He’s still trembling, still a mess, but he’s listening.

Minho lets go of his hoodie. Smooths the front like he’s brushing away something that can’t be seen.

“You’re allowed to fall apart,” he says, voice low. “But don’t fucking camp there.”

Jisung nods, barely, like it’s taking every ounce of strength just to stay standing.

His throat works around nothing. The tears are still there, still slipping down his cheeks in quiet streaks, but his breathing is starting to slow. Starting to even out.

“You think she’d take me back?” he asks, voice small.

“You thinking of getting her back?” Minho asks.

Jisung’s mouth opens—then closes again. His jaw flexes like the answer’s stuck somewhere behind his teeth.

“I mean…” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Obviously. She’s—fuck, she’s it, Min. She’s everything.”

Minho tilts his head. “Then don’t.”

Jisung frowns. “What?”

“Don’t go after her,” Minho says. “Not yet.”

There’s a pause. Sharp. Confused.

“You just watched me cry in public and your advice is give up?”

“No.” Minho pushes off the truck, slow and deliberate. “My advice is grow up.”

Jisung bristles.

But Minho holds his gaze.

“You go to her now, you’re gonna bleed all over her. You’re gonna cry and beg and say all the right things, and it’ll still be selfish. Because none of it’s for her. It’s for you. It’s so you don’t have to sit with what you did.”

Jisung looks away.

Shame creeps up his neck like ivy. Hot and choking.

Minho softens. Just a little.

“I’m not saying she’s perfect. I’m not saying you’re a monster. But you broke something, Ji. And if you want any chance of getting it back, you can’t just tape it together and pretend it’s new.”

Jisung exhales slow, shaky. Like it hurts to breathe.

“But what if she moves on?” he whispers. “What if I get better and it’s too late?”

Minho shrugs, leaning back against the truck like it’s not the question that’s been killing Jisung for months.

“Then you get better anyway.”

That lands like a punch to the sternum. No soft edges. No easy out.

“You don’t get better for her,” Minho says, voice calm but cutting. “You get better because the version of you that loved her? He deserved more than this too.”

Jisung swallows hard.

And for a second, he’s seventeen again.

Sitting on the curb outside a gas station with skinned knuckles and a busted lip, telling Minho it didn’t hurt. That he didn’t care. That none of it mattered.

And Minho—grimy hoodie, half-lit cigarette, voice rough from too many nights spent yelling into voids that never answered—looked him in the eye and said: “Then why are you crying, dumbass?”

It had gutted him then. It guts me now. Not because Minho’s cruel. But because he’s the only one who never lets Jisung lie to himself.

Not when he was seventeen and stupid and bleeding on concrete. And not now, twenty-four and unraveling in the middle of a crowded street. Because Jisung knows why he’s crying. Knows it in the ache in his chest, in the way his hands still shake even though the cigarette’s long gone.

It’s not just about losing you.

It’s about the way he lost himself somewhere in the wreckage. The way he still can’t find the version of him who made you laugh just to hear the sound. The one who rubbed your feet when you were tired. Who wrote lyrics about the way you tucked your hair behind your ear.

He misses you.

But he misses himself, too.

And that’s the part no one warns you about.

That heartbreak doesn’t just take the person you loved—it takes the version of you that loved them, too. The soft edges. The hopeful voice. The boy who picked out flowers just because. The boy who set alarms to text good morning before your early shifts. The boy who kissed your forehead and meant it.

He doesn’t know where that boy went.

Somewhere between the first slammed door and the last fuck-you, he just... vanished. Left behind in the dust of every argument, buried under every apology that came too late. Every time he said he didn’t care when he cared so fucking much it ached.

And now here he is. Crying in a parking lot with the one person who’s seen all the ugliest parts of him and stayed anyway.

Minho doesn’t say a word when Jisung climbs into the passenger seat. Just flicks the headlights on, eases into traffic, and lets the soft hum of the engine fill the silence like a balm.

Jisung stares out the window. The market lights blur past in streaks of neon—cotton candy pink, curry yellow, the cool blue of melting ice cream.

He wipes at his eyes. Sniffs. Mutters, “I’m hungry.”

Minho glances at him, unimpressed. “You had a skewer.”

“I want noodles.”

Minho exhales through his nose. The closest thing to a laugh he can manage. “Of course you do.”

Jisung leans his head against the window, the cool glass soothing his still-warm cheek. His throat is raw, chest hollow in that way it gets after a long cry—emptied out, wrung dry, but somehow lighter for it. Like maybe there’s space now for something else to grow.

They drive in quiet for a while. Past stalls and side streets, past couples still lingering at crosswalks, hands linked. The kind of night that smells like sugar and smoke. Like old memories and second chances.

Minho pulls into a side lot without asking, engine rumbling low as he parks beside a tiny ramen joint tucked between a laundromat and a shuttered pharmacy.

It’s not fancy. The lights flicker. The plastic menu is faded from sun and time.

But the door’s open.

Jisung hesitates, hand on the handle.

“You coming?” Minho asks, already half out of the truck.

Jisung nods. Blinks the last of the tears from his lashes.

And when he steps out—when his feet hit the pavement—it’s with the quiet, clumsy grace of someone still finding their way. Still sore from the fall. 

But walking, anyway.

You see him.

Of course you do.

Out of everyone in the crowd—families tugging kids toward cotton candy stalls, couples stealing kisses under rows of lanterns—your eyes find him like they always do.

Like they were built for it.

He’s not looking at you. Not at first.

He’s staring at the pavement, lips pressed tight, fists shoved into the pockets of a hoodie that used to hang on the back of your kitchen chair. Minho’s beside him, saying something, gesturing like he’s trying to coax a heartbeat out of someone who forgot how to beat.

And then Jisung looks up.

And everything around you slows.

Your fingers go cold around the rim of your soda cup. Caleb is still talking—something about how the pineapple skewers were better last week, how this cart must have changed vendors—but it’s muffled now. Distant. Like the night’s pressing in from all sides and you’re the only two people in it.

Because Jisung’s looking at you the way he used to.

Like you’re a memory he didn’t ask to remember.

And it does something to you.

Cuts something open.

You look away first.

But it’s already too late.

You’re not here anymore. Not really.

You’re back in your apartment, wrapped in the hoodie he’s wearing right now, sitting cross-legged on the floor as he strums unfinished lyrics into the soft spaces between midnight and morning.

You’re watching him scribble into his notebook with one hand and hold your ankle with the other, thumb brushing back and forth like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

You’re kissing in grocery store aisles. Burning dinner together. Laughing so hard you cry over the worst horror movie you’ve ever seen.

And then the other memories start to bleed in.

The yelling. The slammed doors. The nights you locked yourself in the bathroom just to breathe.

The last fight. The last fuck. The last time he said I love you and you didn’t say it back.

You blink. And you’re here again.

Back at the market. Beside someone good. Someone easy.

Caleb is looking at you with soft eyes. He’s been patient. So patient. Even now, when he notices your smile faltering, he doesn’t ask why.

He just waits.

The date goes on.

You walk a little farther. Try a bite of his mochi. Let him lace his fingers with yours.

It’s not bad.

It’s… fine.

And maybe fine would’ve been enough, if you’d never known more.

But you did.

You knew stupid, messy, reckless love. You knew what it was to ache for someone in your bones. You knew what it meant to be held like a secret and touched like a prayer and ruined so gently it almost felt like grace.

You knew Jisung.

And that’s the problem.

Because knowing someone like that ruins you for almosts. For maybes. For men who say the right thing and mean it but still aren’t him.

You stop walking when the crowd thins out a bit. The lantern light is softer here, and the noise fades just enough for the silence to settle.

Caleb turns toward you, tentative.

“Can I ask you something?”

You nod, barely.

“I’ve really liked getting to know you,” he says, thumb brushing yours. “And I think we’d be good together. If you’re ready. I’d like to be exclusive.”

You swallow.

The ache starts behind your ribs and spreads fast. You wish it didn’t. Wish you could pull it back. Wish you were whole enough to say yes and mean it.

But you’re not.

And you never were—not with him. Not with anyone since Jisung.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, gently slipping your hand out of his. “You’re—god, you’re great. You are. And I’ve tried, I really have. But I’m not… I’m not ready.”

The words hang there. Heavy. Final.

Caleb doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you—really looks at you—and something shifts behind his eyes. The softness fades. The patience wilts.

“Right,” he says, stepping back a little. His hands fall to his sides. “Because of him.”

You flinch.

But you don’t deny it.

He laughs, but it’s sharp. Bitter. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. The way you space out sometimes? Like you’re somewhere else? It’s always him, isn’t it?”

You open your mouth. To defend yourself. To explain. To apologize. But nothing comes out.

“I took you on six dates,” he says, voice rising now, not quite yelling but not quiet either. “I planned shit. I waited. I fucking waited for you to want me.”

You look down. Your throat’s too tight to answer. You nod instead—just once. Just enough to say I know. I’m sorry.

Caleb exhales like he’s trying not to scream.

And then, quieter: “God, what’s it like being him?”

Your head snaps up.

Caleb’s staring at you like he’s trying to see straight through you, jaw tight, words sharper now. “What’s it like being the kind of guy who fucks someone up so bad they still come crawling back for scraps?”

You go still.

Your fingers tighten around the waxy paper of your soda cup, the condensation slick against your skin. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care anymore.

Caleb shakes his head, bitter laugh bubbling up. “Jesus. What is it with girls like you? You want the sad little broken boy so you can fix him? You think he’s some tragic poem you can rewrite into something worth reading?”

You don’t think.

You just move.

The drink hits him square in the chest.

Cold soda and crushed ice, all over his shirt, his face, dripping down his neck in sticky streaks. He stumbles back with a sharp gasp, eyes wide in shock.

“What the fuck—”

“Don’t talk about him like that.” Your voice is low. Steady. It surprises even you.

He blinks. “Are you serious right now?”

You are. 

Because for all the ways Jisung has hurt you—for every slammed door, every broken promise, every time he made you feel like you were shouting into a void—you know him. Not the mess. Not the damage. Not the wreckage he left behind.

You know the boy who sang you to sleep without meaning to.

Who walked you home in the rain and held your hand inside his pocket to keep it warm.

Who cried when you bought him a birthday cake because no one had since he was thirteen.

You know the weight he carries. The ones he hides.

And maybe you’re stupid. Maybe you’re reckless. Maybe every single one of your friends would say you’re out of your mind.

But no one—no one—gets to talk about him like he’s just some villain in your story.

"You crazy bitch." Caleb exclaims, eyes wide and disbelieving. You tilt your head up, unimpressed.

"That's right. “

Your voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t waver. It’s calm in the way that makes people nervous—like still water right before a riptide. "Say whatever you want about me. Call me crazy. Call me pathetic. But don’t you dare talk about him like he’s not human."

Caleb scoffs, dragging his wet sleeve across his face. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know.” You nod, slow and deliberate. “And so are you—for thinking you're doing me a fucking favor for waiting.”

Caleb doesn’t have a comeback for that.

He stares at you—sodden, stunned—and for a moment, it looks like he might say something else. But then he just shakes his head. Scoffs. And turns away.

You don’t watch him leave this time.

You’re already somewhere else.

Because now that the adrenaline is starting to fade, the chill is catching up to you—settling in your bones, your chest, the hollow spot just beneath your ribs where your heart's been echoing since the market.

You should go home.

That would be the smart thing. The adult thing. You’ve done enough damage for one night.

But when you close your eyes, you see Jisung’s face again.

Not the one from your memories. Not the laughing one, not the soft one, not the one that used to beam when you walked into a room.

The one from tonight.

Raw. Gutted. Like something inside him had cracked open and he was barely holding the pieces together.

You’d seen him spiral before. Seen him angry, careless, even cruel.

But you’d never seen him look scared.

And maybe he’s fine now. Maybe Minho took him home, put on a movie, forced some food into his hand and threatened to throttle him if he didn’t eat it.

But maybe he’s not fine.

Maybe he’s curled up on that shitty couch you used to nap on, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, phone facedown on the coffee table because it doesn’t ring anymore.

Maybe he’s not okay.

The thought latches onto you like a hook. It tugs at you all the way to the curb, has you texting for a rideshare before you even know what address you’re typing in.

You chew your bottom lip the whole way there. Tap your foot against the floor mat, fingers cold and twitchy in your lap. The driver doesn’t talk. You’re grateful for that.

The driver pulls up to the curb.

You thank him, voice hoarse, and step out into the quiet street. The air is cooler here. Quieter, somehow. Like the world’s holding its breath right alongside you.

You know this building like the lines on your palm.

Every crack in the sidewalk. Every creak in the elevator. Every note of the hallway silence that wraps around you now as you walk toward his door.

You shouldn’t be here.

You know that.

You should be giving him space. Giving yourself peace.

But all you can think about is the way he looked at you tonight. Like seeing you was a relief and a punishment all at once. Like he didn’t know whether to run or fall apart.

You knock once, then again, the sound barely audible in the silence of the hallway. Your heart’s thudding so hard it makes your ribs ache, and your fingers feel colder than they should, curled tight at your sides as you wait.

The door opens slower than you expect. Jisung appears in the frame—hoodie creased from sleep, hair messy, eyes red-rimmed like he’s been crying or hasn’t stopped trying not to. He blinks when he sees you, like he’s not sure if you’re real.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice is rough around the edges, like it scraped its way out of his throat.

You shift on your feet, not trusting your voice at first. “I saw you. At the market.”

His expression doesn’t change much, but his shoulders seem to deflate. He leans a little more heavily into the doorframe, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “Yeah. I saw you too.”

There’s a silence between you, thick and trembling. The kind that used to mean something else, back when you’d lie tangled on his couch at 2 a.m., your bare feet hooked over his thigh and his fingers in your hair. Back when quiet meant comfort.

But now it just feels uncertain. Fragile.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about your face,” you admit. “You looked—fuck, I don’t know. Not okay. And I guess I just... I couldn’t pretend to enjoy the rest of the night like I hadn’t seen that.”

He huffs, glancing away. “Did something happen? With him?”

You shake your head. “No. Not really. I just left.”

You watch his jaw tick, his eyes dart briefly to your hands like he’s checking to see if you’re still wearing something of Caleb’s. You’re not. You never were.

“I want you back.”

You hadn’t meant to say it like that. No preamble. No gentle buildup. Just the truth, dropped between you like a lit match.

Jisung doesn’t respond right away. He presses his lips together, closes his eyes for a second like he’s bracing himself against the impact of your words.

He doesn’t say anything, and you feel the panic rising.

So you fill the silence. You always do.

You fill it fast. Clumsy and loud and too much, like pouring water into a cracked glass and hoping it won’t spill.

“I know it’s stupid, okay? I know I probably shouldn’t be here, and I know I’ve probably made everything worse, and maybe you were finally starting to breathe again without me, and now I’ve just—fucked it up—but I couldn’t help it. I saw your face and my whole body just—moved.”

Your voice shakes, but you don’t stop. If you stop, you’ll crumble.

“And I’ve been trying. God, I’ve been trying to pretend like I’m fine. Like Caleb could be enough. Like I could kiss someone who isn’t you and not feel like I’m cheating on a ghost. But I can’t. I couldn’t. I can’t sleep without thinking about you. I can’t pass the ramen aisle without remembering that time we fought over the last spicy packet and you let me win but sulked about it for two days—”

“Wait—”

“And the hoodie you’re wearing, I used to sleep in that. I used to put it on just to feel close to you and then take it off when I got mad because I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction—”

“Hey—”

“And the songs, Jisung. The ones you haven’t released. I still know every word. I still sing them in the shower. I still hear them when it’s quiet. You’re in everything, and I don’t know how to be a person who’s okay with that unless you’re actually—”

“Hey.”

His voice is soft this time. Firm, but not sharp.

You barely register it before his hands come up to your face, gentle and grounding. Thumbs brushing the corners of your mouth like he’s wiping off the panic, the desperation, the ache you’ve been carrying since the day everything fell apart.

You go quiet.

Just like that.

Like his touch pulls the power cord on the storm inside you.

His eyes search yours. Careful. Unblinking.

You’re breathing hard. Chest heaving with everything you were trying not to feel for months, everything you’ve tried to bottle, all of it now trembling under the surface of your skin.

“I hear you,” he says, finally. His voice is hoarse. Thick. “I do. Every word. I feel all of it.”

You nod, lips parted, but no sound comes out.

“And I love you,” he adds. Quiet, but devastating. “I never stopped.”

He takes a breath. One that shakes a little.

You think—hope—it’s going somewhere good. That maybe this is the moment. The turning point. The soft ending to a chapter you’ve both been bleeding in.

“But I can’t… I can’t do this. Not yet.”

You blink. Like the words don’t make sense. Like you must’ve heard wrong.

“What?”

He looks down, swallows hard, then meets your eyes again. And what you see there—it isn’t anger. Isn’t rejection.

It’s grief.

Like he’s breaking his own heart to protect yours.

“I want to,” he says, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “More than anything. But wanting it doesn’t fix what we did to each other.”

Your chest caves in.

You feel it. A slow, aching collapse, like a house left too long in the rain.

“But we love each other,” you whisper.

He nods. Pain flickers across his face. “Yeah. That’s the part that scares me.”

You shake your head, eyes stinging. “Why does that scare you?”

“Because love made us reckless,” he says. “It made us cruel. We loved each other so hard we forgot how to be soft. I can’t go back to that, not even for you.”

You don’t know what to say. How to fix this without breaking something else.

“I’m not asking for perfect,” you murmur. “I’m just asking for a start. A chance.”

“And I want to give it to you,” he says, and god, he sounds wrecked. “But if we start again now—like this—we’ll just end the same way. I’m not whole yet. And I don’t think you are either.”

The tears come slow. Quiet and heavy, slipping down your cheeks one by one, running over his thumb and dripping to the floor.

“But I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” he says. “I miss you every fucking day.”

His hands are still on your face.

You don’t know if you leaned into them or if he never pulled away, but they’re there—warm and steady and trembling just the slightest bit.

You close your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to pretend this moment could last. That you could stay here forever, suspended in the ache.

It’s soft at first.

His lips brush yours like a question, and for a breathless second, neither of you answer. The space between you contracts. You’re not thinking anymore—just feeling, just remembering. How he used to kiss you when the world got too loud. How he’d pull you close like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

And then he kisses you for real.

No hesitation. No half-measures.

It’s everything.

It’s soft and slow and then sudden—hungry. Desperate. His hands slide back into your hair, and yours clutch his hoodie like you’ll fall through the floor if you let go. He tilts his head and deepens it, lips moving over yours like he’s trying to memorize the shape again, like he’s trying to press every I miss you, every I’m sorry, every don’t go into the seam where your mouths meet.

You taste salt. Yours, his, you can’t tell anymore.

He breaks away for only half a second—to breathe, to look at you—and then he’s back. Mouth warm, kiss messier now. Less poetic. More real. His tongue brushes yours, and your breath stutters. His nose bumps your cheek, and it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but him. This. Now.

It goes on for longer than it should. Long enough for your lungs to burn and your knees to wobble and your heart to plead with your brain to please, please stay.

But eventually, he pulls back.

Slow. Regretful.

His lips are red. His breath ragged. His forehead presses to yours.

And for a second, neither of you say anything.

There’s just breathing—shaky and shared—and the slow, inevitable ache of coming back down. The air between you feels charged, scorched at the edges, like the kind of silence that follows a lightning strike.

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

Just stays close enough for you to feel the words before he says them.

“That was a mistake.”

You flinch.

He says it like it hurts him, too. Like it’s the only way he knows how to set a boundary without falling to pieces.

“I didn’t mean—” He stops. Shakes his head. “No. I did. I did mean it. But I can’t do it again. I won’t let either of us go through that twice.”

Your throat burns. The tears are threatening again—quiet this time, the slow kind, the kind that waits to spill until you’re alone.

You try to nod. You try to be brave.

But your lips tremble as you do.

Because nothing about this feels brave. It feels like surrender. Like peeling off a piece of yourself and leaving it behind on his floor.

You step back slowly. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to see him clearly again, without your heart clouding the picture.

“Okay,” you whisper. The word splinters in your mouth.

Jisung’s eyes don’t leave yours. He looks like he wants to reach out again—like his fingers are fighting muscle memory—but he doesn’t. He stays still. Anchored. Like if he moves, he’ll come undone.

And maybe he already is.

Undone, that is.

Because when you look at him now—really look—you don’t see the boy who kissed you like the world was ending. You see the man trying to rebuild himself from the wreckage. The man who loves you so much he’d rather break his own heart than risk breaking yours again.

“I’ll go,” you say, barely more than breath.

And this time, he nods.

Just once.

Just enough.

You turn before you can change your mind. Before the part of you still echoing with his kiss tries to claw its way back to him. You walk to the door. Your hand finds the knob, but your chest stays behind.

Then, just as your fingers begin to twist—

“I’ll come find you,” Jisung says, voice low, raw, steady.

You freeze.

“I don’t know when,” he goes on, “and I don’t know how long it’ll take. But I will. When I’m ready. When I’m better. If you still want me then.”

Your breath catches.

It’s not a promise.

But it’s something.

So you nod—this time without turning—and step into the hallway.

The door clicks softly shut behind you.

You don’t cry again until you’re halfway down the block. Until the wind hits your face and reminds you you’re alone again. That the hands that once held your face like you were something fragile and precious are now tucked into someone else's pockets. That the kiss you’ll be thinking about for months wasn’t a beginning—it was a goodbye.

But still.

You let it hurt.

You let it hollow you out.

Because some part of you, deep down where all the noise gets quiet, knows this isn’t the end.

Just the space in between.

FIVE YEARS LATER

You’re not sure how long you’ve been awake.

Maybe five minutes. Maybe twenty. Time moves differently in his arms—slow and syrupy, like the world’s finally given you permission to rest.

He’s behind you, chest warm against your spine, one leg slotted between yours and an arm heavy over your waist. His fingers are splayed over your stomach, the pads tracing lazy half-circles against your shirt like he’s drawing something only he can see. You’ve always liked that about him—how he touches you like you’re familiar and sacred all at once. Even now. Even after five years.

The duvet is tangled around your hips. The sun’s barely made it past the curtains. It’s a Sunday. The good kind. Quiet, unrushed, no alarms. Just the hum of the ceiling fan and the weight of his love, draped all over you.

You sigh into your pillow, shift just enough for your back to press more fully into him. He responds with a sleepy grunt and nuzzles the top of your head, nose buried in your hair.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, voice all gravel and honey, “you’re warm.”

You smile, eyes still shut. “You’re clingy.”

“‘M married to you. I’m allowed.” He tightens his arm around your waist like it proves something. “’S in the vows. Somewhere between ‘in sickness’ and ‘don’t steal the blanket.’”

You laugh quietly, low in your throat. “Pretty sure that was your vow, not mine.”

He hums again, the sound soft and pleased, like a cat curling deeper into the sun. “You married me anyway.”

“I must’ve been delirious.”

“Or incredibly horny.”

You elbow him gently, and he snickers into your hair, kisses the crown of your head like an apology. He never fully grew out of the teasing—thank god—but it’s gentler now. Like everything else between you. Like the sharp edges dulled over time, replaced with something warmer, something solid. Something you both had to bleed for a little before it made sense.

The silence stretches again, easy this time. You’re still half-asleep, curled around the sound of his breathing and the brush of his fingertips against your stomach. His touch slows, drifts.

Lingers.

It makes something flutter in your chest.

He’s been doing that a lot lately—lingering. His hands resting over your stomach longer than they used to, like he’s listening for something he can’t quite hear yet. Like he’s already preparing for the possibility.

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

Because maybe if you lie still long enough, he won’t remember.

Maybe you’ll get to stay here—suspended in the in-between—where nothing is confirmed and nothing can shatter. Where it’s just the two of you, and the sunlight, and the possibility.

But Jisung shifts behind you, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before resting his cheek there, lips brushing skin as he speaks.

“You’re stalling,” he murmurs.

You pretend not to hear him.

He waits a beat. Then, a little firmer, but still sweet: “Babe.”

“Hmm?”

You try to sound innocent. Like you’re not very obviously burying yourself in the blankets and the moment and the man who’s loved you through every version of yourself—every high, every collapse.

But he doesn’t buy it.

“Babe,” he says again, a little lower this time. A little closer to that voice he uses when he really wants you to listen. He exhales, shifting so he can turn you in his arms to face him. “My baby. My pretty girl, where’d you go?”

You blink up at him, caught.

He’s barely awake, but he’s still devastating—his eyes heavy-lidded with sleep, lashes casting soft shadows on his cheeks, mouth pink and tugging into something between a smile and a pout. There’s a crease in his cheek from the pillow, and his hair’s a mess, one side flattened, the other curling wildly. And still, he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth waking up for.

“I’m right here,” you whisper.

His brows pinch. “No, you’re not. You’re somewhere in your head. Somewhere far.”

You blink slowly. You don’t want to admit he’s right, but he is. You’ve been floating—hovering in that limbo between maybe and yes, between hope and heartbreak. Between the person you used to be and the one you might become.

He smooths his hand over your hip, up to your back, then back down again. His touch is slow, rhythmic. Grounding.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he says, so soft you almost miss it.

“I’m not,” you lie.

His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “Okay. Then go look.”

“I will.”

“You said that thirty minutes ago.”

“I’m basking.”

He chuckles under his breath. “In what?”

“Love. Marriage. Sunday.”

“Uh huh.” His hand slides up your spine. “And possible parenthood?”

You go quiet.

He doesn’t press.

His palm just rests between your shoulder blades, steady and warm, like he’s holding the moment in place. Like if he keeps still enough, gentle enough, you won’t drift off again—into fear, into doubt, into that place in your head where it’s easier to not know.

You roll onto your back, eyes on the ceiling. The fan spins lazily above you, creaking just a little with each turn. It’s the same one that broke during your first winter here. You remember shivering in four layers while Jisung tried to fix it in a sweatshirt and socks, insisting he didn’t need instructions. You’d sat on the bed eating dry cereal and heckling him until he finally caved and called the landlord.

That was three years ago.

Now there are framed photos on the walls. Wedding rings on your fingers. Two toothbrushes in the holder. Two mugs on the nightstand—his with a cracked handle, yours with chipped paint. Everything shared. Everything still here.

Including the fear.

“I’m scared it won’t be real,” you whisper. “Or worse, that it will.”

His head turns, nose brushing your cheek. “Hey.”

You glance at him, and he’s already looking—soft and sure, sleep still clinging to the corners of his eyes but nothing lazy in the way he watches you.

“Whatever it says,” he murmurs, “we’ll deal with it. Together.”

Your lip wobbles. His thumb is there to catch it, to smooth it flat again.

“I used to think we’d never get here,” you say. “Not past the fights. The space. That night.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just nods once, solemn. “Me too.”

“But we did.”

“We did.”

“And now… this.”

He nods again, hand drifting from your cheek to your stomach, palm splaying over the soft cotton of your shirt.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he says, voice low. “You haven’t been for a long time.”

You let the words sink in. Let yourself believe them.

Then, finally, you sigh. “Fine. Let’s go look.”

He beams, teasing and fond. “You sure? Want to bask a little more?”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “Help me up, loser.”

He climbs out first, dramatically groaning like his bones are eighty years old. Then he reaches for your hand—gentle, always—and pulls you up with a tug that ends in a kiss.

The kiss starts soft—simple, sweet. A reward for getting out of bed. A thank-you. A tether.

But then something shifts.

Maybe it’s the way you lean into it, arms winding lazily around his neck. Maybe it’s the warmth of your mouth, the way it parts just slightly beneath his. Or maybe it’s just him—your husband, your Jisung—always hungry for a little more, even after all this time.

His hands settle at your hips. Then your waist. Then the small of your back, pulling you in with that easy strength he never shows off but always has. He sighs into your mouth, then deepens it—slow and languid, like he’s trying to taste the years that led to this moment. The time you lost. The time you fought for. All of it.

You hum against him, tilting your head as his tongue brushes yours. He kisses you like he’s never been allowed to before, even though he has—countless times. You’ve kissed in kitchens, in cars, in hotel hallways and grocery store parking lots and every room of this apartment. But something about this one feels heavier. Holier.

Maybe it’s because you haven’t looked yet.

Maybe it’s because it might change everything.

Or maybe it’s just him—easily distracted, always worshipful, completely yours.

His hands slip beneath the hem of your shirt. Not to undress you—just to touch. Skin to skin. He groans low against your mouth, like he didn’t expect it to hit him this hard.

Jisung murmurs against your lips, voice muffled and fond, “Okay, maybe we can bask a little longer.”

You laugh into his mouth, soft and breathless, but it’s too late—he’s already lost in you.

His hands travel up, palms flattening against the warm slope of your back. Your shirt lifts with the movement, but neither of you cares. His body is pressed close now, solid and certain, and he kisses you like he’s trying to memorize everything you’ve ever been, everything you might become. His thumbs sweep along your sides, up your ribs, and your stomach clenches under his touch—part nerves, part anticipation.

You melt into him, eyes fluttering shut, heart pounding in your throat. He tilts his head, mouth slanting deeper over yours, and something inside you stutters. Like a promise. Like a plea.

“Fuck,” he mumbles against your lips. “I love you so much it makes me stupid.”

Your breath hitches. He kisses your jaw. Your neck. The soft underside of your ear.

You shiver.

His hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, your thighs. Always tender. Like he’s still grateful to be allowed to touch you. Like the years between then and now never dulled the wonder of it.

He mouths at the curve of your shoulder, teeth just grazing the skin. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

You can’t answer. Not when he’s this close. Not when his fingers are brushing the waistband of your sleep shorts like he’s seconds away from abandoning all pretense.

He pulls back for a breath—but just barely. His forehead rests against yours, both of you panting quietly, caught in that place where love and want blur.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, “if we don’t stop now, I’m not gonna remember what we got up to do.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “You kissed me.”

He groans, low and wrecked. “I know.”

He kisses you again, slow and drugging, and for a second, you think maybe he’ll say screw it. Maybe he’ll lift you onto the counter and kiss you until you forget your own name.

But then he groans—deep and conflicted—and wrenches himself away, palms sliding off your skin like it hurts him to let go.

“We can’t,” he says, breathless. “Not yet. We have to look.”

You laugh, swatting at his arm. "Then quit kissing me!"

He grins—guilty, sheepish, still a little dazed. “I’m trying, I swear.”

“You’re doing a terrible job.”

“I know.” He leans in like he’s going to do it again, and you dodge him with a squeak, backing up until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bathroom doorway.

“Back,” you command, trying to keep your voice stern and failing miserably.

He throws his hands up in surrender, lips twitching. “Okay, okay. Truce.”

You narrow your eyes. “You said that last time and then tried to take my shirt off.”

“That was a separate incident. Entirely different context. Very understandable, if I may add.”

“You may not.”

He grins again—soft this time, a little nervous, like the weight of what you’re about to do is catching up to both of you. The teasing fades as he steps closer, slower now, hands finding your hips like magnets.

You let him.

Because when it comes down to it, he’s always been your safe place. Even when things weren’t safe. Even when it hurt.

The air is thick around you. Quiet, heavy, warm. The kind of quiet that comes right before something changes.

You turn to face the sink together. The counter is cluttered with the usual chaos—his face wash, your serums, a stray hair tie—but all you see is the test. Still sitting there. Still waiting. Face-down. Holding its answer in the silence.

Jisung’s thumb strokes over the back of your hand. You feel his heart pounding through his palm.

You take one breath.

Then another.

And together, you reach.

[sexynetra]

