#and by that I mean two of them are and one of them was a kitten at the time

[danysdaughter]

bucky seeing p0rn for the first time after the dating apps don’t work out👀

I'm deadddd, this was so vague so I just ran with it

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 6.3k words

summary | when dating apps fail him and thirst traps become his downfall, bucky barnes finds himself spiraling down the internet’s most unholy rabbit hole—pornhub.

what starts as horrified research turns into full-blown obsession... especially when you, his sharp-tongued best friend, catch him red-handed and make very sure he lives out every filthy fantasy he’s been hiding.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, face sitting, breeding kink dirty talk, roleplay mentions, overstimulation, sexual humor, porn discovery, reader catches bucky watching porn, friends to very horny lovers, reader is a menace, teasing, flustered bucky, dom!bucky, subtle power play, consent is sexy, reader rides his face, doggy style, missionary? i hardly know her, mutual pining (solved by porn), no use of y/n, reader is a problem and bucky loves it, aftercare.

a/n | yeah, I definitely went overboard with this. I hope you freaks enjoy this

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

You sipped your drink slowly, already biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing as Bucky glared into his beer like it had personally betrayed him.

“So,” Sam started, barely hiding his smirk. “How was the date with... what was her name again? Velvet? Vixen?”

“Vesper,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “And she asked if I’d be into choking her with my vibranium arm before we even finished our drinks.”

You snorted into your glass.

Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I mean... was she wrong?”

“Sam.” Bucky’s glare was instant, but mostly performative. “I just met her.”

You glanced at him over your glass, amused. “What app did you find this one on?”

He groaned. “The same one you said was ‘normal.’”

“No one said it was normal,” you said, raising a brow. “I said it was better than Tinder. That’s not a high bar.”

Bucky leaned back with a sigh, looking thoroughly done with the entire 21st century. “I miss when people met at soda shops and asked each other about their families instead of sending... pictures of their genitals.”

Sam barked a laugh. “Aw, poor Grandpa’s overwhelmed by the sex-positive future.”

“You know what’s not positive?” Bucky muttered. “The fact that I Googled ‘how to get back out of the dating app’ and it sent me to a subreddit with people just as confused as I am.”

You exchanged a look with Sam, both of you clearly enjoying this way too much.

“Have you... considered other ways to meet people?” you asked, trying not to grin. “Like not being a digital hermit?”

Bucky looked between the two of you, deadpan. “I’m this close to living in the jungle again.”

Sam raised his glass. “To Bucky Barnes, the only man who can bench-press a car but can’t survive Hinge.”

Bucky slammed his glass down—not hard, but with enough force to earn a side-eye from the bartender.

“I just don’t get it,” he muttered. “I’m trying to talk to these women like a normal person. I say, ‘Hi, how was your day?’ and one of them responds with—” he fumbled with his phone, squinting at the screen, “‘Send me a pic of the arm, baby, I wanna see what’s gonna rearrange my insides.’”

You choked.

Sam full-on cackled, grabbing his chest. “Wait—rearrange her insides? Yo, that’s poetry.”

“She sent a GIF after that,” Bucky went on, staring at the phone like it might explode. “A GIF. Of a hydraulic press crushing a watermelon. What does that mean?”

“I’m gonna die,” you wheezed, nearly spilling your drink. “She wants you to hydraulically press her coochie, Barnes. Come on.”

“I thought she was making a smoothie metaphor!” Bucky snapped. “And then another one asked if I was into CNC. I said I didn’t know what that meant, and she said ‘perfect.’”

Sam wiped a tear from his eye. “Oh my god—Bucky, you’re gonna end up in someone’s kink diary.”

“She sent me a TikTok about edging,” Bucky added, horror slowly overtaking his face. “I thought it was about gardening.”

You completely lost it, head in your arms on the table. “Please stop, I can’t breathe.”

Bucky scowled. “I’m serious! She said she wanted to edge me for hours, and I said that sounded peaceful, like a nice walk—and she sent back forty-seven emojis.”

Sam gasped between wheezes. “You’re getting sexted in hieroglyphics and you think it’s a hike, I’m begging you to never leave the house again.”

Bucky looked between you both, betrayal written across his face. “I survived Hydra. I survived seventy years of brainwashing. But I will not survive being called ‘daddy’ by a woman who lists her job as ‘freelance foot model and energy witch.’”

“Wait—did she have the crystals?” you asked, barely able to form the words.

He nodded grimly. “She said my aura was ‘screaming trauma kink.’”

Sam actually slid off the stool, wheezing on the floor.

He shut the door behind him with a dull thunk, then stood there for a moment in the silence. The kind that pressed in around the edges when no one else was around. Just him, the creak of the old radiator, and the words “rearrange my insides” still echoing in his head like a ghost.

Bucky sighed, tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair, and walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge as if disappointment wouldn’t be waiting there too. One beer left. Great.

He grabbed it, popped the cap off with his metal hand, and made his way over to his laptop.

It sat there on the table like a challenge.

He opened it. The familiar whir kicked on. A sigh slipped through his teeth.

“I fought in two wars,” he muttered to himself. “Survived Hydra. Took down a helicarrier. But this? This is the real enemy.”

He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Then he typed:

"What does CNC mean?"

Enter.

He leaned forward slowly, reading the top search result. Then the second.

His eyebrows pulled together. His mouth fell open just slightly.

"...Consensual non-consent?"

He clicked the link. Read further.

He leaned back in his chair like he’d just been shot.

“Why—why would anyone want that?” he muttered, scandalized. “That’s just... that’s just assault with permission.”

Still, he didn’t close the tab.

He opened a new one instead.

"Edging meaning (not gardening)"

More links. More acronyms. More trauma.

His face contorted in quiet horror as he scanned descriptions, diagrams, tips and techniques.

His beer sat forgotten on the table.

Eventually, he clicked a link that just said “beginner’s guide to porn kinks.” It was a blog. Fairly clinical. Until it wasn’t.

Then he clicked another.

And another.

Until eventually he wound up on a site with thumbnails—little videos with previews. Titles he didn’t fully understand.

He stared at one.

A girl, on her knees, mouth open, eyes wide.

Title: “Training My Pretty Submissive Brat”

He blinked. Then hovered. Clicked.

The video loaded.

He sat still, very still, as it started playing.

And then...

“What the hell—” he whispered.

The guy was talking. Dirty. Commanding.

The girl was moaning like someone had just whispered state secrets in her ear. She was calling him sir. Begging. Crying out when he—

Bucky slammed the spacebar to pause the video, hand clenched on the table.

He stood. Paced.

‘I shouldn’t be watching this,’ he thought, running his hand through his hair. ‘This is wrong. This is not—that’s not—’

He looked back at the screen.

Unpaused.

A few seconds passed.

He sat again.

Watched. Silent. Rigid.

His jaw clenched. His eyes darted across the screen like he was scanning enemy movement.

Then his hand—his metal hand—tapped the edge of the keyboard.

Paused again.

His chest rose and fell.

“I mean… he’s not hurting her,” he thought. “She’s asking for it. She likes it.”

Beat.

“And she’s loud.”

He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the paused screen like it had insulted him personally.

Then he muttered, “Is that what people want now?”

He reopened the search bar.

"How to talk dirty in bed"

The search results hit him like a grenade.

By the third article, his ears were red. His fingers hovered over the trackpad like they didn’t know whether to scroll or just snap the whole laptop in half.

He clicked another video.

This one was slower. More intimate.

The woman straddled the guy’s lap, whispering in his ear. He growled something back, then pushed her down on the bed—

Bucky’s breath caught.

He didn’t even notice his hand moving under the table at first.

Didn’t notice the low groan that slipped from his throat when the man on screen said, “Good girl—just like that.”

He froze. Eyes wide. Mouth dry.

He swallowed hard.

“…I need another beer.”

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t stop watching.

Because something in him had been starved for this. For contact. For control. For someone wanting him, even in fantasy.

The next video autoplayed before he could stop it.

Another couple. This time, softer lighting. Moaning, whispered praise. Her back arched under his touch as he moved slow, deliberate, like every second was sacred.

Bucky swallowed hard.

He sat motionless for a full minute.

Then his hand drifted down.

Hesitant. Awkward.

He undid the button of his jeans, fingers brushing over the bulge in his briefs. The contact was enough to make his breath stutter.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

He shifted in his seat, pushed his jeans down just enough, and curled his hand around himself. Warm skin against cool air. His metal hand clenched uselessly on the table as the other moved slowly, uncertain.

The sounds from the video—soft, rhythmic, intimate—filled the room.

And Bucky gave in.

His eyes didn’t close. He watched—studied—the way the man touched her, held her, spoke to her like she was something precious and filthy all at once.

“Such a good girl,” the man murmured. “Taking all of me. Just like that.”

Bucky bit down on a groan, his hand moving faster now, hips twitching in his seat.

He imagined saying those words.

And then—

He imagined you.

Your voice, sharp and sarcastic, going breathy and soft when he touched you. Your legs around his waist. Your fingers in his hair. Your mouth whispering his name like it meant something.