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY

I promised @thecollectionsof that I would finish my amandawn fic today, so keep your eyes peeled for this full story being posted in a few hours <3

~~~~~~

“You trust me, don’t you?” Dawn smiled hopefully — a dazzling grin that had Amanda’s brain shorting out.

She did trust Dawn. More than she trusted anyone in the world.

“That sounds like the kind of thing a serial killer would ask me before they lead me to their super secret murder lair,” she said instead. Dawn’s grin just widened, and she started walking again.

“Oh, please. I wouldn’t have my murder lair in the middle of New York City. That’s out in the suburbs.”

[botanicsoul]

Oh jussst thinking of virgin bkg losing it to virgin fem reader when they’re like 19 sighhhh

Learning Curve

(aged up)Virgin!Bakugou Katsuki x (fem)Virgin!Reader

⸻

I had way too much fun writing this—honestly, I feel like Bakugou would kinda be just as awkward (and ofc cocky!) as anyone else during their first time. Alsooooo, not to be dramatic, but your “Sound it Out” fluff fic of Bakugou is easily in my top 10 favorite reads ever on Tumblr. So, consider this a big thank-you and a love letter from one writer to another. Hope you enjoy it, babe!🩷

ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍

The movie had ended who knows how long ago. Neither of you had noticed.

You were straddling him now, perched on his lap with flushed cheeks and swollen lips, his hands roaming your waist like he didn’t know where to land—like touching you too fast might break something.

Bakugou’s breath was heavy, controlled, too controlled, as his lips kissed along your jaw, your neck, then lower. His touch was reverent—slow drags of fingers, warm presses of lips. Like he was working through a checklist.

You let him trail down your sternum, his mouth ghosting the edge of your bra, but your hands slid into his hair and pulled him back up.

His eyes widened. “What—did I do somethin’ wrong?”

“No,” you breathed, shaking your head, forehead resting against his. “You’re doing everything right.” Your fingers curled in the hem of his shirt, tugging it up his sides and taking it off over his head. “But I don’t want slow right now.”

He blinked at you, throat bobbing. “You sure?”

Bakugou pulled back just a little, panting against your skin, eyes darting between your mouth and your body beneath his. “You don’t want me to… use my fingers? Or—fuck—I could go down on you if you want?.”

“No…I want you, Katsuki, I’m ready” you whispered, pressing your hips down against his, grinding just enough to make him groan. “I need you. Right now.”

A sound ripped from his chest—half growl, half disbelief. “Fuckin… finally.” He surged up to kiss you, all the control he’d been clinging to unraveling in an instant. His hands gripped your thighs, then your ass, dragging you against him like he couldn’t get close enough.

Still, under all that heat, you felt it—the tension in his body, the slight stutter in his movements. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

“You haven’t…right?” you asked, voice softer now.

He shook his head once. “No. You?”

You nodded. “No.”

His jaw flexed, chest heaving. “Shit,” he muttered, then looked at you again, voice quieter. “Tch… first time or not, I’m still gonna blow your fuckin’ mind. Bet on it.” You giggled and felt your heart clenched—warmth and want tangled together. You kissed him, fingers sliding under the waistband of his shorts.

He let out a shaky breath. “You think this is funny? Wait ‘til I’ve got you whining under me.” He laughed—breathless, nervous—but his eyes burned with something deeper.

“Tell me what feels good,” you whispered, dragging your nails down his abs, where his shirt had been tossed somewhere behind the couch. “Or I can just… keep going until you explode.”

“I’m already about to fuckin’ explode,” Bakugou growled, voice tight. “Been hard since you sat in my fuckin’ lap like you knew what you were doin’.” You smirked, rubbing your hips just slightly over his, and his entire body jerked.

“Fuck,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Okay. Yeah. No more games. Off. Now.”

the moment you get off— he’s gets on. He was already tugging at your shorts with hands that were almost confident, but you could feel the hesitation in the way his fingers struggled with the button, like he was trying to be smooth and failing miserably.

The moment he stripped you down he got up to take his pants off, you giggled at the poor boy when he accidentally got his foot caught in his shorts and nearly fell off the couch.

“You’re never fuckin’ bringing this up again,” he growled, face scarlet as he kicked the shorts halfway across the room.

“Oh, I’m absolutely bringing it up on our wedding day.”

Your stomach did flips seeing his dick bob out. Then you brought your hand up brushing his thigh, his cock twitched, and all jokes disappeared real fast.

“…Shit. Y-you’re fuckin’ beautiful, y’know that?” You smiled, guiding his hand to touch you this time. “You gonna be gentle with me suki?.” you moan out grinding into his fingers.

He let out a groan shaking his head, “I’ll be gentle—’til you start beggin’ me not to be.”

He removed his fingers you were using and quickly tried to get the condom—well…fought with it, really, like it had declared war. You tried to help, but both of you were laughing too hard. He finally got it—fingers trembling slightly as he tore the condom open, then rolled it down over himself with shaky focus. He kissed you again, messier this time, all tongue and want, hips grinding into yours like he couldn’t wait a second longer, his cock slipping between your wet folds giving your clit a good tease before he fumbled between your thighs, trying to line himself up, but his aim was off—too frantic, too eager. You reached down, wrapping your hand around him to help guide him, and his whole body jolted.

“Fuckfuckfuck—I-I’m not gonna last if you keep touching me like that—” He blushed so hard you thought his face might combust. When he finally pushed inside you—slow, deep, careful—you swore you saw stars behind your eyelids.

“Shit, you’re tighter than I thought—wait, is it supposed to feel like this?”

“It’s fine, Katsuki, you’re just big.”

It stung a little. You both hissed and clutched each other, moving slow, breath trembling, trying to find a rhythm that didn’t feel completely ridiculous. Then he angled just right. Hit just right. And you moaned his name so pretty, “Sukiiiii—.” he damn near blacked out.

His hips stuttered as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, breath ragged and hot against your skin. “I’m tryin’ to be gentle baby,” he gritted out, voice nearly breaking with restraint, “but you’re makin’ it real hard.” His fingers dug into your waist like he was holding on for dear life, every inch of him trembling with the effort not to lose control. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he growled, dragging his mouth down your throat. “Not that I’d ever fuckin’ let ‘em try.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, trembling as you tilted your head back. Fingers tangling in his hair, you gasped out, “Don’t stop… please, don’t stop… don’t be gentle, Suki.”

He froze for a split second, eyes darkening with a mixture of shock and desire. Then, his grip on you tightened, his breath hot against your ear.

“You sure about that?” he asked, voice rough and strained, but you could feel the edge of something darker creeping through his tone.

You nodded desperately, pulling him closer as you whispered, “Yes baby please”

That was all it took. A growl escaped his throat, low and feral, before he flipped you onto your back with an unexpected, almost brutal force. His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide, and there was no trace of the hesitant Bakugou from moments before.

“You’re gonna take me, and you’re gonna love it,” he spat, his voice laced with raw need. He didn’t wait for an answer—his lips crashed down onto yours in a bruising kiss, his hands rough as they gripped your hips, forcing your body against his in a way that made you gasp.

His movements were fast, almost too fast—his thrusts hard, relentless, pushing you deeper into the sheets as he gave in to his instincts. Each rough move sent a shock of heat through you, and you couldn’t help but moan, gripping the bed tight.

“Shit, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he grunted, voice raw with pleasure as he buried his face in your neck. “You wanted this, right? Wanted me to fuck you like this? Make you mine?”

His movements were fast, almost too fast—his thrusts hard, relentless, pushing you deeper into the sheets as he gave in to his instincts. Each rough move sent a shock of heat through you, and you couldn’t help but moan out in pure desperation.

“YES, GOD, PLEASE,” you moaned, exaggerating the desperation in your voice, your back arching up to meet him as you gripped his shoulders, your nails digging in.

“PLEASE, SUKI, DON’T STOP, DON’T STOP!”

His pace didn’t slow. You felt every inch of him, each thrust a mix of hunger and possession. The sounds of skin slapping, your breathless moans, and his groans filled the room, and it was all you could focus on. Bakugou wasn’t holding back anymore. Neither were you.

Every thrust was like a discovery. Every sound made both of you twitch, cursing between groans, and you held onto him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

And when you both finally came—breathless and shaking. You were both a mess—sweaty, tangled in each other like you’d been through something way bigger than just your first time. Bakugou was still on top of you, face buried in your neck, trying to catch his breath.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, voice rough and low, still catching his breath. His forehead rested against yours, sweat-damp strands of hair clinging to his skin.

You smiled, dazed, your fingertips brushing over his shoulder. “You good?”

He huffed a laugh—barely. “Yeah. Just didn’t think it’d feel that fuckin’ good.”

You tilted your head, teasing gently, “What, exceeded expectations?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, that cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite how wrecked he looked. “Nah. You ruined me.”

You laughed softly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice dropped again, gravelly and full of promise. “Next time, I’m not holdin’ back.”

You stared up at him, chest still rising and falling, lips parted. “No fucking way... What the hell does not holding back look like—hospitalization?”

His eyes darkened. “Sweetheart, I was on my best fuckin’ behavior.”

You couldn’t help but shiver under the weight of that promise. He leaned in, kissed you slow and deep, then murmured against your lips, “Next round, I’m gonna make sure you can’t even walk straight.”

You grinned and rolled your eyes, fingers tugging his hair just enough to make him grunt. “I’ll hold you to that.”

[kysstar]

MELODY | JEONG YUNHO

pairing: jeong yun ho x fem!reader

synopsis: you’re a struggling pianist, playing in an underground lounge owned by the mafia. one night, the club’s true owner, yunho, finally appears—a man whispered about in the darkest corners of the city. Your music becomes the only thing that calms him.

genre/tropes: opposite attracts, obsessive behaviour (kinda)

warnings: blood-shed, violence

word count: 10k

authors note : : i love the aesthetic of this fic. this one is more descriptive, idk if I did it justice

[series masterlist]

—You play the piano in an underground lounge, the soft melodies swallowed by the low murmurs of criminals and the heavy clink of expensive glasses. No one really listens; your music drifts above their heads like smoke they barely notice. The air smells of old whiskey, stronger cigars, and something metallic that you’ve learned not to think too hard about.

The place is called Halazia—a name whispered with a strange kind of reverence on the streets. From the outside, it looks abandoned: cracked bricks, rusted signage, windows so dark you can't tell if the lights are even on. But past a guarded, steel door and a staircase that dives into the earth, the lounge breathes with dangerous life.

Halazia isn't glamorous. It's all deep shadows, bruised purple lights, and velvet so dark it could swallow you whole. The tables are low and cluttered, the chairs heavy and old but too expensive to replace. Everything inside seems dipped in a sense of faded royalty—gold edges dulled with time, red curtains that look almost black in the dim light. The ceilings are low enough to make you feel like you're being pressed down, the air thick with secrets.

You sit at a battered grand piano pushed into a corner of the room, just barely illuminated by a single spotlight that's more moody than bright. Your fingers move across the keys like second nature, but there's no applause, no recognition.

You are background noise. Just another piece of Halazia’s furniture, like the stained glasses and the blood that sometimes doesn’t quite get cleaned off the floor.

Tonight, you’re wearing a black slip dress that clings to you when you move, the hem brushing just below your knees. A thin, silver chain circles your throat, catching the light with every tilt of your head. Your shoes are plain black heels—scuffed a little at the toes, though no one can really see in this lighting. Your hair is pinned up, a few stubborn strands falling free to frame your face.

You've never seen the real owner—the one everyone murmurs about between drinks and bad deals. Yunho. A name that carries weight. They say he's dangerous. They say he’s untouchable. You’ve only caught whispers, overheard things you were never meant to hear: how he handled a betrayal without blinking, how entire territories shifted because of a single decision he made.

But he doesn’t come here often. People like him don't linger where the blood is still fresh.

They say he rarely shows his face here, too busy with whatever dealings keep the ATEEZ syndicate running like a well-oiled machine. Some call him the executioner, others the right hand of the real leader, a man whose shadow is just as lethal as his bullets. Either way, Yunho is someone you don’t want to cross.

Not that you’d have the chance.

You don’t know if the stories are true—if he really killed a man with his bare hands at sixteen, if his name alone is enough to make people disappear. But you do know this: he is feared. And men like him don’t waste their time listening to music.

—Yunho didn't come to Halazia without a reason. He hated the place, if he was honest—hated the way the walls seemed to sweat with the desperation of men who thought money or violence could buy them safety. Hated how the ceilings dipped too low, how the air thickened with every whispered deal. But tonight, he had business to oversee, and if there was one thing he respected, it was showing up when it mattered.

He pushed through the heavy door without a word, the guards stepping aside the moment they caught sight of him. He didn’t bother looking at them. His presence alone was enough. A silent weight pressed into the room the second he entered, unnoticed by most but felt by anyone who mattered. Conversations slowed, some halted altogether. A few of the smarter ones kept their eyes glued to their drinks, pretending they hadn't seen him arrive.

He moved through the lounge with the kind of ease only a man with absolute control could carry. Long coat brushing his knees, boots heavy against the cracked tile. A black shirt, simple but expensive, clung to his frame; sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the veins on his forearms.

At first, Yunho barely registered the music threading through the stale air. Just the piano—soft, steady, haunting in a way that tugged at something buried deep in his chest. He should have ignored it. He had more important things to handle tonight: negotiations, threats, the delicate dance of violence disguised as business.

But then his gaze found you.

You sat tucked away in the corner, half-swallowed by the dark. Your posture was easy, practiced, the movement of your fingers across the keys effortless. You weren't playing for them, he realized—you weren’t playing for anyone. The notes you coaxed from the piano were yours alone, slipping into the cracks of the rotting lounge like stubborn vines.

You didn’t see him. Not when he stopped mid-stride, not when his attention locked onto you with a focus he rarely gave anything outside a deal or a target. You were lost in your own world, shoulders rising and falling with the rhythm you built.

Something about that irritated him and fascinated him.

He took a seat at a table near the back, still half in the shadows. From there, he could watch without interruption. Watch the way the dim light brushed your skin, the way your dress clung to your frame in all the right places without ever begging for attention. Watch the way your eyes stayed down, focused only on the keys, as if refusing to acknowledge the filth that surrounded you.

He lit a cigarette with a slow hand, the flame briefly illuminating the hard lines of his face. The smoke curled lazily around him, adding another layer to the haze that seemed to cling to Halazia’s walls. He took a drag, exhaling toward the low ceiling, his gaze never leaving the girl at the piano who had no idea the devil himself had finally decided to notice her.

For the first time in a long while, Yunho wasn’t thinking about business.

For the first time, he was thinking about something—or someone—he might want for himself.

—Yunho returns the next night.

And the night after that.

Always the same routine: slipping into Halazia’s suffocating dark, cutting through the smoke and stale sweat like a blade. Always finding the same table tucked into the shadows where the lights couldn't quite touch him

He watches as your fingers move effortlessly across the keys, your body swaying slightly with each note, completely immersed in a world no one else seems to understand. The lounge is still full of men with bloody hands and expensive suits, but even they keep their voices lower when he’s around. They know better than to disrupt whatever is keeping him so still, so quiet.

And eventually, Yunho decided he'd had enough of waiting.

It was late when he moved. Most of the night's vultures had already scattered, leaving only a handful of drunk, half-conscious stragglers. The lights were even dimmer now, the air heavier. You were finishing a quiet piece, something slow and aching, when the sharp sound of boots against wood echoed through the lounge.

You barely noticed it. Not until he was standing there—leaning casually against the edge of the grand piano, close enough that you could see the silver of the rings on his fingers, the careful roll of his sleeves to mid-forearm.

“Play for me.”

The words are deep, smooth, cutting through the smoke-laced air like a blade. The lounge is quieter than usual, but maybe that’s just your ears ringing.

You don’t look up again. Instead, you inhale slowly, steadying yourself as your fingers press into the keys. You play the first thing that comes to mind—not a classical piece, not a song meant for an audience. Yours.

A tune you composed years ago, when the world felt different, when you still had dreams beyond playing in a place like this. It’s soft at first, hesitant, like an old memory being pulled from the depths of your mind. But then your fingers find their rhythm, and the melody spills into the air, painting the room in something only you understand.

You feel his stare. It burns. Like a predator studying its prey, except there’s no malice, no threat—just curiosity.

The song ends too soon. Or maybe you wished it had lasted longer.

The final note lingers before vanishing into the air, swallowed by the weight of the moment. You exhale, standing quickly, your hands instinctively tugging down your extremely short dress.

"Which song?" His voice is deep, smooth—like the whiskey he drinks.

You hesitate. "It’s mine."

A beat of silence before he hums softly.

Your stomach twists at the sound, your breath caught in your throat. His presence is suffocating, consuming. And when he finally speaks again, his next words make your pulse stutter.

"And your name?"

You hesitate. Just for a second. For a terrifying moment, it’s like you’ve forgotten it—like his presence alone has stripped you down to nothing but a girl behind a piano, nameless, insignificant. But then you force it out, your voice quieter than you’d like.

Yunho repeats it. Testing it on his tongue. Then, with a slow nod, he waves a hand—dismissing you. The conversation is over. Just like that.

You nod, mumbling a quick, breathless, “Thank you,” before slipping away. And as you walk off the stage, you swear his gaze follows.

—Your apartment is silent, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the peeling wall. The air is still, heavy with the scent of old books and faint traces of perfume lingering from earlier that evening.

You sit on the worn-out couch, your legs curled beneath you, mind restless as it replays the events of the night.

Why did he ask for your name?

The question loops endlessly in your head, gnawing at the edges of your thoughts.

Jeong Yunho wasn’t just some man. He was someone people whispered about in hushed tones, a figure who existed in shadows and blood-stained loyalty. And tonight, he had asked for your name.

Did you do something wrong?

Were you not supposed to play your own composition? Had you somehow offended him by ignoring him? Had your silence come across as disrespect?

Your heart pounds as anxiety coils in your stomach. You try to rationalize it, to tell yourself that maybe it was nothing—but deep down, you know better. Men like him didn’t do things without reason.

Your stomach twists. Maybe you played something you shouldn’t have. Maybe he recognized the melody. Maybe—

A sudden knock at the door makes you jolt.

Your heart slams against your ribs, panic surging before logic kicks in. You aren’t expecting anyone. And in a city like this, an unexpected visitor was never a good thing.

Slowly, cautiously, you approach the door. You hesitate before opening it, breath caught in your throat. But when you pull it open, there’s no one there.

Just a box. An expensive one at that.

Sleek, black, with a subtle golden trim. The kind of luxury that doesn’t belong in a place like this. Your stomach tightens as you bend down, fingers ghosting over the surface before carefully lifting it inside.

You place it on your small dining table, your throat dry as you lift the lid. A card rests on top.

Come tomorrow at 8 PM to the Halazia Lounge. Sharp. – JY

Your fingers tighten around the card. You suddenly forget to breathe.

Jeong Yunho called you to the lounge. Personally.

Your mind races, panic rising like a tide. Why? Was this it? Some kind of warning? A test? Were you in trouble? You weren’t stupid—when men like Yunho sent for people, it was never for something trivial.

You swallow hard, trying to steady your nerves. But then—your gaze shifts to what lies beneath the card.

You lift the fabric carefully, your breath catching in your throat as the material spills over your hands like liquid ink. A gown.

Nothing like the cheap, short dresses you were forced to wear at the lounge. This was something entirely different—long, elegant, heavy with quality.

The color is a deep midnight black, nearly blending into the shadows of your apartment. The fabric glides against your skin, intricate embroidery catching the dim light. It’s tasteful yet undeniably alluring, the neckline dipping just enough to be striking, the silhouette hugging in all the right places before cascading down in soft waves of fabric.

And then—the final touch. Resting at the bottom of the box, nestled in tissue paper, is a pair of heels.

Tomorrow, you were supposed to meet Jeong Yunho.

Oh god.

You were in so much trouble.

—The lounge is empty.

The realization settles deep in your bones as you step inside, your heels clicking against the marble floors, the sound unnervingly loud in the vast silence. It was a Sunday. The busiest night of the week, when criminals and power-hungry men filled the space, drowning themselves in expensive liquor and whispered deals. But tonight—tonight, it was deserted.

Except for one person.

Yunho.

He sits on the long leather seat in front of the grand piano, one arm draped casually over the armrest, his posture effortlessly powerful. But what unsettles you more than the emptiness of the room is that he’s already looking at you.

Your breath catches, and for the first time since receiving the dress, you feel the weight of it. The fabric clings to your frame, the smooth material skimming the floor as you move. It fits perfectly, like it was chosen with intention, with precision.

Yunho shifts slightly, and with the smallest tilt of his chin, he motions to the seat beside him.

Wordlessly, you move forward, the soft click of your heels echoing as you step onto the stage. The closer you get, the stronger his scent becomes—rich, dark, intoxicating. A blend of expensive cologne, whiskey. It lingers in the air around you, clinging to your skin the moment you lower yourself onto the seat beside him.

You sit with your body angled toward the piano, hands resting lightly on your lap, while Yunho sits facing outward—toward the empty lounge. You’re close. Close enough that the warmth of him seeps into your side, close enough that every slow inhale you take is filled with him.

“Play something.”

Your fingers twitch slightly. “What song?”

“Something new.” He doesn’t look at you this time. Just leans back, gaze still fixed on the room ahead, voice impossibly calm. “Something you composed.”

No one ever asks for your compositions. No one ever cares to. The lounge patrons want something familiar, something they can drink to, drown in. But Yunho—he doesn’t ask for a song. He asks for you.

A shaky breath leaves your lips as your fingers hover over the keys. You close your eyes for a moment, grounding yourself before finally pressing down.

The first note rings through the empty lounge, filling the space like a ghost taking form.

Your hands move instinctively, muscle memory guiding each stroke, each transition. The melody is raw, something you created long ago but never had the chance to share. It unfolds before you, bleeding into the room like ink on parchment, like a secret whispered into the dark.

Yunho isn’t looking at the lounge anymore. He’s looking at you.

You can feel it—the slow turn of his head, the quiet intensity of his stare pressing against the side of your face, burning into your skin with something unreadable. You don’t dare look back. Instead, you focus on the music, on the way your fingers dance over the keys, on the way the sound seems to fill every crack and crevice of the space around you.

But his presence is overwhelming. And then, as the final notes begin to fade, you gather the courage to glance at him. Your eyes shift, just barely, just enough to steal a glimpse of the man beside you.

Yunho’s head is tilted slightly back, his expression unreadable, his features softened by the dim lighting. But what steals the breath from your lungs is the faint curve of his lips.

Not a smirk. A smile. Small, barely there.

Your heart stutters violently, panic gripping you as you quickly snap your gaze back to the piano, as if you had seen something you weren’t supposed to see.

The final note fades into silence. Your fingers remain resting lightly on the keys, unmoving, waiting. You don’t even dare to look at him.

Then—clapping.

The sound startles you. Your head turns sharply, eyes wide as you take in the sight of Yunho, clapping.

No one had ever clapped for you. Not in this lounge. Not in this life.

And yet, here he was—Jeong Yunho, the man whispered about in fear, the man whose name alone sent shivers through the city—clapping for you.

—It happens again. And again. Every week, like clockwork. The same sleek black box waiting at your door, another delicate note written in that same sharp, deliberate hand. The instructions never change. The day, the time, the place—always the Halazia Lounge, always at 8 PM, always signed the same way. JY.

And inside, another gown.

Each dress is more luxurious than the last, nothing like the cheap, threadbare fabric you were used to wearing. They mold to your body perfectly, the silk draping over you as if it had been made for you and no one else. The colors shift—deep emerald, sapphire blue, obsidian black, crimson red—but the quality remains the same. Expensive. Immaculate. Undeniably his choice.

You don’t ask why.

You don’t even consider refusing.

Because each time you arrive at the lounge, Yunho is already there, waiting. He sits in his usual spot in front of the grand piano, his back to it, his body angled slightly toward you, as if he had never once looked at the instrument itself—only at the person playing it.

You should feel nervous. You should feel terrified. Yunho is not just anyone—he is someone who carries power like a second skin, someone who could reduce an entire empire to ashes with a single command. And yet, despite all that, despite the cutthroat world he belongs to, You feel safe in his presence.

Even now, as you ascend the stage, your heels clicking softly against the polished wood, his gaze follows your every movement. The slit in your dress shifts slightly as you walk, the fabric parting just enough to reveal the curve of your thigh. You feel the weight of his stare, the quiet intensity behind it, but it does not make you uneasy.

You lower yourself onto the seat beside him, feeling the warmth of his body even though your shoulders do not quite touch. His scent envelops you instantly. It is familiar by now, but no less overwhelming.

Your hands find their place on the piano, your fingers hovering over the keys, preparing to play. But just as you inhale to begin, his voice cuts through the silence.

“Stop.”

Something inside you turns cold, panic creeping into the edges of your mind. Had you done something wrong? Had you overstepped? Yunho is unpredictable. He is a man who operates in ways you cannot possibly understand, a man whose patience is not something people dare to test. Your breath stills in your throat as you slowly turn to face him, waiting for an explanation.

But there is no anger in his expression. No frustration. Only quiet scrutiny, something almost thoughtful in the way his head tilts slightly. When he speaks again, his tone is even, calm.

“You always look down when you play.”

Your brows furrow slightly. “I need to see the keys.”

“No, you don’t.” He leans in just a fraction, his voice low, edged with quiet certainty. “Someone as skilled as you doesn’t need to watch their hands. You could play looking away.”

Your throat goes dry. He’s right—you could. You’ve done it before. You don’t need to see the keys to know where your fingers should land. But not with him looking at you like this. Not when his gaze is so heavy, so unrelenting, pulling you under like an ocean tide.

You open your mouth to protest, to come up with some excuse, but before you can, he moves. His fingers find your chin, tilting your face up with effortless ease.

It’s not harsh. It’s not forceful. It’s careful, like he’s testing something fragile. His thumb brushes the underside of your jaw—barely a touch, a whisper against your skin, but it steals every ounce of breath from your chest.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

And you do. Slowly, hesitantly, you turn back toward the piano, your fingers pressing into the first key without breaking eye contact.

The melody begins, soft and slow, and for the first time, you aren’t watching the keys, you’re watching him.

The silence between notes stretches long, thick with something that makes your stomach twist into knots. His hand remains beneath your chin, steady and unmoving, his touch light but firm enough that you cannot escape it. His thumb strokes your jaw in slow, absentminded movements—so subtle, so unconscious, that you wonder if he even realizes he’s doing it.

Your heartbeat stutters. Your fingers tremble slightly against the keys, but you keep playing.

The room feels smaller. More intimate. The empty lounge fades away, the world narrowing to just this moment, just this man, just this touch that is as fleeting as it is devastating.

The song reaches its final note, the last chord dissolving into silence.

His hand lingers for a moment longer, the pad of his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw so gently, so deliberately, that your chest tightens.

And then—he smiles. Not a smirk. Not something cruel or amusing. A real smile. Something you’ve never seen from him before.

—The ATEEZ headquarters was rarely ever silent. It was a constant hum of chaos—phone calls being made, weapons being cleaned, business being handled in hushed voices and sharp commands. But today, there was a different kind of chaos. A Yunho-shaped chaos.

Seonghwa was the first to strike. "You’ve been leaving early these past few weeks."

Yunho barely had time to pour himself a drink before Wooyoung chimed in. "And you’ve been dressing nicer."

"Exactly," San nodded, arms crossed. "You even wore cologne last time."

Yunho sipped his whiskey, unfazed. "I always wear cologne."

"Yeah, but now you actually smell good," Mingi said, narrowing his eyes. "Before, it was just ‘man who kills people for a living’ smell. Now it’s... expensive man who kills people for a living."

Yeosang, who had been silently observing, finally leaned forward. "You’re going to Halazia a lot lately."

Yunho didn’t blink. "It’s my lounge."

Hongjoong smirked. "It’s our lounge. And you never used to care about it before."

Yunho took another sip of his drink, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. "There’s a pianist there."

Jongho frowned. "You’re going there... for music?"

San squinted. "Since when do you care about music?"

"Since when do you care about pianists?" Yeosang added.

"You don’t even own a piano," Mingi pointed out.

"Wait, wait, wait." Wooyoung raised a hand. "You’re saying you’ve been ditching us every Sunday night to listen to some random pianist play in an empty lounge?"

"She’s not random," Yunho corrected, still casual, still unreadable.

Hongjoong gave him a look. "Oh? And what exactly makes her not random?"

Yunho exhaled through his nose, debating for half a second if it was worth explaining. But he had known these idiots for too long. They wouldn’t drop it.

"She’s good," he finally said. "She plays differently."

Seonghwa’s brow arched. "Differently how?"

Yunho leaned back in his seat, fingers tapping against his knee. "She doesn’t just play. She feels the music. She composes her own pieces. You should hear it." He shrugged, keeping his voice even. "It’s interesting."

Yunho was never interested in things like this. He didn’t do hobbies. He didn’t have favorite pastimes. The last time he had shown any level of personal interest in something unrelated to their empire, it had been a limited-edition watch—and even that hadn’t pulled him out of their meetings every single week.

Wooyoung leaned in, voice slow, suspicious. "...So, you’re saying you go all the way to Halazia, alone, on a Sunday, when it’s supposed to be the busiest night, just to sit in an empty lounge and listen to a pianist who is not random play her little songs for you?"

Yunho’s expression didn’t change. "Yes."

Jongho blinked. "And that’s it?"

"That’s it."

Seonghwa studied him for a long moment. "...So you just sit there?"

"Yes."

"And listen?"

"Yes."

"No other reason?"

"No other reason."

Mingi spoke, face dead serious. "Guys... I think Yunho’s going through a midlife crisis."

"You think it’s stress?" Wooyoung whispered dramatically. "Do we need to get him a therapist?"

"He just needs a vacation," San nodded, looking oddly sympathetic. "Or a new hobby. Maybe golf?"

"He already has a hobby," Jongho muttered. "Apparently, it’s watching a pianist."

Yeosang frowned, voice dry. "We should get him checked for a concussion."

"I don’t have a concussion." Yunho’s voice was flat. "And I don’t need a therapist. Or a vacation. Or golf."

"Then what do you need?" Hongjoong asked, watching him carefully.

Yunho met his gaze, unfazed. "For all of you to shut up."

They did not shut up.

—The soft melody drifts through the empty lounge, curling into the air like smoke. Yunho sits in his usual spot, his arm draped lazily over the armrest of the seat, the golden glow of the chandeliers casting long shadows across his sharp features. You don’t know why, but tonight, he looks particularly unbothered—completely at ease in the quiet solitude of the room, watching you play like he has all the time in the world.

And then, without a word, he pulls a cigarette from his pocket.

You watch from the corner of your eye as he places it between his lips, flicking the lighter open with a single motion. The flame flickers for half a second before the end of the cigarette glows a soft ember red.

The scent of smoke reaches you almost instantly, mingling with the deep, rich cologne that has become so familiar.

You don’t stop playing. But you do narrow your eyes.

"You smoke?"

Yunho exhales slowly, watching the thin tendrils of smoke rise toward the ceiling. "Sometimes."

You frown, fingers still gliding over the piano keys. "That’s bad for you."

A soft hum of amusement rumbles from him, his voice smooth and low. "You care?"

Before you can think twice, your hand lifts from the piano, reaching across the short space between you. And then, with absolutely no hesitation, you pluck the cigarette straight from his lips.

His gaze flickers to you, sharp and unreadable, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t stop you. His lips part slightly, the absence of the cigarette noticeable, but his expression remains impassive, curious, even.

You press the cigarette down on the ashtray sitting atop the piano, snuffing it out without ceremony. The final note of your song lingers in the air, almost too perfect as an ending.

Slowly—so, so slowly—Yunho turns his head fully toward you. His eyes flicker with something unreadable, something quiet yet intense, and suddenly, you’re hyperaware of everything. The warmth of him beside you. The way his gaze drops just slightly, lingering on your parted lips before rising back up.

"Bold move."

You swallow. "You’re welcome."

Yunho huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head, his eyes still on you, something unreadable flickering behind them. You can feel the weight of his gaze even as you turn back to the piano.

Your fingers poised to start another song but your fingers freeze over the keys as you watch him from the corner of your eye. He doesn’t go far, only circling the bench until he’s behind you. And then, with effortless ease, he sits down again—this time, facing the piano.

Your pulse stutters, and for some reason, you can’t seem to find your voice. The warmth of him settles into the space beside you, and suddenly the elegant grand piano feels too small, too intimate.

He stretches out one long arm and presses a single random key. A jarring, out-of-place note rings out. Loud. Offbeat. Completely wrong.

You stifle a laugh. Yunho tilts his head, staring down at the piano like it had just personally offended him. “That didn’t sound right.”

A soft giggle escapes before you can stop it, and you press a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking. “No, no, it really didn’t.”

He exhales through his nose, and you catch the faintest quirk of his lips. His fingers hover hesitantly over the keys, as if he’s trying to figure out where to place them, and for some reason, the sight of him—a man so powerful, so feared, completely out of his element in front of something as harmless as a piano—makes warmth bloom in your chest.

Gently, cautiously, you take his wrist and guide it down, adjusting his fingers to rest on the proper keys. Yunho stills beneath your touch, his gaze flickering to you, sharp and unreadable, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Here,” you murmur, voice softer now. “Try this.”

You press down lightly on his fingers, guiding him into playing a simple, steady note. The sound rings out smooth this time, blending seamlessly into the space between you.

Yunho watches your hands carefully, brows drawn together in quiet concentration. His fingers twitch beneath yours, adjusting slightly, pressing down again on his own this time.

“Not bad,” you tease lightly.

He hums, tilting his head toward you slightly, and you realize too late how close he is now.

His face is only inches from yours, his warmth pressing into the small space between you. His fingers are still resting against the keys, his wrist still lightly caged beneath your own, but you can’t focus on that anymore—not when his gaze flickers down ever so briefly, just for a second, before meeting your eyes again.

And then—he presses another key, completely offbeat.

A laugh bursts from your chest before you can stop it, bright and full, and you swat lightly at his arm, shaking your head. "You did that on purpose!"

He leans back slightly, feigning innocence. "Did I?"

"You absolutely did." You cross your arms, trying to suppress the grin stretching across your lips. "You were doing fine, and then you just—butchered it."

His smirk grows, just a little. "Maybe I wanted to see you laugh again."

It’s the way he says it—so effortlessly, so casually, like it’s not something that should make your stomach flip. Like it’s not something that should make your heart stutter.

You swallow, suddenly finding it very difficult to look at him, so you turn back to the piano instead. Your fingers find the keys again, pressing lightly, anything to steady yourself.

—You were expecting the box.

It had become routine by now—the faint buzz of the intercom, the quiet thump of something left at your door. Always around the same time. Always the same sleek black packaging with a handwritten note tucked neatly inside. And always a dress. Another beautiful thing you had no reason to deserve, meant to be worn in an empty lounge for a man who barely spoke.

So when the doorbell rang, you barely looked up from the sink.

Wiping your damp hands on a kitchen towel, you walked over, half-distracted, your mind already picturing what color the dress would be this time. Maybe a deep green. Or something soft and silver. You reached for the door and opened it—

It wasn’t a box.

It was him.

Yunho stood there, perfectly still, framed in the doorway like something out of place in the dim, narrow hallway of your apartment building. His frame was wrapped in a sharp three-piece suit, deep charcoal, almost black, with a matching coat draped over his shoulders. His hair was slicked back, effortlessly elegant, the kind of look that made him seem more like a character from a movie than a man who existed in your very real, very modest world.

And in his hand was not a gun, not a file, not even a glass of whiskey, but a brown paper bag.

He looked vaguely… awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just not him.

The silence between you stretched long enough to become a little ridiculous, until Yunho cleared his throat and shifted the bag slightly in his hands. His voice, when it came, was low but careful. Like he’d thought about this before showing up and still wasn’t quite sure he was doing it right.

“I, uh… wanted to take you to dinner.”

That sentence should have sounded strange coming from him, but it didn’t.

You blinked. The words finally registered. “Dinner?”

He nodded once, lifting the bag slightly. “There’s a dress in here. I wasn’t sure what you had.”

You stared at the bag, your brain tripping over itself. “I’m not ready.”

“I’ll wait,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And then, just slightly—his eyes shifted past you, toward the inside of your apartment. “May I come in?”

You hesitated for a second, then stepped aside.

He ducked his head politely as he entered, and suddenly your tiny, quiet apartment felt incredibly inadequate. The living room was clean enough, but plain. A small couch that sagged in the middle. A bookshelf with mismatched spines. Faint music from the old radio near the window. Nothing here was worthy of the man who now stood in the middle of your space, too tall, too composed, looking like he’d stepped out of another world entirely.

You closed the door behind him, heart pounding against your ribs, and forced yourself to keep breathing. “I’ll just… change.”

He gave a short nod, gaze politely dropping toward the floor. “Take your time.”

You bolted to your room, shut the door behind you.

Jeong Yunho was in your apartment. In. Your. Apartment.

You pressed a hand to your face, pacing for a second before forcing yourself to breathe and look inside the bag.

The dress was deep burgundy, simple but elegant. The fabric was soft with a gentle sheen, designed to flow around the body rather than cling. It had thin straps, a gentle dip at the neckline—not too bold, not too modest. A perfect in-between. And somehow, impossibly, it was your exact size.

Of course it was.

You changed quickly, smoothing the dress over your hips, running your fingers through your hair in the mirror until it didn’t look like you'd just lost your mind. You didn’t own heels to match, but you settled on the cleanest pair you had and exhaled deeply before opening the door.

Yunho hadn’t moved.

He was standing exactly where you left him, hands in his coat pockets, his back to your bookshelf like he was trying not to look at anything too closely. You almost wondered if he was nervous.

When his eyes finally landed on you, something in his expression shifted.

And then he softly smiled, “Shall we?”

You didn’t speak. Just nodded once, your throat dry as you stepped out beside him into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind you, locking your quiet apartment in the dark as you followed Yunho down the narrow corridor. The building’s usual creaks and moans echoed around you, each footstep oddly loud in the stillness of the night.

He walked just slightly ahead of you but never too far, as if aware of every movement you made, adjusting his pace without looking.

When you stepped out onto the street, a black car was already waiting. Of course. Sleek, polished, and clearly expensive, the kind of vehicle that made people turn their heads if they had the nerve. Its engine hummed softly under the streetlight glow, and without a word, Yunho stepped forward and opened the door for you.

Yunho stepped ahead and reached for the back door, pulling it open with ease.

You murmured a quiet “Thank you” as you slid into the passenger seat, and he waited until you were settled before circling the car to climb in beside you.

The ride started smoothly, the city rolling past in a blur of warm yellow streetlights and deep shadows. The interior was dimly lit, the soft leather cool beneath your fingertips as you smoothed your dress absently across your lap.

You kept stealing glances at him—Yunho, the man who had become a ritual in your life, now sitting next to you like this, was all perfectly normal. His jaw was sharp in profile, the dim lights of the dashboard casting soft shadows across his cheekbones

Finally, you turned toward him, voice soft but steady. “Why dinner?”

He looked at you then. His gaze met yours for a second before returning to the road.

There was a beat of silence. Then, in a voice quieter than you expected, he said, “I wanted to talk to you. Somewhere that isn’t the lounge. Somewhere normal.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of it. “You wanted to talk?”

He nodded, still watching the road ahead. “Get to know you. I figured it’s overdue.”

You smiled, small and genuine. “You could’ve just said so.”

His lips curved at that, “I’m saying it now.”

—The car slowed in front of a glass-paneled tower that stretched high into the dark sky. Soft golden lights glowed at the entrance, and two suited valets stepped forward almost immediately as Yunho pulled to a stop. Without a word, he cut the engine, stepped out, and tossed the keys to one of them.

You stepped out slowly, eyes lifting to take in the full height of the building. It looked like the kind of place where people made million-dollar deals over imported wine.

Yunho said nothing, only caught your gaze for a moment and nodded toward the entrance. You followed him inside.

The lobby was quiet, polished marble and soft music under soft light. A man in a tailored suit greeted you with a bow deeper than necessary, and when his eyes flicked up to Yunho, recognition flashed in his expression. No names were exchanged. He simply gestured toward a private elevator and said, “It’s ready.”

You stepped in first, and Yunho joined you without speaking. The elevator was quiet as it rose. You tried not to fidget.

At the top of the tower, a server was already waiting. Another bow. Another hushed welcome. And then you were led to a table tucked near the window, set for two, the city spilling out beneath the glass like stars scattered across asphalt.

Yunho moved ahead of you and pulled the chair out before you could reach for it. It was such a simple gesture, so quietly done, but it made your throat tighten unexpectedly. You mumbled a soft, “Thank you,” as you sat, smoothing your dress absently.

He didn’t say anything—just nodded once and moved to take his own seat. He unbuttoned his blazer as he lowered himself into the chair across from you, the fabric of it folding neatly as he leaned back.

The server brought the first course quickly, something light and plated like art. You glanced up to find Yunho already watching you—not in that quiet, unreadable way he usually did, but more openly now, like he was figuring something out.

For a while, you talked about things that weren’t important at first—music, restaurants. You joked about how you’d never stepped foot in a place like this. He didn’t laugh, but there was a small twitch at the corner of his mouth, the kind you’d learned to recognize as his version of amusement.

He asked about the first time you played piano. You told him. He listened. His eyes stayed on you the entire time.

You were mid-sentence when he leaned forward slightly, brow drawn in subtle focus. He reached for a cloth napkin from beside his plate, and before you could react, he gently reached across the table.

“Here,” he said quietly.

You blinked, confused—until you felt the soft brush of the napkin against the corner of your lips.

And his hand paused, just for a second, before he drew back and folded the napkin neatly again, setting it beside his plate.

Neither of you said anything about it.

You went back to eating, slower now. More aware. He kept glancing at you, and this time when your eyes met, you didn’t look away.

The meal came to a quiet end, plates cleared, wine glasses nearly empty. The night outside the windows had deepened, the lights below blinking like a scattered constellation.

Yunho rested his hand lightly on the edge of the table, fingers tapping once. Then he looked at you, “There’s a park a few blocks from here,” he said. “Would you like to go?”

You nodded, just once. “Yeah. I would.”

Yunho rose from his seat with that same quiet composure he carried everywhere, offering his hand as you stood. You took it without thinking, steadying yourself as you stepped away from the table. He didn’t let go right away, and you didn’t pull away either.

The walk to the park wasn’t far—just a few blocks through quieter streets, the kind that hummed with life during the day but fell into a peaceful hush at night.

The park was mostly empty, just a few dim streetlamps casting long shadows over empty benches and carefully kept paths. Trees swayed in the breeze, branches rustling softly, and the night air held the faint scent of damp grass and spring. It was the kind of silence you didn’t need to fill.

You walked side by side, not speaking at first. His hands tucked in his coat pockets, yours curled around your arms for warmth.

But after a few minutes, your steps began to slow.

The ache in your feet, sharp and insistent, made it harder to keep pace. The heels—beautiful, expensive, chosen by him—had felt manageable in the restaurant. On smooth marble floors, under soft lights. But here, on uneven paths and quiet gravel, they were becoming unbearable.

You tried not to limp or to wince, but Yunho noticed anyway.

He looked over, brow drawing slightly. “Are they hurting?”

You gave a small, sheepish smile. “Just a little. It’s fine.”

He stopped walking. You didn’t, but then, with no warning, he reached for your wrist gently, just enough to stop you. You turned toward him, confused.

“Sit,” he said, nodding toward the nearest bench.

“It’s fine, really—”

“Sit.”

You gave in, lowering yourself onto the bench with a quiet sigh. He knelt down in front of you, one knee pressing into the grass, his coat shifting around his frame as he reached for your ankle.

“Yunho—”

“I’ve got it.”

You hesitated, heat rising to your face as his fingers gently wrapped around your foot, steady and careful. His touch was light, almost reverent, as he slipped the strap of your heel open and slid the shoe off. Then the other. His brows furrowed ever so slightly in focus.

When he stood again, he held the heels lazily in one hand, the straps hanging from his fingers. Then, with his free hand, he reached out toward you again.

You slipped your hand into his, and he helped you to your feet.

You just started walking again, side by side, his fingers still wrapped around yours, your heels swinging gently from his other hand.

Your fingers remained curled in his, and for a moment, you just looked at him—unsure whether to thank him, to let go, or to pretend like this wasn’t happening at all. But Yunho, standing there with your shoes in one hand and your hand in the other, looked completely at ease. He met your eyes, and as your lips curved into a shy, uncertain smile, something in his expression shifted. The faint crease in his brow softened. His mouth pulled into a slow, quiet smile—one that reached his eyes this time.

It made your stomach twist in a way that wasn’t unpleasant.

The two of you began walking again, no real direction, following the winding paths of the park without speaking. Your feet were bare against the earth, cool and damp, but it didn’t matter. His hand was still in yours, steady and warm.

You weren’t sure how long you walked like that. Time blurred in the quiet.

But just as you turned down a narrower path, a sharp drop of water landed on your shoulder. Then another. Then five more. And before either of you could react, the skies opened up above you, a sudden downpour crashing through the trees with a roar.

You stopped walking as rain soaked through your dress in seconds. The wind picked up, and your hair clung to your cheeks, water running down your arms.

Yunho immediately glanced around, spotting the small wooden structure a few meters back—some kind of park gazebo. He turned toward you, already tugging at your hand. “Come on, let’s go under—”

You shook your head, standing your ground as rain slid down your face. “It’s fine. Just rain.”

He hesitated. The water was already dripping from his hairline, darkening his suit. He looked like something pulled out of a painting—sharp, severe, and completely soaked. But he wasn’t bothered by it. Not really.

He took a small step closer instead, still holding your hand. The rain kept falling, warm and relentless, and the world around you faded into nothing but the sound of it.

You watched each other through it. Your lashes stuck together, droplets catching on your cheeks, and he looked at you like he was memorizing everything.

Then, gently, his free hand came up to brush your hair away from your face. He tucked it behind your ear, slow and careful, his fingers trailing against your damp skin as they pulled away.

It was quiet, the kind of quiet that builds and tightens until it’s impossible to ignore. You felt your breath catch as his eyes flicked to your mouth and back again, and suddenly there was no more space between you.

His hand was still on your cheek, your fingers still laced in his, and his face was closer now. Closer than it had ever been. You weren’t moving away. Neither was he.

And just as his mouth hovered over yours, his phone rang.

You both jumped, startled by how quickly the moment shattered.

Yunho pulled back instantly, his hand dropping from your face, his eyes darting away as he stepped back, just slightly. You let go of his hand, suddenly unsure of what to do with your arms, your body, your breathing.

He reached into his coat pocket, the expression on his face unreadable as he glanced at the screen. “I have to take this,” he muttered, his voice quiet, but firm.

You nodded, your pulse racing in your ears. You turned away before he could see the flush creeping up your cheeks, unsure whether it was from the near-kiss or the fact that you had wanted it.

—It had been days since the night in the park. Since the rain, the almost-kiss, the phone call that shattered something neither of you had dared to name. You hadn’t seen him since.

No messages. No black box at your door. No notes written in careful, slanted handwriting. And worst of all, no Sunday meetings at the Horizon Lounge. The quiet rhythm the two of you had fallen into—the silent understanding, the music, the glances—was suddenly gone.

You cursed yourself for it. For letting that moment happen. For wanting it. For ruining whatever fragile thing had existed between the two of you.

Now, the only excuse you had to see him was gone too.

You found yourself scanning every corner of the Halazia Lounge during your shifts, eyes flicking up from the piano every few seconds, hoping to catch the silhouette of his frame in the shadows. But there was nothing. He wasn’t there. Not once.

Your schedule had only gotten worse. Your boss, already demanding on a good day, had started pulling you in earlier, keeping you later. You barely had time to eat properly, much less rest.

Tonight was no different. You were walking home from a late run to the grocery store, a paper bag tucked under your arm. The streets were mostly empty now, the hour too late for comfort but too early for safety. You were too tired to care.

Your feet dragged, each step heavier than the last. And instead of taking your usual long route home, you turned down the narrow alleyway that split behind the old post office. It wasn’t ideal—it was dark, quiet, barely lit—but it shaved ten minutes off your walk. You told yourself it was worth it.

Three men, loud and slouched, leaning against the wall near a back exit of some bar. Their voices carried—slurred, careless—and before you could glance away, one of them noticed you.

“Well, what do we have here?”

“Out a little late, aren’t you?”

You backed up instinctively, clutching the grocery bag tighter. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Trouble?” One of them laughed. “No trouble, sweetheart. We’re just being friendly.”

The first one moved closer, reaching for your arm, and you reacted out of reflex. You shoved him back, quick and sharp, but your body was slow to follow through. You were too tired. Everything hurt. The second one caught your wrist, and you yanked away, stumbling back into the alley wall. Your head clipped hard against the edge of the brick, and a flash of pain burst behind your eyes. You didn’t fall, but you dropped the bag.

You weren’t scared—not really. Just angry. Angry at your body for being so slow, for betraying you when you needed strength. Angry at the men. Angry at everything.

And then, suddenly, they were gone.

The first was shoved hard against the wall, a loud crack of impact ringing through the narrow alley. The second was yanked back and dropped to the ground with a punch that echoed like thunder. The third barely had time to react before he was flung aside, groaning as he scrambled back to his feet.

You blinked, heart hammering, trying to steady your breathing as the men stumbled away.

Yunho stood in front of you, chest heaving, hands clenched at his sides, and he looked furious.

He turned to you, eyes immediately softening. “Are you hurt?”

You nodded, then shook your head. “Just my head. It’s nothing.”

But your knees buckled a little, the exhaustion finally catching up to you. You swayed, and Yunho stepped forward just in time to catch you, your body collapsing against his chest.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured.

You barely heard him. Your arms curled weakly around his coat, your head resting against his shoulder as the cold and the panic drained from your system. You felt his arms shift, one under your legs, the other behind your back. And then he lifted you, without effort, cradling you against him like you weighed nothing at all.

You could feel his heartbeat where your cheek rested, could feel his breath as it hit the top of your head. You stayed like that, letting the movement lull you, eyes heavy.

After a moment, you spoke, voice faint. “We stopped meeting.”

His steps didn’t falter, but he sighed. A soft, quiet sound. Not at you, never at you.

“Work got in the way,” he said gently.

You smiled, small and tired. “I thought I did something wrong.”

He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something else. “Never.”

You weren’t sure how long the walk back to your apartment took. Wrapped in his arms, your cheek pressed against the steady beat of his heart, the time blurred. He didn’t speak again, but you didn’t need him to. His grip was secure, his pace calm and unhurried, as if carrying you through the quiet city night was the only thing that mattered.

When he reached your building, he didn’t hesitate. His fingers slipped easily into the side pocket of your bag to find your keys, and soon you were through the door, into the dim light of your apartment.

He carried you straight to your room, gently lowering you onto the bed like something fragile, careful not to jostle you more than necessary. The mattress dipped under your weight as he pulled the blanket aside, settling you against the pillows before crouching down beside you.

His hands moved slowly as he brushed a few damp strands of hair from your forehead, eyes scanning your face, your shoulders, your arms. “Anywhere else?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head. “Just my head.”

He nodded, then stood up. “Stay here.”

A few minutes passed before Yunho returned, the small white box in his hands. He placed it on your nightstand and knelt beside the bed again, resting one hand lightly on the edge of the mattress. His other hand reached out, fingers brushing gently through your hair, shifting the strands away from your face so he could see the wound clearly.

It wasn’t just the coolness of the antiseptic or the sting of it against the broken skin—it was the way his fingertips moved. The way he tucked your hair back so carefully. The way he hovered close but didn’t touch you more than he had to.

“You should’ve gone the long way,” he said softly, voice low. “Even if it took longer.”

You wanted to respond—something smart, something to brush it off—but the weight of his concern was too real. You couldn’t make light of it.

He applied the antiseptic slowly, carefully dabbing around the wound with practiced hands. You hissed once, and his jaw clenched slightly, but he didn’t stop. He only said, even quieter, “Almost done.”

After cleaning it, he reached into the kit for a bandage, his hands working gently, wrapping it around your head with a care that didn’t match the man the world feared.

When he finished, he sat back a little, eyes meeting yours. “That should hold for now.”

You stared at him. At the way his tie had loosened, at the drops of sweat near his temple, at the way his brows were still furrowed with concern even though the danger had passed. You wanted to say something, to thank him, to reach for him again—but the words were slow to come.

He stood, not abruptly, but with quiet purpose, closing the box and setting it aside.

“You should rest.”

You didn’t want him to go, but you also didn’t know how to ask him to stay.

Yunho lingered for a second, eyes searching yours, like he was waiting for something. When nothing came, he exhaled gently and nodded.

“I’ll come by tomorrow.”

—The pain pulled you out of sleep like a hook behind your eyes. You sat up slowly, groaning as the headache throbbed, sharp and insistent. For a moment, you stayed still, hoping it would pass. But it didn’t. It lingered, pulsing behind your temples, turning each blink into a dull ache.

You reached blindly toward the nightstand drawer, searching for the little bottle of pills you always kept tucked there. Your fingers came up empty. You opened the drawer fully, rifling through it again—nothing. You moved to the bathroom cabinet. Nothing there either.

The silence in the apartment pressed in around you. You didn’t want to go outside. Not after what had happened. Not after the alley, the panic, the blood. But your head pulsed again, sharper this time, and you knew you wouldn’t sleep.

So, with a heavy sigh, you grabbed your purse and slipped out into the night.

The city was quiet this late, more shadow than light. The sidewalks were mostly empty, the occasional distant car rumbling past. You moved quickly, sticking close to the glow of the streetlamps, head lowered. The pharmacy was open, barely lit, manned by a half-asleep cashier who didn't bother to look up. You paid for the pills in silence and tucked them away, eager to be home again.

You were halfway back when you heard a scream.

You froze. It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp—sickeningly sharp. A few feet ahead, just past a flickering lamp post, was a narrow alley. Your first instinct was to turn around. You had no reason to get involved. You were barely healed from your last run-in with the shadows of this city.

But then came another scream.

And your feet moved before your fear could catch up.

You stepped into the alley, cautiously, each step slow and deliberate. The light from the street barely reached here, the darkness thick and heavy. But as your eyes adjusted, you saw figures clustered near the far end.

One of them stood apart.

His back was to you, tall and broad-shouldered, body tense. The others surrounded three crumpled bodies on the ground. Blood was already pooling beneath them. Not enough to be fatal, but enough to make your stomach twist.

Your eyes locked on the lone figure standing over them, unmoving, his fists clenched at his sides.

“Yunho?”

He turned sharply at the sound of your voice. And in that instant, everything slowed.

The streetlight hit his face, and the sight stole the breath from your lungs.

Blood spattered across his cheekbone, on his jaw. His knuckles were red, the skin raw. His eyes were wide, not angry, not cold, but startled, like a child caught doing something they were never meant to.

He waved a hand toward the others behind him without looking away from you. His men understood immediately. Two of them grabbed the battered attackers and began dragging them away, quick and silent.

You walked toward him without speaking, ignoring the way his eyes darted away from yours like he couldn’t bear to meet them, like he expected to see disgust there.

You closed the space between you until you were standing right in front of him, the scent of rain and rust thick in the air. Slowly, you lifted your hand.

Yunho tensed, as if bracing for something, but all you did was reach up to his face.

Your fingers brushed gently against his cheek. You wiped the blood away with your thumb, not looking at the mess or the violence in the air.

He blinked, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes, like he was searching your face for disgust, for fear, for anything that might confirm the worst. But there was none of it.

His hand lifted, slow and hesitant, fingers hovering near your jaw. He paused, just long enough to give you the chance to move, but you didn’t.

His palm settled against your cheek, warm despite the dried blood.

You met his eyes, your voice barely above a whisper. “Are you okay?”

Yunho stared at you for a moment longer, breath shallow, and then something in him gave way. The careful restraint cracked. He leaned in, and then his mouth found yours.

His lips were warm, hesitant at first, brushing against yours like he was still waiting for you to pull away. When you didn’t, he deepened the kiss—just slightly—his hand shifting to cradle the back of your head, careful to avoid the healing wound. You tilted into him instinctively, your own hands rising to grip the front of his coat.

There was no one else in the world in that moment.

He pulled back slowly, resting his forehead against yours for a moment, his breath mingling with yours. Then he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Now I am.”

taglist : : @callmeagardengnome @serinebsblog @vtyb23 @choisanchwego @monsta-x-jagi @kyunlov @lcvejjoong @blueginz @lunaryoongie @yeon103 @spenceatiny18 @darlingz99 @matchahintonagar @ateezswonderland @hearts4itoshi @trivia-134340 @special4u @cristy-101 @sheadoreswalls @lcvejjoong @m00njinnie @stayatinykatsy @hwa2tiny @tournesol155 @nixwolfe @yoonglesbae @vigtore @likexaxdaydream @0325tiny @amazinglystay @helenjmmyz @hopingfortwistedfriends @xuchiya

© kysstar

[lucidwntrr]

양정원 ───〃 BROUGHT THE HEAT BACK

“noona,” he pouts, pecking you with kisses all over your face, his boner poking right on your cunt, only the thin layers of both your underwear creating a barrier between the two of you. “are you going to make me beg for it.”

── synopsis: a request !! (Please do a sub jungwon fic, I NEEEEDDDDDD it 🙏🏼)

⋆˚꩜｡ pairing: sub!jungwon x dom!reader ⋆˚꩜｡ genre & word count: smut || 2k+ ⋆˚꩜｡ tags: needy jungwon, dry humping, sweaty & hot, noona kink (he would definitely have one), he calls you noona excessively, unprotected sex (wrap it up!), missionary position

it’s so hot.

you’re sweating, constricted, almost claustrophobic and blanketed in a layer of heat. you blearily blink your eyes open, adjusting them to the darkness of the room. it's a struggle when only a sliver of light shines through your window from the moon. the window that was also cracked to let in a slight breeze.

you can feel the most heat radiating against your back, it was burning you up like an oven. that’s when you remembered through your drowsy state that your boyfriend slept over tonight. he lay behind you, body tense, sweating copiously, breathing heavily against your neck, making the strands of hair on your nape stick to your skin. he had his arm slung over your waist and was gripping tightly onto your loose shirt, hands shaky.

“wonnie,” you sleepily whisper. you reach up, attempting to unfurl his fist from your clothing and slightly push him over so you can get just a bit of the cool air. he only tightens his hold.

“noona,” he whimpers, tentatively grinding his hips against your ass.

oh.

“relax love,” you say, trying to turn around and give him comfort, but only end up brushing against jungwon’s bulge and he instinctively pushes forward with a groan.

“what’s going on?” you mumble.

“noona,” he whines again, grabbing onto your waist and pulling you closer. he buries his face into your neck, sending a new wave of uncomfortable heat through your body. “w-when i woke up i was already hard and you were pressed against me.”

you sigh, using your hand to instead caress his arm that held you in place. you can’t ignore how aroused jungwon, his dick poking you is a constant reminder of that.

“i need you,” he whispers, slowly grinding against you again with a tiny moan. “i want-“

“junwon, it’s way too hot to do that right now,” you tenderly say, patting his arm, signaling for him to let you go. “you’re literally burning up,” you continue when he holds you even tighter - a protest against you.

“please, i need you,” he tries again, trailing a hand under your shirt and up to cup one of your breasts.

“you don’t need anything,” you reply, a different type of warmth igniting between your legs, but he doesn’t have to know that. “you’re just horny.”

jungwon huffs with a pout. “i can’t help it,” he says, pressing a kiss to your sweaty neck. “you feel so good against me noona.”

“jungwon, i said-“

“please noona,” he breaths, rubbing against your ass intentionally. “let me fuck you.” he finishes, leaning over to bite your ear.

fuck. you try to contain yourself, stopping yourself from flipping him over and using him until he’s begging you to stop, make him regret his words. as much as you want to do it, it’s just too hot and you know he's just trying to egg you on.

“okay,” you reply nonchalantly.

jungwon pauses, “huh?”

“you can fuck me.”

you feel jungwon’s mouth open and close against your ear, struggling to find his words. “really?” he settles on.

before you can speak, he turns you over and parts your legs, putting himself in between them. he leans down, his face so close to yours that you can feel his wet hair strands tickling your forehead. “you’re really going to let me?”

“yes but-“ you feel jungwon snake his way back up your shirt, his damp hands trailing up and down your sides. you thunk him on the forehead softly. “not right now.”

“noona,” he pouts, pecking you with kisses all over your face, his boner poking right against your heat, only the thin layers of both your underwear creating a barrier between the two of you. “are you going to make me beg for it.”

it’s clear that he won’t move unless you push him off, but despite how hot and sweaty you both were, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. there was a stronger part of you that wants to play this out. the way jungwon is practically begging, excites you.

“we can do just this,” you offer, rolling your hips against his, making jungwon needily moan. “but that’s it, just grinding.”

jungwon eagerly nods, “please.”

you can’t see his face clearly in the semi-dark, but you can bet that his face was deeply flushed, not only from the heat that fills the room, but in arousal. he’s breathing heavily, each pant fanning across your face.

you reach out to lovingly touch his face, the glow of the moon casting a slight shine against it. you weren't surprised to find it was warm. you caress his cheek, jungwon nuzzling into your touch, before sliding your hand up to push his hair back from his sweaty forehead.

jungwon doesn’t move as you map out his face, just holds onto your waist . traveling over his nose, to his jaw, pressing your thumb against his wet bottom lip. your finger coming back moist from him breathing hotly against it.

you wrap an arm around his neck and pull him down into a kiss. jungwon immediately melting into it, all spit and tongue as he hungrily makes out with you. your other hand drags down his bare chest, his abs tensing under your touch as you skim past a nipple.

at the same time, you wrap your legs around his hips and pull him so you were pressed together, no space left between, as you grind up against his throbbing cock. jungwon chokes, hands scrambling to clutch your waist, breaking the kiss to moan into your mouth. “noona,” he whispers, with a breathy voice.

you lean in to kiss him again, taking your time with him this time, despite jungwon’s rising eagerness. he steadily ruts against you as you flick a thumb across his nipple and draw a gasp from him. you circle around the bud, teasing, and jungwon has your hips in an almost bruising hold.

“easy,” you murmur.

jungwon is desperate as he unapologetically whines, his trembling arms, moving from your hips to by your head, barely being able to hold himself up, too wrapped up in pleasure. he’s hot. he’s sweaty. but he can’t stop himself from grinding his aching cock against you.

“noona,” jungwon calls out your name once more, a mantra that he can’t help but repeat.

“yes~” you hum.

“i- i know you said no more than this but-,” he stammers, leaning back and running his hand down your chest to in between your legs. he runs a finger over your underwear, making you shiver, despite it being hot. “you’re clearly turned on too.”

“what are you trying to say,” you ask, raising an eyebrow that jungwon couldn’t see.

“doesn’t that mean you want to fuck me too,” he breaths out. moaning when he slips a hand into your underwear and slides his finger through your wet folds. “hm, noona?”

you chew on your bottom lip to stop yourself from letting a moan slip, shocked at how bold jungwon was being.

“you want to fuck me that bad?” you question, voice strained as he takes his thumb and massages your clit.

“please,” he begs, dipping a finger inside you. the moan you were trying to hide, forcing its way out your throat. “i’ll make you feel so good noona.” you don’t say anything at first, silently grabbing jungwon’s wrist and guiding his hand out of your panties to rest them on the waistband.

“take ‘em off,” you instruct him, to which he happily obliges, sliding them off in record speed. he removes his boxers as well before settling comfortably back in his original position.

“can i,” he pants, massaging the flesh of your sweaty thigh and waiting patiently for you to give him permission. you reach between you both, taking ahold of his cock and aligning it with your entrance, teasing him by dragging the tip through your dripping lips.

“please noona,” he breathily whimpers, body trembling and eyes fluttering as he holds back from pushing into you.

“mm, wanna feel yourself inside me,” you purr, sliding your hand to his hip and pulling him forward.

“yes,” he breaths out, gasping as he slowly sinks into you inch by inch, hands finding solace on your waist.

jungwon was by no means small. he was so thick, that you have to take your time when taking him in, often having to remind jungwon of that. it didn’t bother you too much though, as the feeling of him filling you up was breathtaking every time.

“noona,” he moans, not for the first or last time, as he bottoms out. “you’re so tight noona.” his eyes have rolled back into his head, sucking in his bottom lip as he felt you stretch around his cock.

you hum as jungwon starts to rock his hips in and out, taking his time to feel every inch of you. every push in hitting all the right spots inside you, knocking a choked moan out of you. each motion sending tingles down your spine.

it isn’t until you run a hand up his stomach, that his hips buck roughly into you. he leans down to smash his lips against yours, delving his tongue in to lick around your mouth as he frantically slams his cock into you.

you nip at his bottom lip, making him whimper and drive himself impossibly deeper into you, a loud squelching coming from both of your fluids. the way you were gripping onto his cock so firmly was heavenly to him. every inch of being embraced in your wet and warm heat was bringing him to the edge, and fast.

despite how sweltering it was with you guys fucking like animals, you wrap both your arms around jungwon’s torso to pull him down on top of you.

“noona, it’s so good,” he nearly cries in your ear as he thrusts into you. “y-you’re so tight.”

“you said that already,” you tease, causing jungwon to retaliate with a particularly hard thrust that makes you moan loudly and sink you fingernails into his strong back.

"i love being inside you noona," you can feel him tense under your hands, his thrusts getting sloppier, his orgasm surely getting closer. jungwon could feel the pressure building, his balls tightening as he pumps his cock in you.

“n-noona, im gonna cum,” he announces, as he feverishly fucks you. his hips snap against you, hitting against the deepest part of you over and over again, bringing you to your climax. “i’m gonna cum noona.” he repeats. the sound of skin slapping on skin echoes through the room, mixing with jungwon’s loud moans and groans.

you feel him cum before he can say he’s cumming. continuous spurts of hot cum filling you up deep inside, jungwon grunting, his vision going white, as he weakly thrusts as he cums.

the feeling of him cumming inside send waves of pleasure over you and fuels your own orgasm. jungwon brokenly whining as you clench around him and ride out your high.

jungwon, lays his full, sweaty body against you as he catches his breath. you could feel his heart beating out of his chest and the final twitches of his cock as his cum leaks out of you.

you caress his back gently in comfort, even though you were quite uncomfortable with all the sweat, a deep sigh being heard from jungwon as he gets settled.

“wonnie, we are not falling asleep like this,” you deadpan, tickling his side to make him roll over and you could almost scream with happiness when the cool air from the window hits your skin.

“rude,” is all jungwon says, pouting once again, before falling asleep like he didn’t just wake you up to fuck and making you scoff.

©lucidwntrr est. 2025

[hexlenx]

Could you do a story where Sergei is tough, but also overprotective of the protagonist, pls?

I love your stories

A/N: ABSO-FUCKING-LUTELY. I am so glad you requested this because lately I've been obsessed with sergei and have been thinking of a way to make a small fic about his toxic self so you requesting this gave me an idea! Thank you so much anon! It might be a little different from your request though but the tough part as well as overprotectiveness is still there, just more dark themes. I hope you don't mind that though, I just feel like it fits more with his character.

YOU'RE MINE, ALRIGHT? — sergei kravinoff

note: I do not own this man because he owns himself, periodt. This is made purely out of entertainment purposes!

warning!: violence, age-gap, (somewhat) toxic relationship, little blood, swearing, sexual harassment, mentions of death, 18+, and sergei being hot (man is a warning himself) mdni

__________________

You were only taking your nightly stroll in the forest while your lover was in the cabin somewhere in the woods that he made you move in after knowing each other for a while. Your relationship with him was not really ideal but you loved him with all your heart and vice versa.

Your lover might not show it but he cares about you more than he let on. It worried you for quite some time now that maybe you weren't good enough for him, you refused to do such things that he called 'the hunt'. You weren't prepared to do something so unnerving. Surprisingly, he agreed to let you prepare after a bit of arguing and silent treatments of course. Still, you thought that he might leave you because you have never done anything for him other than sit still and be pretty.

But you were so wrong.

Sighing as an owl hoots through the trees and crickets sounding in your surroundings, you now began to walk towards the path to the cabin. You've basically just walked straight from here to there so it wasn't that hard to find your way back.

Noises of leaves crushing alerted you as you walked down the path. Multiple voices sounded from the right side of you but before you could hide, a bright flashlight flickered towards your figure, blinding you.

Hissing a bit from the bright light, you blinked your eyes before your vision focused to four males who looked about a couple years older than you. An ache appeared in your stomach as you felt like you had a bad feeling about the situation.

"Well, well. Look at what we have here." One of the men whistled as his eyes looked at your frame up and down.

"Quite a looker, right?" The other one on his right licked his lips in anticipation.

"Think we could use her for entertainment?" Another one from behind snickered. As if a light bulb appeared on top of their heads, their eyes lit up dangerously making you step back in fear as you heard their conversation.

No, please don't.

"Don't worry, doll. This will only last for the whole night." The man in the middle reassured but it was anything but reassuring. Before you could sprint off, one of them had already grabbed you by the arms, arms tightening around you as you continued to struggle.

Fear was evident in your eyes as tears started to prickle in them. This cannot be happening, you thought. You were a bit far from home so you couldn't scream for your lover because of the distance. You were now sobbing as the men took their time in touching you. Hands ripping off your shirt leaving you in your bra as well as your lover's boxers that you wore since you've used all of yours already.

You could feel their hands groping each part of your body before they finally decided to spread your legs. You were struggling to close it because multiple pair of hands were pinning you down to the ground next to a tall tree.

Sergei, that was the only thing you could think of.

Sergei, my love.

Sergei, please.

Save me.

"SERGEI!" You suddenly screamed out your lover's name making the men flinch from your voice.

"Fucking hell—this bitch is so loud!"

"Scream all you want, love. But no one ain't gonna hear you here." They all laughed as you kept sobbing. Why must this happen? Your bra was long forgotten as you tried to get your hands free but alas you cannot. The man between your legs then lowered his head towards one of your breasts but before he could latch on it a loud thump interrupted them.

"You dare.." A deep voice growled out as the four men stopped what they were doing. They slowly looked up and saw a very muscular man that stalked over them. His eyes glowing in a yellow serpent like color, his forearms hardening, as well as a very dark and murderous look on his face. The man menacingly stalked towards them as the men were quick to scramble up to their feet fixing their clothes before sprinting out.

The man immediately chased them and since all four were running at the same direction, he jumped high and landed in front of them to stop them from escaping.

"You dare to break and enter my forest, not only that.." He continued his words from before. Grabbing one of them by the neck he tossed him to a tree, hard. Making a sickening crack to be heard in the air, causing the others to look at the man in fear.

"You hurt what is mine."

You woke up in a familiar room and the warmth surrounding your from the fireplace. You were confused, weren't you just in the forest taking a nightly stroll while your lover was busy?

Just then your head started to ache as you remembered what happened. You hugged yourself as you now began to sob quietly, you were harassed, sexually to the point that you were ripped off your clothing. It made you feel disgusted with yourself, what would Sergei think of you now?

Footsteps sounded from behind you as you continued to wrap your arms around yourself hoping to shield yourself from the exposure from the world. Hot steaming food was suddenly placed in front of you as you blinked from surprise before looking away, not wanting to consume any food.

"Eat." It was your lover. Sergei plopped down on the spot beside you taking the spoon topped with food from the plate before putting said plate on the drawer beside the bed. He grabbed you by the chin before gently forcing you to look in his direction. This gave you no choice but to eat the food on the spoon he held up.

This continued for a few moments until you finished your food. The silence was deafening and it bothered you but it seems like your lover doesn't see that.

"I'm sorry."

Sergei paused from cleaning up the table before looking at you, confusion evident in his eyes despite his face unchanging.

"O—other men touched me..y—you probably don't want a woman like me a—anymore. I mean, I wouldn't as well.." You coarsed out as tears began to fall from your eyes as you look down in shame. You couldn't look at him in the eyes, you were so ashamed of yourself, hell even disgusted. You felt so dirty as you could still feel those men's hands all over you, tongues licking your neck, fabric tearing away from your skin. It made you feel ill.

Suddenly your face was gently pulled up letting you make eye contact with a pair of dark brown eyes that was in a fixed scowl but if you looked closely, it softened the moment you both made eye contact.

Sergei didn't know how to comfort you as growing up, all he knew was violence. But he did the only thing he knew he could do.

He kissed you.

"I'll make their hands disappear and make you remember mine, instead."

[heliosunny]

Hello. If it’s not too much trouble can you expand on the mydei marriage of convenience fic with reborn reader? I like it when there’s a lot of groveling so is there any chance maybe mydei remembers his past life and apologizes but reader still decides to leave him? I just wanna see him beg tbh. Thank you for all your hard work!

Yandere!Mydei x Reader

[artist]

Visit [previous]

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the training grounds, the clash of steel and the thunder of hooves filling the air. You stood at the sidelines, arms crossed as you watched Mydei spar with one of his knights. His movements were as precise as ever, every strike measured, every defense calculated. It was almost frustrating how effortlessly perfect he always seemed.

You hadn’t wanted to come, but after his last stunt, drugging you to keep you by his side, he had insisted you accompany him today. "To ease your mind" he had said. You knew better. He just didn’t want to let you out of his sight.

You tried to ignore the way he would glance your way between exchanges, as if gauging your reaction. He always did that now, watching you, reading you, craving something you refused to give.

Then, one of the knights charged him too aggressively, their swords locking with a sharp screech of metal. Mydei twisted to avoid the blow, but his horse reared up at the wrong moment.

You saw the shift before it even registered in his eyes—the sudden loss of balance, the panic. He fell.

The world seemed to slow as his body hit the ground with a sickening thud. His head struck the packed dirt first, and for a terrifying moment, he didn’t move.

"Mydei!" someone shouted, knights rushing forward.

You felt yourself take an involuntary step closer, your breath caught in your throat. You had seen him fight countless times, had watched him walk away from battle unscathed—but now, he wasn’t getting up. When they turned him over, his eyes fluttered open, unfocused and dazed. Blood trickled from a gash on his temple. Then, he let out a sharp, strangled gasp—his entire body going rigid.

You frowned. "Mydei?"

He blinked rapidly, his breath coming in shallow pants. His hands clutched the ground beneath him as if trying to anchor himself.

And then, his gaze landed on you.

A choked sound left his throat—something between a sob and a gasp. His eyes widened in sheer terror, his fingers trembling as they reached toward you.

"Y-you’re here…" His voice was raw, broken. "I thought—I thought I lost you."

"What…?"

He struggled to sit up, his entire body shaking. "I remember—" He swallowed hard, his breath ragged. "I remember losing you. I remember everything."

"What are you talking about?"

"You died," he rasped. "I never got to tell you.....I never got to.." His voice cracked completely.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. You stared at him. Mydei—always so in control—was now trembling, eyes wide with something you had never seen before. True, genuine fear.

"I—" His breath hitched, hands gripping his chest as if something inside him was breaking. "You left me. You were gone, and I—" He shut his eyes, as if the memory physically hurt him. His voice, raw and desperate, trembled when he spoke again. "I tried to bring you back, but you were gone."

Your fingers curled into fists. He had to be lying.

"You expect me to believe that?" Your voice came out cold, sharper than you intended. "That you suddenly—remember a life where I died?"

Mydei let out a shuddering breath, his hands pressing into the dirt like he was barely holding himself together. "I was a fool" he whispered. "I was blind, selfish, and I didn’t see it until it was too late. Until I was standing over your grave, wishing I had just—" He cut himself off, sucking in a sharp breath.

You wanted to call him out on the dramatics, wanted to accuse him of manipulating you again.

But his eyes... His eyes weren’t filled with calculation. There was no smugness, no amusement, no control. Only raw, undiluted agony.

What if he was telling the truth?

"So what? Even if that's true—I’m alive now."

Mydei’s gaze snapped to you, frantic. "And I won’t make the same mistake."

He struggled to push himself up, despite the dizziness that made him sway. The knights around him hesitated, unsure whether to help or give him space. But Mydei didn't seem to care—his focus was solely on you.

"I won't let you go this time."

"You can't keep me here forever."

He took a step forward, his lips parting—but then, he faltered. His breath hitched, his body wavering unsteadily. And then, he collapsed.

The knights rushed to him, calling for a healer. You stood frozen, watching as he was lifted from the ground, his grip on consciousness slipping. Even as his vision blurred, his fingers twitched toward you.

"Don't… leave me again…"

----

The air outside was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faintest trace of blood from the practice field. You barely registered it, your mind still tangled with the weight of Mydei’s words.

"I remember everything."

It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t. The Mydei from your past life never cared—not when you loved him, not when you gave him everything, not even when you left him to his cold, indifferent world.

But this Mydei… this Mydei had fallen to his knees. He had begged. He had looked at you like you were the last thing tethering him to sanity.

No. It had to be a trick.

If he had been controlling before, this new desperation would make him unstoppable.

A sharp noise cut through the quiet.

Yelling. Inside the estate.

Without thinking, you turned on your heel, striding quickly back through the halls, your breath shallow as the shouting grew louder.

"My Lord, please—!" One of the servants' voices wavered in distress.

"WHERE IS Y/N?!"

You reached the entrance to his chambers and froze.

The room was in ruins. Tables overturned, drawers pulled from their places, glass shattered across the floor. Papers and books were strewn about, some crumpled, others torn.

Mydei's breath came in ragged gasps, his normally pristine attire disheveled. His hands trembled as they flipped through papers, knocking over more things in a frenzy. His eyes, wild and filled with a darkness you hadn’t seen before, darted around the room.

"Where is y/n?" he growled, his voice unsteady.

"M-My Lord— I believe they will return shortly-" The knight who had been tending to him took a cautious step back.

"LIARS!" Mydei roared, slamming his fist against the wall. The crack of impact echoed through the chamber, and the knight flinched. "You think I don't know?! You think I haven't seen this before?! Y/n left me!"

His voice broke, the fury in it twisting into something far worse. Something desperate.

It was then that he turned—and his eyes landed on you.

The moment he saw you, everything stopped. For a moment, he just stared, as if confirming you were real. He was already in front of you before you knew.

"Where did you go?" His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Why—why did you leave?"

"I didn't leave" you said, trying to stay calm. "I just went outside."

But that did nothing to ease him. His hands clenched at his sides, his expression crumbling further. "I woke up, and you were gone."

"You can’t do that" he whispered. "You can’t leave me—not again."

Mydei stood before you, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, his hands trembling at his sides as if he was barely holding himself together.

He’s losing it.

The room around you was still in ruins. He had torn through the place like a storm, like a man searching for something he thought he had lost forever.

"I thought it was happening again" he rasped. "I thought—" His breath hitched. "I thought I had woken up too late. That you were already gone, just like before."

"Mydei..." you started carefully, but he wasn’t listening.

"You don’t understand" he continued, almost frantic now. "I watched you die. I—I buried you. I swore, if I had another chance, I wouldn’t make the same mistake, but—" He clenched his fists. "But when I woke up and you were gone, I—I thought I lost you again."

"You’re scaring me" you admitted.

Something in him shattered at that.

For a moment, all the tension in his body seemed to crumble, his face twisting in agony. His hands—ones that had wielded swords, ones that had always been so steady—lifted slightly, reaching toward you before stopping just shy of touching you.

Then, he dropped to his knees.

The great and powerful Mydei—the same man who once viewed your love as nothing—now knelt before you, pleading.