And that thought—you, under him, with him—wrecked him.

He jerked harder, gritting his teeth, chest rising fast.

A low moan slipped out. Sharp. Uncontrolled.

His head fell back, eyes clenched shut as heat coiled in his gut. His body trembled.

One more stroke—

And he came.

Hard.

He let out a strangled noise, hips lifting off the couch, body seizing as white-hot pleasure shot through him. His hand slowed, milked every last pulse, until the aftershocks faded and all that was left was—

Silence. Reality. Shame.

His breath was harsh in his ears.

The screen was still playing.

The woman moaned, laughing, pulling the man closer.

Bucky stared. Then looked down.

At himself. At the mess.

At the way his hand was still wrapped around his cock, softening now, shame creeping in like a slow burn.

He let go like he’d been scalded.

The aftershocks hadn’t even faded before the guilt hit—cold and immediate.

Not from what he’d watched.

Not even from what he’d done.

But from who he’d seen in his mind while he did it.

You.

You, laughing beside him at the bar. You, rolling your eyes at his brooding. You, calling him “grandpa” and meaning it with affection.

You—beneath him, moaning, touching, giving yourself to him in the fantasy that had just ripped through his body.

His stomach twisted.

He yanked his pants back up, hands clumsy, face burning not with arousal now—but with shame.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pacing, one hand raking through his hair, the other clenching into a fist. “Fuck—what the hell’s wrong with me?”

You were his friend.

You were real.

And he’d just used the idea of you like… like some porn star on a screen.

His jaw tightened. He couldn’t look at the laptop. Couldn’t look at himself. He felt dirty—not because he’d touched himself, but because it felt like a betrayal. A violation of something pure.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

That hadn’t been just need.

That had been you.

And now he didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to look you in the eye again.

A Few Weeks Later

There was a knock at the door.

Three knocks, then a pause.

Then two more.

“Come on, Barnes,” your voice called through the door. “I brought sacrificial offerings.”

Bucky hesitated.

He sat in the dark, boots still on, bruised knuckles resting against his knees. His hoodie clung to him, sweat-damp and rumpled, his mind still halfway in the mission, halfway in the same loop it had been stuck in for weeks.

But it was you.

He got up slowly and opened the door.

You stood there with a paper bag in one hand, a six-pack in the other, grinning like you had zero intention of leaving whether he wanted you to or not.

“You gonna let me in or should I start monologuing like a Bond villain?”

He stepped aside without a word.

You strolled in like you owned the place, already heading to the kitchen with practiced ease.

“Brought dumplings, noodles, and enough alcohol to bleach the taste of both from your soul,” you said, setting things down. “You looked like someone clubbed you with your own metal arm last mission, so—figured I’d play nurse. A sexy, underqualified nurse with boundary issues.”

Bucky closed the door quietly behind you.

“You’re not a nurse,” he muttered.

“Not with that attitude.”

You popped the beers open, handed him one, then flopped onto his couch like you lived there. Legs kicked up, food containers opened without ceremony, your usual grin in place.

He stood a few feet away, beer untouched in his hand.

He hadn’t seen you in weeks—not really. He’d ducked every casual run-in, bailed on team movie nights, even ghosted your texts under the excuse of "needing space." He figured you noticed.

You just hadn’t said anything.

Until now.

You eyed him, casually, between bites. “You gonna sit down or do I need to pull you onto the couch like a Victorian housewife?”

He sat. Slowly. Farther away than usual.

You noticed. Of course you did. But you didn’t call him on it.

Not yet.

Instead, you nudged a container toward him and said, “Eat, soldier. You look like a sad, haunted lumberjack.”

And still—he didn’t say a word.

Because all he could think about, sitting beside you again after a month of silence, was the way your mouth had looked in that fantasy.

The way your voice had sounded moaning his name.

The way he’d used the memory of your real, friendly, teasing self to—

He swallowed thickly.

You kept eating, casual, sharp, familiar.

Exactly how he remembered. Exactly what made it so much worse.

You wiped your fingers on a napkin, leaned back, and gave him a look.

“Alright. You look like you’re two seconds from overthinking yourself into an early grave. Movie time. Something with violence or explosions—your love language.”

Before he could protest, you were already standing and heading toward his desk.

“Wait—” he said, starting to rise, but too slow.

You flipped open his laptop. “Let’s see what Grandpa Barnes has in his—”

“Ah—ahh—yes, please—!”

The moaning hit like a tactical nuke.

You froze.

So did he.

Both of you staring wide-eyed at the screen as the speakers screamed filth into the otherwise silent apartment.

Bucky moved fast.

Too fast.

He lunged over the couch, hand outstretched like he was taking enemy fire.

You dodged.

Smooth, practiced. Years of training paying off.

“No—” he barked, face already crimson, “Please—don’t—!”

“Oh my god—” you laughed, holding the laptop just out of reach. “Is this—is this Pornhub? Are you seriously—you are! You’ve been watching porn, you absolute degenerate.”

He groaned, dragging his hand down his face, mortified.

“Please give me the laptop,” he said, voice low, wounded, like you were holding a hostage.

But you were already clicking the spacebar, pausing the video mid-thrust.

“Oooh,” you said, squinting at the tab title. “‘Brat tamer destroys needy sub’? This is what you’re into?” You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Bucky.”

“Stop,” he muttered, pacing now, hands on his hips. “I was—researching.”

“Researching what? The anatomy of a throatfuck?” you said, howling with laughter. “Brat tamer—are you even on Tumblr, old man?”

He looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him.

“Do you know how much I regret every decision that led to this moment?”

You hugged the laptop to your chest dramatically. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this. The secrets. The shame. The kinks.”

“Give. It. Back.”

“Nope. Not until we find out if you’ve got a whole ‘rough dom Bucky’ fantasy folder stashed somewhere. You into praise? Degradation? Impact play? Knife play?”

He growled.

Actually growled.

And for half a second, it stopped being funny.

Because the way his eyes locked on you?

That wasn’t embarrassment anymore.

That was heat. Low. Dangerous.

You grinned, too drunk on the chaos to stop.

“Come on, Barnes,” you said, laptop still clutched like a prize. “Own it. You like a little bratty backtalk? You want someone to whimper please while you tell her she’s being a bad girl?”

He was still pacing, but slower now. Controlled. Coiled.

You didn’t notice.

You were too busy poking the bear.

“Is that what you’re into?” you teased, stepping back. “All that repressed soldier shit finally coming out in dirty little commands and throat grips?”

His eyes met yours. Still embarrassed, sure. But behind it? Something sharper. Something hungry.

“Y’know,” you added, tone light, teasing, “I always pegged you as more of a soft dom. Gentle hands. Lots of praise. But this? This is dark. Kinda filthy. Kinda hot.”

That did it. He moved.

Fast.

Faster than he should’ve.

One second, you were smirking with the laptop; the next, it was out of your hands, clattering to the couch. You were against the wall, chest rising, his body a breath away from yours.

His hand planted next to your head.

His voice low. Controlled.

“Enough.”

You stared at him. The air was suddenly thick. Your heart thudded once, hard.

“You think this is a joke?” he asked, eyes burning into you.

Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“You think I don’t know you’ve been toying with me since the moment you walked in?”

That teasing smile faltered—just a little.

“You keep pushing,” he murmured, leaning in, breath brushing your jaw. “You laugh, you flirt, you play. But you don’t realize... I’ve thought about you. In ways I shouldn’t.”

You swallowed.

Hard.

“I know what I watched,” he went on, voice rough, low, dangerous. “I know who I imagined.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then back up.

And when he spoke again, it wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

“You want to see what I’m into?”

You blinked up at him—cornered, caged—but not afraid.

Not even close. Your smile crept back, slower this time. Calculated.

“Oh,” you murmured, tone shifting. “You imagined me?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

His silence said everything.

You pushed your palms slowly against his chest, feeling the way his body tensed under your touch. Solid. Barely held together.

You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear.

“So tell me,” you whispered, voice low and coaxing. “If you’ve already pictured it, Barnes... what did I look like?”

He exhaled harshly through his nose.

You didn’t stop.

“What was I doing?” you went on, dragging your fingers down the curve of his chest. “Was I on my knees? Bent over? Did I ride you while you begged for it?”

A choked sound left him—more breath than voice.

You smiled against his neck. “Or do you want to tell me what you were doing to me?”

His hands twitched at his sides.

You could feel it—the war inside him. Guilt, hunger, restraint. And under all of it, the ache.

“Go on, James,” you whispered, using his real name like a secret. “Tell me. What do you like?”

His head dropped forward, forehead nearly touching yours.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—

“I want you on top,” he breathed, voice ragged. “I want you to sit on my face and ride it until your legs give out.”

Your eyes fluttered closed for half a second.

That was not the answer you expected first.

His voice deepened, like now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop.

“I want you on your knees, begging. I want to fuck you from behind so deep you forget your own name. I want to feel you come around me and not stop. I want to stay inside you.”

His breath hitched. His hands were fisting at his sides.