"I’m sorry" he whispered, his voice trembling. "I’m so sorry. Please—don’t leave me. Don’t go. I’ll do anything."

For the first time, you didn’t know what to do.

The days that followed were suffocating. After the accident, after when he had fallen to his knees and begged you to stay, he was different.

He wouldn’t let you out of his sight.

His eyes constantly followed you—through the halls, across the gardens, even in the quiet moments of the evening when he was supposed to be resting. He would wake in the middle of the night, breath uneven, searching for you as if expecting you to vanish. And when he found you still there, his entire body would sag with relief.

But you stayed.

You told yourself it was because of duty, because it would be cruel to leave someone so vulnerable. Even if that someone was him.

So you took care of him.

You changed his bandages when he was too dazed to do it himself. You sat beside his bed when fever burned through him. You placed food before him even when he refused to eat, your words clipped but firm—"Eat, Mydei." And he always obeyed.

There was no smugness in his gaze now, no arrogance—only an almost childlike fear. Every time you so much as stepped away, his hand would twitch, as if fighting the urge to reach for you.

One evening, as you stood by the window, lost in thought, you felt the weight of his stare once more.

"You’re still here"

You turned to him, meeting his eyes.

"I said I would take care of you" you replied.

"If I had realized it sooner," he said slowly, his voice almost fragile, "that I loved you… would you have stayed?"

The silence stretched between you like a fragile thread, threatening to snap under the weight of his words.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you looked away, fixing your gaze on the flickering candle by the bedside.

"Mydei" you said evenly, carefully, "once you recover, I still want a divorce."

The room went deathly still.

When you finally dared to look at him, you saw it—the way his knuckles had turned white from gripping the sheets.

Then, ever so slowly, he laughed.

It was a broken, hollow sound.

"You…" His voice wavered, his golden eyes darkening as he forced himself to sit up despite his lingering dizziness. "You really don’t believe me, do you?"

"Even now," he murmured, running a trembling hand through his disheveled hair. "Even after everything, you still want to leave me."

"And if I say no?" he asked quietly.

"You don’t get to say no, Mydei. This marriage was never about love. It was more of a contract—one that should have ended long ago."

He clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching against the fabric of his robe.

"You think I care about that? You think a piece of paper ever mattered to me?"

You knew Mydei. You knew how he thought, how he worked.

And now?

Now, he was desperate. And desperate men did dangerous things.

"You’re not leaving me"

The tension never left after that night.

Mydei didn't argue with you anymore. He didn't beg like before. Instead, he acted.

Two weeks later, he left for war.

It happened so fast. One day, you were tending to his injuries, watching him pretend to be fragile under your care. The next, he was standing before his armored horse, fastening his sword to his hip, his gaze unreadable as he looked at you.

"Stay here."

That was all he said before he rode off, leading his army into battle.

And then, everything changed.

The night of his return was filled with thunderous celebration.

The palace was alive, tables overflowing with wine and food, nobles and warriors alike cheering Mydei’s name. He had crushed his enemies, strengthened his borders, and returned more powerful than ever. And yet, despite the laughter and praise surrounding him, his eyes never left you. You sat stiffly at the grand table, feeling the weight of his gaze from across the room. He hadn’t spoken to you yet, hadn’t approached. But you knew better.

Then, the room fell silent as Mydei stood.

A goblet in one hand, with his favorite drink-pomegranate juice, his other resting against the pommel of his sword, he cast his gaze over the gathered crowd. And when he spoke, his voice carried through the grand hall like an unbreakable decree.

"Tonight, we celebrate victory. Strength. The future."

A roar of approval filled the hall. But then—he looked at you.

And suddenly, the room felt too small.

"But there is something more important than war. More important than power."

He raised his goblet higher.

"My spouse."

No.

"The one who stood by my side, who has always belonged to me.. and always will."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Every noble, every knight, every single person in the room understood what that meant.

No one would dare touch you.

Because Mydei had just declared, before his entire court, that you were his. Forever.

And there was nothing you could do about it.

The ride back was tense.

The moment the palace doors shut behind you, the celebrations fading into the distance, you felt your breath grow heavier. You had barely spoken a word since his public declaration—since he had stripped you of any chance of escape in front of his entire court.

The carriage rattled over the cobblestone streets, the dim glow of lanterns casting long shadows against the walls. Mydei sat across from you, legs crossed, one arm draped lazily against the cushioned seat, his gaze locked onto you.

He was waiting.

Waiting for you to break the silence. Waiting for you to react.

You clenched your fists. Fine. If he wanted a reaction, you'd give him one.

"You had no right"

"No right to what?"

"You know what" you snapped. "You stood in front of everyone and acted as if I belong to you."

"You do."

Of course, he’d say that.

"You made sure no one would ever propose to me" you bit out. "Made sure that even after this, if I left, no one would dare take me in." Your eyes narrowed. "If I’m incapable of marrying anyone else, then I’ll live alone."

The words had barely left your mouth when he moved.

You barely had time to react before he caged you in, hands braced against the seat beside you, his face so close you could feel the warmth of his breath.

"You think I would allow that?" he murmured.

"You can’t control everything, Mydei."

"But I can control this."

"You don't get to disappear. Not into someone else's arms, not into isolation, not anywhere I can't reach you."

"You're mine" he continued, softer this time, as if speaking a sacred truth. "Even if you hate me for it."

The days after his declaration were unbearable.

Everywhere you went, his presence suffocated you. Servants eyed you carefully, knights stationed themselves near your quarters, and Mydei himself—always watching.

You had no more choices. No more options.

So you made one.

You locked yourself in your chambers and refused to come out.

No food. No water. Nothing.

At first, Mydei didn’t react. He knocked. Spoke through the door with that infuriatingly patient voice.

"This is childish, love."

You ignored him.

By the second day, his voice had lost its amusement.

"Open the door."

By the third, there was desperation.

"Please."

The fourth day was the worst.

He stopped knocking. He stopped speaking.

When you finally approached the door just for a quick peek.

He was still there.

Not standing.

Kneeling.

The great, untouchable Mydei—kneeling outside your door for days.

"I’ll stay here." His voice was raw now, hoarse from exhaustion. "I’ll wait. As long as it takes."

Let him beg. Let him suffer the way you had suffered.

But your body disagreed.

Weakness overtook you too fast—dizzy, lightheaded, breath slipping out in shallow gasps. You barely registered the way your legs buckled beneath you.

"No—!"

Then, the door shattered. Arms caught you before you hit the ground.

After ensuring you’re treated, Mydei refuses to leave your side. He sits by your bed, watching your pale face with an unreadable expression, fingers lightly brushing your wrist to feel the weak pulse beneath. The realization that you were willing to destroy yourself just to be free from him stirs something deep inside him. You would rather waste away than stay with him?

When you wake up, your body feels unbearably weak. Before you can even attempt to sit up, Mydei is already there, pushing you back down with gentle yet unyielding hands.

“You must be out of your mind” he murmurs. “To think I would ever allow you to leave me like that.”

He strokes your face, his touch both tender and suffocating. “I suppose I have been too soft with you.”

From then on, Mydei takes complete control. You are not allowed to leave the bed without his assistance. Meals are fed to you by his own hand, his sharp gaze watching your every bite, ensuring you don’t try anything reckless again.

Any protests are met with a condescending chuckle and an almost pitying look. “You thought starving yourself would make me agree to a divorce? Foolish.” He presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “You will never be free of me.”

If you had hoped to escape him, all you did was cement his resolve.

---

The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of candlelight casting shadows across the walls. You sat on the grand bed, feeling trapped beneath Mydei’s intense gaze. In his hand was a spoon filled with warm broth, yet you stubbornly pressed your lips together, refusing to take it.

Mydei sighed. “Still being difficult?”

You turned your head away. “I’m not hungry.”

“Not hungry? Do I have to remind you that you collapsed in my arms, barely breathing, and now you’re not hungry?” He set the bowl down beside him with a deliberate slowness before leaning in close, his breath warm against your cheek. “If you won’t eat willingly…”

Before you could react, Mydei scooped up another spoonful, bringing it to his own lips instead. Without a moment’s hesitation, he grasped your chin, tilting your face toward him. You barely had time to shake your head before his lips were on yours. The taste of the broth spread across your tongue as he deepened the kiss, his fingers tightening just enough to keep you from pulling away. Warmth, rich and lingering, forced its way into your mouth, and despite your resistance, you swallowed out of instinct.

He pulled back slowly, watching you with a satisfied smirk. “There,” he murmured, thumb brushing against your lips as if savoring the sight of you like this—breathless, defeated. “Was that so hard?”

You glared at him, but it only made his smirk widen. “If you refuse again,” he mused, taking another bite for himself, “then I’ll just have to feed you like this every time.”

“Now” Mydei purred, holding up another spoonful. “Shall we continue?”

You swallowed thickly, the taste of the broth still lingering on your tongue. Mydei watched you with patient amusement.

“I should punish you for making me resort to such methods” he mused, twirling the spoon between his fingers. “But I suppose the sight of you like this makes up for it.”

You turned your face away, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing your expression. Your heart was pounding, a mix of anger, shame, and something you refused to acknowledge twisting inside you.

“Still refusing to speak? How stubborn.” He leaned in again. “You can glare at me all you want, but you will eat.”

Your hands clenched the sheets beneath you, frustration bubbling up. “You can’t keep doing this” you muttered, voice hoarse from disuse. “You can’t keep controlling me.”

“Oh? But haven’t I already?”

His hand cradled your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You gave me no choice, love. If you had simply stayed by my side like a good spouse, none of this would have been necessary.”

“You’re insane.”

Mydei laughed “I know.”

He took another bite of the broth and kissed you again, slow and deliberate. You shivered, unable to escape the warmth of his lips, the slow press of his tongue against yours. When he finally pulled away, he tilted your chin up with a single finger.

“Now, swallow.” he murmured, voice dangerously soft.

Satisfied, he ran his thumb across your bottom lip, tracing the slight quiver there. “Good” he praised, as if speaking to something fragile. “We’ll do this as many times as it takes for you to learn.”

Then he picked up the spoon again, and you knew the night was far from over.

----- The days passed, and you gradually regained your strength. But Mydei’s presence never wavered— always ensuring you ate, slept, and stayed within the invisible cage he had built around you.

At first, you remained quiet, resigned. But the more you recovered, the more your old self crept back in, the sharp tongue, the scoffs, the sarcastic remarks meant to push him away, if only a little.

One evening, Mydei sat beside you, offering a plate of food like always. You sighed, arms crossed. “What, are you going to spoon-feed me again? Should I just sit here and let you chew it for me too?”

Instead of being irritated, Mydei simply smiled, as if amused. “Would you like that?”

You scowled. “Absolutely not.”

He chuckled, setting the plate on your lap. “Then eat.”

You huffed but complied, stabbing at the food with more force than necessary. Mydei rested his chin on his palm, watching you with lazy satisfaction.

“You seem much livelier now” he observed. “I was starting to miss that sharp tongue of yours.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you actually like it when I insult you” you scoffed.

Mydei merely tilted his head. “I like anything you do, as long as you stay by my side.”

Your grip on the fork tightened. “And if I don’t?”

He smiled, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. “Then I’ll simply remind you why leaving isn’t an option.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course you will.”

Mydei only chuckled again, leaning back in his chair. “Go on, fight me all you want,” he mused. “Scoff, glare, push back—I’ll allow it.” His golden eyes darkened slightly. “But you will never ask for a divorce again. That, my dear, is something I will not tolerate.”

You met his gaze, something unspoken passing between you. The more you tried to escape him, the more he tightened his grip. And yet, in his own twisted way, he was letting you have this small act of defiance, as long as you stayed.

You hated how well he knew you.

Scoffing, you shoveled another bite of food into your mouth and turned away. “You’re insufferable.”

Mydei smiled.

[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall (11) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F ! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: Michael brings you home and takes care of you. You talk things through, and by the end, you’re both on the same page and closer than before.

Word Count: 3990

Warnings: Age Gap (Mid 20s/Early 50s), Head Injury (Factured Skull), Non-sexual nudity

Authors Notes: Just one more part. Part 12 will be the last (until futher notice, Maybe a sequel depending on season 2??? I'm sad ngl LOL. I’ll save the sappy talk in the next authors note.) If any of you watch Animal Kingdom I’m writing an Andrew Cody fic. So keep a look out for that. I have it typed, but Idk what the call it. Idk my writing process is wack. I don’t think, I just do. I don’t plan at all and I just make shit up as I go… but whatever works right? All of this is just for fun hence my user lol okay I’ll go now. Enjoy - Ryn (sorry for errors if you’ve been following along for this long y’all know I don’t proof read whoops)

After the end of Michael’s swift, he walked through the ER, one hand gripping the strap of his backpack, the other intertwined with yours.

He felt the stares immediately—wide eyes from the staff, surprised expressions barely masked. They weren’t entirely sure what they were seeing. Or maybe they were. Maybe they just couldn’t believe it.

Michael caught it too. He met the glances of a few nurses, offered a small, tight-lipped smile, then looked away.

Michael wasn’t embarrassed—he could never be embarrassed of you. That wasn’t it. He just didn’t want everyone in his business. But that line had already been crossed.

Rumor and gossip swirled, but his main focus, his main priority was you. Nothing else matter

Michael, he took you home—his place. He wanted you to stay there; it was easier that way. He had emergency supplies if anything went wrong, and it let him keep a close eye on you.

As the two of you made your way down the hall toward his apartment, neither of you said anything about the arrangement. You didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer an explanation. He expected you to protest—maybe argue, insist on going to your side of the hall—but you didn’t.

You wanted to. You thought about saying you didn’t want to intrude, that you’d be fine on your own. But the words never made it out. You were in too much pain, too wrung out and exhausted to care. And you already knew what he’d say—something about keeping an eye on you, monitoring for symptoms, making sure you didn’t take a turn.

So you stayed quiet. And followed him in.

“You probably want a shower,” he said softly

You nodded, but your body swayed a little too far to the left.

He caught your arm. “Careful.”

Together, you made your way toward the bathroom. Every movement felt floaty and too heavy at the same time—like your body wasn’t entirely yours. The edges of the room tilted, just slightly, and you blinked hard to stay grounded.

When you enter the bathroom you. “Can you stay?”

Your voice was quiet.

Michael didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You reach for the hem of your shirt, but your hands fumbled, clumsy. Lifting your arms made your vision blur, and you winced, one hand going instinctively to your lump

He stepped forward. “Hey—stop. Let me.”

You didn’t argue.

His hands were gentle as he helped you out of your clothes, moving slowly, methodically. When he eased the shirt over your head, you closed your eyes against the spinning, and he steadied you with one hand at your waist.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, the shirt now crumpled in his hand.

You nodded again, though you weren’t sure. “Just dizzy.”

You kicked off your shoes, the cool floor sending a small shiver up your spine. Your fingers trembled slightly as you fumbled with the button of your jeans, struggling to pull them down past your hips. The fabric caught at your thighs, and you paused, leaning on the sink to keep from swaying too much. 

When you finally slid your jeans down and stepped out of them, you stood there, vulnerable in just your bra and underwear. 

Michael didn’t move closer or look away. His eyes softened, not with desire, but with something quieter: care and respect. He gave you space, knowing you needed it, but stayed close enough that you could reach out if you lost your balance.

“Sit for a moment,” Michael said softly.

You lowered yourself slowly onto the closed toilet seat.

Michael moved toward the tub, turning the cold and hot taps, adjusting until the water flowed warm. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said, and stepped out briefly. When he returned, he held a thick, fluffy towel and a neatly folded set of clothes. 

“I don’t think I should stand,” you admitted, voice low, your body still heavy with exhaustion.

“Okay,” Michael nodded understandingly. “You don’t have to stand. You can sit.”

Carefully, you got off the toilet and moved to the edge of the tub, the smooth porcelain cool beneath your hands. You dipped your feet into the water, feeling the warmth as it flows around your feet.

Michael goes to sit on the closed toilet seat. 

“I’m gonna…” you said softly, pulling at the strap of your bra to let him know you were about to take it off.

He shifted slightly, turning his body toward the door, giving you the privacy you needed to strip without feeling exposed.

You hesitated for a moment, then began to remove your bra, the fabric slipping softly from your shoulders. Then your underwear followed. You lowered yourself slowly into the tub, 

Curling your knees up toward your chest, you hugged them gently, covering your body feeling safe and cocooned.

“Okay,” you said softly, signaling that he could turn back.

“You sure?” Michael asked quietly, his voice gentle and concerned, wanting to make sure you were comfortable being this vulnerable in front of him.

“Yes,” you said. Your voice was quiet, but steady. “I trust you.”

“Okay I’m turning around” 

Michael turned and stood up. He reached for the shower head, pulling the pin on the faucet to redirect the water. The steady stream shifted from the tub spout to the handheld shower, and he adjusted the flow gently, ready to help you wash.

Michael held the shower head steady, the warm spray falling in a gentle rhythm. He aimed the water over your shoulders and back in careful movements.

“Let me know if the water’s too hot or cold,” he said softly.

You nodded, eyes closing as the warmth soaked into your skin. The sound of water filled the quiet room, calming your breath.

“I’m going to wash your hair first,” he said.

You gave a small nod.

He adjusted the shower head and used his hand to shield your eyes, carefully wetting your hair. His fingers moved gently through it, avoiding the tender lump where your skull was fractured. He worked the shampoo in with care, soft and slow, then rinsed it clean.

When he was done, he reached for a washcloth, soaked it under the water, and handed it to you.

“Here,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “I’ll let you do the rest.”

You took it from him with a quiet “Thanks,” and began washing your arms and chest, slow and steady. 

As you washed yourself, Michael respectfully turned his head, gaze fixed on the tiled wall. He kept holding the shower head steady, adjusting the angle when needed, but never looked your way.

Once you’d finished rinsing, you gave a small nod. “Okay.”

Michael turned off the water. He set the shower head down carefully and reached for the towel he’d left nearby.

“Here,” he said softly, draping the towel over your shoulders. His hands were steady, mindful. “Take your time.”

You nodded, then slowly pushed yourself up to stand. Your legs felt shaky beneath you. Michael offered his arm, and you took it, leaning into his steady presence as you stepped carefully out of the tub. Water dripped from your legs onto the mat below.

As he helped you find your balance, you adjusted the towel at your chest, making sure it stayed in place, then tucked the edge securely.

He reached for the clean white shirt he’d brought and gently held it open for you.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded.

You held the towel closed as he slipped the shirt over your head, guiding it gently down your arms. The fabric brushed your skin, soft and clean. Once it was in place, you let the towel fall. The shirt settled over your body—short, but long enough to cover you where it mattered.

Michael turned away without a word, facing the bathroom door again to give you privacy.

You reached for the shorts and stepped into them slowly, pulling them up and adjusting the waistband. 

Reaching for the towel you’d just let fall, you brought it up to your head and began to dry your hair gently. The motion was slow, cautious. Each pat was careful, mindful not to press too hard.

“All set,” you said quietly.

He turned around and asked, “Are you hungry? I can make you something.”

You looked up, a little unsure. “You don’t mind?”

“Course not,” he said with a smile.

“Please.”

The two of you walked into the kitchen. Michael grabbed a pot and started making chicken noodle soup. The soft sound of the spoon stirring and the warm smell of the soup soon filled the room, making everything feel calm and cozy.

He set the pot to simmer on the stove, then turned to gather a few bowls and spoons. The soft clinking of dishes echoed through the quiet kitchen.

You settled onto a stool at his island table.

Michael glanced over and gave you a small, reassuring smile. “It won’t be long.”

You nodded, feeling the calm settle around you, grateful for this simple care.

Michael carried the bowls over to you, setting one down in front of you. You wrapped your hands around the warm bowl, feeling a small comfort in its heat.

He sat down beside you, and for a moment, you both simply savored the quiet. 

The two of you ate quietly at the island, the soft clink of spoons the only sound between you. The soup was exactly what you needed. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until your bowl was nearly empty.

When you finished, you murmured a soft thank you, and Michael just nodded, already rinsing the dishes in the sink.

Afterward, you both headed back toward the bathroom. Michael knelt down and opened the cabinet under the sink, pulling out a fresh toothbrush still in its packaging. He handed it to you with a small smile.

“Figured you might want this.”

“Thanks,” you said, voice low with weariness.

While you brushed your teeth, Michael disappeared down the hall. He moved quietly, setting up his bedroom—thinking ahead to anything you might need.

When he returned, he leaned gently against the doorframe and asked, “You ready to sleep?”

You nodded.

You stepped into his room and paused. The bedside lamp cast a soft glow over the space. On the nightstand, he’d placed a bottle of water, a few folded towels, and a small plastic basin—just in case. The sheets were pulled back neatly.

You climbed into his bed, sinking. It smelled like him, familiar in a way that made you feel safe.

“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly.

You heard him moving in the other room, picking up after dinner or maybe putting things away. But by the time he came back to check on you, you were already asleep—curled up beneath the blankets, the soft rise and fall of your breath the only sound in the room.

—

You woke in the middle of the night, disoriented for a moment. The sheets smelled of him. 

Michael

You were in Michael’s bed.

Yet, the space next to you was empty. 

Soft snoring came from somewhere nearby. You rolled over, careful with your head. Your eyes adjusted slowly, picking up the outline of a shape on the floor—a silhouette in the dark room. Quiet and still, except for the slow, even rise and fall of his breathing. Michael, curled up on the floor with a pillow and a blanket.

“Michael…” you whispered.

Nothing.

“Michael.” You say a little louder. 

He stirred with a quiet groan from the floor. “Hmm? Hey—what’s wrong? You okay?” His voice was heavy with sleep, words slurring together in the dark. 

“What are you doing on the floor?”

“​​I didn’t want to jostle you,” he murmured. “You'd sleep better without someone next to you.” he said, still half-asleep, words slurred with drowsiness. 

You listened to the soft rhythm of his breathing. Then your voice came softly, tentative but firm. “Lay with me…”

He exhaled hard, a sound of reluctant surrender, shifting to find a more comfortable position on the floor. “Not a chance.”

Trying not to sound irritated, you pressed on. “Whatever worst-case scenario you’ve built up in that doctor’s brain of yours, it’s not gonna happen.”

“Just go to sleep. You need the rest.” His tone was gentle but firm, and he didn’t move.

Silence stretched out between you, thick and heavy like the dark itself.

“Your back’s going to be sore,” you said quietly, your words a soft concern in the stillness.

“A sacrifice I’m willing to make,” he mumbled, already drifting back toward sleep, his voice fading like a whisper.

“You’re gonna regret it. You’ll never beat those old-man allegations.”

“I’m middle-aged, not old,” he protested weakly.

“Exactly, you’re practically headed to the old folks’ home.”

“Hey.” He scoffed, a dry laugh slipping through despite the quiet.

You giggled softly. 

The room fell silent again.

“Come on, Lay with me…”

“Sweetheart, please just go back to sleep.”

“Michael, Please?” 

He let out a long breath. You heard the blanket rustle as he sat up, then the creak of the mattress as he eased himself into the space beside you—slow, careful, like he was afraid of accidentally hurting you. 

He stayed on top of the covers, his body turned slightly toward you but keeping his distance.

“Happy now?” he murmured. “Now, go back to sleep…”

And somehow, despite everything—your aching head, the nausea,—you did.

A few times throughout the night, the nausea came back, unexpected and relentless. Each time, you stirred, feeling the sickness twist in your stomach. And each time, Michael was there—plastic basin in hand, ready before you even had to ask.

He got up with you, never once complaining or pulling away. He rubbed your back gently, his hand warm against your skin as he whispered softly, “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“My chicken noodle soup was that bad, huh?” he joked, knowing you were only throwing up because of your injury.

“Michael…” you groan out a laugh. Your laugh told him everything — that you thought it was funny, but not funny because you were throwing up.

He laughs softly, “Okay, I’m sorry.”

He brushed your hair back from your forehead, his fingers light and soothing. Even in the darkness, his voice was a comfort, steady and reassuring. He leaned in and kissed the spot where your shoulder and neck met, a quiet promise that he’d be there, no matter what.

At some point in the night, Michael had ended up under the covers. Now, the two of you lay curled on your sides, facing the same direction, careful not to jostle your injury. Your head rested on a second, softer pillow he’d propped just right to keep pressure off the side with the fracture. His chest was pressed gently against your back, his body warm and steady behind you.

Michael's arm rested low across your waist, heavy in sleep but comforting. He’d left enough space between your heads to avoid brushing against the sensitive side, but his presence was still close. It wasn’t quite a spoon, more like a careful hover

When you woke, the space beside you was empty. The sheets were still warm, faintly holding the shape of where Michael had been. You blinked against the soft morning light filtering in through the curtains and slowly sat up in bed, careful with your head.

A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open. Michael stepped in, balancing a tray with both hands — toast, scrambled eggs, some cut-up fruit, and a cup of tea that still steamed.

“Breakfast in bed?” you chuckled, memories stirring of quieter mornings months ago when you’d surprised him the same way.

“Like I said, you set the bar pretty high,” he said, quoting himself from that morning with a crooked smile.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your smile gentle and touched with sleep.

He made his way over and climbed into bed beside you with the tray. You shifted slightly to make room, sitting up a little straighter against the pillows he’d fluffed and stacked behind you the night before. He settled in next to you like it was second nature, his thigh pressed warmly against yours, careful not to jostle the arrangement supporting your head.

The tray rested comfortably across your lap, 

“How are you feeling?”

You took a moment before answering, eyes flicking down to the plate in your lap. “Okay,” you said slowly. “Still a little off, but… I don’t feel dizzy. And my stomach isn’t doing somersaults, so that’s a win.”

“Good. That’s good.” He nodded, though the crease between his brows lingered. Then, more gently, “How’s the head?”

“I’ll give you some meds after breakfast,” he said, his voice low, edged with concern. “Something mild, won’t knock you out.”

You nodded slowly, leaning into his touch just a little.

“Okay.”

He let his hand rest there a moment longer, thumb brushing lightly against your temple. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that?”

“I know...and thank you for yesterday at the ER, and last night...for taking care of me"

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he said, his voice low.

He just gave you a soft smiled and leaned in and kissed your forehead—slow, steady, like he needed reassurance as much as you did. When he pulled back, there was a softness in his eyes that lingered just a beat longer before he shifted the mood.

Michael exhaled quietly and gave a half-smile, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own. 

“Though I kept it light,” he said, nodding toward the plate. “Hoping it’s not bad enough that you threw it up like the chicken noodle soup a few times last night.”

You groaned through a laugh, nudging his arm. “Stooopp,” you said, drawing the word out as your smile spread. You knew he was joking gently, lovingly and it made you feel lighter somehow.

He grinned and leaned in, his lips brushing your temple in a soft kiss. “Just saying… if you do throw it up, I’ve got the basin nearby. We’re a well-oiled machine at this point.”

You laughed again, more freely this time, “You’re the worst.”

“Nah,” he said, handing you the fork. “Just your personal chef, doctor, and comedian all rolled into one.”

You smiled as you picked at the fruit, choosing a slice of melon first. Michael reached for a piece of toast, took a bite, and chewed beside you in comfortable silence.

Then, you glanced over at him, something soft but serious settling in your expression.

“Can we talk?” you asked quietly.

His chewing slowed. He looked at you—really looked at you—and nodded like he already knew what you meant.

“You sure you wanna do that now?” he asked gently. “We don’t have to… we can wait.”

You shook your head. “No. I think we should.” Your fingers toyed with the edge of the tray. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” he said immediately, setting the toast back down. “Of course. Whatever you wanna do.”

Together, without saying much else, you both reached for the tray. He helped steady it while you shifted slightly, and you slid it carefully onto the nightstand beside you. The plates clinked lightly as they settled.

He turned back to face you, one leg bent slightly on the bed, elbow resting on his knee as he looked at you with quiet patience.

“I thought about what you said—the night of my ceremony, sitting on that park bench, and then the morning after, when you told me I needed to figure out what I really want, what I truly need. You said if I kept pushing people away, I’d only end up hurting people who care. And I realized even myself and… after everything went down in the elevator, I broke up with Aiden that night. I told him I was done. That I needed to be on my own. I’ve been working on myself since then. I still am.”

Your voice faltered slightly, but you held his gaze, feeling the weight of every word between you. It wasn’t easy to say, but it was true. You were trying, really trying, to heal.

“You told me a man won’t make me question whether I’m loved… He won’t make me beg for affection, or make me feel like I’m asking for too much just by wanting to be seen.”

You swallowed hard, vulnerability threading through your voice. “That man… that man is you, Michael. And I want you. I want us.”

Your hand found his, fingers intertwining gently, searching for reassurance. “But I still have so much work to do on myself. I want to be whole before I can really be with someone. I hope you understand.”

Michael’s eyes softened, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Hey,” he said quietly, “we don’t have to rush into anything. We’ll take all the time you need.”

A warm relief washed over you, and you exhaled slowly, your heart beating steadier.

“We’ll go slow,” he continued, voice steady and certain. “At whatever pace feels right for you. Because you matter. And this—us—it’s worth waiting for.”

“You’re not worried?” you asked.

“About what?”

You hesitated. “That I’m… 25. Naive. Stupid… I don’t know…

You looked down at your guys hands. 

Michael didn’t speak right away. His, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but steady.

“The age gap crossed my mind,” he admitted. “You’ve still got so much ahead of you. And I’ve lived through a lot. I worried I might hold you back. That one day you’ll see all of this differently, me differently and regret it.”

You didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just full.

After a moment, Michael’s grip tightened just slightly, as if to anchor both of you.

“But the truth is,” he said softly, “being with you… it’s never felt like a mistake. Not once. I’m here because I want to be—with you—not because I’m trying to relive anything, or because I’m afraid of being alone.”

You looked up, meeting his eyes, searching for the certainty you needed.

“I know you’re young,” he continued, “and that life still has so much to show you. But I don’t want to hold you back. I want to walk beside you, whatever comes next.”

Your heart fluttered, caught between hope and fear.

“Do you really mean that?” you whispered.

Michael smiled gently. “More than anything.”

“Like k said we’ll take it slow. You set the pace—always. No rushing, no pressure. It’s about us, moving at whatever speed feels right for you.”

His fingers tightened gently around yours.

“I just want to be here—with you—however that looks.”

You felt the tension ease, like a weight lifting from your chest.

“Whatever you need, we’ll figure it out together….okay” 

“Okay” you smile. 

Your lips find Michael’s—soft, lingering kisses that make your heart flutter, but you can’t help the giggles that escape between each one.

He pulls back slightly, a crooked smile tugging at his lips as he searches your face, his eyes warm and curious.

“What? What’s so funny sweetheart?” he asks, chuckling softly, his brows lifting in genuine curiosity.

You press your fingers to your mouth, still grinning. “Your beard… It’s tickling my face.”

Michael chuckles, brushing his thumb gently along your cheek. “Oh really?” he teases, leaning in closer, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“It didn’t bother you before,” he says, raising an eyebrow playfully.

You smirk, teasing back, “Because when you first kissed me, tensions were high. I was too distracted by everything else to notice the tickles.”

He laughs quietly, the sound low and easy. “So you’re saying my rugged charm is… too much for you to handle now?”

You laugh again, softer this time, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him a little closer. “I’m saying your rugged charm needs a trim”

His grin widens, eyes twinkling with amusement. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he murmurs, pressing another gentle kiss to your nose. “But no promises.”

No more questions, no more worries—just a shared understanding. Whatever the future holds, you know you’re not alone. You and Michael are on the same page now, ready to take the next step, however slow or steady it may be.

Tags: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere@beebeechaos@antisocialfiore@delicatetrashtree@xxxkat3xxx@homebytheharbor@woodxtock@letstryagaintomorrow@livingavilaloca@elkitot@annabellee88@hagarsays@emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967@lafemme-nk @kmc1989@whos6claire@harrysgothicbitch@trustme3-13@qardasngan@silas-aeiou@k3ndallroy@ohmystrawberrycheesecake@ay0nha@404creep @dantemorenatalie @obfuscateyummy@steviebbboi@alliegc28@catmomstyles3@ardentistella@madprincessinabox@circumspectre@the-one-with-the-grey-color@thatchickwiththecamera@violetswritingg @valutfromlune @baileythepenguin@capj-1437@airgoddess@nah2991@interestellarprincess@laurensfilm@peachjellyy@aj3684@sorryimstupidrn@escapingjune@robbyslittlelamb@nicisthename92@littlezee80@lucidanne@spooky-librarian-ghost@the-salty-asian@lonelyheartsm@lovelyjulieee @memoriesat30 @glamorizethechaos @guiltypleassure243 @princessjayll @teapartydreams

Across The Hall | (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12)

[redcali]

SUMMARY: University AU where Caleb is one of MC's professors, 1.7K words

WARNINGS: NSFW 18+ MDNI, rough classroom sex, fluff and smut, aftercare

A/N: This fic is pretty smutty but Caleb and MC also high-key fall in love with one another

────────.✦

Professor!Caleb who can’t help but notice you in his lectures. The way your eyebrows scrunch up when you’re having trouble understanding a concept. When you’re raising your hand and asking him questions he’s struggling to really process anything because he can’t stop staring at you, with your wide-eyed expression and soft parted lips and the torrent of dirty thoughts that fill his mind.

Before he knows it, the front of his pants are all too tight. It’s your fault that he has to rush to his private office afterwards, hips bucking furiously as he furiously fucks into his closed fist, soft moans falling from his parted lips. Chanting your name as he cums so hard he sees stars, his head thrown back in pleasure. His cock is still throbbing afterwards, a shade of angry pink from all the stimulation. His face is red and he’s still breathless from his high. Why is he so attracted to you? He has never felt this way about a student , of all things…

Professor!Caleb who is popular with the students. They wave him goodbye as they leave the class. A group of girls crowd around him, gushing and giggling nervously. Professor Caleb smiles good naturedly but is quick to dismiss them as you walk up to him. He notices you immediately and the way your lips are trembling. His expression immediately shifts to one of genuine concern.

“Hey. What’s the matter?” he asks gently, leaning down to look at you. You’re clutching your stack of papers in your arms, avoiding his gaze out of embarrassment and guilt.

“I… about the graded project…” you fumble to find the right words. “I’m… I’m so, so sorry, sir, I know it’s due next week and all, but I’ve been so busy and I… things keep on coming up and I lost track of time. I swear, I’ve been trying to get started…but I don’t understand the concepts, I really don’t.” tears are threatening to well up in your eyes and you blink them away. 

Professor Caleb just stares at you. He swallows thickly. He’s trying to not think about how he can just bend you over the desk and fuck you right now as he forces himself to focus back on the current situation. Instead, he opts to say in a polite tone, “Which part of the concept do you not understand?”

You open your file, fishing out the lecture papers and flipping to the page with the confusing topic. Professor Caleb peers over your shoulder. Fuck, you smell so good. If given the choice though, he’d fuck you until you’re branded with his own scent.

Professor!Caleb who spends the next few hours in the empty classroom with you, forcing himself to be professional with his teachings. He keeps a respectful distance, though his gaze lingers a little too long sometimes—on the curve of your shoulder, the way your brow furrows in concentration, the soft sound of your sigh when the frustration starts to build again. Still, he says nothing. Just adjusts his glasses, leans over your desk, and quietly explains the concept again. And again. And again.

He’s patient, methodical, but unrelenting. He doesn’t let you skip ahead or brush things off.

By the time the session ends, your brain feels fried and your hand aches from writing. The sun has dipped lower, casting warm gold light across the floor. You’re slumped over the teacher’s desk, cheek pressed to your arm, eyes half-lidded.

Professor Caleb stands nearby, nervously fixing his tie, watching you with an unreadable expression. After a beat, he clears his throat and gently places a hand on your shoulder, his touch warm and steady.

You turn your head and smile up at him, tired but soft. In the golden light, he looks unreal—hair glowing like firelight, violet eyes catching flecks of amber, mouth slightly parted like he might say something. But he doesn’t. 

But it lingers in the air between you like the sunbeams painting the room.

“Thank you so much, Sir, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” you say softly. Caleb stills for a beat, almost imperceptibly.

“Anytime,” he replies, adjusting his tie again and pushing his glasses higher up on his nose bridge. “Please don’t be too hard on yourself. The other professors speak highly of you.”

You laugh, and he smiles faintly before excusing himself to grab coffee.

When he returns, the classroom is dark with the faint moonlight. You’ve fallen asleep at his desk, cheek resting against your folded arms, breathing steady. Caleb stands there, coffee forgotten, eyes fixed on you. His brows pinch together. You look so peaceful, so unaware of the war brewing inside him.

The next morning── .✦

You wake slowly, bleary-eyed and disoriented. The soft creak of the old desk beneath you follows as you sit up, groaning as your back protests in pain. Your limbs ache from sleeping hunched over, and you stretch sluggishly.

Something slides off your shoulders—a heavy warmth you hadn’t noticed until it was gone. You blink down at the sleek black suit jacket now pooled around your waist. Caleb’s suit jacket.

Your brows lift in surprise. Did he…?

You hold it up, brushing your fingers over the fine dark material. It’s warm, faintly wrinkled, and still carries the subtle, clean scent of him—something woodsy and refined. It clings to your clothes, your skin. Your face heats up before you can stop it. Gentlemanly. Of course he is. But you still can’t stop the flutter in your chest as you fold the jacket neatly, holding it close for just a second longer than necessary.

Professor!Caleb, despite his usual composure, finds himself growing a quiet soft spot for you. He watches you during lectures—making sure you're following along, subtly adjusting his pace if your brows knit in confusion. Sometimes you stay back, happily chattering about some event you were at and how much you enjoyed the art fair that you had gone to that week. Caleb listens and makes the occasional snarky comment that has you giggling and blushing.

Professor!Caleb who cannot believe that he’s currently making out with you in yet another empty classroom, after weeks and weeks of holding himself back. He’s famished and he ravishes you now. You’re whining into his ear, tugging at his tie.

He looks at you with desperation, and something…raw and primal. His hand finds the side of your face as he reattaches his lips with yours, and his other grip the plush of your ass, dragging you closer to him on his lap.

Professor!Caleb who’s rough and relentless when he is no longer restraining himself. “This what you wanted?” he whispers hoarsely as his fingers skim dangerously close to your aching cunt. You shiver. He’s standing up now, pulling you up and bending you over the desk, pressing your body down hard into the desk, your tits squishing up against the surface. 

“Let’s be honest… boys your age don’t know what to do with a woman like you. You need someone who knows how to touch, how to listen — how to make you fall apart and put you back together again. An older man. Someone who won’t waste a second guessing what you need.”

You moan uncontrollably. 

Professor!Caleb who takes his time with you. He wants you to fall apart for him before he takes you. He’ll make you cockdrunk and beg for his cock.

“P-professor!” you squeal as he drives his slender fingers relentlessly into your pussy. It’s almost vulgar how wet and obscene the squelching noises coming out from your pussy are. Your eyes are rolling into the back of his head as he repeatedly hits that sweet spot inside of you. 

“Aw, look at you. How pathetic.” he drawls. His chest is pressed up against your back. Caleb leans forward, capturing your lips in a sloppy make-out.

“P-please,” you sob, your fingers leaving marks on the wooden surface that is below you from how hard you are gripping it. “Need…”

“Need what? Baby, use your words.” he nips affectionately at the sensitive skin of your neck. You whine again, pressing your bare ass up into his clothed crotch. His breath hitches but he remains firm, pushing you back down on the desk.

“Bad girl.” A hand comes down, hard, on your ass. It stings and you moan brokenly.

“Ungh…fine! Please, I want you inside of me.”

You can feel him smirking into your neck. There’s the soft clinking of belt and zipper before you feel his thick hard length pressing up against your entrance. Caleb groans, low and strained. Flipping you over onto your back, he rubs you using your own slick, with his big cock. Your eyes widen as you stare down at it. Caleb grins, tapping your puffy clit with his cock. Pleasure shoots up your spine. That is the tipping point.

Professor!Caleb who makes you cum without even entering you. You claw at his back, crying and sobbing as he works you through the orgasm. “Cum for me, baby, I know you can. You like it when I hump you like this? You like it when my cock rubs up against your sensitive little clit?” 

He kisses you gently on the tip of your nose. “You’re doing so well for me, pips.”

Professor!Caleb who makes you go dumb on his cock. He’s thrusting into you, gripping onto your waist to keep you in place. You’re incredibly overstimulated and sensitive, having already cummed multiple times on his dick. He doesn’t seem like he’s stopping anytime soon, though. 

Aftercare ── .✦

Professor!Caleb who’s a gentleman and insists that he takes care of you at his place afterwards. You two take a bath together and he helps to clean you, massaging sweet smelling shampoo into your hair and checking for bruises. He wraps you up in a thick soft blanket when he’s done, kissing your forehead softly. He cooks up a storm, and you find out how good soup can taste. You two chatter away over dinner, talking and laughing until you have tears in your eyes. 

You insist on showing Caleb one of your favorite movies as you drag him over to his couch. However, it doesn’t take long before fatigue takes over you. You fall asleep, your head resting on his chest, your body curled awkwardly against him. He winces slightly at the discomfort of the position, but he doesn’t dare move, terrified of waking you up. 

For now, he’s content just holding you, feeling your steady breaths against him.

── .✦

A/N: Thinking about doing a Professor! xavier fic next, what do yalls think ^^

[reidmarieprentiss]

Forever & Always

Summary: At 28-years-old Spencer Reid finally has his first girlfriend, you. You are bold, confident, and experienced, everything he's not, and he feels very insecure because of it. You own your own nightclub, and when Sean Hotchner needs a job, you let him come and work for you. Spencer can't handle this attractive womanizer being in your space all day long. Will the two of you make it through this?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, angst, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: smut (18+) additional warnings under the cut, virgin Spencer, insecurities, not trusting partner, arguing, threatening people, therapy

Word count: 22.3k

a/n: Sean Hotchner is a treat for the eyes ,, but no one will ever be better than Spencer -- genuinely one of my favorite fics !!

main masterlist

Additional warnings: grinding, finishing in pants (m), light breast play, handjob

Spencer had always been confident in his knowledge, his intelligence a constant source of reassurance in his life. But this—this was different. Sitting across from you in the dimly lit coffee shop, his eyes flickered nervously to the table, then back to you. You were animated, telling a story about your friends, your laugh bright and infectious, but Spencer found it hard to focus. His mind kept drifting back to that quiet, gnawing feeling that had been lurking for a while now. 

You were his first real girlfriend. At 28, Spencer Reid had never been in a serious relationship, at least not one that had progressed beyond awkward dates or brief romantic entanglements that always seemed to fizzle out before they even began. But you were different. You were confident, experienced in ways he wasn’t. It wasn’t just about the relationship itself. It was everything. You had dated other people before him, had your fair share of relationships and even casual hook-ups. The weight of it pressed down on him like an invisible burden, one he wasn’t sure how to navigate.

Spencer forced a smile, willing the tension in his chest to settle as you finished your story, your words floating through the air like a melody. He didn’t want to let on that something was bothering him, not when he saw how happy you looked. He couldn’t be the one to disrupt that joy. 

“Spence?” Your voice softened as you noticed the subtle shift in his expression, the way his eyes lingered on you a little too long, as if he was lost in thought. “You okay?”

He blinked, his face instantly smoothing into a look of reassurance. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied quickly, his voice a bit too light. “I was just really... engaged in what you were saying. You always tell such great stories.”

Your smile brightened, the warmth of his words making you feel lighter, like you were walking on air. You chuckled, your fingers playing with the rim of your coffee cup as you gazed at him. “You smooth talker.”

Spencer returned your smile, but beneath it, a twinge of doubt lingered. He didn’t want you to think there was anything wrong—didn’t want to give away the insecurity gnawing at him. He wasn’t used to this, wasn’t used to feeling unsure about something. But the thought of appearing inferior to you, of not being enough, was something he couldn’t shake.

You, on the other hand, were oblivious to the internal struggle he was masking. You were just happy—so incredibly happy. In all your past relationships, there had been a constant feeling of walking on eggshells, of waiting for things to fall apart. But with Spencer, it was different. He was different. His kindness, his gentle heart, his brilliant mind—it was everything you hadn’t even realized you were searching for.

Spencer was the best person you had ever dated. And it scared you, deeply. The fear of messing things up gnawed at the back of your mind constantly. What if this ended the same way your past relationships had? What if this incredible thing you had with Spencer was fleeting, destined to crumble just like all the others?

But you didn’t want to think about that now. Not when you were sitting here with him, sharing moments that felt real, that felt good. You let out a breath, pushing away the nagging thoughts. Spencer made you feel like maybe, just maybe, this time could be different.

You caught his gaze again, your eyes softening as you took him in. “You know,” you started, leaning in a little closer, “I feel so lucky to have met you, Spencer. You’re... you’re unlike anyone I’ve ever been with.”

Spencer's heart ached at your words, a bittersweet pang that settled deep in his chest. You said it with such sincerity, such affection, but all he could hear were the things that made him different in a way he didn’t want to be. Of course, he was unlike anyone else you’d been with. How could he compare to the others? He was awkward, inexperienced, and—by his own assessment—weird. The guy who overthought everything, who could recite obscure facts but had no idea how to casually flirt or initiate a kiss without rehearsing it a dozen times in his head first.

So he forced a weak smile, nodding as if your words had filled him with the same happiness they brought you. But inside, it only made him feel more out of place, like he was somehow failing at this relationship without you even knowing.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice softer than he intended. He wanted to say more, wanted to tell you that being with you was the best thing that had ever happened to him. But instead, he let the moment pass, watching as your face lit up with excitement, diving into another story.

He focused on your words, or at least tried to. You had this way of captivating him, of pulling him into whatever you were talking about, but right now, it was harder to stay present. The feeling of inadequacy, of not being enough, pressed heavily on him. As you talked about past adventures, dates with friends, and experiences that felt so far removed from anything he’d ever known, Spencer couldn’t help as his fingers nervously tapped against the side of his cup, his mind wandering.

—

It was late, well past midnight, when you noticed Spencer’s quiet sigh as he shifted beside you in bed. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting long shadows on the walls. You had been reading, but you couldn’t focus on the book in your hands. Not when you could feel the weight of something pressing down on Spencer.

You set the book aside, turning onto your side to face him, your hand resting gently on his chest. “Spence,” you whispered softly, “what’s going on?”

His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling for a long moment before he sighed again, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your arm where it draped over him. “I don’t know,” he muttered, though the heaviness in his voice said otherwise.

You waited, knowing that he would open up when he was ready. That was how these late-night conversations always started. Sometimes it took a while for Spencer to find the words to express what was on his mind, and you had learned to give him that space.

Eventually, he turned his head to look at you, his brow furrowed, eyes shadowed with the insecurities he often tried to hide. “It’s just... I keep thinking about how different we are. You’ve had all these experiences, and I... haven’t. I’m still figuring things out, and sometimes I worry... I worry that it’s not enough for you. That I’m not enough.”

Your heart ached for him, the depth of his vulnerability cutting through the quiet of the night. You shifted closer, wrapping your arms around him, holding him as tightly as you could. “Spencer,” you whispered against his shoulder, “I don’t care about any of that. You being a—less experienced… doesn’t matter to me. It never has, and it never will.”

He let out a soft, shaky breath, his arms coming around you in return, but the tension in his body didn’t fully ease. “But what if... what if you change your mind? What if one day you realize I’m... I’m just not enough? I don’t know how to be what you deserve.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look him in the eye. “Spence, listen to me,” you said firmly but gently. “You are enough. You’ve always been enough. I didn’t fall in love with you because of some checklist of experiences or expectations. I fell in love with you. All of you. The dorkiness, the brilliance, the way you look at the world. I don’t care if you never want to have sex, or if we figure it out together. What matters is that I love you, exactly as you are.”

He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering down to where your fingers were tracing soothing circles on his chest. “I want to believe that,” he whispered, his voice so small, so fragile.

You pressed a soft kiss to his temple. “I know it’s hard,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his skin. “But I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. With you. Always.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of your breathing and the quiet hum of the world outside. Spencer’s grip on you tightened as if holding on to the reassurance you offered. The doubt didn’t disappear entirely—it never really did. But you could feel him relax into your embrace, letting himself lean on you, trusting in your words even if the insecurities still lingered.

“You know,” you said after a while, a playful lilt entering your voice to lighten the mood, “you’re not the only one who has insecurities, Spence.”

He turned his head, curiosity softening the edges of his earlier worry. “What do you mean?”

You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’m terrified of messing this up. Of somehow ruining the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Your voice was light, but the truth behind it was evident.

His brow furrowed, clearly confused. “You? You’re worried about messing things up?”

You nodded, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “Yeah. Every relationship I’ve had before this… it’s ended in an unsavory way. I don’t want that to happen with us, I don’t want us to end at all. You’re different, Spencer. In the best way. And I want this to last.”

Spencer’s expression softened, a small, almost shy smile appearing on his face. “I guess we’re both a little scared, then.”

“Maybe,” you agreed, resting your forehead against his. “But we’re in this together, okay? No matter what happens, we’ll figure it out.”

He kissed you then, a tender, lingering kiss that felt like a promise. When you pulled away, he whispered, “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You smiled, your heart swelling with affection. “You deserve every bit of happiness, Spencer Reid. Don’t ever doubt that.”

Though the insecurities never fully went away, they didn’t define your relationship. Over time, those late-night conversations became a safe place for both of you, a time to share your fears and your hopes, to remind each other of what you had.

And despite the occasional moments of doubt, you and Spencer were happy—truly happy. You built a relationship that was healthy, full of love, trust, and understanding. You were a team, navigating life together, and every step forward only brought you closer.

Because, in the end, it wasn’t about who had more experience or who was more confident. It was about being there, for each other, in every way that mattered. And that was more than enough.

—

Sean Hotchner leaned against the doorframe of Aaron’s office, his disheveled appearance a stark contrast to the professional atmosphere of the BAU. His hair was longer than Aaron remembered, tousled in a way that made it look like he had just rolled out of bed. The leather jacket slung over his shoulder was worn, his jeans frayed at the edges. Aaron barely looked up from his paperwork as Sean cleared his throat, but the tension in the room was palpable.

"Sean," Aaron greeted flatly, his tone carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken frustrations. He didn’t even need to ask why his younger brother was here. Sean only showed up when he needed something.

“Aaron, man, I need help,” Sean began, already trying to soften his tone as he stepped inside. He glanced at the bullpen behind him, noticing the open door but not caring enough to close it. "I, uh, got fired from my job. Again."

Aaron’s jaw tightened, his hand clenching around the pen he held. "And?"

"And I lost my apartment," Sean continued, running a hand through his hair. "I don't have anywhere to go. I was hoping… I could crash with you for a bit. Just until I get back on my feet."

Aaron finally looked up, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied his brother. His fingers drummed impatiently against the desk as he exhaled through his nose. “So, let me get this straight—you got fired, again, and now you’re asking to live with me? Sean, this is the third time. When are you going to take responsibility for your life?”

Sean shifted uncomfortably, glancing down at his boots. “I know, I know. It’s just... I hit a rough patch, alright? I’ll figure it out, I just need some time.”

Aaron’s frustration boiled just beneath the surface, his voice rising slightly, enough that it carried out into the bullpen. “You always say that, Sean. ‘I’ll figure it out.’ But you never do. I can’t keep bailing you out every time you screw up.”

In the bullpen, the conversation didn’t go unnoticed. Everyone sat at their desks, their eyes darting toward Aaron’s office. Emily leaned over to JJ, lowering her voice but not enough to hide her words.

“Is that Hotch’s brother?” Emily whispered, her eyes widening as she watched Sean from across the room.

JJ nodded, her gaze flicking between Aaron’s stern expression and Sean’s slouched posture. “Yeah, that’s Sean. He hasn’t been around in a while.”

Penelope, standing nearby, leaned in with wide, curious eyes. “Okay, but, uh... is it just me or is Sean... kind of hot?”

Emily raised an eyebrow, a teasing smirk forming on her lips. “Oh, it’s not just you. He’s definitely got that... bad boy thing going on.”

JJ chuckled softly, shaking her head. “You two are terrible.”

Penelope shrugged dramatically. “What? I mean, I’ve heard stories, but I didn’t know Hotch had such an attractive brother! Seriously, if I didn’t know better, I’d be thinking some very impure thoughts right now.”

“Garcia,” JJ admonished lightly, but she was clearly amused.

They all tried to suppress their laughter, watching as Aaron’s stern voice carried into the bullpen, his frustration with Sean evident. But they couldn’t help the whispered commentary as Sean stood there, looking like the picture of trouble.

“I’d hate to see what Hotch is going to do to him once that door closes,” Emily mused, shaking her head. “But I have to admit, he’s got a certain... charm.”

Penelope wiggled her eyebrows playfully. “Maybe I should go in there and offer him some moral support.”

JJ rolled her eyes, grinning. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s exactly what he needs right now.”

Back in the office, Aaron had stood up, his hands planted firmly on his desk as he glared at Sean. "You need to grow up, Sean. This can’t keep happening. I’ve got Jack to think about now. I’m not running a halfway house."

Sean's shoulders slumped, his voice lowering as he tried to appease his brother. "I know, Aaron. But I don’t have anyone else. Please, just this one last time. I swear I won’t mess it up."

Aaron ran a hand over his face, torn between anger and the sense of duty he always felt toward his family, no matter how much they disappointed him. His voice softened slightly, but only just. “This is the last time, Sean. I mean it.”

Sean gave a small nod, grateful but visibly embarrassed, as he mumbled, “Thanks, man. I owe you.”

As he turned to leave the office, the gossiping trio quickly straightened up, trying to look busy. But as Sean made his way toward the exit, Penelope couldn’t resist shooting one last glance, her voice barely above a whisper. “I mean... Hotch’s brother, right? Who knew?”

JJ stifled a laugh, shaking her head as she turned back to her paperwork. Meanwhile, Emily just smiled knowingly, her eyes trailing after Sean for a moment longer before settling back into work.

No one noticed Spencer sitting at his desk behind them, listening to every word.

—

That evening you and Spencer sat across from each other at your dining table, plates of food between you, but Spencer’s voice held an unusual tension as he recounted the events of the day. His fork poked absentmindedly at his meal, his eyes flickering between you and his plate as he spoke.

“So, Sean Hotchner showed up at the bureau today,” Spencer began, his tone neutral but carrying an undercurrent of something heavier. “Apparently, he’s having a tough time. Lost his job again.”

You tilted your head slightly, setting your fork down to give him your full attention. “Sean? Aaron’s younger brother, right?”

Spencer nodded. “Yeah. He’s... been bouncing around, trying to figure things out. He came to Hotch for help, and it sounds like he’s pretty desperate.”

You sighed softly, a familiar pang tugging at your heart. You knew that feeling all too well—the desperation, the uncertainty of trying to rebuild when everything felt like it was crumbling. “That’s rough. I feel for him. It’s not easy trying to make something of yourself when you’ve hit rock bottom.”

Spencer glanced at you, his brows knitting together slightly. He knew your story, knew how hard you had worked to pull yourself up and build something successful out of nothing. Owning a nightclub wasn’t just a job—it was a symbol of everything you had overcome.

You took a sip of your drink, lost in thought for a moment before something clicked. “Does Sean have any bartending experience?”

Spencer raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting the question. “Uh, yeah, actually. He’s worked at a few bars. That’s where he got fired from, this last place.”

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you reached for your phone, fingers quickly typing out a message. Spencer watched, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

“What are you doing?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual, though his curiosity was piqued.

You looked up, still smiling as you explained, “I’m texting Hotch. I can offer Sean a working interview tomorrow at my club. We’re always looking for good bartenders, and if he’s in need, it’s worth a shot, right?”

Spencer froze, his fork hovering in mid-air, his brain scrambling to catch up with what you’d just said. He forced a smile, but there was a storm brewing inside him. Not because you had texted Hotch—Spencer had long accepted that your relationship with his boss had developed into a friendly, professional one—but because of Sean.

He had seen Sean walk into the bureau today, watched as the women in the office had practically swooned when they saw him. Sean was tall, undeniably attractive, with an easy charm that Spencer knew was irresistible. It didn’t help that Sean had a reputation. Spencer knew he had “gotten around,” experienced in ways that Spencer wasn’t. And now, Sean was going to be working for you, in your club, where you’d be seeing him regularly.

Jealousy gnawed at Spencer’s insides, dark and insidious, feeding on his deepest fears—that one day, someone else would come along. Someone like Sean. More experienced, more charming, more… everything.

But he couldn’t let you see that. He couldn’t let you know how much this was eating at him. So, instead, he plastered on a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and leaned back in his chair.

“That’s... that’s really generous of you,” Spencer said, his voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil he felt. “I’m proud of you, honestly. It’s such a kind thing to do, helping him out like that.”

You beamed at his words, unaware of the storm raging inside him. “Well, it just makes sense, you know? If he’s a good bartender, why not give him a chance? It’s not like I’m handing him the job—he still has to prove himself.”

Spencer nodded, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched you. He could see how happy you were to be able to help, how genuine your intentions were, and it only made him feel worse for the insecurities twisting in his gut.

You reached across the table, taking his hand in yours. “I love you, Spence,” you said softly, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “I’m glad you’re okay with this. I was worried you might think I was overstepping by getting involved.”

Spencer swallowed hard, squeezing your hand gently. “Of course I’m okay with it,” he lied, his smile still in place. “I love you too, and I’m so proud of how much you’ve accomplished. You’re always looking out for people, giving them chances. It’s one of the things I admire most about you.”

You smiled again, leaning across the table to kiss his cheek. “Thanks, Spence. That means a lot.”

As the conversation shifted to other topics, Spencer kept his mask firmly in place, not letting his doubts show. But deep down, that gnawing feeling refused to go away. No matter how much he tried to push it aside, the thought lingered: What if one day, you realized someone like Sean was better?

—

Sean had already impressed you the moment he walked through the doors of your nightclub, right on time for his working interview. Dressed in the attire you had specified—black from head to toe—he looked sharp and professional. You had expected someone more casual, maybe even a bit cocky given his reputation, but Sean Hotchner showed up ready to work.

Aaron had called earlier that morning, expressing his gratitude for your offer. "I really appreciate this," he had said, his voice heavy with something between relief and exhaustion. "But you don’t have to feel obligated to help Sean. He’s not your responsibility."

You had assured Aaron you didn’t mind at all. After all, you were always on the lookout for good bartenders. "Especially since I just promoted my best bartender to the VIP level," you had explained. “We’ve got space to fill, and if Sean can handle the bar, it’ll be a win-win.”

Now, as you watched Sean behind the bar, you felt a quiet sense of satisfaction. He moved with precision, taking orders smoothly, mixing drinks quickly, and keeping up with the flow of the night like a seasoned professional. It was clear he had experience, and that gave you a sense of relief. You had taken a chance on him by allowing him to skip the usual server stage, something you typically required of all new hires. But it seemed like that gamble was paying off.

You made your way over to the bar as Sean finished serving a group of customers. He noticed you approaching and straightened up, giving you a nod. "How’s it going?" you asked, leaning against the counter with an approving smile.

“So far, so good,” Sean replied, a hint of confidence in his voice. “I’m used to a fast pace. It feels good to be back behind the bar.”

You smiled, appreciating his composure. “I have to say, you’re doing a great job. I usually don’t let people jump straight to bartending, but you’ve handled everything perfectly tonight.”

Sean’s face lit up with a genuine smile, his posture relaxing a little. "Thanks, that means a lot."

You nodded, understanding the weight of those words. "I think we can skip the formalities—if you’re interested, the job’s yours."

Sean’s eyes widened slightly, clearly surprised by the offer. "Really? Just like that?"

"Just like that," you confirmed. "You’ve shown me enough tonight. You know what you’re doing, and I could use someone like you on the team."

He blinked, momentarily taken aback by the swiftness of it all, before breaking into a grin. "Thank you. Seriously, I won’t let you down."

"You’d better not," you teased, giving him a wink. "Welcome to the team."

As Sean returned to his work, you stood back, watching him interact with customers and noticing how well he fit in with the atmosphere of the club. He was a natural behind the bar, and you were already confident in your decision. 

The next day, before the crowd came in, Aaron stopped by to check on his brother. As you greeted him, he glanced toward the bar, where Sean was preparing before what was supposed to be a busy shift.

"I have to thank you again," Aaron said, his tone sincere. "Sean needed this, more than you know."

You shook your head, brushing off the sentiment with a smile. "He’s doing a great job. Honestly, I think I’m the one who got lucky. You were right—he’s not my responsibility, but I’m happy to have him here."

Aaron gave a small, appreciative nod, his face softening. "I’ll make sure he knows how grateful he should be. You’ve done more for him than you realize."

You smiled, watching as Sean continued his work, his focus sharp and his movements steady. "He’s earned it, Aaron. I’m glad I took the chance."

Later that night, the club was in full swing, lights flashing in sync with the beat of the music, and the energy was palpable. People crowded the dance floor, moving to the rhythm, while others clustered around the bar, talking and laughing as they sipped their drinks. You navigated the floor easily, greeting regulars and keeping an eye on how things were running. It was a typical Friday night—lively, loud, and just the way you liked it.

In the center of the dance floor, Derek and Emily were having the time of their lives. Derek had drawn Emily out to dance almost as soon as they arrived, and now the two were lost in the music. Emily laughed as Derek spun her around, her dark hair flying as she moved effortlessly with him. Their laughter echoed even over the thumping bass, and it was clear that they were in their element, shaking off the stress of the week.

“Come on, Em! You can do better than that!” Derek teased, flashing her that playful grin he was famous for.

“Oh, you think so?” Emily shot back, her competitive side kicking in as she matched his dance moves with a flick of her hips. “Watch and learn, Morgan.”

Nearby, JJ stood at a high-top table, sipping a cocktail while watching them, shaking her head with an amused smile. “They’re ridiculous,” she said, laughing softly.

“They’re having fun,” Penelope added, her eyes glowing with excitement as she scanned the room. “This place is amazing! Y/N has really outdone herself!”

But Spencer was quieter than the rest, standing a little farther back from the group, his drink untouched in his hand as his eyes remained locked on the bar where Sean worked. He wasn’t dancing or chatting like the others; his focus was entirely on you and Sean. Spencer’s jaw tightened slightly as he watched the two of you exchanging easy conversation. You stood at the bar, laughing at something Sean said as he mixed drinks with practiced ease.

Sean was good, no doubt about it. He looked completely in his element behind the bar, effortlessly charming customers as he handed out drinks, his smile quick and easy. And there you were, standing beside him, looking equally relaxed and at home in your own nightclub. You smiled at Sean, gave him a friendly nudge as you helped out, your laughter ringing out above the hum of the crowd.

Spencer’s grip on his glass tightened just a fraction.

"Spence?" JJ’s voice pulled him out of his spiral. She was looking at him with concern, her head tilted slightly. "You good?"

Spencer quickly forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… thinking.”

JJ gave him a knowing look but didn’t press further. “You sure? You’ve been staring at the bar for a while now.”

Spencer swallowed, forcing his gaze away from the scene. “Just... keeping an eye on things,” he said, trying to sound casual.

But his eyes drifted back, drawn to the way you leaned in close to talk to Sean, laughing easily at something he said. Spencer clenched his jaw, trying to shake off the irrational jealousy. He didn’t want to feel this way—not when he trusted you so deeply. But the insecurities simmered just beneath the surface, no matter how much he tried to tamp them down.

At the bar, you noticed Spencer’s gaze from across the room, giving him a quick wave and a bright smile, unaware of the storm brewing in his head. Spencer waved back, forcing himself to return your smile, but his heart was still heavy with the weight of his unspoken fears.

As Derek and Emily continued to dance, their carefree energy a stark contrast to the tension building inside Spencer, he tried to push his jealousy aside. He wanted to trust in what you had, to remind himself that you loved him, not Sean.

But as he watched you lean against the bar, your attention completely on Sean as he worked, Spencer couldn’t help but feel that gnawing insecurity settle deeper in his chest.

Spencer’s eyes flickered toward you again as you moved across the club, checking on customers, making sure everything was running smoothly. Even in your all-black uniform, which was meant to look professional, you somehow made it look effortlessly chic. The fitted black blazer, the lace tights, and that sleek skirt—it all came together in a way that caught people's attention. And it wasn’t just the customers. Spencer saw how Sean’s gaze lingered a little too long every time you walked away, his eyes drifting down to the hem of your skirt, to the low neckline of your top.

It didn’t sit right with Spencer. He tried to tell himself that Sean wasn’t doing anything out of line—he was just looking, and maybe that was normal. You looked amazing, after all. But it gnawed at him, the way Sean’s eyes followed you, the way he smiled that easy, flirtatious smile at customers and coworkers alike. There was something too comfortable about the way Sean was acting, and Spencer couldn’t shake the irritation growing in his chest.

JJ was talking with Penelope next to him, her attention catching on Sean’s antics at the bar. She chuckled, leaning closer to Spencer, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. “Classic Sean,” she said, shaking her head as she watched him chat up a group of women by the bar. “Talking up every person within earshot.”

Spencer didn’t laugh. He didn’t find it funny. His fingers gripped his drink a little tighter, his jaw tensing as he tried to ignore the bubbling jealousy rising inside him. Sean wasn’t just talking to the women, he was clearly charming them, making them giggle and blush with every word.

Why did I even come tonight? Spencer thought to himself. Maybe staying home would have been the better option. Watching Sean work the bar—watching him charm the customers, and worse, watching him look at you—was a slow burn of frustration that Spencer didn’t know how to handle.

JJ nudged him lightly with her elbow. “You sure you’re alright, Spence?”

He forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, I promise, I’m fine,” he said quietly, though his thoughts were far from fine.

He didn’t want to seem insecure, didn’t want to show just how much Sean’s presence was bothering him. But it was hard to shake the image of Sean’s lingering glances, the flirtatious air about him, and the unsettling thought that maybe, just maybe, Sean was good for you in ways that Spencer wasn’t.

As you made your way over to Spencer and his friends, completely unaware of the internal storm that had been brewing inside your boyfriend all night, your smile brightened when you saw him. “Hi, baby,” you said sweetly, leaning down to give Spencer a quick peck on the lips.

But to your surprise, instead of the brief kiss you were expecting, Spencer’s hands found their way to your waist, pulling you in closer as he deepened the kiss. His lips lingered on yours longer than usual, and the intensity of the gesture caught you off guard. You could feel the heat of his hands through the fabric of your blazer, the possessiveness in his grip that was unlike him, especially in public.

When you finally pulled back, slightly dazed, your cheeks flushed as you whispered, “Damn, baby, what did I do to deserve that?” You playfully tucked a loose strand of his hair behind his ear, grinning at him.

Spencer’s grip on you didn’t falter. In fact, he pulled you even closer, positioning you between his spread thighs from where he sat on the stool. His gaze was soft, but there was something in his eyes, something deeper. “You just look so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low, almost vulnerable. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, feeling heat rise to your face. Spencer wasn’t usually so bold, so forward—especially not in front of other people. The sweet boy you loved was often shy, reserved, but this moment? This was different. It was as if he was trying to show you something, stake a quiet claim that you couldn’t quite understand.

You gave him another quick kiss, smiling softly against his lips before pulling back. “Well, thank you,” you said, feeling your own cheeks flush. You glanced at the group with a bright smile before excusing yourself to check on a few things at the bar. As you walked away, Spencer’s eyes followed you, his hand still resting on his thigh, feeling the lingering warmth where he’d held you close.

No sooner had you disappeared from view than Penelope was already nudging Spencer with a playful grin. “Spencer Reid!” she teased, her voice brimming with amusement as she lightly slapped his shoulder. “Save it for later, horn dog!”

Spencer felt his entire face turn scarlet, his heart pounding with embarrassment. He wasn’t trying to be… well, that! But the way Penelope’s eyes twinkled, the implication that she thought the two of you were all over each other in that way, made him squirm in his seat.

“Oh, come on, don’t blush, pretty boy,” Penelope giggled, thoroughly enjoying his discomfort. “You’ve been staring at her all night. We know what’s on your mind.”

JJ joined in, her laugh warm and teasing. “Yeah, Spence, is that why you’ve been keeping an eye on her all night? Can’t wait to get Y/N all to yourself later?”

Spencer wished he could disappear into thin air. He shrugged, trying to play it cool despite the heat rising to his ears. “Something like that,” he muttered, but the truth weighed heavier on him than he wanted to admit.

It wasn’t that Spencer wasn’t physically attracted to you—he adored every part of you—but the teasing only made him feel more inadequate, more aware of the gap between your experience and his. The others didn’t know. They had no idea that he hadn’t crossed the line into physical intimacy with you yet, despite your relationship being serious, despite you having already moved in together and said “I love you.” 

Most couples would have by now, he thought bitterly. And everyone else, Penelope and JJ included—they probably assumed you two were just like everyone else, that he was just another guy in a committed relationship. The teasing implied as much.

But Spencer knew the truth, and it gnawed at him—those dark fears he kept bottled up, that you would eventually find someone more experienced, more capable, someone who could offer you more than he ever could.

The soft click of the door echoed through the apartment as you stepped inside, already feeling the exhaustion from the long night creeping in. It was well past 3:00 a.m., the time when the world was quiet, and you expected the same from your apartment. Usually, Spencer would be fast asleep by now, his rhythmic breathing a comforting sound you’d find when you crawled into bed after closing the club. But tonight, as you set your bag down and kicked off your heels, you were surprised to see the warm glow of a lamp in the living room.

Spencer was sitting in his favorite green armchair, the soft pages of a book resting in his lap as he looked up, a sleepy but genuine grin spreading across his face. The sight of him there, waiting for you, made your heart swell. His hair was slightly disheveled, his long fingers trailing off the edge of the chair as he beckoned you closer with open arms.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he mumbled, his voice warm and low, the kind of greeting that made you feel instantly at home.

You couldn’t resist the invitation, crossing the room in a few quick strides before slipping into his arms, settling into the chair with him. “Hi, my love,” you sighed, leaning into his warmth, your face nuzzling into the crook of his neck as you inhaled his familiar scent. The combination of coffee and books was something uniquely Spencer, and it always made you feel safe.

“How was closing?” he asked, his voice gentle as his hand moved to stroke your back in slow, soothing circles.

You shivered lightly at his touch, enjoying the familiar rhythm of his fingers. “It was fine,” you murmured, your breath soft against his neck. “Sean is so much faster than Amber was. It makes things a lot easier.”

As soon as the words left your lips, you felt it. The way Spencer’s body tensed beneath you, the way his hand paused for a fraction of a second before continuing. You didn’t think much of it at first—maybe he was just tired—but then his touch changed. The gentle strokes on your back turned into something more deliberate, more intent as his hand slid lower.

“Hmmm,” Spencer hummed, his tone almost too casual. “I’m glad he’s been helpful.”

You opened your mouth to continue, but your thoughts trailed off as Spencer’s hand slid down further, past the small of your back, coming to rest on your thigh. His fingers pressed into the fabric there, his thumb tracing slow circles that sent a shiver through you. At first, you didn’t think much of it—Spencer’s touch was always affectionate, but this felt different.

“Yeah, he really has been—” Your sentence was cut short as Spencer’s hand traveled higher, his fingers brushing over your ass with a boldness that caught you off guard. His touch was unmistakable now, filled with an intensity you weren’t used to seeing from your typically gentle and reserved boyfriend.

You lifted your head, pulling back slightly to look into his eyes, searching for the meaning behind this sudden shift. His gaze was dark, filled with something you hadn’t seen before—jealousy and possessiveness that simmered just beneath the surface.

“Is this okay?” Spencer asked, his voice a little rougher than usual, his hand still resting firmly on your body.

You blinked, your heart racing a little faster as you processed his question. “Yeah, baby, of course,” you whispered, stroking his cheek softly with your thumb. You gave him a reassuring smile, letting him know there was nothing to be uncertain about. “You can touch me anywhere.”

At your words, you felt something shift in Spencer. A quiet storm brewing behind his soft exterior, flared up. His hand flexed against you, and you could see it in his eyes now—he was staking his claim, reminding himself, and maybe even you, that he was the one who had the right to be close to you like this.

He was the one allowed to touch you, to hold you, to love you. Not Sean, not anyone else. Only him.

Without another word, Spencer pulled you closer, his grip on you tightening slightly as if to make sure you understood. You weren’t sure where this sudden intensity came from, but it made your heart race in a different way. This wasn’t the soft, shy Spencer you were used to. This was something deeper, something more primal. And for a moment, you were both wrapped up in it, the quiet room charged with unspoken tension.

You pressed a kiss to his lips, slow and tender, hoping to ease whatever storm was brewing inside him. “Spence,” you whispered against his lips, “I’m yours.”

Spencer's heart pounded in his chest as the moment stretched between you. He had always felt a deep sense of attraction for you, but acting on it had been something he’d carefully avoided—out of nervousness, out of insecurity. But tonight there was something about the way you had reassured him, the way you said he could touch you, that ignited a new kind of confidence in him. 

He leaned down, closing the space between you, and kissed you with a passion that surprised even him. It was much like the kiss you’d shared earlier at the club, only this time there was an intensity behind it—a hunger that had been quietly building for a long time. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as his lips moved with yours, no longer tentative, but sure, as though he had made a silent decision within himself.

You were taken aback for only a brief moment, but not at all upset by the new direction your night was taking. If anything, you were thrilled to see this side of him, this bolder, more assertive Spencer. You brought both hands up to cradle his face, your thumbs gently stroking his jawline as you kissed him back, pouring all your affection into the moment. His hands, meanwhile, began to roam your body, exploring what little he could in this current position, his fingers tracing the curve of your hips, your thighs. There was an eagerness in his touch, a yearning that you could feel pulsing from him.

You could sense that he wanted more, that he wasn’t sure how to ask for it, but you knew. You knew exactly what he needed. Without a word, you sat up from where you were nestled in his lap, moving slowly so you could shift your position. You swung one leg over him, straddling his lap and settling back down, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders. Then, with a teasing smile, you took his hands in yours, guiding them back to where he seemed to want them the most—onto your ass. 

“Better?” you asked, your smirk playful, though your heart was racing just as fast as his.

Spencer’s breath hitched slightly, the weight of your body on his lap combined with the newfound freedom in his touch making him dizzy with need. His fingers instinctively squeezed the flesh beneath them, reveling in the feeling of holding you like this, of having you so close.

“Much,” he managed to say, his voice weak with desire, his eyes wide as he looked up at you. He leaned forward again, capturing your lips in another kiss, more urgent this time. His hands tightened around you, holding you as if afraid you might slip away. You could feel the tension in his body as he leaned into the kiss, the way he was holding back so much yet giving in more than he ever had before.

The kiss deepened, and you could feel the heat between you building as his hands roamed your back, your thighs, then found their way back to your ass, squeezing you with newfound confidence. He wasn’t just nervous Spencer anymore—he was Spencer who wanted you, and that thought made you smile against his lips.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to catch your breath and look into his eyes. His gaze was filled with a mix of awe and desire, as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening, yet he was determined to take the leap.

“I love this side of you,” you whispered, your fingers brushing through his hair as you leaned your forehead against his. “But we don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

As you whispered those reassuring words, you saw the subtle flicker of doubt flash across Spencer’s face. His confidence, which had been so bold a moment ago, seemed to waver. You could practically see the question forming in his mind—Did you not want this? Was he misreading the situation? 

You were quick to close the gap between his fear and your truth. “I want to do everything with you, baby,” you murmured, leaning in to kiss him softly, your lips brushing against his with tender intent. Then, in a playful move, you gently bit down on his bottom lip, just enough to make him whine, a small, needy sound escaping his throat that sent a thrill through you. “I just don’t want to rush anything,” you continued, your voice soothing but firm. “We have all the time in the world.”

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, making sure your next words landed where they needed to. “I am not going anywhere, okay? You don’t have to worry about that.”

Spencer’s chest rose and fell with the deep breath he took, his gaze softening as your words sank in. He nodded, his hand still resting possessively on your waist. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath but carrying the full weight of his emotions.

You smiled at him, a loving, genuine smile that only deepened his feelings. “I love you more,” you whispered back before leaning down to kiss him again.

In that moment, the kiss was everything. Soft, slow, reassuring, full of the love and trust that you’d both built together. But then, as you shifted in his lap, your body moved instinctively—rolling your hips ever so slightly. You hadn’t meant to, but the unmistakable hardness beneath you pressed against your core, causing a delicious friction that neither of you expected.

Spencer whimpered into your mouth, the sound raw and unrestrained, his hips jerking upward involuntarily in response to the sudden, new form of pleasure. The sensation seemed to spark something deep inside him, a rush of need that had been bubbling under the surface for so long. You felt his fingers tighten on your waist, his breath hitching as he chased the friction, his body moving beneath you as if on autopilot.

The way Spencer reacted to the brief touch, the soft sounds of desperation coming from him, sent a thrill through your own body. You could feel the heat rising between you both, the chemistry shifting from sweet to something more electric. Your lips hovered just above his, your breath mingling with his as you caught the look in his eyes—dark, yearning, and yet still so full of love.

You kissed him again, slower this time, savoring every second as your hands cupped his face, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “Spence…” you whispered, his name a quiet plea on your lips, “Does that feel good, baby?”

“Mhm,” he whined softly, eyes closed as he leaned into the feeling, chasing the sensation your touch brought him. His body responded instinctively, moving with you, completely lost in the moment.

You were just about to suggest something more, thinking about shedding some of the clothing between you, when suddenly, Spencer stilled beneath you. His entire body tensed, and before you could ask what was wrong, he let out a long, unexpected moan. You felt it—an undeniable wetness seeping through your tights. 

Spencer’s eyes shot open in mortification, his face flushing crimson as he realized what had just happened. Panic set in immediately, and without a word, he scrambled out from under you, pushing you off gently but urgently as he bolted toward the bathroom. 

You barely had time to process what had happened before he disappeared behind the door. The sound of it closing echoed through the quiet apartment, leaving you sitting there, still feeling the heat of the moment but now overtaken by concern. You stood up, adjusting yourself and taking a deep breath, your mind quickly shifting from your own arousal to Spencer’s sudden distress.

You followed him to the bathroom, heart heavy as you heard him breathing heavily on the other side of the door. Gently, you knocked, your voice soft and filled with care. “Spencer? Honey, are you okay?”