“And when I’m done, when you can’t even move anymore—I want to come in you and keep coming until you’re full of me. Until it’s dripping out of you.”

Your thighs clenched instinctively.

Your nails curled tighter into his chest.

And your voice, still low, still teasing—but now breathy, just slightly—said:

“Damn, Barnes. That’s a whole lot of filth for someone who didn’t even know what edging was last month.”

Your last teasing whisper hadn’t even left your lips before Bucky moved.

One second you were pinned between him and the wall, and the next, his hands were on your hips, gripping tight. Then the ground disappeared beneath your feet.

You gasped as he lifted you—easily, effortlessly—hauling you against his chest like you weighed nothing.

“Jesus, Barnes—” you started, but his mouth was already on yours.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim.

Hot, rough, needy—his lips crashed into yours with the force of every filthy thought, every sleepless night, every moment he’d spent imagining your mouth, your body, your sound. His teeth scraped your bottom lip. His tongue pushed past yours. There was no hesitation. Just heat.

You moaned into it, hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer even as he carried you down the hall.

Your back hit the wall once, then the doorframe, and then—

The bed.

He dropped you onto it like a man starved for touch. The mattress creaked beneath you, sheets rumpled and cool against your skin as you propped yourself up on your elbows, breathless and grinning.

Bucky stood at the edge of the bed, looking at you like you were his undoing.

You tilted your head, voice low and mocking.

“Is this the part where you get all commanding, Sergeant? Or are you gonna make me do the work?”

His jaw clenched. He stepped forward. Then dropped his weight onto the bed, climbing over you, hands already at your thighs, dragging you down the sheets toward him.

“I told you not to push,” he growled.

You smiled, voice syrup-sweet.

“And I told you I liked pushing.”

His hands slipped under your shirt, yanking it over your head in one smooth motion. Your bra was next, tossed aside without ceremony. He ducked down immediately, mouth hot against your collarbone, then lower—kissing, biting, devouring.

You gasped, head falling back as his mouth found your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he sucked it between his lips, hard.

And still—you teased.

“Careful, Barnes. Gonna make a mess before you even get inside me.”

He looked up at you.

Eyes wild, hungry, dark.

And then he dragged your jeans down—fast, rough, like he didn’t have the patience for anything else—and crawled up between your legs, pressing his body to yours until there was nothing between you anymore.

“Then shut up,” he growled, grinding against you, his cock thick and hard through his jeans.

“Make me,” you whispered, pulling him down by the collar.

And he did.

His mouth was everywhere—jaw, neck, breasts, stomach—kissing, biting, groaning like he couldn’t get enough, like he didn’t know where to start because he wanted all of you.

Then he pulled back, breathing hard, eyes raking over your body like a man finally allowed to look.

“Get up,” he rasped, voice dark and thick with want.

You blinked up at him, dazed and grinning. “What?”

He sat back on his heels, hands gripping your thighs.

“I said get up,” he repeated. “I want you on my face.”

Your breath caught.

Dead serious.

You didn’t question it. Didn’t tease.

Instead, your lips curved into a slow smile as you shifted, sitting up, climbing over him with fluid, easy confidence.

“As you wish, Sergeant.”

That name hit him like a punch to the chest.

His hands guided you—firm, reverent, needy—until your knees were braced on either side of his head, your body hovering just above his lips.

He looked up at you like a man who’d prayed for this moment.

And then?

He pulled you down.

No hesitation.

Just mouth.

Hot, wet, desperate—he groaned the second he tasted you, tongue already lapping through your folds, lips sealing around your clit like he was starving.

Your head tipped back with a sharp gasp, fingers flying into his hair as your hips bucked against his mouth.

“Fuck—Bucky—”

He growled in response, hands gripping your ass, holding you down, keeping you there.

You rocked against him instinctively, gasping as his tongue flicked and circled, licked and sucked. He was moaning into you, mumbling things you couldn’t even make out—except for one word that hit clear, over and over:

“Mine.”

You looked down at him, eyes wild, mouth open.

His eyes met yours.

Dark. Glazed. Possessed.

You could see the man he used to be—the soldier, the weapon—but right now?

Right now he was just yours.

And you were his.

You couldn’t stop moving.

Couldn’t stop grinding against his mouth, against his tongue, the pleasure slamming through you in waves, harder and sharper with every flick, every suck.

Bucky moaned beneath you, the sound filthy, shameless, needy—like your taste was saving him from something dark and deep and buried.

His hands held you tighter, guiding your hips as you rocked against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head.

“Fuck—fuck—” you gasped, one hand gripping the headboard, the other buried in his thick, messy hair. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

He didn’t.

If anything, he doubled down—lips sealing tighter, tongue working you harder, sloppier, his groans vibrating against your clit like a live wire.

He wanted this.

He wanted to suffocate on you, drown in you.

And you gave it to him.

Because when you looked down, saw those glassy, desperate blue eyes staring up at you, pleading for more, there was no holding back.

The coil snapped.

Your whole body locked as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and searing, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his mouth.

“Bucky—” you cried, voice cracking, thighs clamping around his head as you came—hard.

He didn’t let go.

He held you there, arms wrapped around your thighs, mouth still working you through it, licking and sucking every shudder, every twitch, like it was a gift.

You collapsed forward, one hand braced on the headboard behind his head, the other still clutching his hair, your body wrecked, shaking, soaked.

And when you finally opened your eyes—chest heaving, heart pounding—you looked down at him.

His lips were wet, chin glistening, eyes blown wide with hunger.

He looked like he could live there. Like he’d happily die there.

And all he said, voice hoarse and full of worship:

“You taste like heaven.”

You were still trembling when he sat up behind you, hands stroking your thighs, your hips, slow and reverent like he needed to remember the feel of you.

“You good?” he rasped, voice wrecked from moaning into you.

You nodded, barely catching your breath, lips curving into a slow smile.

“Still waiting for that doggystyle fantasy to come true, Sergeant.”

That was all it took.

He growled low in his throat, grabbing your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your stomach. Before you could even laugh, his hands slid under your body and lifted your hips high, chest pressed down into the mattress.

You moaned, the stretch in your spine perfect, delicious.

He leaned over you, his breath hot at your ear.

“This how you want it?”

You arched your back, ass pushing against him. “This is how you want it.”

He growled again—low, deep, possessive.

“Exactly how I want it.”

Then you felt him—his cock, thick and hot, dragging through your soaked folds, the head catching on your entrance.

He didn’t push in yet.

Just rubbed, slow, deliberate, teasing.

You whimpered, tried to push back.

He gripped your hips tighter.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “You’re gonna feel all of it.”

Then—he pushed in.

Slow at first, but deep, the stretch burning in the best way as he filled you, inch by thick, pulsing inch.

“Fuck—” you moaned, hands clutching the sheets as he bottomed out.

He held still once he was fully inside.

Like he was savoring it.

Like this—being buried in you, your body wrapped tight around his—was what he’d been starving for.

Then he moved.

Pulled out halfway.

And slammed back in.

You cried out, the sound muffled by the sheets as he started thrusting, each snap of his hips harder, deeper, rougher than the last.

His hands gripped your waist like you were his anchor.

His rhythm brutal, relentless.

He fucked you like he meant it—like he’d dreamed of this for weeks, like every fantasy had led to this.

You were gasping, moaning, clawing at the bed.

“Look at you,” he panted behind you. “So fucking tight—taking me so good.”

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

And when his hand snaked around to rub your clit, you screamed his name.

He didn’t let up.

Just pounded into you harder, faster, until the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, filthy and loud and perfect.

He was so deep in you.

Deeper than anyone had ever been—physically, yes, but also fully. Like this was where he belonged. Like this was where you belonged.

His hips rolled, the angle perfect, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you with every rough, claiming thrust.

And his voice—low, wrecked, filthy—poured right into your ear.

“You like that, sweetheart?” he growled. “You like being on your knees for me?”

You whimpered, nodding, voice breathless.

“Yes, Bucky—fuck—so much.”

He leaned over you, chest flush to your back, still moving inside you—slow now, torturously deep, like he wanted to feel every pulse of you clenching around him.

“Yeah, you do,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “My good girl. So fuckin’ wet for me. You were dripping on my face—you know that?”

You moaned, your body shaking, ass pushing back into him.

“I saw you,” he said, his rhythm stuttering just to drag the next thrust out longer. “When I told you to sit on my face? You didn’t even hesitate. You just gave it to me.”

You gasped as his hand slid down your back, curving over your ass, squeezing.

“And now you’re letting me fuck you like this,” he went on. “Taking every inch like a good little cocksleeve. You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”

You shuddered, squeezing around him so tight he groaned.

“Yes,” you panted, shameless. “Fuck, Bucky—fill me up—please—I want it.”

He slammed into you harder, rhythm picking up again, fast and unforgiving.

“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s what I like. You begging. You dripping. You mine.”

You cried out, bracing yourself against the mattress as he drove into you faster now, hand slipping beneath to rub your clit again.

“Say it,” he hissed. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” you choked. “You, Bucky—I’m yours.”

He groaned deep in his throat, thrusts faltering for a beat like the words knocked something loose in him.

Then he grabbed your hair, gently but firm, pulling you up just enough to kiss your neck—bite it—then whisper:

“When I come, I’m gonna stay inside you. Gonna keep you full for hours. Walk around dripping with me.”

You whined, thighs shaking, the pressure building again—faster, sharper.

“Bucky—please—”

His voice was a growl, low and thick with promise.

“Come for me.”

And you did.

Hard.

Your whole body clenched around him, your scream muffled by the sheets as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and messy, your walls fluttering around his cock.

Your moan was still echoing when he grabbed your waist, pulling you back—up, off the bed, into his lap.

You barely had time to gasp before you were straddling him, his chest pressed flush to your back, his mouth at your neck, and his cock still inside you.

“Not done,” he growled, arms locking around your waist. “Not until I come in you.”

Then he thrust up into you—hard, deep, devastating.

You cried out, your body already overstimulated, every thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you all over again. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, spreading your thighs wider, keeping you open for him as he pounded up from beneath you with bruising rhythm.

“Fuck—Bucky—” you whimpered, hands flying back to clutch at his hair, his shoulder, anything.

He was relentless.

Grunting with each thrust, hips snapping up into you, his breath ragged against your ear.

“Feel that?” he rasped. “How deep I am? How you’re still so fuckin’ tight?”

You nodded, moaning, body jerking with every thrust.

“You’re gonna take it,” he hissed. “Every drop. I’m not pullin’ out—you hear me? I’m comin’ inside you.”

“Yes,” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Please—Bucky—fill me up—”

He groaned, deeper than before, thrusts losing rhythm, his grip bruising on your hips as his body started to shake.

“Fuckfuckfuck—gonna come—”

One last thrust—brutal, final—and he buried himself in you, arms tightening, head thrown back as he came hard, deep inside you.

You felt it.

Hot.

Thick.

Flooding you as he groaned your name, holding you tight in his lap, still pulsing inside you.

And he didn’t let go.

Didn’t move.

Just stayed there—buried—chest rising against your back, his breath warm at your neck, whispering,

“You’re mine.”

You collapsed forward onto the bed, body still twitching with aftershocks, breath ragged and uneven. Bucky followed, slow and heavy, staying close, still inside you for a moment longer like he couldn’t stand to let you go just yet.

Eventually, he pulled out with a soft groan.

You whimpered at the loss, hips squirming on instinct.

He stayed behind you for a second, hovering—eyes locked on the way his release slowly dripped out of you, sliding between your thighs and onto the sheets.

You could feel him watching.

You tilted your head back with a lazy grin. “If you’re gonna stare like that, at least have the decency to offer a towel.”

He huffed a rough laugh—half-exhausted, half-stunned. “Sorry. Just... didn’t wanna forget what that looks like.”

You stretched like a cat, all smug satisfaction and afterglow. “Yeah, well. Take a picture next time, Barnes.”

He leaned down, kissed your shoulder—soft, slow, grateful—then flopped beside you, dragging the sheet up over your tangled bodies.

His arm wrapped around your waist, warm and heavy.

Neither of you spoke for a minute.

Just the sound of your breathing slowing. Your bodies cooling.

Then he murmured, voice quiet against your skin, “You’re in my head now.”

You smiled, eyes drifting shut.

“Good,” you whispered. “Took you long enough.”

You lay there, tangled together in the warm quiet, your body still thrumming, skin slick and flushed. Bucky’s arm was wrapped around your waist, his breath slow against the back of your neck, lips occasionally brushing your shoulder like he wasn’t even conscious of doing it.

You grinned.

Couldn’t help it.

“So…” you said, voice casual. “How long you been jerking off to me, Barnes?”

He froze.

You felt the heat bloom off him before he even said a word.

“Don’t.”

Your grin widened. “What? It’s a fair question. Based on how fast you devoured me, I’m guessing… at least a month?”

He groaned into your shoulder. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m right,” you countered. “Don’t think I didn’t catch the way you almost cried when I said ‘as you wish, Sergeant.’ You’ve been unwell.”

He muttered something unintelligible and buried his face in your neck.

You rolled to face him, propped on one elbow, smirking as you traced a line down his chest.

“So, tell me,” you purred. “Now that you’ve got a taste... what do you want to do to me next time?”

His throat bobbed.

You waited.

“I dunno,” he mumbled.

“Oh, you know.” Your nails lightly scratched his ribs. “Come on, be brave. Tell me.”

He grumbled. “You’re gonna use it against me.”

“Correct,” you said sweetly. “Now spill.”

He exhaled slowly, then muttered:

“...Sixty-nine.”

You grinned. “Classic. What else?”

He covered his eyes with one hand. “Breeding.”

Your eyebrows lifted, delight flashing in your eyes. “Oh? Really leaned into the ‘stuff me full, Sarge’ angle, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“I won’t, actually,” you laughed, leaning closer, lips brushing his ear. “Anything else you wanna act out, Barnes? Any other dirty little fantasies you been keeping locked up?”

He hesitated.

Longer this time.

Then—reluctantly, quietly:

“...Roleplay.”

You blinked.

Then broke into a slow, wicked grin. “Okay, now this I need to hear.”

“Nope,” he said immediately, trying to roll away. “That’s enough honesty for one night—”

You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, pinning him down with a devilish smile. “Tell me if I need to show up next time in a pencil skirt and glasses, or if I should wear that SHIELD catsuit and call you ‘Sir.’”

His eyes snapped open.

And you knew.

You gasped. “Oh my god. You have a thing for the whole ‘secret agent mission gone sideways’ scenario, don’t you?”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.”

“You want me to cuff you to a chair and interrogate you,” you went on gleefully. “Or, wait—no—you want to interrogate me.”

“I’m begging.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You want me in red lipstick and a wiretap, don’t you?”

“I’m never telling you anything again.”

You leaned down, lips brushing his.

“I’m gonna make all your little roleplay dreams come true,” you whispered.

“Kill me now,” he muttered.

“Nope. Gotta save your energy. You’re not done with me yet.”

You grinned, smug and sated, curling down against his chest, eyes closing as his arm wrapped around you again.

And beneath your cheek, you felt him smile.

[neodazed]

enhypen - boudoir polaroids

ot7!xfem!reader - showing them the polaroids of your boudoir photoshoot

boudoir: captures sensual, intimate, and often erotic images of a subject in a private setting

warnings: husband!enha, photos taken during sexual acts (solo), masturbation, recording, use of “slut”, brief anal sex, implied unproctected p in v, oral (f), tons of nasty shit i won’t spoil, lingerine, mdni, def longer than the other ones, not proofread

idea belongs to this lovely anon. interpented it in my own way somewhat, so it’s not 100% factually accurate lol. masterlist

HEESEUNG

Heeseung, your brand new husband — the most pussy-clenching title he’s ever worn, probably.

Ever since he became your fiancé, till now, he has been extra, super hot. Has been fucking you even rougher, better, like a good little wife should be fucked (by his words).

So this thing you decided to do, now it was like the perfect answer to that, the perfect sign of devotion.

You hand your brand-new husband an envelope—pretty cream paper, little gold wax seal, soft smile on your face like “open it later, okay?”

And Heeseung waits, as long as his curiousity let’s him. Then later, when he finds himself alone for some minutes, he opens it. You, taking your makeup off in the bathroom, can hear the paper rustling, and you smile at your reflection, waiting.

Silence.

Until he goes

‘Come here’

You gently open the bathroom door, and walk back into your bedroom. He’s sitting at the edge of the bed, a stack of little polaroids spread out on his lap. The look he gives you, is dark. Well, expected, because the photos are mostly close-ups of you…

— with your mouth open, two fingers shoved down your throat, gloss smudged

— you in a bridal white, fingering yourself with those same two fingers

— one with a toy, pink and cruelly realistic, barely halfway in – your eyes rolled back, thighs clenched

— one that appears to be a final shot, biting down on your veil, looking like you’re reaching your orgasm

And Heeseung?

Just processing.

Because his wife did this. For him. Because you posed like a full-on pornstar, hours before you walked down the aisle.

‘How many of these are there?’ ‘Who took them?’ ‘Where’s the rest?’

But he doesn’t actually give you the chance to explain or answer. He orders you to get on the bed. He’s already rock hard in his pants, and he is determined.

‘Wanna recreate this one.’ He holds up the shot of you with your fingers in your mouth and the toy barely inside you. His favorite.

‘But this time, you’re gonna fuck yourself on my fingers, and better keep your eyes on me the whole time.’

Obviously, it’s a sleepless night.

Doesn’t fuck you immediatelly, no, he makes you study the pictures with him.

‘Did you cum before or after taking this one?’

‘Did it feel as good as my cock?’

‘Don’t you think this is more slut than wife-material?’

And when he finally fucks you, it’s mean. No mercy, no patience, just using you to his own desires.

‘This how you looked when you came all over that toy?’

‘You wanna give me more pictures, baby? I want the ones you were too shy to include.’