A sniffle came from the other side, a sound that broke your heart. “No,” he whimpered, his voice small, ashamed.

You leaned your forehead against the door, trying to offer him comfort without pushing too hard. “Can I come in?” you asked, your tone gentle and filled with reassurance.

“No,” he answered again, his voice cracking, clearly embarrassed.

You sighed softly, wanting nothing more than to hold him, to make sure he knew there was nothing to be ashamed of. “Why not, baby?” you asked, your voice soft but persistent.

Spencer hesitated, his breath shaky as he tried to find the words. “Because... because I... I... ruined it,” he stammered, his voice thick with tears.

Your heart broke at his words. Ruined it? There was nothing to ruin. You leaned against the door more firmly, wanting him to hear the sincerity in your voice. “Spencer,” you said softly, “you didn’t ruin anything, my love. Please let me in. We can talk about it, okay?”

He sniffled again, his breathing still shaky. You could hear him shifting on the other side, his back still pressed against the door. “I... I couldn’t control it. I didn’t mean to... it’s so embarrassing,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Baby, it’s okay,” you reassured him, feeling your own heart ache for him. “It’s normal. It happens. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, I promise.”

There was a pause, and you could hear him take a deep breath, as if he was trying to gather himself. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you heard the soft click of the door unlocking.

Slowly, you opened the door and found Spencer standing there, his eyes red-rimmed, his shoulders slumped in defeat. His gaze dropped to the floor, avoiding yours out of sheer mortification. Without thinking, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a comforting embrace.

He hesitated at first, still feeling the weight of his embarrassment, but eventually, his arms came around you, holding on tightly as if you were his lifeline.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled into your shoulder, his voice muffled and thick with emotion.

You pulled back just enough to cup his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. Your eyes were filled with nothing but love and understanding. “Spencer, you don’t have to be sorry,” you said softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He blinked at you, clearly still struggling to accept that. “But... it was... I didn’t even—”

“Shh,” you soothed him, gently placing a finger against his lips, your voice soft but reassuring. “How about we focus on how that felt, yeah?”

Spencer’s brow furrowed slightly, tilting his head at you, still unsure how to navigate this moment. His embarrassment was still fresh, but your calmness helped ease the tension that had built up inside him.

“Did it feel good, baby?” you asked, your tone gentle and coaxing. “Like something you’d want to try again?”

There was a moment of hesitation before the realization hit Spencer—what you were doing. You weren’t focusing on his embarrassment, his mistake. You were helping him see past it, guiding him back to what mattered: the feeling you had shared, the intimacy of the moment. His heart swelled with gratitude, a soft warmth spreading through his chest.

“Yes,” he said softly, his voice filled with relief and sincerity. “It did.”

You smiled up at him, and that smile was all it took to melt the remaining tension in his body. Leaning in, you kissed him, a slow and tender kiss filled with the reassurance that everything was okay, that he was okay. “I liked it too,” you whispered against his lips. “Maybe we can do that again soon?”

Spencer’s lips quirked into a small smile, more confident this time. “I would like that,” he admitted, his voice steady, a little more sure of himself.

Your heart swarmed with affection as you pulled him close, pressing your cheek against his as he tucked his head into the crook of your neck, his body relaxing into yours. You gently rubbed his back, feeling the tension ease from his muscles as he sighed against your skin.

“Do you want to shower, Spence?” you asked softly, your hand trailing soothing patterns up and down his back.

Spencer nuzzled closer to you, his voice a low mumble into your skin. “Together?”

You smiled, kissing the top of his head. “We can,” you hummed, “but if that’s too much right now, I don’t mind leaving. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Spencer shook his head rapidly, pulling you closer. “Don’t want you to go anywhere.”

“Okay, okay,” you soothed, your fingers still brushing lightly across his back. “I won’t leave. We can shower together.”

Spencer sighed happily, his arms tightening around you as if to confirm that you were staying, that you weren’t going anywhere. He pressed a soft kiss to your neck before mumbling, “Just… don’t look at my penis, please?”

You couldn’t help the soft laugh that bubbled up, but you quickly reassured him, kissing his cheek as you whispered, “Of course, my love. My eyes will stay on your face.”

With that promise, Spencer relaxed further into you, his trust in you deepening with every passing second. The shame and embarrassment from earlier slowly dissolved, replaced by the comforting knowledge that you accepted him fully, without judgment. You held him for a moment longer, your arms wrapped securely around him.

The shower was filled with steam and laughter, the sound of water splashing mixing with your playful giggles and Spencer’s rare, carefree chuckles. It was the first time you had shared the shower, a new experience that was turning out to be much more fun than either of you had expected. Usually, one of you would sit outside on the toilet, talking through the curtain while the other showered. But now, the barrier was gone, and the playful side of both of you was in full swing.

You couldn’t resist puffing your cheeks full of water and spitting it in Spencer’s direction, making him laugh out loud as droplets hit his chest. “Hey!” he protested, though his grin betrayed him as he retaliated with a splash of his own, his hands sending a wave of water your way.

You laughed, dodging the water as best as you could, enjoying this lighthearted, silly moment between you two. It was refreshing to see Spencer like this, so relaxed, his usual careful demeanor replaced with playful mischief.

But there was something else too. Spencer tried his hardest to keep his eyes on your face—his eyes darting up quickly whenever they drifted a little lower. You couldn’t help but giggle each time he looked away, a blush creeping up his neck, his face flushed for reasons beyond just the heat of the shower.

After the fourth or fifth time of catching him sneaking a glance only to immediately avert his eyes, you decided to call him out on it. “Spencer,” you giggled, crossing your arms over your chest playfully. “I am your girlfriend, you know?”

Spencer looked back at you, his brow furrowing in that adorable, confused way he did when he was trying to figure something out. “I know that, why are you asking?” he asked, his head tilting slightly, genuinely perplexed.

You couldn’t hold back your laughter at his expression, shaking your head in amusement. “Because, you big dork,” you cackled, “you’re allowed to look at my boobs! You can even touch them if you want!”

Spencer’s eyes widened, his blush deepening as he processed your words. “I—well, I just didn’t want to... I mean...” He stammered, looking flustered but also a little curious, his gaze flickering down before darting back up to your eyes. “I didn’t want to seem disrespectful.”

You burst out laughing, stepping closer to him, your hands resting lightly on his chest as you stood on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Spence,” you said between your giggles, “you could never be disrespectful. Trust me.”

He blinked, still looking a little unsure but also charmed by your playfulness. “I... I guess that makes sense,” he murmured, his lips curving into a shy smile.

You rolled your eyes affectionately, moving his hands from your waist to your chest with a smirk. “Here, I’ll even help you.”

Spencer’s face turned crimson as he felt the softness beneath his hands, his fingers lightly tracing over your skin as if he were still processing what was happening. His touch was tentative, delicate, like he wasn’t sure if he was doing it right.

You smiled, leaning in to kiss his nose. “See? Not so scary, right?”

He swallowed, finally letting himself relax a little, his thumb brushing softly over your skin. “Not scary,” he echoed softly, his eyes filled with a mix of wonder and affection. Then, as if realizing the silliness of it all, he let out a small laugh, shaking his head at himself.

You both stood there in the warmth of the shower, your bodies close, the steam curling around you as Spencer finally allowed himself to look, to touch, to enjoy this new level of intimacy with you. It was another step in your relationship, one that made both of you feel more connected, more comfortable with each other.

But as always, you couldn’t resist keeping the moment light. With a mischievous grin, you puffed your cheeks full of water again and spat it playfully in Spencer’s direction, causing him to sputter in surprise and laugh as he wiped his face.

“Hey!” he laughed, shaking his head as water dripped from his hair. “You’re gonna pay for that!”

“Oh yeah?” you teased, backing up against the wall of the shower with a grin. “What are you gonna do about it, Dr. Reid?”

Spencer’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he stepped closer, the playful dynamic back in full swing, earlier embarrassment long forgotten. It was just the two of you now, laughing, teasing, and enjoying each other in the most carefree way. And that, in the end, was what made this moment perfect.

—

As the weeks rolled on, Spencer found himself spending more and more time at your nightclub. It had become a routine for him during his free weekends, a way to be closer to you. On the busier nights, he would sit at the bar, watching you work, admiring the way you effortlessly ran the place. And on weeknights, when you invited the bartenders in during closed hours to practice making new drinks, Spencer would linger in the background, quietly observing.

But each time he visited, something gnawed at him. It wasn’t just the crowd, the music, or the dim lighting of the club—it was Sean. At first, Spencer tried to brush it off. He chalked it up to Sean’s naturally charming personality, how bartenders often carried themselves with confidence, flirting with customers as part of the job. But now, Spencer couldn’t help but feel like there was something more.

Sean’s eyes seemed to linger on you longer than they should, or at least that’s how it appeared to Spencer. Over the past few weeks, with Spencer spending more time at the club, he became convinced that Sean had started flirting with you. His words seemed just a bit too smooth, his smiles lingered a little too long. Spencer couldn’t ignore the casual way Sean would lean in when he spoke to you or how he seemed overly attentive whenever you checked in at the bar.

What Spencer didn’t know, however, was that Sean had recently confided in you about his lack of attraction to women. While he wasn’t out of the closet yet, he wanted to make sure his playful, flirtatious behavior was never misunderstood. It was all in good fun, a way to keep the atmosphere light and easy at work, and he trusted you enough to share his truth, knowing it wouldn’t affect your friendship or professional relationship.

One night, after a long day, you and Spencer were curled up on the couch, your legs draped over his lap as the two of you settled into your usual post-work relaxation. You were absentmindedly playing with Spencer’s hand while a TV show played in the background, the glow of the screen filling the cozy living room. But Spencer’s mind wasn’t on the show. His thoughts were elsewhere—back at the club, and back on Sean.

“Hey…” Spencer began, his voice hesitant as his fingers traced small circles on your knee.

You looked over at him, smiling softly. “Yeah, babe?”

He chewed on his bottom lip, trying to find the right words. He didn’t want to sound paranoid, but the thought had been eating away at him for days now. “I think… I think Sean’s been flirting with you.”

You blinked, taken aback by his statement. “What? Sean?” The idea made you laugh—not to be dismissive of Spencer’s feelings, but the thought of Sean flirting with you, his boss, was almost comical. “Spence, no way.”

He frowned slightly, feeling a bit vulnerable after putting it out there. “I’m serious. He looks at you… and I’ve heard him make little comments. I don’t know, it just feels like he’s always trying to get your attention in a certain way.”

You laughed again, shaking your head, though your tone was softer this time, recognizing the seriousness in his voice. “Baby, bartenders flirt. It’s literally part of the job. They flirt with everyone—it doesn’t mean anything.”

Spencer’s shoulders slumped slightly. He knew you didn’t mean to dismiss his concern, but it stung a little. “Yeah, I know, but… it’s different with him. I see the way he acts around you. It’s not the same as with other people.”

You shifted, sitting up a bit to face him, brushing a hand through his hair. “Spencer, I promise you, Sean’s just doing his job. If he’s flirting, he’s doing it with every customer that walks through the door.” You smiled warmly, leaning in to kiss him softly. “And even if he was flirting with me, it wouldn’t matter. You’re the only one I have eyes for.”

Your words were meant to reassure him, but Spencer still felt that unease. He didn’t doubt your loyalty or love for him, but there was something about Sean that bothered him. He could sense it—the subtle charm, the lingering glances that made his stomach twist with jealousy. But he didn’t want to seem overly paranoid or insecure, especially not after you had laughed off the idea. So, instead of pushing it further, Spencer just nodded, giving you a weak smile in return.

“Yeah… you’re probably right,” he murmured, though the knot in his chest hadn’t untangled.

You kissed him again, resting your head on his shoulder. “Of course I’m right. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

But even as you both settled back into your cozy position, Spencer couldn’t shake the nagging feeling. He didn’t want to keep bringing it up, didn’t want to seem annoyingly jealous or insecure, so he kept it bottled up after that night, silently watching from the sidelines each time he visited the club. But each time Sean’s eyes lingered too long on you, or every time Spencer caught the slight inflection in Sean’s voice when he spoke to you, the feeling festered inside him, unresolved.

—

Spencer hadn't realized just how much his pent-up frustration was affecting him—at least, not until the team started to notice. What began as subtle shifts in his demeanor during interrogations had gradually turned into something much more obvious. Spencer had always been the calm, logical one. The genius with a kind heart, who often sought to understand unsubs and their motivations. But recently, something had changed.

During takedowns, Spencer's grip on suspects was firmer, his actions more aggressive than they needed to be. When it came to interviews and interrogations, he was no longer the patient profiler with a steady voice. His words were sharp, cold, and sometimes downright cutting. He'd lean in too close, his eyes dark with intensity, and his voice would drop to a low, threatening tone that made even the most hardened criminals flinch. He became a version of himself that no one on the team recognized.

It all came to a head when they brought in a person of interest—someone who wasn’t even officially connected to the crime yet, just a potential witness. The woman had been nervous enough as it was, but the moment Spencer stepped into the interrogation room, his usual warmth and understanding were gone. Instead, he stared her down, his eyes hard, his tone biting as he drilled her with questions. The more she stammered, the harsher he became, until finally, the woman broke down in tears, sobbing uncontrollably.

Hotch had seen enough. The moment Spencer walked out of the interrogation room, his jaw tight and his hands clenched at his sides, Hotch made the decision to pull him aside.

“Reid, conference room. Now.”

Spencer barely glanced up, his frustration still evident, but he followed Hotch without a word. The rest of the team exchanged uneasy glances as they watched him disappear into the room, the door closing firmly behind them.

Hotch turned to face Spencer, his arms crossed, his face unreadable. "What the hell is going on with you, Reid?" His voice was stern but not unkind, giving Spencer the chance to explain himself.

Spencer, still bristling with residual anger, shifted uncomfortably. “What do you mean?” He knew exactly what Hotch meant, but he wasn’t ready to admit it yet.

“You made a person of interest cry, Spencer,” Hotch said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “That woman was barely connected to the case, and you broke her down like she was the unsub. This isn’t like you.”

Spencer crossed his arms, suddenly feeling defensive. “She wasn’t cooperating. I was just trying to get the truth out of her.”

“There are ways to get the truth out of people that don’t involve scaring them,” Hotch countered. “You’ve always known that. But this—this isn’t the Reid we all know. What’s going on?”

Spencer clenched his jaw, his eyes dropping to the floor. For a moment, he considered brushing it off, making some excuse about the stress of the job, but he knew Hotch wouldn’t buy it. The truth of it was, Spencer didn’t even fully understand what had been driving him lately. All he knew was that something inside him had shifted, a growing aggression that he couldn’t quite shake.

“It’s… it’s nothing,” Spencer muttered, though he knew how weak the excuse sounded.

“Reid, you and I both know that’s not true,” Hotch said, his voice firm but not unkind. “You’ve been on edge for weeks. I’ve noticed it, and so has the rest of the team. Whatever’s going on with you, you need to talk about it. Before it gets worse.”

Spencer exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. His mind raced, filled with thoughts of the one thing that had been eating away at him for weeks: Sean and the club. The jealousy, the fear, the constant feeling that he wasn’t enough. He had tried to keep it bottled up, had tried to pretend that everything was fine, but clearly, it wasn’t. And now, it was affecting his work—affecting who he was.

“I…” Spencer’s voice faltered, his throat tightening as he realized how ridiculous it might sound to Hotch. But there was no point in hiding it anymore. “It’s personal.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further, his gaze steady as he waited for Spencer to continue. The silence stretched between them, a gentle but firm reminder that Hotch was giving Spencer space to be honest.

Spencer shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of the conversation hanging over him. He knew what Hotch was expecting, what he should say, but the truth was harder to face than he anticipated.

“I’ll talk to someone,” Spencer finally said with a sigh, running a hand through his hair in a tired gesture. His voice was laced with reluctance, but there was a genuine attempt to reassure his boss. “I promise.”

Hotch studied him for a moment longer, the skepticism clear in his eyes, though he didn’t vocalize it. He knew Spencer well enough to recognize when he was pushing something down, burying it beneath layers of self-control and avoidance. And as much as Hotch wanted to push further, he also knew that Spencer was an adult—one who had to take ownership of his own emotions.

“Alright,” Hotch finally said, his tone even. “I’m trusting you to handle this, Spencer. Don’t let it get worse.”

Spencer nodded, though a small part of him wasn’t sure if he’d follow through. But the weight of Hotch’s gaze made it clear that this conversation wouldn’t be forgotten easily.

Hotch gave a final nod, his demeanor softening just slightly as he spoke. “Take care of yourself, Reid.”

Spencer forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I will,” he said, though the truth of the promise felt heavy.

With that, the conversation ended, and Spencer made his way out of Hotch’s office, feeling the quiet pressure of everything that had built up inside him over the past few weeks. He knew he had to do something about it—he had to talk to you, or someone, before this spiral led him further down a path he didn’t want to follow.

For now, though, he’d keep the promise to himself, hoping that he’d find the strength to follow through.

—

Spencer had barely set foot through the door before you were there to greet him, your usual warmth and love surrounding him as you kissed him softly, welcoming him home. But instead of the usual sense of relief he felt in your embrace, something inside him snapped. The frustration from the case, from everything that had been building inside him, surged to the surface.

Without thinking, Spencer grabbed your face, pulling you into a deep, urgent kiss. It wasn’t the kind of kiss you were used to from him—it was rough, almost desperate. He devoured your mouth like he was trying to lose himself in you, his hands gripping you tighter than usual. You assumed it was just the result of a tough case, and maybe he just missed you. But something about the intensity of it was off.

As Spencer’s hands tugged at the hem of your shirt, right there in the walkway by the front door, you tried to pull back slightly to ask him if everything was okay. But he didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just didn’t care—because he kept tugging, his fingers working to get your shirt over your head.

You let him pull it off, still unsure of what was going on but trusting that Spencer wouldn’t act like this without reason. Maybe he just needed you, needed to feel close to you. But when he backed you towards the bedroom with that same roughness, something in the pit of your stomach twisted with unease.

Then, when he pushed you onto the bed—aggressively, without the usual care he always showed—alarm bells started ringing in your head.

"Spencer!" you called out, your voice louder than intended, hoping it would snap him out of whatever was happening.

But Spencer didn’t stop. If he noticed your tone, he either misread it or ignored it, because he crawled over you, his hands fumbling with your pants now, too focused on what he was doing to realize you were uncomfortable.

Panic set in then. This wasn’t your Spencer. He had never acted like this before. You pushed at his hands, your heart racing as you called out again, louder this time.

“Spencer, stop!” you shouted, finally shoving his hands away from your waist.

Spencer froze, his body going rigid above you as your words seemed to cut through the fog of whatever had taken over him. His eyes widened slightly, and you could see the mix of confusion and shame washing over his face as he registered what you had said.

“What’s gotten into you?” you asked, your voice breathless but firm, your hands still on his chest to keep some distance between you.

For a moment, Spencer didn’t say anything. He looked away, the sting of rejection clear in the way his shoulders slumped and his hands fell limply to his sides. “Nothing,” he muttered, his voice quiet and defensive.

You sat up, pulling your shirt back on, your concern growing with every second that passed. “It’s obviously something, Spence. You’ve never acted like this before.”

Spencer kept his eyes down, not meeting your gaze. “I just… I just missed you,” he mumbled, though you could tell there was more to it than that. The way he was avoiding your eyes, the tension in his body—it all told you that this wasn’t just about missing you.

You reached for his hand, gently pulling him to sit down on the bed beside you. “I know you missed me,” you said softly, trying to keep your tone calm and reassuring. “But this isn’t like you. Please, talk to me.”

Spencer’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might stay silent. But then, he let out a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand over his face as if he was trying to push away whatever emotions were swirling inside him.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he admitted quietly, his voice thick with frustration. “I’ve just… I’ve been feeling so off lately. Angry. Insecure. And I keep telling myself not to, but… I can’t stop thinking about Sean, and how he looks at you, and how much better he is at everything, and—” He stopped abruptly, his hands clenching into fists in his lap as he tried to control the storm of emotions building inside him.

You blinked, finally starting to piece together the reason behind his behavior. “Spence, this is about Sean?”

Spencer’s shoulders sagged, his silence confirming your suspicions. He finally looked up at you, and in his eyes, you saw all the fear, jealousy, and insecurity he had been trying to hide for weeks.

“I know it’s stupid,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I know you love me, and I know he’s just a bartender at your club, but… I can’t stop feeling like I’m not enough. Like you’ll realize you could have someone… better.”

Your heart broke at his words. You cupped his face gently, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Spencer,” you said softly, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “You are more than enough. I love you. There is no one better for me. Sean is just a coworker. You’re the man I want, please believe me.”

Spencer sat back on his heels, looking down at his hands, feeling the weight of his own frustration and shame. He had never wanted to make you uncomfortable, never wanted to act like this, but the jealousy that had been building inside him finally broke through. Now, here he was, on the edge of ruining something so precious to him.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know we talked about it, and I know you don’t see Sean that way. It’s just… it’s so hard, watching him flirt with you every day. And you don’t stop him. It feels like… like I’m not enough.”

You sat up, still catching your breath from the intensity of the moment, but your heart ached hearing his words. You hadn’t realized how deep his insecurities ran. The playful flirting from Sean, which you had brushed off as part of the job, had been festering inside Spencer for weeks, and you hadn’t seen it.

“Spencer, baby,” you started, your voice gentle but firm as you reached for his hand. “You are enough. More than enough. I don’t let him flirt with me because I want him to, or because I’m interested. It’s his job to be friendly, charming even, but that’s all it is. I don’t see Sean the way I see you. I only have eyes for you.”

Spencer looked up at you, his eyes filled with vulnerability. “But what if one day… what if one day you change your mind?” he asked softly, the fear evident in his voice. “What if one day, you find someone who’s more… experienced, more everything?”

You cupped his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “That’s not going to happen, Spencer,” you said firmly. “I love you. Not because of experience, or because of anything physical, but because of who you are. You’re kind, brilliant, thoughtful, and you make me happier than I’ve ever been. No one else even comes close.”

Spencer swallowed, the lump in his throat making it hard to speak. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t mean to… to act like that. I just—I didn’t know how to handle it.”

You stroked his cheek, offering him a small, understanding smile. “It’s okay,” you reassured him. “But we need to talk about these things, okay? If you’re feeling like this, I want to know. I don’t want you to keep it bottled up until it explodes like this.”

Spencer nodded, his head dipping down as he let out a shaky breath. “I know. I just… I didn’t want to seem weak.”

“You’re not weak, Spencer,” you said softly, leaning in to press a tender kiss to his forehead. “Being vulnerable doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. And I’m here for you, no matter what. We’ll get through this together.”

He let out a long sigh, his body finally relaxing as the tension drained out of him. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close as if he were afraid to let go.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice muffled against your skin.

“I love you too, Spencer,” you whispered back, holding him just as tightly. "Always."

Later that evening, after Spencer had unpacked his things and taken a long, soothing bath, the two of you settled onto the couch with a bowl of popcorn and a movie playing softly in the background. The warm, familiar glow of your living room felt comforting, but you couldn’t help but notice how hesitant Spencer was. He sat beside you, his body tense, his hands resting awkwardly in his lap, as though he was afraid to touch you. 

It broke your heart to see him like this, to see him so uncertain. You knew he still felt guilty about what had happened earlier, worried that he had somehow ruined everything.

“Honey,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet. “You can still hold me, you know… or if you’d rather, do you want me to hold you?”

Spencer looked up at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of relief and hesitation. But then, slowly, he nodded, his expression softening as he shifted on the couch. He leaned over, laying his head gently in your lap, and you couldn’t help but smile at how vulnerable and sweet he looked in that moment.

As soon as his head was settled, you instinctively began playing with his hair, your fingers threading through the soft strands as you stroked him gently. You felt him relax under your touch, his body finally easing into the comfort of your presence.

“Spencer,” you began, your voice soothing as you continued to run your fingers through his hair. “Earlier, I was worried because we haven’t gone that far before. That doesn’t mean I never want you to touch me again. Okay? I just want us to be on the same page, to make sure we’re both ready.”

He nodded again, his face nestled against your thigh as he let out a soft sigh. “I get it,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to push you or anything. I just… I didn’t know how to handle everything I was feeling.”

You leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to the top of his head. “I know, baby. And we’ll figure it out together, at our own pace. There’s no rush.”

Spencer shifted slightly, looking up at you with soft, grateful eyes. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice filled with emotion. “For being so understanding.”

You smiled warmly, leaning down to kiss his forehead once more. “I’ll always understand, Spence. You never have to be afraid of that.”

As you continued to play with his hair, Spencer closed his eyes, letting the comfort of the moment wash over him. You could feel the tension in his body melt away, and soon enough, he was relaxed and peaceful, knowing that everything between you two was going to be okay.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks, Spencer felt like he could truly breathe again.

—

You had taken a Friday night off to be with Spencer, trusting your number two to keep things running smoothly. Spencer had taken you to dinner, wined and dined you before bringing you home and kissing you sweetly. Now the room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting a warm, intimate atmosphere around you both. You had been kissing for what felt like hours, tender and slow, taking your time with each other. Spencer’s hands had wandered, tentative at first, but growing more confident as the moments passed. You had already reassured him a dozen times over that you were ready, that this was something you wanted to share with him.

And now, the moment was here. You laid in front of him, completely bare, your skin bathed in the soft light. Spencer’s eyes roamed over your body, wide and filled with awe. His breath hitched in his throat, his hands shaking slightly as they reached out to touch you. He was gentle, reverent, as though he were afraid of hurting you by merely looking.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice barely audible as his fingertips ghosted over your skin. He took his time, memorizing every curve, every line, as if he wanted to commit every inch of you to memory.

You smiled softly, your heart swelling with affection as you leaned down to kiss him. “Thank you, baby.”

Spencer swallowed hard, still staring in awe. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” he admitted, his voice trembling slightly. “You’re perfect.”

You laughed softly, your heart swelling with warmth. "I’m not perfect, Spence."

He looked at you with nothing but sincerity in his eyes. "You are to me," he said, his voice full of honesty and affection.

With only mild hesitation, Spencer leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your collarbone, his lips trailing slowly down to your breasts. He explored every inch of you with care, his lips brushing your skin tenderly. You couldn't help but let out soft whines of pleasure, and Spencer, trying to learn what you like, paid extra attention when your sounds grew louder, lingering in the spots that made your breath hitch.

As your hands instinctively found their way into his hair, gripping softly, Spencer's teeth accidentally grazed your nipple when his lips suctioned to your breast. The unexpected sensation caused you to arch your back and moan loudly, the sound filling the quiet room.

Spencer immediately pulled back, his face filled with concern, eyes wide in alarm. "Are you okay? Did I hurt you?" His voice was thick with worry, afraid he had crossed a line.

You shook your head quickly, reassuring him as your hands stroked his hair gently. "No, no, baby, I liked it," you whispered, your breath still shaky from the pleasure. "It's okay. It felt good."

Relief washed over Spencer’s face, his lips curling into a small, nervous smile as he realized he hadn’t hurt you. He leaned back in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, and this time, he allowed himself to explore you with even more confidence, knowing that you were both in this together.

Spencer froze for a moment, his eyes wide with concern, his breath shaky as he pulled back just enough to search your face. His brow furrowed, worry evident in every inch of his expression. “Are you sure?” he asked softly, his voice laced with uncertainty. His hands hovered over your body, not daring to touch you until he knew for certain that you were alright. 

You smiled up at him, your heart swelling with affection at just how much he cared. Reaching up, you gently brushed a hand through his hair, guiding him back toward you. “I’m sure, Spence. I liked it, I promise,” you whispered reassuringly. “You didn’t hurt me. In fact, I liked it a lot.”

Spencer’s eyes searched yours, still looking for any signs of discomfort, but all he found was warmth and trust. Slowly, his shoulders relaxed, the tension in his body easing as he took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, though his face softened with a hint of relief. “I didn’t mean to—”

You cut him off with a soft kiss, pulling him closer, your hands threading through his hair again, this time more gently. “You don’t have to apologize,” you murmured against his lips. “I love everything you do, Spencer. Just… trust me, okay? Trust that I’ll tell you if something is wrong.”

He nodded, still looking a little unsure but reassured by the sincerity in your voice. His eyes softened as he leaned back down, pressing a tender kiss to your lips before trailing them once more along your collarbone, and then lower, toward your chest. This time, there was a careful gentleness in his touch, though the intensity hadn’t faded.

You arched your back again, your body responding to his kisses, to the way his lips brushed against your skin with both tenderness and a growing confidence. As he felt you grip his hair again, Spencer’s lips paused just for a moment, as if waiting for any sign that you weren’t comfortable. But when your soft moans filled the room, he took that as all the permission he needed to continue.

His lips pressed harder, his hands exploring your body with more intent, and this time, when his teeth grazed your skin, he did it purposefully, testing the boundaries of your pleasure.

And when you moaned again, louder this time, Spencer felt a surge of something—both pride and desire—swell inside him. He kissed you again, his lips and teeth finding the spots that made your breath hitch, his hands moving with a confidence that he hadn’t known he possessed until now.

In that moment, you both shared something deeper, a connection that wasn’t just about trust but about exploring each other fully, knowing that in this space, in this moment, there was nothing but love, vulnerability, and acceptance.

—

The bookstore was a haven of calm, a peaceful retreat from the world. The scent of old paper, leather-bound books, and the soft rustle of pages being turned created an atmosphere of quiet serenity. It was the perfect place for you and Spencer to spend the afternoon. 

From the moment you walked in, hand in hand, you could see how at home Spencer felt here. His eyes lit up with excitement as he scanned the shelves, fingers trailing over spines as if each book held a personal story he was waiting to uncover. You loved watching him like this—so in his element, so absorbed in his passion for knowledge and discovery.

But, of course, the playful side of you couldn’t resist adding a bit of mischief to the day. As Spencer dove headfirst into the non-fiction section, his attention already lost in the spines of ancient history volumes, you snuck off into a different aisle, peeking around the corner like a spy on a secret mission. You had been teasing him since you arrived—jumping out at him from behind shelves, sneaking little pokes and playful scares.

You watched from your hiding spot, stifling a giggle as Spencer carefully examined a thick book, oblivious to your plan. His brow furrowed in concentration, a small smile playing on his lips as he skimmed the pages. You took the opportunity to tiptoe closer, hiding behind a row of shelves, waiting for the perfect moment.

Finally, when Spencer rounded the corner, deep in thought about which book to buy next, you jumped out, arms raised in mock menace. “Gotcha!” you shouted with glee.

Spencer yelped, his eyes going wide in surprise as he stumbled back a step. For a split second, his brain went into overdrive, trying to process the sudden "threat." But then, his startled expression melted into laughter. “You’re ridiculous!” he chuckled, shaking his head at you, a fond smile tugging at his lips.

You couldn’t help but laugh along with him, your giggles filling the quiet space between the rows of books. You wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him into a tight hug, your face pressing against his chest as you felt his warmth seep into you. 

“Maybe,” you said with a grin, looking up at him, “but you love it.”

Spencer’s smile softened, his arms coming around you as he held you close. He leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin. “I do,” he murmured, his voice gentle, full of affection. “I really do.”

You both stood there for a moment, wrapped in each other, the world fading away as the quiet of the bookstore enveloped you. Spencer's hand moved up to your back, rubbing slow circles as you soaked in the comfort of the moment. There was something magical about being here together, surrounded by the books he loved and the peaceful intimacy of just being with each other.

After a few moments, you pulled back slightly, your playful grin returning. “Alright, Dr. Reid,” you teased, “what book are we getting?”

Spencer's eyes lit up again, and he immediately turned his attention back to the stack of books he had been eyeing. "Well," he began, his voice taking on that enthusiastic tone you loved so much, "I’ve been looking at this one on the history of cryptography. It has some fascinating insights into early codebreaking techniques used in ancient times, and—" He caught himself, his eyes flickering to yours as he smiled sheepishly. “But I’m not sure you want to hear me ramble about that.”

You shook your head, stepping closer to him and placing your hand on his arm. “I always want to hear you ramble, Spence,” you said sincerely. “Tell me all about it.”

His eyes softened, and for the next few minutes, he explained the intricacies of the book, his voice animated and full of passion. You listened intently, loving every second of seeing him so in his element.

After Spencer finished his enthusiastic information dump, the way his eyes lit up while talking about cryptography and ancient codebreaking made your heart swell. You couldn't resist the urge any longer. Without saying a word, you leaned in and kissed him, your lips pressing softly against his, filled with all the affection you felt in that moment.

Spencer blinked in surprise, a grin slowly spreading across his face as you pulled back. “What was that for?” he asked, his tone playful, though his cheeks flushed pink from the unexpected kiss.

You shook your head, smiling warmly as you looked into his eyes. “I just love you so much,” you said softly, feeling your chest fill with warmth at how easy it was to be with him, how completely in love with him you were in moments like this.

His grin softened into something more tender, and his hand found yours on the table, squeezing it gently. “I love you too,” he whispered, his voice filled with sincerity and that same vulnerability that always made your heart flutter.

—

The next time you found yourselves in an intimate position, the energy was different. The tables had turned, and now it was Spencer’s turn to be vulnerable, to bare himself completely to you. As you stood together in the hallway, you could feel the shift in the air, the weight of the moment pressing softly between you two. 

“Spence, are you sure?” you asked gently, guiding him by the hands into the bedroom, your fingers brushing lightly over his knuckles. “There’s no rush, baby. We can take our time.”

Spencer paused, meeting your gaze with a nervous but determined smile. His heart was pounding, but he trusted you—more than anything. “Yeah,” he said, giving you a small nod. His voice trembled slightly with nerves, but his eyes were soft with affection. “You showed me yours, I’ll show you mine, right?” He laughed, albeit a bit awkwardly, trying to lighten the tension.

You smiled back, your heart swelling with love for him. “Exactly,” you said softly. “But only if you’re ready.”

He nodded again, more confidently this time. “I’m ready.”

Once inside the bedroom, the atmosphere felt warmer, more intimate. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated the space, and as you stood in front of Spencer, you gently reached for the buttons on his shirt. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling quickly as you carefully unbuttoned the fabric, your fingers brushing over his skin as you went. 

With each button undone, you let your hands glide over his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. You couldn’t resist the urge to lightly trace the curve of his sides, your touch featherlight as you tickled him just enough to make him giggle.

Spencer’s reaction was instant—his eyes squeezed shut as a small, surprised laugh escaped him, his hands quickly grabbing yours to still them. “Behave,” he playfully warned, his face flushed but full of affection.

You laughed softly, loving the way his guard was down, how he trusted you so completely in this moment. “Sorry,” you teased, leaning in to place a gentle kiss on his collarbone, your lips brushing against the smooth skin. “I couldn’t resist.”

He let out a soft hum, his fingers still holding yours but more gently now, as if to anchor himself. He was nervous, you could tell, but he was also present, allowing himself to be open with you in a way that made your heart swell.

As you helped him slip off his shirt completely, you took a step back, your eyes scanning his body with nothing but admiration. Spencer’s vulnerability in this moment only made you love him more. You could see the uncertainty in his eyes, but he was doing this for you, for both of you, and that meant the world.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered, your voice sincere as you reached up to cup his face, your thumb brushing lightly over his cheek. “You don’t have to be nervous with me, Spence. I love all of you.”

Spencer’s eyes softened, the tension in his body easing slightly as your words settled over him. He leaned into your touch, his hands resting gently on your waist as he let out a small, relieved breath. “I know,” he whispered, his voice full of gratitude and affection. “And I love you, too.”

Spencer took a deep breath as you carefully removed the last of his clothing, leaving him completely bare before you. The tension in the room was palpable, but you couldn't resist easing it with a light-hearted joke. “Can I look this time?” you asked with a teasing grin.

Spencer laughed, the sound nervous but genuine, and it was enough to break the heavy silence hanging over you both. “Yes,” he replied, his voice still a bit shaky. “You can look.”

So look you did, your eyes trailing down his body with genuine admiration. And when your gaze settled, you couldn’t help but let out a playful gasp, your tone incredulous. “You’ve been hiding this from me? Are you kidding, Spencer?”

His eyes widened, panic flashing across his face for a brief second. “What? Is it… is it bad?” His voice trembled, the insecurities he’d tried so hard to suppress bubbling up to the surface again.

You immediately shook your head, moving closer to him, gently pushing him to lie back on the bed as you sat beside him. “No, baby, it’s not bad,” you reassured him softly. Your hand reached out, wrapping around him gently, and Spencer’s body tensed at the sensation. “It’s really not bad.”

“Ah—fuck, Y/N,” Spencer groaned, his eyes squeezing shut as his hips instinctively bucked upward. It was the first time he had ever felt someone else touch him like this, and the overwhelming sensation sent shivers through his entire body. His breath hitched, and his hands fisted in the sheets, the intensity of the moment almost too much for him.

You couldn’t help but smile at his reaction, your thumb gently brushing over his tip as you whispered, “You are so pretty, baby.”

Spencer’s heart pounded in his chest, his face flushing as he absorbed your words. The mix of vulnerability and pleasure left him almost speechless, his mind reeling as you continued to touch him, each movement slow and careful. He had never felt anything like this before, and the way you handled him with such care only made him fall even more in love with you.

As your hand moved with gentle strokes, you leaned down to press a soft kiss to his lips, whispering between kisses, “I’m so lucky to have you.” 

Spencer’s groans turned softer, his body melting into the bed beneath you as he let go of his fear, letting himself trust in you completely. “I love you,” he murmured breathlessly, his voice laced with both awe and gratitude.

“And I love you,” you whispered back, knowing that this was more than just a physical connection—it was a moment of deep trust and love between you both.

You took your other hand, softly stroking Spencer's thighs, your fingers trailing gently over his strong, lean muscles. His body, always so unassuming beneath his clothes, was more beautiful than you ever could have imagined. The way his thighs tensed under your touch made your mouth water, a thrill running through you as you explored this new side of him.

“Your body is so beautiful, Spencer,” you murmured, your voice tender and full of affection. “I hope you never hide it from me again.”

Spencer’s breath hitched at your words, his face flushed as his eyes fluttered open to meet yours. There was a vulnerability in his gaze, but also a growing confidence, fueled by the love and desire you showered him with. “I-I didn’t know,” he whispered, his voice shaking slightly, “that you’d think that.”