JAY

It only suits you that you had a damn argument one day into your honeymoon with Jay. Maybe your plans and wants didn’t align perfectly, and the post-wedding stress was still wearing off. Jay was cold. Distant. Didn’t even say goodnight properly.

So the next day, you toss him an envelope across the bed like

‘Peace offering. Take it or leave it.’

Jay opens it like he’s giving you a favor, chin high and movements full of spite. But the second he sees the first photo?

You. His wife. In white lace. On her knees. Sucking a finger like it’s his cock. His reaction is immediate, his throat pushes out an almost choking like sound, and his whole body stiffens. Well, expect his hands which he uses to flip through some of the pictures.

One with you bent over, wedding veil still on, looking back at the camera while your hand disappears under your panties.

Another with your bra pushed under your tits and one hand squeezing lube out onto a toy off-frame.

He sits in silence for a minute. Hand on his thigh. Breathing steady.

Then folds the photos back into the envelope neatly… and comes to find you.

You’re brushing your hair or something casual when you hear his voice behind you:

‘You gave these to me just to get out of apologizing, didn’t you?’

You smirk. ‘Did it work?’

Jay comes up behind you, grabs your hips a little too hard, and leans in to your ear like:

‘You know what works better than an apology?’ He tosses the envelope onto the vanity table — ‘Giving me the real show. On your knees. Now.’

He makes you recreate every shot. Expect, this time he is behind the lens, using his phone camera to make himself even more intimate material.

‘Yes, that’s my perfect wife.’

‘Gonna save this one. Maybe send it to you next time you try to walk away from a fight.’

JAKE

Jake is the most grateful man alive on your wedding night. You could show up in sweatpants and he’d cry and pop a boner right away. But like with most things, you top his imaginations by far.

You pull out the pink envelope, decorated with a little bow in the middle. Slide it over to him on the bed, like it’s no big deal at all.

‘You should open it after your shower, babe.’

He opens it in the warm glow of the hotel lamp, fresh out the shower, towel on his hips — and he just stops breathing. Like genuinely. Just blinks. Stares. Gets real quiet. Because the first glimpse he gets, just a little part, already screams perfect. You’re layed out on soft sheets, pale ivory lingerine panties barely covering your folds. His mouth waters. Lot more of that kind. Some thigh-focused ones, some of you slobbering over your fingers and fingering yourself with the other.

The best one, though? (If gun to his head, he was forced to choose one).

It’s a close-up. Your fingers spreading yourself open, all slick and swollen. A heart-shaped lollipop resting just against your clit. Your hand holding it. His love for pussy and his habit of oral fixation are being stimulated through his eyes.

You’re in the bathroom brushing your teeth, and all you hear is, ‘Baby please come here. Right now. Please.’ In the neediest voice possible.

You walk out and he’s on his knees on the floor. Literal towel pitched up, photos spread out around him.

And when you smile and go — ‘I thought you’d like them. Do you? — he just whines.

Not groans. Not moans. Whines.

‘Are you crazy? I’m already so in love with you I could die, but this is literally attempted murder!’

Then he pulls you into his lap, kissing all over you, your lips, your neck, your breasts, going down on your stomach…

‘Fuck, I love you. I love you so much…’

SUNGHOON

You were sneaky with it. You gave him the envelope with a sweet smile, like you’re handing over a hand-written love letter rather than the dirty content it was hiding.

‘Hope you like them, Love.’

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow but takes it, fingers careful, gaze suspicious. He opens it while you’re brushing your hair.

Starting off strong, the first photo is you on your side, gripping your tit with one hand and pulling your panties aside with the other, head tilted almost innocently, but eyes filled with lust. Then a bunch of other positions, showing off your silky lingerine and delicate curves, always teasing what’s beneath but never displaying it fully.

And Sunghoon — Sunghoon does not react well.

He stands up, envelope in hand, and walks over to you with that same dead-calm expression. Slow and collected.

‘Who took these?’

‘What?’ You blink up at him.

‘The photos. Who the fuck took them?’

Though he’s not even close to being loud, you still stutter, seeing the tension on the veins on his neck, the way he grips the paper, trying not to crumble it entirely.

‘I-I took them myself, of course. Timer. I set it up. Just me. I swear.’

At that, his whole body relaxes. He might even flash a little relieved smile.

Then.

‘Get your ass on the bed.’

At first, he’s cold. No kisses, no nothing. He trips you naked, and studies the polaroids while playing with your body in real time.

‘Spread your legs. No, wider.’

And when he thinks it’s good enough (like he actually gave a fuck about how accurate it is), he grabs his phone and starts taking his own shots.

No warning. No direction, only

‘You want to give me photos? Fine. Give me new ones. Better ones. Real ones.’

‘You think your little solo pics could compare to this?’

‘You’ll look even better when I’ve filled you up.’

SUNOO

You slide it over while you two are cuddling on the honeymoon bed. You’re in a fluffy robe, bare legs over his lap, and he’s scrolling his phone when you whisper

‘I made you something. Open it after I shower, okay?’

Sunoo nods softly, excited but also curious about what could you have come up with.

But baby.

The moment he opens that envelope?

He lets out a scream.

Like a literal, hand-over-mouth, spine-curved squeal.

Because inside of that, it’s you, in a strappy white set, veil slightly off your hair, pink gloss on your lips, sucking your fingers while side-eyeing the camera like a whole whorehouse with a coquette dresscode.

One where your legs are closed on top of each other, but with your palm inside of them, obviously teasing your clit (he can just tell by looking at your face on it).

But the worst for him? Probably the one where you’re pressing your shiny little cunt down on his pillow.

‘You’re evil.’

‘How dare you be this sexy.’

‘You’re not fucking real. What kind of slutty wife does this?’ While he’s already palming his cock.

When you go over to him, giggling, saying it’s not that big of a deal, he just pushes you down on the bed.

‘No. You don’t get to act all casual after doing this to me, baby.’

After that, it’s a mess of giggles and recreating the ones he liked the most. Calls you “my beautiful wife”, “my good little girl”, and “my pretty slut” in the same ten minutes.

Sticks one of the Polaroids to the headboard like a shrine while he eats you out.

‘Just to see how much messier you can get when it’s me who makes you cum.’

JUNGWON

You hand Jungwon the envelope while you’re still glowing from the wedding night — robe slipping down your shoulders, bare thighs brushing his under the covers.

‘I made something for you’

He tilts his head to the side, like a confused little cat.

‘What’s in it?’

‘You’ll see’ Kissing his cheek. Then you stand in front of him, wanting the full, unfiltered first reaction you’ve been itching for.

Jungwon opens it.

Then he goes feral.

Cause every picture looks like you’ve carved the blurry image of them right out of the depths of his mind (which you might have, by how deeply you know and understand him).

Of course, you know he’s a tit-addict. And the photos feed right into that obsession.

You pushing your tits into the camera, covered by the prettiest white bras he’d ever seen. Gripping them, caressing them. With your bra off, looking into the camera with the deadliest doe eyes, licking off frosting (from God knows where) from your fingers, then circle around your nipple with the same one.

One picture of you rubbing your clit and wetting your sweet pussy, followed by smearing your own slick (then cum) all over your chest.

His mouth parts. He stares at them one by one, then flips through again. Ears red. So hard it’s painful.

‘Do you like them?’ You ask with a smile.

In a second, you’re under him, while he’s practically feasting off your boobs, rubbing your cunt with his hand, muttering shit like

‘Were you thinking about me while you did this?’

‘You want new ones? Want me to take them while I fuck these perfect tits?’

And he does.

Set up his phone on video mode while you’re straddling his lap, tits bouncing as he thrusts up into you.

Perfection.

RIKI

You hand Riki the envelope during the car ride back from the ceremony. He’s in the passenger seat. You’re still glowing and giggling, playing with your ring.

‘Open this at the hotel.’ And Riki just shrugs like whatever, tucks it into his jacket.

Later that night, you’re changing into something special in the bathroom, when he remembers he has it and opens it, not expecting to be flashed.

You in a white thong, back arched, pearls laying down your spine, heels still on. His favorite position, his favorite curve. Literally framed like art. It starts off like this?!

The second one might be even better though.

You bent over, panties pulled halfway down your thighs, ass cheek lifted so you can get your fingers underneath. Flash lighting up your thighs, gloss on your lips, veil around your shoulders. Looking like a fucking Goddess.

Polaroids from that position, with your finger teasing both holes, with toys rubbing over them, pearls on your spine, all pretty for him.

There’s one photo, which is…different than the rest.

No face, no pearls, no lingerine, no veil.

Just you, on your belly, knees spread, panties off, and your hands reaching back to pull your cheeks apart. The flash puts a delicious focus of the curve of your spine, ending in the most intimate, shameless shot of your tightest hole on full display — puckered, pink, just a little shiny.

Like you’d already played with it.

Like you prepared it just for him.

In that perfect little black polaroid border, you scribbled in sharp letters

“Next time, it’s yours<3”

Riki doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even move for a solid ten seconds.

Just stares. Blinks once. Closes the envelope. And then knocks on the bathroom door.

‘Babe. Come out.’

You peek out in a silk robe, small nightgown under, and his gaze goes straight down.

‘Hands on the bed. Just like that photo.’

He drops his pants, and gets behind you. Grabs your hips with so much harshness like he’s mad. Then pauses — cause you have the nerve to giggle.

‘You liked them?’

‘Stop talking.’

Then he spits on your back and watches as it slides down in between your cheeks. Your hole, it’s still open for him. Those damn pictures were freshly taken, with this exact purpose. To get him to fill you there.

So he pushes in. No more prep, no more teasing, just raw pleasure.

‘Gonna stretch it for me properly, baby’

‘You made it look so pretty… wanna see it twitch when I cum inside.’

[lomlsatoru]

FAMILIAR — JINU ࣪𖤐.ᐟ

summary: you look exactly like the girl he fell in love with 300 years ago.

a/n: im officially obsessed with KDH & jinu’s perfect face and eyes <33 this is just a small blurb, 700 words, more works coming soon if this goes well!

★☆.

“Rumi? Is that you?”

Said girl turned around so fast you could hear her neck crack as she yells your name in shock. “Wha- what are you doing here?” her feet fidgeting, eyes moving everywhere, almost like she’s looking for something. 

Being Bobby's assistant was not an easy task to say the least, so the chilling cold air nipping at your skin was very much needed. 

You furrowed your eyebrows at her off behaviour, “I’m getting some air.” hands engulfed in the pockets of your hoodie, “What about you?” 

She stutters, sending you an awkward smile, “Nothing! I mean- not nothing I’m just- “ 

“Thought you would come alone.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in shock when you see one member of Saja Boys walking towards you two. A tall figure taking slow and long strides, his frame not entirely clear to your vision because of the night sky. 

“Is that Jinu?” you whisper, standing beside Rumi. 

The purple haired girl stood frozen, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing but nothing coherent coming out. “Um, yeah- we were just- “ 

Jinu stopped in front of you both, his calm demeanor suddenly shifted the moment his eyes landed on you. 

You.

He must be dreaming. 

His eyes went wide, fingers twitching at his sides as he swallowed hard. Countless of memories replayed in his mind, all of them plagued with you. Your pretty face, soft smile and sweet voice. All directed to him.

What kind of sick play does Gwi-Ma have in store for him now?

You furrow your eyebrows at his panicked gaze to you. 

Jinu blinks awkwardly, hand scratching the back of his neck, suddenly feeling shy under your gaze, “Hi.” he softly said.

Rumi stares at him weirdly, he hasn’t known him for long, but this is far from how he usually acts. Where did the ego go?

You smiled politely, not really sure how to react to the way he is acting, “Hello, Jinu,”

He bodily shuddered at how you said his name. It was familiar. His stomach flips at your soft voice. “You know my name.”

You chuckled. His hair stood up. “Of course, half of Korea knows who you are by now.” crossing your arms in defense, “What business do you have with Rumi?”

Rumi softly touches the top of your arm, “Don’t worry about me.”

You turn to give her a pointed look before smirking, “Do you guys meet up often?” gesturing to the pair.

“No!”

“Absolutely not!”

You raised your hands in surrender at their little outburst, “I'm joking.” you chuckled, “I won’t tell, promise.” winking at Rumi, making her roll her eyes. 

“Sorry, I didn't get your name.” Jinu asked, wanting your attention back on him again.

You were shocked that he even wanted to know who you were, “Y/N. Huntrix’s assistant.” looking up to meet his eyes, unconsciously backing your head away when you notice how fondly he was looking at you. 

“Pretty.” he absentmindedly said, before replicating your actions when he realised how creepy he sounded, “I mean- pretty name!” 

You chuckled at his awkward behaviour that was weirdly charming to you. 

The interaction weirded Rumi out, eyes shifting between you both. Jinu to you, you to Jinu, Jinu to you-

Oh, shit.

Before any more flirting can happen from the demon she jumped in, “You should probably go back. I heard Bobby wanted to have a little meeting to talk about the tour, hiatus and such.” she rambles.

You nodded, not buying her excuse but accepted either way, “Alright, then. Call me if you need anything, okay?” 

She nodded. But before you leave you lean into Jinu’s personal space, “Anything happens to her, and I will make your life hell. Do you understand me?”

The corner of his lips turned up at your threat, feeling awestruck instead of scared, “Yes, ma’am.”

You leave the two, walking towards the apartment. Feeling a pair of eyes burning on the backside of your head but not daring to turn around.

Rumi gasped when you were out of range, “You like her!” 

Jinu shrugged, “Shut up. She just reminds me of someone.” he mumbles, still staring at your retreating figure.

Someone he used to love.  

lmk what you think! reblog for a kiss 😋🫶

[carnalcrows]

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU

pairing: sukuna ryomen x male reader

synopsis: College is hell—but it gets worse when your ex is scheming, your sister just wants to date, and the only guy bold enough to flirt with you might be doing it for a bet. Sukuna is cocky, tattooed, and impossible to ignore. What starts as a setup spirals into something real: a kiss at a paintball park, a night you can’t forget, and a truth that ruins everything.

content warnings: 18+, college au, alcohol consumption, tipsy sex, semi-public sex, morally grey characters, manipulation, betrayal, cheating (implied), emotionally charged sex, lying for personal gain, heartbreak, swearing, slutshaming, emotionally neglectful behavior, public confrontation, yelling, one slap, characters being hot and toxic, unresolved family dynamics, loud party scenes, academic pressure (light), emotionally vulnerable confession in a poem, a little nanami slander, inspired by the titular movie.

word count: 8.0k - art belongs to @/to00fu on tumblr

People didn’t avoid you because you were scary. They avoided you because you made it clear you didn’t want to be spoken to.

No fake smiles. No nodding along. No “haha, yeah” in the hallway. You weren’t mean—you were efficient. Quiet when you could be. Sharp when you had to be. Your sister said it was a defence mechanism. Your last boyfriend said it was unattractive.

You said nothing. And they all took it personally.

So it wasn’t shocking that Gojo Satoru, of all people, took it as a challenge.

He dropped into the seat next to you five minutes before class, sunglasses still on despite being inside, iced coffee in hand like he wasn’t already vibrating out of his skin.

“Okay,” he said, way too casually, “hypothetical for you.”

You didn’t look up.

“What would it take for someone to date you?”

You blinked once. Turned the page of your book. “A lobotomy.”

Gojo laughed like you were joking. “Nice. So you’re saying there’s a chance.”

You finally glanced at him. He was grinning. Bright, smug, stupid.

You went back to your book. “Whatever plan you’re working on,” you said flatly, “leave me out of it.”

“Can’t,” he said. “Your sister’s dating life depends on it.”

That made you pause. Just a little.

Of course it did.

✧✧✧

Gojo said your sister’s dating life depended on you like it were some minor inconvenience. Like you were the problem, and not, say, your parents’ medieval take on dating logistics.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. He took your silence as permission.

“So—” he leaned in, like you were co-conspirators and not two people who’d had a total of three conversations ever, “just out of curiosity, are you into guys? Girls? Hot RAs with emotionally complicated backstories?”

You stared at him. He winked.

Thankfully, the professor walked in, saving you from felony assault.

But Gojo wasn’t done.

Later that day, you found Utahime sitting on the quad lawn, phone in hand, surrounded by three empty bubble tea cups and a stack of psych readings she was pretending to highlight.

She didn’t look up when you dropped onto the grass beside her.

“Gojo’s bothering me again,” you said.

“You bother yourself,” she muttered. “I just get collateral damage.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She looked at you. Actually looked. Her face was too pretty to pull off annoyed, but she tried anyway.

“It means,” she said slowly, like you were a particularly stupid lab rat, “I’ve been asked out twice this week. I had to say no both times.”

You blinked. “...why?”

She stared.

“Oh,” you said.

“Yeah. Oh.”

The silence stretched between you.

“I told them you didn’t care if I dated,” she said, half-hopeful. “That you weren’t, like, emotionally invested or anything.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why won’t they believe me?”

Because once, when you were seventeen, you told your mom that if she let Utahime date some slimy little theatre kid named Kento, you’d report them both to CPS. She’d laughed. But apparently the rule stuck.

No dating for Utahime until her older brother—the one who allegedly told his ex to choke on a thesaurus—started dating again.

Flawless system.

“I'm going to die alone,” she said. “And it’s going to be your fault.”

You tipped your head back and closed your eyes. “Tell Mom and Dad I’m gay. Maybe they’ll make an exception.”

Utahime huffed. “You’re not gay. You’re just emotionally unavailable.”

“Same difference.”

There was a beat of silence. Long enough for you to hear the quiet buzz of her phone screen lighting up.

She didn’t say anything, but her tone shifted.

“I’m not giving up,” she said, almost to herself.

You cracked one eye open. “On dating?”

“On you.”

You frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

But Utahime was already standing up, gathering her notes and shoving a half-drunk boba into your hand.

“Drink this,” she said. “You need sugar or something. You’ve been looking extra feral lately.”