You smiled, leaning down to kiss the top of his thigh, feeling his body tense beneath your lips. “Well, I do. And I always will.”

Spencer swallowed hard, his hand reaching out to grip your arm, needing something to ground himself as the intensity of your touch overwhelmed him. “You’re… amazing,” he breathed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as you continued to caress him.

You smiled against his skin, feeling a surge of warmth at his words. “I’m just showing you what you deserve, Spence.”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat as your hand shifted from his thigh to gently cup his balls, rolling them softly between your fingers. His breath stuttered, and his body instinctively arched off the bed, overwhelmed by the sudden surge of pleasure. His hands gripped the sheets tightly, knuckles white as he fought to hold on for just a moment longer, but it was no use. His back arched further, his hips jerking as he reached his peak, a loud, unrestrained moan escaping his lips as he came.

“There you go, baby,” you whispered softly, your voice soothing, filled with nothing but love and reassurance. “Let it go.”

Spencer let out a shaky breath, his body trembling as the waves of pleasure washed over him. He felt vulnerable, exposed, but not in the way that used to scare him. This time, it was different. This time, he felt safe with you, completely open and raw, knowing you wouldn’t judge him.

He tried not to feel embarrassed as the aftershocks pulsed through him, knowing full well he didn’t last long—especially not when it was you touching him like this. But there was something comforting in the way you held him, in the way your hands never faltered, even in moments like this. You didn’t mind.

And that reassurance made all the difference.

As he slowly came down from his high, Spencer let out a long, deep sigh, his body sinking into the bed beneath him. He blinked up at you, his cheeks still flushed, his breath still uneven. “I… I’m sorry I didn’t last long again,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but there was less hesitation this time.

You smiled gently, brushing a hand through his messy hair and leaning down to kiss his forehead. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Spence,” you said softly, your tone full of affection. “You know I don’t mind. I love you exactly the way you are.”

Spencer’s heart swelled at your words, the lingering tension in his body slowly dissipating. He gave you a small, shy smile, his hand finding yours and squeezing it lightly. “I love you too,” he whispered, his voice full of sincerity.

You lay beside him, pulling him into your arms as his body finally relaxed, his breathing evening out. You continued to stroke his hair, the gentle rhythm calming him as you whispered sweet reassurances. And in that moment, Spencer realized just how lucky he was—to have you, to feel this safe, and to be loved in a way he had never known before.

—

It was the kind of lazy Sunday morning that begged you to stay in bed, curled up in soft blankets with no obligations pulling you away. The sun streamed lazily through the blinds, casting golden streaks across the room, but the promise of fresh pastries and coffee was too tempting to ignore. The two of you reluctantly peeled yourselves from the comfort of the bed, Spencer stretching languidly while you threw on something cozy for your impromptu breakfast outing.

The local bakery was a short walk away, and as you strolled hand-in-hand, the air crisp with a touch of autumn, you could smell the fresh bread and sweet confections wafting through the air long before you even arrived. The warm scent wrapped around you like a comforting hug, and Spencer squeezed your hand gently, smiling down at you as the two of you walked in step, enjoying the quiet simplicity of the moment.

Once you stepped inside, the small bakery was bustling, the display case filled with perfectly baked croissants, éclairs, and muffins, each one more enticing than the last. You and Spencer made your way to the counter, excitedly picking out a selection of pastries along with two steaming cups of coffee.

After grabbing your tray of treats, you found a little table tucked in the corner by the window, where the morning light spilled across the tabletop, catching the powdered sugar that had already dusted the surface. You sat down, feeling a sense of contentment wash over you as the two of you settled into your seats, a quiet bubble of comfort surrounding you amidst the hum of the bakery.

The moment felt perfect, simple in its beauty, as you and Spencer started tearing into the pastries, the flaky layers scattering crumbs across the table. You picked up a piece of your croissant, the sweet filling spilling out, and with a playful grin, you held it up to Spencer’s lips. 

“Here, try this,” you said, your eyes twinkling with amusement as you offered him the bite.

Spencer leaned forward, always eager to try something you loved, but as he took a bite, he purposefully let some of the creamy filling smear across his lips. You couldn’t help but burst into laughter, shaking your head as you leaned over the table to wipe it away with your thumb. 

“Messy,” you teased, your voice full of affection as you swiped the pastry cream from his lips.

Spencer’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he watched you, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Oh, am I?” he said with a grin, and before you had a chance to react, he swiped some frosting from the sticky cinnamon roll and playfully dabbed it on your cheek.

“Now you’re messy,” he declared triumphantly, his smile widening as he watched your eyes go wide in surprise.

You gasped dramatically, reaching up to touch your cheek and finding the sticky frosting smeared across your skin. “Spencer!” you protested, laughing as you grabbed a napkin to clean yourself up, but not before flicking a tiny crumb in his direction in retaliation.

He laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright! No more food fights,” he said, though the grin on his face made it clear he was enjoying every second of your playful exchange.

The two of you dissolved into laughter, the kind of uninhibited joy that made your sides ache and your cheeks hurt from smiling so much. In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the crumbs covering the table, not the frosting still clinging to your face, not even the curious glances from the other patrons. It was just the two of you, wrapped up in your own world of love, playfulness, and laughter.

—

The local library had always been Spencer's sanctuary, a place where he found comfort in the stillness, surrounded by shelves filled with knowledge, each book a portal to another world. He had spent countless hours there over the years, developing close bonds with the librarians who worked there. So, when the head librarian’s birthday party was being celebrated, Spencer was eager to bring you along, excited to introduce you to the people who had been a significant part of his life for so long.

As you walked through the library doors, Spencer’s hand tightly holding yours, you could sense how much this place meant to him. There was a sparkle in his eyes, a lightness in his step that spoke of his deep connection to this space. The library wasn’t just a building filled with books—it was part of his identity, a place where he found peace, knowledge, and belonging.

The event itself was small, intimate, just a gathering of close friends, staff, and patrons who knew the librarian well. Balloons were strung around the circulation desk, and a small table was set up with cupcakes and tea. The room buzzed softly with the chatter of people who clearly adored each other, and the air was filled with the smell of old books and sugary sweetness. It was simple, but it felt special, like you had stepped into a warm, welcoming corner of Spencer’s world.

As you entered, Spencer’s excitement was palpable. He gently tugged you along, his face beaming as he navigated the crowd with ease, weaving through the maze of bookshelves toward a small group of people near the front desk. The closer you got, the more you could feel his pride radiating from him.

Finally, you reached the librarian, a kind-faced woman in her sixties who immediately lit up when she saw Spencer. She welcomed him with open arms and a big smile. “Spencer!” she exclaimed warmly, her eyes twinkling with genuine affection. “I’m so glad you made it!”

Spencer smiled back, his hand never leaving yours as he took a step closer. “Of course,” he replied, his voice soft but full of enthusiasm. “I wouldn’t miss it.” Then, with a hint of excitement, he turned to you, his eyes sparkling with joy. “This is Y/N,” he said, his voice filled with love and pride as he introduced you. “I’ve been dying to introduce her to you.”

You could feel the weight of those words, how much it meant to him that you were there with him in this special place, sharing a piece of his world.

The librarian turned to you, her warm smile widening as she reached out to shake your hand. “We’ve heard so much about you,” she said with a knowing grin, her eyes flicking back to Spencer for a moment. “He never stops talking about how wonderful you are.”

Spencer blushed instantly, the pink flush creeping up his cheeks as he squeezed your hand just a little tighter, embarrassed but clearly proud at the same time. “She’s pretty amazing,” he said softly, glancing at you with such affection that it made your heart swell.

You couldn’t help but smile up at him, your chest fluttering with warmth and love. In that small, cozy room filled with Spencer’s friends and colleagues, you felt like you were truly a part of his world, welcomed into the parts of him that were private, cherished, and deeply personal.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in easy conversation, with Spencer introducing you to more of the people who had become like family to him over the years. You could see how much they cared for him, how deeply they admired his intelligence and gentle nature, and how excited they were to meet you. Every introduction was filled with kind words and warm smiles, and each time Spencer’s hand remained in yours, his grip a reassuring constant, a reminder that this moment was as important to him as it was to you.

Later, as you both stood by the cupcake table, Spencer absentmindedly brushing crumbs off your chin from the chocolate cupcake you’d indulged in, you caught him watching you with a soft, almost reverent expression. “What?” you asked, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks under his gaze.

He shook his head slightly, his lips curving into a tender smile. “I’m just really happy you’re here,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely audible above the low hum of chatter in the room.

You smiled, reaching up to brush a stray curl from his forehead. “I’m happy to be here,” you replied softly. “I love seeing this side of you, Spence.”

He leaned down and kissed you gently on the forehead, his thumb stroking your hand as he pulled back. “You’re a part of it now,” he whispered. “A part of all of this.”

And in that moment, you felt like you truly were. Spencer’s world, filled with books, warmth, and the people who had shaped him, now included you. You were building something beautiful together—slowly, steadily, and with every shared experience, you were growing closer, learning more about each other, and weaving your lives together in ways that felt as natural as breathing.

—

Spencer had returned to the nightclub feeling confident and secure in your relationship. After all the beautiful moments you had shared—bookstore dates, Sunday mornings filled with laughter and pastries, intimate nights spent wrapped in each other's arms—he thought nothing could come between you two. But as soon as he stepped back into the club, all of that confidence started to erode.

At first, Spencer tried to keep calm, to enjoy the night as just another visit to your world. He watched you from across the room, smiling and laughing with the staff and customers. But then his gaze landed on Sean, who was standing much too close to you, his body language too familiar, his laugh too casual and comfortable. Spencer’s stomach churned, but he kept it to himself, telling himself that it was just work—that Sean had no place in your personal life. 

But then it happened.

Spencer saw Sean’s hand casually smack your ass. You had your back to Spencer, so you couldn’t see his reaction, but you laughed at Sean’s action, clearly finding it harmless. You didn't think twice about it, but Spencer's vision blurred with a sudden surge of anger. His blood boiled, his breath caught in his chest, and every rational thought flew out of his mind. The sight of someone else—Sean, of all people—touching you like that felt like a punch to his gut.

Before he could stop himself, Spencer stormed across the club, his footsteps heavy with intent. His jaw was clenched, his hands balled into tight fists as he closed the distance between you and Sean. He didn’t care about the crowd or how it might look. All he could see was red—his insecurities and fears bubbling up to the surface with a force he hadn’t expected.

By the time he reached you, Sean was laughing, clearly oblivious to the brewing storm that was Spencer. Without a word, Spencer grabbed Sean by the collar, pulling him toward him with more aggression than he’d ever shown before. The music in the club seemed to dim in Spencer’s ears, and the people around him faded into the background.

“Don’t you ever touch her like that again,” Spencer growled, his voice low and dangerous, the words spilling out before he could even process them.

Your eyes widened in shock, your heart leaping into your throat as you turned to see Spencer—his face twisted in anger, his usually calm and collected demeanor gone. You had never seen him like this before, never seen him this furious, this close to losing control. You quickly stepped between them, putting a hand on Spencer’s chest to stop him from doing something he’d regret.

“Spencer, stop!” you exclaimed, your voice laced with confusion and concern. “What are you doing?”

But Spencer’s gaze was locked on Sean, his grip on the bartender’s collar tight. Sean, for his part, looked stunned but didn’t fight back, raising his hands in defense.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, man,” Sean stammered, trying to defuse the situation. “It was just a joke.”

But to Spencer, it wasn’t a joke. It was a direct assault on everything he feared—the fear of not being enough, the insecurity that had been festering inside him since the day he first saw Sean. And now, all that pent-up jealousy and anger was pouring out in one destructive moment.

You could feel Spencer’s chest heaving beneath your hand, his breathing ragged as he stood there, frozen in his fury. Your heart raced, and you knew you needed to stop this before it escalated any further.

“Spence,” you said softly, trying to get through to him. “Baby, please let go. This isn’t you.”

For a long moment, it seemed like he hadn’t heard you, his eyes still boring into Sean’s. But then, slowly, the tension in Spencer’s body began to ease. His grip on Sean’s collar loosened, and finally, he let go, stepping back and running a shaky hand through his hair. His face was still flushed with anger, but the look in your eyes—hurt, confused, pleading—cut through the haze of his rage.

Spencer glanced between you and Sean, suddenly aware of what he’d done, of how far he’d let things go. Guilt washed over him like a cold wave, and he took a step back, his hands trembling as the adrenaline began to fade.

“I—I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the thumping music. “I didn’t mean to…”

But the damage was done. You stood there, still in shock, trying to process what had just happened, while Sean backed away, clearly wanting to put some distance between himself and the situation.

You didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to make sense of what had just unfolded. Spencer—your Spencer—had never acted like this before. And as much as you wanted to reassure him, to tell him it was okay, you couldn’t ignore the heaviness in your chest, the weight of what had just happened.

Spencer looked at you, his eyes wide with regret, but all you could do was stare back, unsure of what to say, unsure of what came next.

The tension in the air was palpable as security started making their way over, eyes locked on Spencer with the clear intent of handling the situation. Your heart sank even further, realizing that this night had spiraled so far out of control. Before you could say anything, Sean held up a hand to stop them. “It’s fine, Steve,” Sean sighed, shaking his head. “We’re good.”

But his words didn’t ease the knot in your chest. You looked at Sean, “Are you?” Then at Spencer, who stood there looking lost and ashamed. “Are we?” you muttered, your voice heavy with sadness. Without waiting for an answer, you turned on your heel and walked away, unable to even look at Spencer right now. The weight of his actions, of what had just happened, was too much to process in that moment.

Spencer’s heart dropped as he watched you walk away, the pit in his stomach growing deeper with every step you took. “Y/N! Please wait!” he called after you, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You were too overwhelmed, too upset. He chased after you, his feet moving quicker as the panic set in. “Sweetheart, please!” Spencer begged, following you all the way back into your office.

You stepped inside, your hands shaking as you slammed the door shut behind you. The lock clicked into place, but before Spencer could say another word, you whirled around, the anger and frustration bubbling over.

“He’s fucking gay, Spencer!” you yelled, the words coming out with a mix of hurt and exasperation.

Spencer froze, his face falling in utter confusion. “What?” he stammered, blinking rapidly as he tried to make sense of what you just said.

“I didn’t tell you because it’s not my place,” you continued, your voice trembling with the weight of the emotions swirling inside you. “And frankly, it doesn’t fucking matter, but Jesus, Spencer!” You raised your hands in disbelief, the frustration too much to contain.

Spencer stood there, his mind racing as he tried to grasp what you were saying. “I—I’m sorry,” he managed, his voice weak, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know… I just, he slapped your—your butt, and I saw red. I lost control.”

You ran a hand over your arm, trying to calm yourself down, trying to make sense of why this had gotten so out of hand. Your voice softened, but the hurt was still there as you asked, “Spencer, you’ve seen my friends do it all the time. Hell, your team smacks your ass, and it’s all in good fun. How is it different?”

Spencer’s breath hitched, his eyes dropping to the floor as guilt washed over him. He didn’t have an answer—at least not one that made sense. The truth was, it wasn’t different. But somewhere in the haze of his jealousy and insecurity, he had convinced himself that Sean was a threat. That somehow, Sean’s friendship with you, the easy banter and playfulness between you two, meant he had something Spencer didn’t. And tonight, all of that had come crashing down in the worst way.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his shame. “I—I guess I just got scared. I got jealous. I didn’t think.”

You shook your head, tears of frustration welling up in your eyes as you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “You didn’t think at all,” you muttered, your voice tinged with disappointment. “You didn’t trust me.”

Spencer winced at your words, the truth of them hitting him harder than any reprimand could. “I do trust you,” he said quickly, stepping forward, his hand reaching out for yours. “I trust you more than anyone. I just… I let my insecurities get the best of me. I know it was wrong, and I’m so sorry.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, rubbing your temple as you tried to process everything. You wanted to believe him, to believe that this was just a one-time mistake, but the hurt still lingered. “Spencer, I love you,” you began, your voice softer now, but still firm. “But you can’t keep letting your insecurities drive you. I’ve told you time and time again—there’s no one else. No one but you.”

“I know,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I know that, I do. But when I saw that… when I saw him touch you, it just—everything I’ve been feeling came to the surface. And I’m so sorry I didn’t handle it better.”

You sighed, crossing your arms over your chest as you leaned back against the desk, still trying to calm your racing heart. “You scared me, Spencer. I’ve never seen you act like that.”

He stepped closer, his face full of regret, his hand reaching out again as he spoke. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to scare you. I just… I messed up. I know I did. Please, sweetheart, I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right. Just… don’t walk away from me.”

You looked at him, his eyes filled with guilt and desperation, and you knew he meant every word. Spencer was never one to lash out like this, never one to let his emotions get the best of him. But tonight, his insecurities had taken over, and now you both were left picking up the pieces.

After a long moment, you took a deep breath and nodded, your voice steady but still firm. “You need to work on this, Spencer. This jealousy, this need to protect me from something that isn’t even there. We can’t have this happen again.”

“I will,” he promised, stepping closer and taking your hands in his. “I swear to you, I’ll work on it. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just please… forgive me.”

"You need to go apologize to Sean," you said, your tone firm but not unkind. "And maybe... maybe you should think about seeing a therapist or counselor. This—this kind of insecurity, it’s not healthy for you or for us."

Spencer nodded, his head hanging low as he absorbed your words. He knew you were right. He had let his own fears and jealousy take control, and now he was faced with the aftermath. "You're right," he repeated, his voice tired and remorseful. "You’re absolutely right."

He sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair, trying to gather himself. His mind was racing, filled with guilt and the weight of what he had done. He knew he had crossed a line, and it hurt to think that he had not only disrespected Sean but also hurt you in the process.

"I’ll go apologize right now," Spencer said, his voice steady, though there was a slight tremble beneath the surface. He looked at you, his eyes filled with regret, but also determination. He wanted to make this right. Not just for you, but for himself.

You gave him a small, encouraging nod, knowing that this was a step in the right direction. "Good," you replied quietly. "But Spence, don’t just apologize for what you did—make sure you understand why you did it. That’s the only way this is going to get better."

"I know," he said softly, his hand reaching out to take yours, squeezing gently. "I’ll fix this. I swear."

You watched as Spencer turned and walked toward the door, his shoulders slightly slumped with the weight of everything he had to face. As he left the office, you let out a long breath, hoping that this moment would be a turning point. For both of you.

Spencer walked up to the bar with hesitant steps, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the weight of what he needed to do, the guilt and embarrassment swirling together in a tight knot in his stomach. As he reached the bar, he stood there for a moment, awkwardly waiting for Sean to notice him. His palms were sweaty, and he rubbed them against his jeans, trying to calm himself.

Finally, Sean approached, clearly still a bit shaken from the earlier confrontation, but his expression was guarded, more curious than angry. He raised an eyebrow, waiting for Spencer to speak.

“H–hi, Sean,” Spencer stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes flicked up to meet Sean’s briefly before dropping back to the floor, the guilt weighing heavily on him. “I… I am so sorry for what I did earlier.”

Sean’s face softened slightly, though his guard didn’t completely drop. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter, waiting for Spencer to continue.

“I completely overreacted,” Spencer admitted, his voice trembling as he spoke. “I let my jealousy get the best of me, and I said and did things I never should have. You didn’t deserve that. I didn’t… I didn’t even know the whole story, and I just assumed the worst.”

Sean stayed quiet for a moment, studying Spencer. He could see the sincerity in Spencer’s eyes, the regret etched in every line of his face. Finally, Sean let out a soft sigh, uncrossing his arms.

“Look, man,” Sean began, his tone more understanding than Spencer had anticipated. “I get it. I’ve seen guys lose it over jealousy before. But that doesn’t make what you did okay.”

Spencer nodded quickly, swallowing hard. “I know,” he said, his voice strained. “It’s not okay, and I regret it. Y/N means everything to me, and I let my insecurities cloud my judgment. I’m not trying to make excuses… I just wanted to apologize.”

Sean leaned back slightly, his arms resting on the bar as he gave Spencer a small, almost sympathetic smile. “I appreciate the apology,” he said. “Just… maybe work on not jumping to conclusions next time, alright?”

Spencer nodded vigorously, his heart still racing but relieved that Sean hadn’t completely written him off. “I will,” he promised, his voice soft but filled with sincerity. “I’m going to talk to someone about it. I’m… I know I need to deal with this.”

Sean nodded, his expression easing a little more. “Good. And just so you know, man, I’m not interested in Y/N. Like, at all.” He gave Spencer a meaningful look, letting the words sink in.

Spencer blushed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yeah… I, uh, I know now. I’m sorry I ever thought otherwise.”

Sean let out a small chuckle, shaking his head and gave Spencer a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “We’re good. Just don’t make a habit of it.”

Spencer breathed out a sigh of relief, his shoulders finally relaxing. “Thank you, Sean,” he said quietly, feeling a weight lift from his chest. “I really appreciate it.”

Sean offered a small smile in return. “No problem. Take care of her, alright?”

Spencer nodded again, his heart swelling with a renewed sense of determination. “I will,” he promised, meaning every word.

And with that, Spencer turned away from the bar, feeling lighter than he had when he’d first walked up. He still had a lot of work to do, but this was a start—a step in the right direction.

—

Spencer navigated his way carefully through the hallway, dodging the maze of moving boxes that now cluttered the apartment. The feeling of excitement from his therapy breakthrough still thrummed inside him as he called out for you. 

“Y/N!” he shouted, eager to share his day.

“In the bedroom!” your voice echoed back warmly.

As he pushed past the last of the boxes, Spencer entered the bedroom and found you sitting cross-legged on the floor. A box of printed photos lay open in front of you, and scattered around were dozens of pictures, some slightly faded with time, others bright and new. You looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, your cheeks glowing from a mixture of nostalgia and emotion.

“What do you have there, sweetheart?” Spencer asked gently, his voice filled with warmth as he crouched down beside you, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You sniffled and smiled, holding up one of the photos—a snapshot of the two of you from a Sunday morning at the bakery, crumbs on your faces, laughing uncontrollably. “All of our memories,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion. “I found this box while I was packing. I didn’t realize we had so many photos together.”

Spencer’s heart swelled at the sight of the old pictures and the happy tears in your eyes. He gently took the photo from your hand and studied it for a moment, the joy from that day flooding back to him. He remembered the way you had fed him pastries, how you had teased him for getting frosting on his nose, how perfect the world had felt in those little moments.

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “We’ve made a lot of good memories, haven’t we?” he murmured, his fingers brushing lightly over the scattered photos.

You nodded, blinking back the tears as you picked up another picture—one from the bookstore, where you had sneakily snapped a photo of him deep in thought, completely absorbed in the world of books. “I never want to forget any of this,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of everything the photos represented.

Spencer sat down beside you, his heart full as he looked over the memories you had collected. “Hey,” He said softly, taking your hand in his. “I had a breakthrough at therapy today.”

You looked up at him, your tear-filled eyes widening with interest. “You did?”

He nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “Yeah. I think I’m finally starting to understand where all that insecurity came from… and how to manage it better. I’ve still got a lot of work to do, but… I’m getting there.”

Your smile widened as you squeezed his hand, pride swelling in your chest. “Spence, that’s amazing,” you said, your voice filled with love and encouragement.

He squeezed your hand back, his heart feeling lighter than it had in a long time. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he admitted quietly. “You’ve been so patient with me, even when I wasn’t always patient with myself.”

Your eyes widened at his words, the weight of the question sinking in as you looked up at Spencer. The room seemed to still for a moment, the sound of your breath catching in your throat the only noise breaking the silence. You blinked, trying to process what he had just asked, your heart racing in your chest.

“Will you marry me?” Spencer repeated, his voice softer this time, but no less certain. His eyes were filled with love, vulnerability, and a touch of nervousness, as if he’d been carrying this question for a while, waiting for the right moment to let it out.

Tears welled up in your eyes again, this time from pure joy. You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face as you took in the sincerity of his expression. He wasn’t just asking for a promise—he was asking to continue writing the rest of your story together, side by side, forever.

You cupped his face with your hands, your heart swelling with love and excitement. “Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. “Yes, Spencer, I’ll marry you.”

Spencer let out a breath he was holding, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears as he pulled you into a deep, heartfelt kiss. Relief, joy, and love coursed through him all at once, making the moment feel surreal. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, as if he never wanted to let you go.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were laughing through the tears, caught up in the magic of the moment.

“You really want to marry me?” you teased gently, your forehead pressed against his, your fingers lightly brushing his cheek.

“More than anything in this world,” Spencer said, his voice full of conviction. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Your heart felt like it might burst as you nodded, still in awe of how this moment had unfolded. “I want that too,” you whispered, “forever.”

Spencer kissed you again, slower this time, savoring the sweetness of the moment, the promise of a future filled with more memories, more laughter, more love. And as you sat there, surrounded by the snapshots of your shared past, you couldn’t help but feel excited for all that was yet to come.

You pulled back from the kiss, a playful glint in your eyes. “And hey,” you teased, running a hand through his hair, “maybe you can wear white at the wedding.” Your smirk deepened as you watched Spencer’s expression shift from one of love to amusement.

Spencer threw his head back, laughing loudly, the sound filling the room and making your heart flutter. You always loved how his laugh could light up any space. “I have one problem with your plan,” he said, still chuckling, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Oh yeah? What’s that, honey?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, fully enjoying the banter between you two.

Spencer leaned in closer, his voice low and full of playful confidence as he said, “I don’t plan on being pure for much longer.”

You burst into laughter, your cheeks flushed from both the teasing and the thrill of the moment. “Oh, is that so?” you teased, leaning into him, your fingers trailing down his chest. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to do something about that, won’t we?”

Spencer grinned, his blush deepening as he kissed you again, his hands sliding around your waist, pulling you closer. “I guess we will,” he murmured against your lips, his tone both playful and full of promise. 

The two of you stayed wrapped in each other��s arms, the lightness of the moment mingling with the deep love you shared. It was another memory added to the many you had created together, and you couldn’t help but feel that your future, together as partners, was only just beginning.

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[honeyhotteoks]

₊ ⊹ ⟡ the cover of night (박성화 ♡ p.sh)

you and your husband have very particular appetites. even when it's late, even when you're already sleeping.

style: bullet drabble pairing: husband!seonghwa x fem!reader word count: 1.9k tags/warnings: smut, pwp, heavy on the CNC, like seriously this is very serious consensual nonconsent, somnophilia, consent color checks on page, hard dom seonghwa, sub reader, rough sex, body weight control, breath control (sort of), creampie, risk kink / coming inside, she struggles and wants to struggle, begging to stop, fingering, forced orgasm, aftercare for sure. notes: this was for a request for my drabble fics, and it's such a fun one!! i went with somno because that's my personal preference of cnc, but i hope you enjoyed! please be mindful, this content is potentially very triggering as reader wants to struggle, says stop, and some of the language hwa uses is potentially triggering in and of itself.

[masterlist]

You and Seonghwa have been married long enough now that you’ve stopped pretending anything about your sex life is tame. 

It started sweet, sensual, peeling back the layers on each other until you hit something deeper, darker and full of need. 

And over the years, he’s pushed you and you’ve pushed him right back. 

You’ve whispered dirty thoughts into the crook of his neck and felt the shiver ripple down his spine, and he used to blush, duck his head and smile at you like you were saying something wicked, but not now. 

Now, he listens. Cataloguing your needs with quiet intensity. 

So, six years into marriage, when you tell him you want him to wake you up with sex, you clarify that you mean it for real. You don’t want romantic morning sleepy sex, you want it when you don’t expect it, you want it when he wants it. 

It doesn’t surprise you in the least that he doesn’t take you up on it right away. 

He spends weeks asking questions, clarifying your boundaries until you could say them back in your sleep, which in a way, you do. 

Curled up after a particularly intense session, you confess more about what turns you on, more about what you want – “I want to struggle,” you say it into the hollow of his throat, “I want to fight, to wake up to it,” 

“Wake up underneath me?” His breath is warm on your temple and wanting. 

You tell him yes, God yes. You want to feel him already inside, you want to try to wriggle away, you want to fail. You want to lose. 

The way he groaned after you said it tells you everything. 

So you start sleeping without underwear, as close to naked as you can get without outright throwing yourself at him, but for weeks he doesn’t touch you. 

When it comes, it’s on a night you’re not expecting it, after drifting to sleep with your head on his chest and a long, exhausting day behind you. 

And - 

You wake slowly. 

You’re not startled into consciousness, it’s just a change in awareness, a change in lucidity. A sensation, and then another; a hand on your waist, a drag of breath on your shoulder. And then? Stretch. 

You’re already wet, already open, and when you shift your hips just a little you feel him. The deep, thick ache of Seonghwa’s cock buried inside you, his hips flush to your backside, his palm splayed across your stomach to keep you in place. 

For a split second it feels romantic, being spooned, caressed, but then your cunt flutters around him and you make a soft, sleepy noise, and his hand covers your mouth gently. 

“Shh,” He breathes, a slow grind of his hips up, “let me have it, jagiya, go back to sleep,” 

Your eyes blink open, slow and disoriented in the pitch dark of your bedroom, but everything clicks into place all at once. 

He thrusts properly this time, the hot wet slide of his cock pulling back and pushing in again, full and unrelenting. 

You had asked for this, begged for this. It’s better than you could have ever imagined. 

Your body jerks naturally, trying to catch up to your mind’s acceptance of what’s happening, and his grip tightens immediately. 

“Go back to sleep, baby,” His voice is hot, breathless, laced with something tense and starving and you wonder how slow he had to move to ensure he didn’t wake you. How long he edged himself getting you wet before he pushed inside. 

You whimper against his hand. 

He drives his cock again, pushing your hips into a tilt to get the angle tighter, deeper. 

You jerk, pushing back with a twist of your hips, this time intentional and baiting, a reminder of your full fantasy. 

“Not even awake and trying to fight me?” Seonghwa huffs a laugh against your cheek, “Sweet,” 

You make a noise against his palm. 

His teeth catch against your ear, a pointed thrust driving deep, “Color?” 

His hand lifts for just a second, and you gasp in a breath of air, blinking fast to clear the residual sleep and how soft your brain feels, but you find it in a second, “Green.” 

His hand locks back tight, “That’s my fucking girl,” 

You shiver, and then he moves. 

Seonghwa tips you forwards with a hard hand on your shoulder, maneuvering you quickly until you’re flat to the mattress, locked prone under his body while he sits heavy and hot inside you. It spins you, the pressure of his body over yours, the heat of his breath against your hair, and then the steady drumbeat of his body as he sinks into you, grinding deep with every thrust. It’s overwhelming, and it’s meant to be. He’s not teasing, he’s taking, and you’re exactly where you begged him to be. 

Your cunt clenches around him with needy flutters. 

He fucks you like he’s starving for it, focused thrusts that drag his cock along every nerve ending inside you. He fucks you like you’re his obsession. 

A sob cracks out of your uncovered mouth, “Please,” you manage it, head pressed to the mattress where he has you pushed down, “stop, please, please, Hwa,” 

“No,” His voice is final, absolute, and pleasure rolls inside you. 

He holds you down tight, pinned and pliant, your pelvis flat to the mattress under the weight of his thrusts, one arm trapped beneath your chest, head held, one of his other hands hard and bruising on your hip. 

“You’re coming first,” He breathes hard against your ear, his voice rough, “coming around my cock,” 

“I don’t,” Your words die. 

He grinds deep, punishing, his whole body hot and slick against your back, “Yes, you do,” he thrusts again, “you always want it, always. Even when you cry, even when you say no,” 

You’re throbbing, every connection of his cock inside you driving you higher. 

“I know your pussy, jagi. I know you.”

His hand pushes under you, finding space between your clenched thighs for his fingers on your clit, slippery and dripping, and the noise that bursts out of you is a ragged, panicked kind of pleasure. 

“Don’t,” You beg again, fighting the way your thighs want to open for him, “please, don’t do it, don’t do it,” 

You fight, you twist your hips, trying to pull yourself out of his hold, but he’s bigger, he’s heavier, and he lets his weight do the work. 

“Shh,” He kisses your hair hard, “just let me make it good for you, let me make you come.” 

“Please!” Your voice is strangled, tight. 

“Take it,” His hips roll in time with his fingers, “I feel you squeezing me, baby, just let it happen,” 

Your whole body shakes under him, your fingers clawing helplessly at the mattress. He has you so close so fast you feel dizzy with it. 

“Fucking come.” 

Your orgasm rips through you with sudden sharpness, a sudden tumble over the drop off into pleasure, your body locking as your muscles tighten against the mattress. Your mouth falls open in a choked sob as your cunt pulses around him, and he groans, raw and low in your ear. 

“Fuck,” He shudders, his hips stuttering just once before he starts his pace again, “fuck, sweetheart,” 

Your mind is swimming, body limp beneath him as his cock drags you through your aftershocks, his hips connecting with your ass again and again. 

“Baby, baby,” Your words a tight sob, “stop,” 

“Need it,” He collapses over you, holding you close as his arms wrap around you, hips rolling, “have to come inside you, have to, color, color,” 

Your nails dig into his forearm where it’s wrapped around your front, “Green,” 

His teeth dig into your shoulder as he groans. He sounds delirious, almost desperate, taking your breathy consent like a gift. He doesn’t need to ask permission anymore, or pretend, he’s just chasing it now for himself, the feeling of your body fluttering around him, squeezing him tighter than ever before. 

“Coming in you,” He whines, “take it, take it,” 

Heat floods your core, his fingers rolling again over your clit as he says it. Your brain fires, hot, fast, “Don’t,” you whine, “please god, don’t, don’t,” 

“Mine,” He breathes, his thrusts sharpening, driving his cock as far as he can, “you’re mine,” 

You’re crumbling again, orgasm rolling through you with no chance to stop it. 

“I can’t pull out,” He pants, sweat slick skin slipping, his chest, your back, “need to fucking fill this pussy,” 

You sob beneath him, legs kicking weakly under his weight, but it’s over. He’s gone, lost in it, possessed by the feel of you, soaking and trembling and speared open around his cock. 

“Take it,” His voice breaks. 

He spills inside you with a sharp, hot cry, his hips rocking as he pulses inside you. He empties himself inside you in hard, stuttering bursts, his muscles drawn tight with strain as he ruts once, twice, getting his cum as deep as possible. 

You both still for a long moment, breathing ragged and hot. 

His hands are shaking, his breath hitching hard in his chest. You’re wrecked under him, body trembling, ruined. 

And finally, finally, he exhales. 

“Fuck,” He kisses your shoulder, his voice a whisper as he lifts off some of his body weight, “baby, are you with me? 

All you can do is nod.

He doesn’t move at first, not until your breathing slows and until you stop twitching under him like you’re still in headlong freefall. 

But when you do, his hands start to move slow, gentle now. He eases his weight off you properly and smooths his touch down your sides, brushes back the damp hair from your cheek

“I’ve got you,” He repeats softly, kissing the spot on your shoulder where he bit down as he came, “I’ve got you now, you’re safe. You were so perfect for me, love,” 

You’re still floating, still hazy and soft, and so all he does is sit with you, breathe with you. 

When he finally pulls out it’s slow, letting your body adjust to the change in sensation. 

You whimper from the ache, but also the loss of him. 

“There we go,” He murmurs softly as he slides you over onto your back, “talk to me, love.”

You tell him you’re okay, you’re here, present and feeling soft, but the minute he sees your eyes really clear he sinks against you. 

His forehead against yours. 

He holds you like a prayer. 

He murmurs his love as he guides you through cleaning up, a warm shower and fresh sheets. 

It’s still the middle of the night, and once he settles you again, you’re curled against his chest, your body still humming and warm from the aftermath. 

You drift again with his lips against your ear as he rocks you in his arms – “You’re everything, everything,” 

Body sated, sore, held. 

You sleep. 

You dream only nice dreams.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

You're So Pretty, Clark Kent

Summary: You’re drunk. Clark’s trying to help. But you keep calling him pretty every five seconds and it’s doing nothing good for his self-control as he tries to not turn into a puddle

A/N: Ok so! This is my first Clark fic! I'm so excited and I hope you enjoy <3 Request are open especially for him and I'll be making a taglist for him since there are so many drafts for him right now!

“Mister Clark Kent,” you declared, very seriously, one high-heeled shoe in your hand and the other still tragically on your foot, “You are so pretty.”

Clark blinked up at you from where he was knelt on the floor, gently unbuckling your second shoe.

“I think you mean handsome,” he murmured, lips twitching.

“No,” you said firmly, booping his nose with your index finger. “I mean pretty. Like divine...heavenly...breathtaking...godlike ugh I could go on and on. It's like if a sunrise had a jawline and baby blues."

Clark flushed instantly. “That’s… a new one.”

You nodded solemnly. “I call it how I see it.”

You’d had a few too many drinks at the gala. Which would’ve been fine—except you hadn’t eaten dinner, and champagne on an empty stomach turned you into exactly what Clark was dealing with now: giggly, clingy, and very physically affectionate.

Which he didn’t mind...At all.

What he was struggling with, however, was the way you kept looking at him like he’d hung the damn stars.

You were in his lap now, sort of. Technically, you were sitting on the couch, half-splayed over his thighs, one arm wrapped around his neck as you traced his jaw with your finger.

“You’re so strong,” you whispered. “Like… like a tree." Your face scrunched up as you tried to find the words before your eyes lit up again, "But with biceps!"

Clark could feel his entire body begin to turn red and he cleared his throat, “Alright, you. Time for water and bed.”

“Don’t take me away from your face,” you whined dramatically as he lifted you, bridal style, carrying you toward the bedroom. “I was looking at it. I like that face.”

He chuckled under his breath, trying very hard not to let the warmth in his chest crawl up to his face. “You can look at it in the morning,” he said gently, kissing your temple. “When you’re not about to fall asleep face-down in your own shoes.”

You sighed very dramatically, “That’s fair.”

In the bedroom, he sat you down on the edge of the mattress and helped you out of your dress--careful, gentle, eyes flicking away every time you swayed a little too hard.

“Arms up darling,” he said softly.

You obeyed, grinning dopily. “Clark Kent telling me to strip. Did not think this night would get any better.”

He shakes his head, “No, not stripping. Just getting you into pajamas so you don’t wake up tangled in fabric.”

He tossed one of his flannel shirts over your head, helping you button it up--though you only got halfway before giving up and pawing at his chest again. “I like this shirt,” you mumbled. “Smells like you.”

“You are very drunk.”

“And you are very pretty.”

Clark finally laughed--really laughed, head ducked, ears red. “You’re gonna feel so silly in the morning.”

“Nope,” you said, flopping backwards onto the bed like a ragdoll. “You’ll still be pretty. I’ll stand by it.”

He pulled the blankets over you, tucking you in like you were made of glass.

As he moved to stand, your hand caught his wrist. “…Stay?” you whispered. He softened instantly. “Of course.” He climbed into bed beside you, pulling you close. Your face was already tucked under his chin, breath evening out, fingers loosely curled into his shirt.

You mumbled something again. So quiet he barely caught it.