You watched her walk off, phone already to her ear. She was smiling. Strategically.

You narrowed your eyes.

That couldn’t be good.

✧✧✧

Naoya didn’t usually come to this café. It wasn’t his scene. Too many broke kids and philosophy majors pretending they were deep because they ordered their lattes with oat milk and wore Doc Martens like they invented rebellion. But today, he made an exception. He had a plan, and it needed someone very specific. Someone fucked-up enough to say yes.

Sukuna sat in the corner, back to the wall, hood up, earbuds in—but not playing anything. Just a signal: don’t talk to me unless you want problems. Naoya talked to him anyway.

He didn’t bother with greetings. Just slid into the seat across from him, like they were equals. Like Sukuna wasn’t already deciding if he wanted to walk out or throw his drink in Naoya’s face.

“You’re bored, right?” Naoya said. “You walk around like nothing matters. Like you’re above it all.”

Sukuna didn’t look up. “You’ve got five seconds to stop wasting my time.”

Naoya smirked. “You know Ijichi, yeah? The older one. Poetry kid. Looks like he hates everyone.”

Now, Sukuna looked at him. Not surprised—just interested enough to pause.

Naoya kept going, casual like he wasn’t holding a knife under the table. “He’s my ex. And he’s been going around acting like he’s too good for everyone now. Like he dumped me. Like I’m the joke.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow. “...didn’t he?”

Naoya ignored that. “I want you to date him.”

That made Sukuna smile. Or something like it. Barely there. Sharp. “You want me to fuck your ex?”

“No. I want you to make him fall for you. Properly. The whole show. Make him trust you. Think you care.” Naoya leaned in. “Then you dump him. Publicly. Leave him the way he left me. Let everyone see it.”

Sukuna studied him like he was a puzzle with missing pieces. “You want revenge.”

“I want to win.”

There was a long silence. Sukuna tilted his head, just slightly. “What’s in it for me?”

Naoya smiled. “If you pull it off, I’ll owe you. I’ve got connections. People who look the other way. Professors. Admin. You’re smart, but your grades are shit. I can fix that.” He paused. “Or—if you’re more into humiliation—I’ll read one of Gojo’s poems at open mic night. Dead serious.”

That got an actual laugh out of Sukuna. Soft. Cruel.

He leaned back in his seat and cracked his knuckles, slow and deliberate. “You think your ex is dumb enough to fall for me?”

Naoya’s grin curled like a cigarette being lit. “I think you’re pretty enough to make it happen.”

Sukuna tilted his head like the whole thing was beneath him—but maybe still worth his time.

He grabbed his drink, stood slowly, and gave Naoya a look that didn’t say yes or no—just, watch me.

“Sure,” he muttered, turning to leave. “Could use something to do.”

He didn’t wait for Naoya’s reply. Didn’t care.

Because the truth was—he’d already seen you around. And maybe, just maybe, he’d been waiting for an excuse.

✧✧✧

The campus bookstore was one of your favourite places to be ignored.

Not the main one—too many screaming first-years buying overpriced highlighters. No, this one was tucked into the corner of an old side street, half-forgotten and dimly lit. Records lined one wall, poetry chapbooks on the other. The kind of place where no one asked questions if you sat on the floor and read for an hour without buying anything.

You were thumbing through the “melancholy bastard��� section—Leonard Cohen, Elliott Smith, the usual suspects—when someone moved into your peripheral vision. Slow. Purposeful. Close enough to make it obvious, not close enough to say hi.

You glanced up. Froze.

He was taller than you expected. Sharper, too. Hair pulled back in a lazy knot, a black hoodie stretched across broad shoulders, sleeves shoved up to the elbow. You recognised him instantly. Everyone did. Sukuna Ryomen wasn’t a person so much as a rumour with cheekbones.

He didn’t say anything. Just flipped through records two rows over like he wasn’t fully aware of your existence—like he wasn’t performing not noticing you.

So you ignored him right back. Or tried to. Until he spoke.

“Pretty sure you already read that one.”

You glanced at the book in your hand. Sylvia Plath.

“Maybe I like rereading things,” you said.

Sukuna’s mouth curled into the ghost of a smile. “Sure. Or maybe you just like being sad on purpose.”

You turned fully to face him. “You following me, or are you just naturally this annoying?”

“Neither,” he said, stepping closer now, not even pretending anymore. “You’re just loud for someone who pretends not to want attention.”

Your jaw clenched. “I’m not loud.”

“You are,” he said, so casually it felt surgical. “But it’s fine. I like loud.”

You stared at him. He stared back, lazy and unbothered, like this entire conversation was just a thing he was trying on for size.

Then he held up a record—slowly, deliberately—like an offering. The Smiths. Of course.

“Not my type,” you said.

He grinned. “Good thing I didn’t ask.”

And then he turned and walked out.

No name. No number. Just static, and you're holding a book that you suddenly can’t read anymore.

✧✧✧

He didn’t come up to you again the next day. Or the one after that. Which would’ve been fine, except now you were aware of him. Aware in the way a body is aware of a bruise: a low ache, something you’d keep accidentally brushing up against.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That the record store thing was nothing. That you weren’t flattered, weren’t intrigued, weren’t still thinking about the way he looked at you like he already knew how the story would end. But then he started showing up.

Once in the library, at the table across from yours. Once in the dining hall, passing close enough to brush shoulders. And once—most irritatingly—in your creative writing elective, which you were sure he hadn’t been enrolled in the week before.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just… hovered. Orbiting your schedule like it was gravitational. Always on the edge of your attention. Never too obvious. But you weren’t stupid. You’d seen this game before. Some guys flirted with flowers. Others with sarcasm. Sukuna, apparently, flirted with proximity and smirks.

The next time he spoke to you, it was after class, some Thursday afternoon that already felt like a headache. You were halfway down the hallway when he fell into step beside you, calm like you’d invited him.

“You free tonight?” he asked, like you were mid-conversation.

You didn’t even look at him. “Do I look like I am?”

He hummed. “Hard to tell. You’ve got the kind of face that always looks annoyed.”

You stopped walking. Turned to face him. “Are you flirting with me, or just bored?”

Sukuna shrugged, unbothered. “Why can’t it be both?”

You stared at him. He stared back. There was something maddening about the way he held eye contact—like he wasn’t afraid of anything you could say. Like he didn’t believe you could hurt him.

“Look,” you said flatly, “whatever this is? You can stop. I’m not interested.”

He tilted his head. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

He smiled, soft and slow. “Alright.” Then, almost like it was nothing: “You’ll change your mind.”

And then he walked off. No argument. No doubling down. Just that fucking smugness trailing after him like cigarette smoke.

You watched him go, jaw tight, heart doing something it shouldn’t have been doing. You hated people like that. People who were too confident, too casual. The kind of confidence that meant they never really got rejected, only delayed.

Still, you told yourself it was over. That he got the message. That someone like Ryomen Sukuna—someone cold, magnetic, and clearly a walking disaster—wouldn’t waste time chasing someone who wasn’t biting.

You were wrong, obviously.

✧✧✧

Utahime wasn’t sure what annoyed her more—the fact that Gojo had somehow gotten into her French class halfway through the semester, or the fact that he kept insisting it was fate. Not like “divine intervention” fate. More like “we made eye contact one time outside the dining hall and now we have to get married” fate. Which, for Gojo Satoru, was probably the same thing.

Today, he’d positioned himself at the desk next to hers with all the subtlety of a hurricane. Notebook open, sleeve rolled up just enough to show the faint tan line from a friendship bracelet someone had clearly made for him. Probably Utahime’s roommate. Or her professor. Or both.

“Je veux du café,” he said smoothly, pencil twirling between his fingers. “I want coffee. Which I do. Right now. With you.”

Utahime stared at him. “I want a lobotomy.”

Gojo grinned. “How do you say that in French?”

She didn’t answer. Mostly because she didn’t know, and partly because answering would be giving him exactly what he wanted—attention, reaction, eye contact that lingered a second too long.

Which she gave him anyway.

Because she was weak. And he was pretty. And she hated that about herself.

“I cry during movies,” Gojo added, like that would help. “And I recycle. I’m, like, morally irresistible.”

Before she could threaten him with physical harm, Naoya dropped into the seat on her other side like a glitch in the matrix. She hadn’t even seen him come in.

“Utahime,” he said, voice dipped in manufactured charm, “you’re looking…”

“Don’t,” she cut in. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

He smirked. “Feisty.”

Gojo leaned back in his seat, letting his arm drape casually behind Utahime’s chair. “We’re doing adjectives now? I can play. She’s radiant. Intelligent. Dangerously under-caffeinated.”

Naoya scowled at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be gay?”

Gojo’s grin sharpened. “I’m supposed to be a lot of things.”

Utahime sighed, grabbing her books. “I’m getting coffee.”

“Alone or fake-alone?” Gojo asked, already rising with her.

“You’re following me.”

“I’m practising immersion.”

Naoya frowned. “I could come, too.”

Utahime didn’t answer. She just walked off with Gojo trailing behind her like a heatwave. Naoya watched them leave, something bitter flickering behind his eyes.