“...my pretty boy.”

And as your breathing slowed and you slipped into sleep, Clark just lay there--holding you close, blushing into the dark, smiling like an idiot.

-------The Next Morning-------

You woke up with a headache and vague memories of champagne, your own dramatic declarations, and Clark’s amused little huff when you called him divine. You groaned into the pillow. “Oh no. I said dumb stuff, didn’t I?”

Clark, already dressed and holding coffee, leaned in and kissed your cheek. “You said I was ‘like a tree but with biceps.’”

You blinked at him.

Then shrugged. “…Not my worst line.”

Clark laughed and handed you the coffee. “No,” he said, brushing your hair back, “definitely not your worst.”

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed my work if you did please let me know! Liking, commenting, and reblogging is a very easy way to support me and keep me motivated to continue writing and posting on here <3

[formulafanfics13]

Can you please write a fic about how you’re struggling financially (like you’re working 2/3 jobs but you’re about to be evicted or something because it’s still not enough) and don’t want them to know but they find out and obvs want to help you out. You’re reluctant to take it because of pride but they want to show they can provide and look after you. Preferably Max, but Charles, Lando or Oscar would also work. Thanks 💜

Let Me - MV1

Masterlist

summary: you don't tell him you're drowning. not when rent's due, bills are piling up, and your third job just cut your hours. you smile through the exhaustion, joke about being busy, pretend you're fine. but Max isn't stupid. he sees it. and when the truth finally comes out — when he finds the eviction notice crumpled in your bag — he doesn't get mad. he just holds you, looks you in the eyes, and says the one thing you've been too scared to believe: "you never have to go through this alone again." warnings: financial struggle, reader working multiple jobs, eviction notice, emotional exhaustion, pride vs vulnerability, soft protectiveness, comforting Max, crying, lots of hugging, reader doesn't let herself ask for help, but Max helps anyway, no smut

You think you're hiding it well. You make the jokes. Call it a hustle. Say you're grinding. You post your coffee orders and caption them "fuel for the day" like it's cute instead of critical. No one sees the overdraft fees. The red numbers on your screen. The way your chest tightens every time your phone pings because it might be your landlord again.

You work three jobs. Technically. One café, one freelance gig, one night shift at a front desk in a building where no one speaks to you and the floor always smells like bleach.

You say you're tired because you're busy. Because life's hectic. Because you're building something.

You don't say you're tired because you haven't slept properly in weeks, because dinner was three crackers and the last of your peanut butter, because you cried in the bathroom stall at job two when you saw the second "final warning" email come through.

And you don't tell Max. God, you don't tell Max. You're not even sure what you are to Max.

He texts. Calls. Makes time. You've been seeing each other for a few months, private, soft, slow. He's warm and quiet and makes you feel seen. He always holds your face like you're something delicate. Like he knows you're pretending not to break.

But he's Max Verstappen. He lives in Monaco. He wins races. His apartment has underfloor heating and a fridge you're pretty sure costs more than your entire student loan.

And you're behind on rent. Again.

The lie starts to fall apart on a Tuesday. You cancel dinner. Again. Tell him you're slammed with a deadline. He says he understands, but his voice is tighter than usual. Then you fall asleep during a FaceTime call. He doesn't wake you, just hangs up gently and texts "you looked like you needed it" an hour later.

Then you miss his race. The one you promised you'd watch live.

You were at the front desk, half-asleep, trying not to cry because you'd just calculated that even with next week's paycheck, you'll still be 300 short.

When you wake up, he's texted you the podium photo. "This one was for you." You cry so hard in your bathtub you forget to eat.

Friday, he surprises you. You don't expect it. You're in your third job uniform, faded polo, tired eyes, hair in a bun. You open the apartment door expecting your Uber Eats.

It's Max.

"Hi," he says, soft. His eyes scan your face. "You okay?"

You blink. "What are you- how did you-?"

"You weren't answering," he says. "I got worried."

Your throat tightens.

"I'm fine," you lie. "Just- busy. You know."

He nods, slow. "Can I come in?"

You hesitate. The place is a mess. There's a stack of unopened bills on the table. A sink full of dishes. Your work bag crumpled in the corner, torn zipper barely hiding the pile of final warnings and the red-and-white eviction notice stuffed inside.

You step aside anyway. He walks in slowly. Quietly. You don't look at him as you tidy frantically, sweeping mail under a magazine, tossing a hoodie over the overdue rent notice.

But he sees it. He crouches down to pick up your work bag and the notice falls out. You freeze. He picks it up. Reads it. Doesn't say anything.

"Max-"

"Is this real?"

You turn away.

"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice cracks.

"I didn't want you to see me like this."

"Like what?"

"Like someone who can't keep their life together."

He exhales. Hard. Walks over, gently takes your chin and lifts your gaze to his. "You work three jobs," he says. "You run yourself into the ground. You never complain. That's not someone falling apart. That's someone who's been strong for way too fucking long."

You shake your head. "I didn't want your money."

"I'm not offering you money. I'm offering you me."

You choke back a sob. "You don't understand. I've been doing this alone for so long. I can't just let someone swoop in and fix it."

"I'm not trying to fix you." His hands cradle your face now, thumbs brushing tears you didn't realize were falling. "I just want to help carry it. All of it. You don't have to do this alone anymore."

Your breath breaks. Your knees almost give out. He catches you. Holds you like it's instinct. Like his arms were made to be your safe place.

"I don't want to be a burden," you whisper.

"You're not. You never could be."

You bury your face in his shoulder. Cry. Shake. Let it all fall apart for the first time in weeks. And he stays. He doesn't let go.

Later, you sit on the couch wrapped in one of his hoodies, holding tea you didn't have to make yourself. He's beside you, hand warm on your thigh, thumb brushing gentle circles. "I'll sort the rent," he says quietly. "You don't have to say yes now. But I want you to know it's already done if you need it."

You nod. Silent. Grateful in a way that aches. "I can't lose myself," you whisper.

"You won't," he promises. "You'll just have someone to lean on when it gets too heavy."

And for the first time in forever, you believe it.

[cloudedangels]

Dr’s Orders 18+

⋆⁺₊❅。

You (f reader) are ovulating, but you can't bring yourself to request what you really need… Dr. Zayne has a treatment plan for that... luckily! ● ≈4,025 words ughggh ● probably needs proofreading ● adult!!! ● mdni!!!

Tags and cw: ovulation!: the plot device, zayne, dr zayne cures you of your horny disease kinda, piv, oral (f receiving), mostly sex no plot, in the hospital of all places!, creampie, multiple rounds, fingering, established relationship implied, self indulgent smut— you know the drill

a/n: this SUCKED to write omg omg im freee you can probably tell my sauce was running out... this mostly SUCKED to write bc I am on my period a week and a half early (???) & I have 1 endometriosis (,: this is also my first time writing zayne which i hope gets better bc he's my pretty lil baby, I need him [redacted].

Go bunnie.

▪︎ next up:

☆caleb's very late birthday fic

☆extended leave pt six

☆hubby!zayne drabble

vibrator series pt 3 and pt 4

⋆⁺₊❅。

⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。

Zayne isn’t blind.

He sees the way your legs cross tighter than usual, the way your hand lingers too long on the hem of your sleeve, picking at threads like you're trying not to crawl out of your skin.

You’d stared at the closed door to his office ten times today. Every time you almost knocked, your throat had closed up. Your fingers fiddle with the edge of your sleeve again, tugging it just a little too hard until it bunches in your palm. The scent of antiseptic clings to the air, mixing with your own faint perfume, and it makes your stomach twist like a knot you can’t undo.

You'll just sit in his office and wait for him to get off as always.

And... when you see him, you're all off.

Zayne however… he knows exactly what day it is. Five days post-period. Right on schedule. He does the math in his head because, well, of course he does. He’s a surgeon. He keeps track of things.

He doesn’t mention it, not aloud. He just watches you try to wrestle yourself into stillness like you're trying to outwit your own body. He can feel it in the air—how needy you are, how tightly wound. You think you're subtle, but Zayne knows tension better than most. He lives in it and operates through it. And you're practically vibrating with it. The sterile, slightly cold office smells faintly of antiseptic and leather. Outside, the dull hum of hospital noises lingers beyond the closed door.

You won’t ask him. Not directly. Maybe you think you’re being polite. Maybe you're afraid he’ll be embarrassed. But he’s not the one squirming in a rolling chair in his office, trying to fight biology and failing.

Still, you don’t ask. You want to ask, but your voice feels small, unsure. You’ve always tried not to be a bother, this relationship is only recently sexual... but now, not asking feels like self-denial. But you can't.

So he shifts his strategy. If you won't ask him, shouldn't he ask you for a favor? That'd work wouldn't it?

He’s quiet for too long. Not in the usual way. In the way that makes your stomach twist. He’s calculating something, staring at your lips like they hold some equation he hasn’t quite solved. You feel it before he speaks—something shifting in him. Something about to snap loose? He flushes as he turns to you, words falling out like dominos.

“I need to finger you.”

His words hang in the air, clinical but sudden... like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. His jaw's tightening briefly, a twitch of the muscle betraying the calm he’s trying to maintain. His eyes flicker down to your lips like he’s memorizing their shape… a calculation paused mid-equation.

You blink. “What?”

Your heart hammers a little faster. You want to protest, but your throat feels dry and thick, and your body answers before your brain can catch up. There's heat pooling low and insistent.

Zayne clears his throat lightly, deadpan as ever. “Desperately. I'm, ah—struggling. It’s been difficult to focus. All I can think about is the sound you make when you come. So.” He tilts his head slightly. “This is for medical reasons. Mine. Urgent.”

You're trying to make sense of this, he's usually so much more put together than this… you're so horny you don't want to deny him but… You’ve never heard him stumble like this—not even when talking you through surgical risks or listing medications. Zayne is precision incarnate. So when his voice falters, it knocks the air out of you.

“I mean… if you want, I could give you—”

“No.” He cuts you off, eyes narrowing slightly. The room seems to shrink around you. The hum of the fluorescent light overhead blurs into a steady drone as your pulse hammers in your ears. His steady gaze pins you in place, and your breath catches.

“I’m not joking. The only thing that's going to help me is your thighs on my shoulders and my fingers inside you. Repeatedly. I need to make you come, and I need to taste you while I do it. That’s the only thing that’s going to help.”

You stare at him, throat dry. “You... need... that.”

“Yes,” he says, perfectly serious. “Badly. Like, clinically.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“You’re—” you try to say something clever, but it falls flat against the heat surging in your gut.

“I’m what?” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Depraved? Professional? Pathetic?”

You whisper, “Perfect.”

Zayne exhales once through his nose, the closest he gets to smiling when he’s trying not to lose composure. There’s a twitch in the corner of his mouth, and his hand comes up—Hesitant and precise, it brushes your cheek.

“So it’s alright, then?” he says, voice softer now. “If I... lose control. Just a little… With you...”

You nod before he even finishes the sentence.

And just like that, your quiet, unbearable need—masked in silence and polite restraint—crashes into his own. His eyes flicker with something unreadable—pain, longing, something deeper. For a moment, neither of you move. Then, slow and deliberate, his fingers curl around your wrist, pulling you closer. The sharp tang of antiseptic mingles with the warm, powdery scent of his cologne, a strange but intoxicating combination that makes your breath hitch.

His lips press into yours soft and patient, and with the easy state you're in, you're already letting out a soft whimper when he kisses you with such gentleness... touches you with such wanting. You're caving into him as he pulls back, begging silently for more of his lips and the powdery scent of his cologne.

He sinks to his knees, not because you asked, but because he did. Thank God.

You’re still blinking down at him, standing with your breath shallowed, as if waiting for him to laugh and walk out. But he doesn’t. He just reaches—fingers confident, deliberate—and taps once against your knee.

“Up,” he says softly. “Come on. Be good for me. Legs over the exam table.”

You obey because you always do. But also because the way he looks at you—precise, studied, patient—makes disobedience feel impossible. Punishable, even. You scoot back on the padded surface, letting your legs fall apart, and you swear his pupils dilate just slightly.

The paper beneath your thighs crinkles loudly—embarrassingly—like it dislikes what you’re doing. The scent of antiseptic cuts through the heat in your blood. Even your shirt feels too tight, too rough. The overhead lights hum, too bright, too sterile. You feel exposed and examined. Everything feels like too much… except him.

He hums. It’s not amusement, not quite. It’s approval.

“Perfect positioning. Should’ve let me do this days ago. You’re—” He clicks his tongue once. “Edging into clinical negligence, keeping me from a treatment this vital.”

His hands are warm. Sterile. Methodical. He touches you like he’s mapping nerve endings. His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs, spreading you further. He studies you like you’re a case study, a problem he already knows how to solve but enjoys solving again anyway.

You're shaking. “And this… is... for you?” You mutter, a whisper of disbelief mixed with pleasure.

“Yes. Yes, and I want you to know,” he murmurs as he leans in, “that I’m not improvising. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Thoroughly.”

Then he licks. Just once—slow, flat-tongued, exploratory. You jerk. He doesn’t flinch. Just shifts closer.

“Mhm,” he murmurs clinically, like he’s tasting for acidity in a dish. “As suspected.”

Another swipe. This time more pressure, more purpose. His hands keep you open, one sliding up to rest gently over your abdomen, steadying you. He moans low in his throat—not theatrical, not showy. A slip of sound, as if he forgot he could be heard.

“You’re already so sensitive,” he mutters, kissing you now, more deliberately. “This’ll take a while. Let me work. I will get everything I need from you soon enough.”

His tongue moves in slow, studied patterns. Up. Down. Spiral. Pause. A flick. A suck. He’s collecting data—what makes you twitch, what makes you sigh, what makes you gasp and grab at the table’s edges. Every time you make a sound, he shifts technique slightly. Filing it away. Adjusting. Repeating.

He doesn’t speak much. When he does, it’s all under his breath—clinical, praising, a little condescending, always devoted.

“There you go. That’s it.”

“More of that, Yes?”

“Don’t hold your breath so much. Let it happen.”

When you finally whimper out a guttural, cracked open sound, he looks up. His lips and chin glisten as he simply says, “Good. That’s one.”

As if you’re just getting started. (Because you are.) He doesn’t let up. Not even close.

He pushes in slow, deliberate. Controlled. Like he’s watching a monitor for vitals, measuring every reaction, every tremor in your body.

You gasp, nails curling against the padded table. He groans softly—a man adjusting to pressure, to heat, to you.

“God,” you whisper, already clenching. “I needed this. I—fuck, Zayne, I needed this so bad—”

“I can tell,” he murmurs, calm as ever, even as his hips settle flush against yours. “Should’ve said something sooner.”

You moan, full of frustration and want and something dangerously close to tears.

“I couldn’t. I didn’t wanna be—” You break off, panting. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

He stills inside you. Eyes sharp. Lips parted. And then he exhales—long and quiet, like he’s biting back some deeper emotion. Maybe regret. Maybe guilt.

“You’re not a bother,” he says, low. “You never are.”

His hips roll just slightly, testing, coaxing, sending heat racing up your spine.

“If anything...” His hand slides up your side, over your ribs, soothing, grounding. “I should’ve made time for this earlier. This…” he thrusts a little deeper, “...this seems like an urgent need.”

You whimper under him. “Zayne, I—fuck, I want—”

“What do you want?”

Your face burns. Your voice shakes. But you can’t keep it in anymore.

“I want you… you to breed me... please.”

The silence after is thick.

He’s still.

Something unravels in his expression then. It’s not just arousal—it’s longing. A wish he hadn’t let himself form until you gave it voice, like he almost wants your regret. But he nods, like that need—raw, hormonal, messy—isn’t foreign to him. Like it’s the same one clawing up his own spine.

Then, slowly—gently—he fucks into you harder. Once. Twice.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “That’s what this is about...”

You’re babbling now, eyes glassy, breath hitching.

“I—I want it. I want to feel full, I want you to come inside, I want to know it’s yours—even if it’s stupid, even if it’s just my body wanting—I don’t care, I need it, please—”

Zayne brushes a hand over your cheek, thumb catching your tears before they can fall.

“It’s not stupid.”

His voice is calm. Assured. Loving in a way that makes your chest ache.

“You’re ovulating. Your hormones are spiking. Your body’s wired for this. And you’re safe with me.”

He leans over you, mouth brushing your ear.

“Anything you ever need,” he murmurs, voice rough now, strained with emotion and restraint, “you can ask me for it. Anything.”

He pulls almost all the way out, then pushes in deep—slow, worshipping.

“Especially this.”

You cry out for him again, voice cracking, and he just keeps moving, steady and full, fucking you like it’s a promise. His body warm, his voice steady, his heart loud in your ear.

“You feel so good… you wanna be bred, my love?” he whispers. “I’ll give you everything. Fill you up so deep your body won’t know anything else but mine. I like being the only one… who can fix this… problem for you.”

That's spins you undone, and when you come again—hard, sobbing his name, clenching around him like your body’s trying to keep him inside—he follows: gasping once, then going silent as he spills into you, deep and long, trembling.

Helping.

Fixing the problem.

He stays inside you for a while. Long enough that the tremble in your thighs evens out, that the ache in your belly softens from frantic to full. His hand is on your hip, steady, his breath slowing against your neck. You feel him soften inside you, but he doesn’t move to pull out, he just wraps his hand around your thigh, thumb tracing light circles. It’s as if he is still measuring your pulse through your skin.

You’re dazed. Fucked open and flushed and barely remembering where you are. He presses a kiss just below your ear. Quiet and close.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, one hand stroking your thigh like he’s grounding both of you. “Let me know if you’re dizzy. I got you.”

You nod, finally feeling like you can think with more than that warm beat between your thighs.

“…Fixed it,” he murmurs after a moment.

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “That was your treatment plan?”

“Highly effective,” he says, deadpan. “Minimal side effects. Patient satisfaction… presumed high.”

You hum and blink up at him, lips still parted. He’s looking at you, really looking, and not in the way doctors are trained to. There’s nothing detached about it now.

Then, with that surgeon’s steadiness, he pulls out slowly—so careful it makes you ache all over again—and reaches for the drawer on the wall behind you. Pulls out a warm towel like this is just another cleanup post-op.

You twitch when he touches you. Sensitive. Spent. He murmurs a soft apology, even as his hands stay precise, wiping you clean with unhurried tenderness.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you whisper.

He glances at you. “You didn’t ask. So I had to improvise.”

You smile faintly. “You’re not mad I didn’t say anything?”

He tosses the towel aside. “I’m not mad.”

Then, more softly:

“However…I just wish you trusted me to help you. Even with this. Especially with this.”

His hand brushes your thigh again, this time more to comfort than assess. “You never have to handle it alone.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly thick.

“I didn’t know how,” you say.

“I’ll teach you,” Zayne murmurs. “Next time, say what you need. I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you. Maybe not of everything but… what I can.”

You nod, quiet.

Then he leans in again, pressing a final kiss to your collarbone. A prescription written into the touch of your skin.

And beneath it all, his voice—calm, knowing, clinical as ever:

“This appointment is incomplete, but before I continue, let's plan? Follow-up appointment… same time next cycle?”

He’s hardening again, the heat of him pressing against you, but his lips stay impossibly soft where they meet your skin. His fingers glide over you with such careful tenderness it almost aches, like he’s afraid to break something fragile inside you. His breath stutters in his throat, and when he finally looks up at you, his eyes are full of something quiet, something desperate.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice low and steady, his fingers curling around yours as if to anchor your body to him.

You swallow, heart pounding in your chest, the moment making your voice shaky. “Please… don’t stop. Not yet. Let me have this—let me have you—while you’re here, before you go back to work... before the surgeries take you away again.”

He nods slowly, swallowing hard, as if hearing that pulls something out of him. You’re full of his cum, in his office, and yet still... you want more.

“I want to care for you,” he says softly, almost like a prayer. “Let me take care of you—let me make you feel okay…”

Your breath catches, your eyes stinging. There's something in his voice—something soft, like you're worshipped. It undoes you. You nod, too overcome to speak, and he leans in to kiss you again, slower this time. A worshipful kind of kiss, one that tells you that he means it. All of it.

His hand slides between your legs, gentle, deliberate. He murmurs something you don’t catch against your cheek, and then his fingers are inside you—slow, coaxing, curling just right—and the stretch pulls a gasp from your throat.

“You’re still so wet,” he whispers, half in awe. “Still so full of my seed… and you want more?”

You whimper, your head tipping back against the back of the hospital bed. The way he touches you now feels different—like it’s not just about pleasure anymore, but about memory. Preservation.

“I don’t wanna forget how you feel,” he says, thumb brushing over your clit in slow, hypnotic circles. Your hips twitch under his hand, overwhelmed by the desire he builds in you. It's all too much—his voice, his touch, the heat of his body wrapped around yours—but you don’t want him to stop. God, you never want him to stop.

“I won’t let you,” you breathe. “I’ll remember for both of us.”

His mouth is on you again, but not your lips this time—his head drops lower, kissing a trail down your sternum, your stomach, until he’s kneeling between your legs.

“I want to taste you,” he says, voice rough with need. “Let me show you how good you are. How much I want you…You're doing me a favor really…”

He slips his fingers deeper, slow, deliberate, curling gently as he watches your breath hitch. You’re trembling under his touch, the way you’re spread out like a secret made just for him. His mouth moves close, breath hot against your skin.

“You’re the softest, sweetest flower,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with something between awe and need. “And I’m the luckiest man, right here, right now.”

His fingers flex inside you, teasing the spots that make you catch your breath and squeeze your thighs tight. Even after he’s already filled you once, the way he strokes and presses—there’s no doubt his desire is just as alive as yours, hungry and aching. He’s hard beneath you, the heat pressing close as he lets you feel it, a teasing promise of everything he wants.

“I told you it was for me,” he breathes, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “But really... this? It’s for both of us.” His hips shift, grinding slowly against you, the movement sending a new wave of fire through your body.

He leans down, mouth tracing a slow, burning path from your collarbone to your shoulder, lips parting just to whisper, “You make me need you. God, you make me need you so bad.”

His hands tighten around your hips as he pulls you just a little closer, filling the space between you with a quiet, fierce hunger. His fingers don’t stop, circling, curling, coaxing your body to respond again and again.

“Keep still for me,” he commands softly, voice rough like he’s holding back something fierce. “You’re mine right now. Every sigh, every shiver... it’s mine to take… I will be… your medicine…”

You’re gasping by the time he lowers his head again, mouth capturing yours in a deep, consuming kiss, and the taste of him—wanting, claiming—makes you lose the last grip you had on control.

His body is all fire and weight pressing down on you, filling the spaces inside you you didn’t even know were empty until now.

“More,” he whispers between kisses. “Always more.”

And you’re his, completely. The ache inside you answered at last.

His rhythm builds, fingers still buried deep while his other hand cradles your face—thumb brushing slow circles across your cheek, grounding you in the chaos he’s coaxing from your body. Every stroke inside you is purposeful, practiced, but full of reverence, like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out.

“Look at me,” he says, not quite a whisper, not quite a command. Just enough to send heat licking down your spine. “I want to see you when you come undone.”

And you do—eyes wide and glassy, lashes fluttering as your breath stutters. The sight of you like this makes him groan, low and hoarse, hips jerking just slightly, betraying how close he is to the edge too, even though he hasn’t taken you fully again yet.

His fingers still, just enough to make you whimper. He presses a kiss to your jaw, then your mouth, as if that could quiet the ache.

“I could live here,” he murmurs into your lips. “Right here, inside you, around you... forever.”

Then he shifts, slow and careful, pulling his fingers free with a wet sound that makes your whole body tighten. He holds your gaze as he brings those same fingers to his mouth, tongue curling around them with a filthy sort of tenderness, eyes half-lidded, like tasting you is sacred.

“You, my dear, officially drive me undeniably insane,” he says, voice wrecked with want. “And I don’t wanna be sane again. Not so soon...”

When he finally sinks into you, it’s with a desperate groan that breaks right through you—thick and deep, every inch stretching you open like a promise. The burn is beautiful, the pressure perfect, and your body arches to meet him like it was made to.

He doesn’t rush. He moves—slow, rolling thrusts that keep you trembling, pinned under him and worshiped at once. His forehead presses to yours, sweat-slick and trembling, and for a moment he just stays there—buried inside you, eyes fluttering shut as your pulse thrums between you.

“You feel like heaven,” he breathes, and then again, “Mine.” Like he needs you to hear it more than once.

And when he starts to move in earnest, it’s with the kind of slow devastation that leaves nothing untouched. Every stroke drags a sound from your throat, every grind of his hips makes your legs shake. He’s whispering again, praise and filth mixing on his tongue:

“So tight for me. So fucking good, after this you'll learn to ask, okay? I could stay like this all night. Just you. Just us. I'll spend every break just like this, or with a mind filled with it.”

And maybe that’s exactly what you want too—him, again and again, until the world fades and all that’s left is the rhythm of his body in yours and the fire he keeps stoking, endless and aching.

He moves again, deeper this time, more sure. Not fast—not yet. But he rocks into you with the patience of a man obsessed with detail, addicted to the small shifts of your body around him, attuned to every gasp and flutter.

Your eyes roll back as you clench down, and he groans—sharp and breathless, the only crack in his otherwise impenetrable restraint.

“Fuck—tight,” he mutters, head bowing slightly. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let me feel it. That’s what I need.”

There’s nothing clinical in his voice now. It’s reverent. Hungry.

His hands are everywhere—on your hip, your thigh, pressed over your chest like he wants to memorize the stutter of your heart. You’ve never seen him like this—undone and focused, devoted. Not just having sex with you, but learning you, like you’re anatomy he wants to master, muscle and nerve and heat.

Your orgasm builds again—second? third? You’ve lost count—rising fast like a tidal wave you can’t hold back.

Zayne notices. Of course he does.

“You’re close.” It’s not a question. “Let it happen. You’re safe. You’re good. You’re mine to take care of.”

That breaks you.

You cry out, raw and sharp, body arching under him as you fall apart with a helpless sob. He takes all of it—every pulse and tremor—and doesn’t stop moving, like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive.

He presses his forehead to yours as you shake, still holding you, still inside.

You barely have breath to whisper it: “You really needed this?”

He laughs softly—warm, breathless, wrecked. “No... yes but,” he kisses your knuckles as he admits. “But you did.”

He kisses you—slow, deep, filled with a sweetness that makes your chest ache.

Then he adds, quiet and unshakable: “But I wanted to be the one who gave it to you.”

You blink up at him, throat tight.

“Was that... alright with you?” he asks softly. “Dr’s orders... and all.”

You smile, dazed. “Might need a follow-up appointment.”

His smirk—barely there, tired, pleased—makes your heart flutter.

“I’ll clear my schedule.” ⋆⁺₊❅。

MASTERLIST WITH ALL MY FICS

🐇my bunnies: ((comment or reblog with a 🐇 emoji to get added to the taglist for everything I write)): @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple

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[mntozakii]

politician!jaemin x secretary!reader

tags: infidelity, power abuse, slight insane jaemin, illusion of filming during sex

oops this is unedited… this has been sitting in my drafts for months and i might write a full fic of it tbh 🧃 lmk what u think lovelies, sorry i’ve been away for almost a year 🤫

politician jaemin who has special relationship with his secretary. behind his professional career, he enjoys getting intertwined with another man’s wife.

“when are you going to sign the paper? jaemin murmurs against your shoulder as he tenderly fondle with your thigh. he hates to think about your absent husband who can’t provide for you, jaemin is a much better man.

“i can’t do it now, he needs me” jaemin instantly regrets asking about the divorce as he watches you remove yourself from his arms. he should’ve known better to not mention that topic if he wanted you to stay over for the night.

“baby, my lawyer will do everything for you, mmhm? all you have to do is sign the divorce paper and everything will be okay” jaemin caresses your cheek then notices the tinge of sadness in your eyes. his lips forced into a smile yet his eyes remain cold, he is well aware that you still harbour deep feelings for your husband.

he just don’t understand why you choose to stay in the marriage, your husband is a struggling filmmaker who barely makes a penny. he rarely stay at home and works under several directors to make a name for himself. it hurts jaemin to see you working so hard to financially support your husband’s dream.

“i am sorry baby, you don’t have to rush anything. i will wait for you” he reassures you as he kisses the top of your head. the kind hearted jaemin always apologise for mentioning about the divorce.

so when jaemin sees your resignation letter on his table, he was beyond infuriated. it doesn’t help when his lawyer updates to him that you have been reconnecting with that bastard again. apparently, your husband secured a solid position at a filming company in japan.

great, you left him without any closure and started a new life with your husband. although, it doesn’t take a long time for jaemin to find you. when he gets short vacation from his campaign, he makes it a mission to get the job done.

you woke up in the middle of the night when you hears a muffled scream, there is nothing that could prepare you to the sight of your husband being tied on a chair with a camera on his left hand. jaemin feels proud doing his final touch as he gags the guy with random clothes, he doesn’t want to hear his voice.

“i miss you so much” he smiles brightly as he walks closer to you. you look so frightened and adorable, he stares at you with amusement before pushing the strand of hair on your forehead.

“jaemin, please don’t do this— can we discuss about it?” you desperately grip his hands, begging for him to not humiliate your husband. you can’t help but to cry seeing him, there’s no way jaemin is going to do that.

“i’ve been too soft on you, my baby doesn’t respect me anymore” his gaze darkens seeing how easily you cry for your husband, you never do that for him. jaemin pulls you to his lap and faces the camera, the red light blinking as your husband hand shakes in anger.

“let’s put on a show for him, he needs to see how amazing his wife is, right baby?”

[y2kstarr]

— ᥫ᭡ juicy . . . chris and matt sturniolo

where . . . At the gym, Chris and Matt spot you doing squats, and to their surprise, they realize just how thick your ass and thighs had gotten from your routine workouts, leading them to want to show you just how much they appreciate your hard work

contains . . . eventual smut, threesome (ZERO INCEST), reverse cowgirl position, oral (m!receiving) + handjob, slight spanking, praise

credits to @delilahsturniolo for the marathon concept

HOT PINK WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #12

Controlled breaths and soft grunts left Matt's lips as he stood in front of the wide mirrors on the walls, watching himself as his arms curled up, his hands gripping dumbbells.

His white tank top was already clinging to his chest and shoulders, darkened around the collar with sweat. His arms flexed with each movement, clean and practiced, biceps bulging as he curled the weights up slow, controlled, the kind of effort that didn’t need noise to prove itself.

A few feet away, Chris was mid-set on the incline bench, veins snaking along his arms as he pushed the barbell upward, the plates clinking softly as they steadied at the top, breaths slow and steady.

His black tank stuck to his skin in the same way as Matt's, but it rode up at the sides to reveal carved abs and a sheen of sweat ran down his v-line that lead underneath his basketball shorts. 

They weren’t talking and they didn’t need to. The shared rhythm was there like always — both of them tuned into their own routines, but still clocking each other in that silent way brothers do. Who was lifting heavier. Who was keeping pace. Who was going to tap out first.

Matt made it through one more before his form started to slip. He paused mid-lift, teeth gritted and his huffs seeping through his teeth, then let the weights drop with a quiet, frustrated thud against the mat, a defeated huff leaving him as he heard Chris's bar clink as he racked it.

From the bench, Chris didn't even try to hide his grin as he sat up, his voice almost breathless as he celebrated. “Ha! Told you you’d tap out first.”

Matt shot him a look, still catching his breath, rolling his shoulder in that way he always did when he was being petty. “I didn’t tap out. I’m switching muscle groups.”

“Sure you are,” Chris teased, grasping his gym towel and tapping the sweat that lines his hairline. “That face said ‘I’m done’ five reps ago.”

Matt huffed out a laugh, rolled his eyes, and grabbed his water bottle. “Your bar’s lighter than my warm-up set.”

Chris leaned forward on his knees, towel now slung around his neck as he chuckled. “You can say whatever helps you sleep tonight, man. Just admit it — you tapped out.”

Matt ignored him, raising the bottle to his lips as his eyes absentmindedly swept across the gym absently — just taking in the space, the atmosphere and other people present, maybe thinking about what machine to hit next.

Until his eyes suddenly landed on you.

All three of you had come together, a routine you'd kept up for the last three months of your relationship, but as Matt looked at you, he'd realized something he sure as hell didn't realize before.

You were at the squat rack with your back to them, legs shoulder-width apart, moving through your set with slow, intentional form. There wasn’t a hint of struggle in the way you lowered into each rep, thighs tightening beneath your leggings, ass moving in that perfectly controlled rhythm.

Matt blinked once, then twice, and slowly, his water bottle lowered just a little from his lips, as if he were in a trance.

Chris noticed the shift in his brother's silence, that pause in his motion, and decided to follow his gaze, suddenly now beyond happy he'd made the decision to do so.

You were still going, steady, focused, completely in your own zone. Each time you lowered, your form was solid — back straight, knees right where they needed to be. But the way your leggings hugged you, how your thick thighs now filled out the piece of clothing, how the curve of your ass moved with every rep — fuck, it was something else.

Chris finally broke the silence as he let out a quiet breath. “Damn.”

Matt didn’t answer, just tilted his head a little like he was recalibrating everything.

“When did that happen?” Chris asked under his breath, referring to how thick you'd gotten, tone almost impressed as he stood up from the bench he was on.

Matt swallowed as he slowly capped his bottle, still watching you with a chuckle in his tone. “I have no idea... but i'm fucking loving it.”

“She’s been working legs without us,” Chris pointed out as he now stood next to Matt, a little amused now, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

Matt glanced at him. “Apparently.”

They both stood there for a second, caught between moving and not. You hadn’t looked over yet — but the angle of the mirror in front of you caught everything. And a beat later, your eyes flicked up, right to where they stood.

You didn’t miss a thing. Not the way they were staring, not the way Matt had gone quiet, not the crooked grin starting to pull at Chris’s mouth, even if they both looked like total pervs just staring at you.

You didn’t break your stride though, just kept going, but a smile tugged at the corner of your lips — smug, like you knew exactly what you were doing.

Chris leaned over just a little toward Matt, keeping his voice low and teasing. “Still pacing yourself?”

Matt narrowed his eyes as he glanced at Chris, shaking his head once before holding his bottle tight in his grip, starting to walk over to you.

“You coming?” he asked over his shoulder at Chris who looked as if he was still curious on whether he should come to you or not, but as Matt grew closer, he couldn't help but chuckle before he grabbed his bottle from the bench and made his way over to you and Matt.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

By the time all three of you got home, you were trying not to grin as you fumbled with your keys, the lock just slightly stubborn in that way it always was. You leaned into the door with a soft laugh under your breath as Matt’s hands slid around your waist from behind, pulling you gently back against him.

“Hey—” you protested, giggling a little, half-surprised at how handsy they were getting with you. “I’m trying to open the door.”

Chris’s voice was a breath right at your ear. “Mhmmm,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your skin. “That’s why you've been taking your sweet ol' time with the key for like… a full minute.”

You laughed again, breathy and flustered. “It’s stuck!”

Matt kissed the back of your shoulder, slow and warm, whilst Chris's kissed at the opposite side of your neck, Matt murmuring against your skin. “You’re stuck. On our minds.”

“Oh my God,” you scoffed at his cheesiness, but you were already smiling, biting your lip as you finally got the door open. The second it creaked inward, Chris stepped behind you as you all walked in and kicked it closed without missing a beat.

You took two steps forward before you felt Matt’s mouth again, soft and slow at the base of your neck, while Chris’s hands slid under your tank top from behind, grazing up your sides. You squirmed a little between them, a laugh bubbling up before you could stop it.

“Okay, okay,” you said through a grin, trying to turn around. “Why are you two acting like this all of a sudden?”

Chris didn’t move far, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, feigning innocence with a soft chuckle. “Acting like what?”

“Like you’re about to eat me alive,” you teased, giggling again when Matt’s hand squeezed your hip.

“Because we are,” Matt said, voice rough but playful. “You should’ve seen the way you looked at the gym.”

“You were showing off,” Chris added, grinning as he tugged gently at the hem of your tank top.

“I wasn’t,” you lied, barely holding back another laugh as you knew you were totally trying to catch their attentions back at the gym, a breath catching in your throat as Matt’s fingers slid under the waistband of your leggings.

“Then why were you smirking at us in the mirror?” Chris asked, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then lower. “You knew we were staring.”

“You were staring?” you asked, pretending to sound scandalized — but it was no use with how flushed your face felt. Your voice broke on a laugh as Matt’s hand smoothed over the curve of your ass, just firm enough to make your knees wobble a little.

Matt leaned in, pressing up behind you like he was losing grip on his self control. “How could we not?”

Chris slipped to walk in front of you, his hand finding yours to guide you gently forward, his back facing away from you. “Bedroom. Now. Before I do something ridiculous in this hallway.”

You giggled again, tripping a little on your way down the hall, but they steadied you between themselves like they had a plan — like they’d been thinking about this since the moment they'd left that gym.

As you all stepped into the bedroom, your lips met Chris's, his hands trailing down to grasp the hem of your tank top as your hands slid up to curl into the strands of his hair. You felt as he tugged up your tank top, making you pull from the kiss to help him take it off, chuckles and giggles spilling from the three of you as you got to the bed.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

"Oh f-fuck!"

Your moans echoed throughout the bedroom, mixing in with Chris's groans as his hands gripped your hips tight, his eyes trained on the way your ass lifted and fell with each movement you made, your hands holding yourself up on his thighs as you rode him reverse cowgirl style.

A gasped yelp left your lips as Chris's hand came down with another smack, not too hard, but not too weak, perfect enough to sting upon impact before instantly melting into thrilling pleasure that coursed through your body.

"Jesus fuck, ma— such a perfect fuckin' ass. Been working it out for a while now, huh? Wanting to see if we'd notice?" Chris teased as his hands guided your hips, his head lolling back at the ecstatic feeling of you riding him like this.

You could hardly give him a clear answer back as Matt's cock slipped back into your willing mouth, your eyes rolling back at the taste of him before bobbing your head, a muffled "mhmmm" leaving you around Matt's dick as one hand came up to grip his thigh as well.

"Couldn't– fuck– couldn't help ourselves, baby," Matt cooed down at you, groaning deeply as you took him so perfectly, just like you always did, your pretty eyes looking up at him in a way that had him nearly blowing his load right the. and there. "We just had to reward you once we saw how much your work's been paying off."

You moaned around Matt's cock at his words, feeling as his fingers gripped your hair tighter with a grunt leaving his lips.

Nothing but sounds of pleasuring sex filled the room, groans and moans, whines and grunts, slaps and slurps. It was obscene, but god, you fucking loved it. You couldn't help the way you mewled as Matt's cock slipped from your mouth, feeling as Chris thrusted up into you, his movements now quickened in a way you knew all too well.

"Shhhit, ma— god, you're gonna make me fuckin' cum—" Chris groaned out almost pathetically, his hands sliding down to dig his fingers into your deliciously thick thighs, his thrusts meeting your moving hips in a way that had your nearly trembling with pleasure.

You couldn't get Matt back into your mouth with how Chris was fucking you, so your hand shakingly moved up, wrapping around his thick cock and starting to pump him at a pace that had him stuttering his breath and tensing his thighs.

"Fucking hell— gonna make me fucking cum too, baby— keep that up— oh fuck, please—" Matt moaned, his hips thrusting forward to meet your pumps, practically fucking your fist as you looked up at him with parts lips and flushed cheeks.

You could feel as both of their movements became a little sloppy, hurried as if they were scrambling to the edge, and as you felt that burning pleasure grow and grow within, you moved your hips and hand in time just to tip them over the edge.

As if in unison, you felt as thick, warm spurts of cum from Chris filled your sweet cunt, all the while pearly ropes of cum shot from Matt's cock, your mouth open as they landed on your tongue and face, making you let out a breathless giggle before you felt your orgasm wash over you like a tidal wave, your eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

Groans, whines, and moans filled the room as you rode out your collective highs, before everything finally slowed down to a stop, Chris's thrusts halting, you hips stopping, and your hand slipping from Matt's cock. The once pleasured noises turned now into panted breaths.

"Please don't ever fucking change this gorgeous body, ma," Chris panted behind you, pulling breathless chuckles and giggles from all three of you, a collective agreement throughout the room.

Oh you were never going to stop giving them more to drool over.

☆ : so so sorry this is coming out so late in the day, was out most of the day with family so, had to work on this when I could 😭 hope it turned out good and that you guys enjoy!! 1 MORE DAY YALL <33

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