Across the room, Geto—Gojo’s longtime friend and reluctant enabler—looked up from his sandwich.

“You’re losing,” he said helpfully.

Naoya turned to him. “Who even are you?”

Geto shrugged. “A prophet, apparently.”

And then he went back to eating like nothing had happened.

✧✧✧

You’d always hated group work. It was academic Tinder—awkward pairings, fake small talk, and someone inevitably doing all the work while the other coasted on vibes and a vaguely tragic backstory. You’d perfected the art of preemptively claiming a seat at the edge of the classroom, angled just far enough to be left out of any “everyone find a partner!” moments.

So when Professor Yaga said, “Pair off for today’s workshop,” you didn’t even flinch. You just opened your notebook and waited for some poor idiot to make eye contact with you long enough to get guilted into joining.

What you did not expect was Sukuna Ryomen to slide into the chair next to you like he’d been assigned to you by the devil himself.

“You’re late,” you said flatly, not looking up.

He shrugged. “I’m unpredictable.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, folding his arms behind his head, “here I am. Partnered with you. Fate’s weird like that.”

You didn’t reply. If you didn’t give him attention, maybe he’d get bored and go haunt someone else.

No such luck.

Sukuna leaned over like he was actually going to read your notes, which would’ve been hilarious if it weren’t also extremely annoying. “So… what are we doing?”

You side-eyed him. “I’m doing the assignment. You’re vibing.”

He grinned. “I like your handwriting.”

“Thanks. I use it exclusively to write insults.”

“Write one for me.”

You turned to him, finally, incredulous. “You want me to insult you?”

“Sure. Most people just talk behind my back.”

You blinked. For half a second, you caught something real in his voice. But then he smiled again, lazy and crooked, like he’d flipped a switch and gone back to whatever version of himself he thought you wanted to see.

You looked away. “I don’t know what your deal is,” you said. “But it’s not working.”

“What’s not working?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely. “The whole dark-and-mysterious routine. The sudden interest in me. The flirting that’s somehow also condescending. Whatever game you’re playing—it’s boring.”

Sukuna was quiet for a beat too long. Then: “Damn. Tell me how you really feel.”

You turned back to your notes. “I did.”

He didn’t say anything for the rest of the class. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t smirk. Just sat there, too still. Too quiet. Like maybe—for once—you’d actually surprised him.

And you told yourself that was the end of it. That you’d won. That this weird little game had finally hit a wall he couldn’t smooth-talk his way around.

But later that day, when you opened your locker, there was a Post-it stuck inside. Black ink. Slanted handwriting.

“I’m not flirting. I just like the way you look when you hate me.” —S.R.

You crumpled it and threw it away.

Then stood there for another twenty seconds, staring at the empty space where it had been.

✧✧✧

You were already regretting everything by the time you got to the front steps of the frat house. The music was so loud it vibrated through your shoes, some bastard remix of a pop song you didn’t recognise, drowning out your thoughts. You tugged at your sleeves, scowled at the flashing lights, and turned toward Utahime. “We’re not staying long.”

She rolled her eyes. “You say that like I didn’t blackmail you into coming.”

“I’m still not sure how you did that.”

“I know what happened in freshman year with that T.A.,” she said sweetly. “And I still have the screenshots.”

You glared. “You are the worst.”

“And yet,” she smiled, “you’re here.”

The house was packed. Someone was already puking into the hedge. Inside, it smelled like cheap beer, weed, and something tragically floral—like a Bath & Body Works exploded. You manoeuvred your way through the crowd, ignoring every attempt at conversation, every accidental brush of arms. You were just here to babysit. To make sure Utahime didn’t end up locked in a bathroom crying because Naoya said something gross about astrology.

And of course Naoya was here. Centre of attention, glittering in that way only rich, boring people knew how to do. He spotted Utahime instantly and made a beeline for her, offering a drink and a smirk that probably worked on freshmen with low standards.

You watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, mood already circling the drain. And that’s when you felt it—his presence. Like a shift in pressure, a temperature drop, the back of your neck prickling for no good reason.

Sukuna.

Leaning against the hallway wall, red solo cup dangling from his fingers, eyes on you. Not on the party. Not on the crowd. You.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just watched you like he was waiting for something. You looked away fast, heart doing something stupid in your chest. You hated that he got under your skin so easily. Hated even more that he knew it.

Time blurred. The music got louder. You ended up with a drink you didn’t ask for and downed it faster than necessary. It burned. You didn’t care.

Another cup. Another burn.

And then—somewhere between your third drink and Utahime yelling “YOLO is dead, stop saying that” at Naoya—you found yourself in the living room, lights flashing, bodies moving around you like smoke, and someone yelling for you to “get on the table if you’re hot.”

You didn’t remember climbing up. Didn’t remember deciding that dancing was a good idea. All you remembered was the heat in your face, the weightlessness in your limbs, and the absolutely feral look Sukuna gave you from across the room.

His expression didn’t change, but his posture did. He stood straighter. The cup disappeared from his hand. His eyes followed you like you were a threat he wanted to keep close.

You moved to the music, loose and loud and lit up with the kind of recklessness you usually buried under sarcasm and disdain. People were cheering. Someone whistled. You didn’t care.

Sukuna was at the base of the table now. Right below you. Watching. Waiting.

You dropped into a crouch, leaned forward, close enough to speak into his ear if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

But you almost did.

Instead, you held his gaze for one beat too long. The kind of look that felt like a dare.

You jumped down off the table, blood hot and your head swimming with smoke and sugar. The crowd swallowed you whole, but your eyes found him instantly, leaning against the wall like he owned it, red cup in hand, lip caught between his teeth.

Sukuna.

His eyes were locked on you. Sharp. Starved.

You didn’t even think—just pushed through the bodies, grabbed his shirt, and muttered something like “upstairs, now.”

He followed.

Didn’t say a word. Just pressed a hand to your lower back and let you drag him through the chaos, up the stairs, into the nearest room with a door you could slam shut behind you.

The lock clicked.

And then your mouth was on his.

It was messy, clumsy at first, all teeth and breath and too many hands trying to touch at once. He groaned into the kiss when you pushed him up against the wall, his fingers tightening on your hips like he’d been waiting for this all damn semester.

Your shirt came off first. His followed. Then yours again, because he wanted to see. Touch. Explore the heat under your skin and the way your breath hitched when his mouth dragged down your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispered, against your collarbone, like you were something sacred and ruined all at once.

You backed toward the bed, pulling him with you. Fell into the mattress, legs tangled, teeth clashing, laughing into his mouth when he groaned your name like it hurt.

When he settled between your thighs, grinding down just hard enough to make your spine arch, you gasped. Grabbed at him. Let your head fall back with a choked sound you didn’t mean to let slip.

“Still hate me?” he asked, breath hot against your jaw.

“Shut the fuck up,” you muttered, pulling him closer.

You didn’t stop touching him. Didn’t stop moving. Your bodies slid together like they’d done this before—like they needed it. Your fingers digging into his back. His mouth on your throat, your chest, your stomach. The way he kissed you after every gasp—like he wanted to savour it. Make sure you never forgot.

And you wouldn’t.

Not the way he whispered your name right before you came. Not the way he held your face when you did. Not the way he kissed you after, slow and reverent, like he hadn’t just destroyed you.

You lay there in silence, bodies warm and wrecked and too tangled to pretend it meant nothing.

And you knew, even then: This wasn’t just a party hookup.

This was the moment you’d remember tomorrow—when it all came crashing down.

✧✧✧

You woke up with the kind of hangover that made you question every life decision from age seven onward. Your mouth tasted like regret. Your head pulsed like there was a rave happening behind your eyes. You blinked at the ceiling for a full minute before sitting up and immediately regretting that too.

Your phone had five missed texts from Utahime, two from unknown numbers, and one photo you had to squint at to realise was you, on a table, mid-dance. Shirt ridden up. Face flushed. Sukuna—barely in frame—standing below, half-shadowed, looking up at you like you were some kind of puzzle he was deciding not to solve.

You deleted the photo. Then deleted the delete.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. People danced at parties. People got drunk. People flirted with dangerous men and almost fucked them in front of fifty witnesses. It was fine.

You were halfway across the quad, hoodie up, headphones in with no music playing, when you saw him again.

Sukuna.

Sitting under one of the older trees near the main lecture hall, legs stretched out, notebook open on one knee. Writing. Or pretending to. His eyes flicked up the moment you got close.

“Morning,” he said, like nothing had happened. No sarcasm. No smirk. Just… the word.

You stopped. Against your better judgment. “Are you stalking me?”

He shrugged. “I was here first.”

“You’re always ‘here first.’ That’s weird.”

He didn’t look at you when he answered. Just kept flipping the stupid lighter in his hand like it might say something for him. “Or maybe,” he said, calm as anything, “we just hang out in the same places.”

You snorted. “We don’t hang out.”

“Tell that to the version of you dancing on the kitchen table last night.”

Your stomach turned. Too fast. Too hard. Like it had been waiting for that line, and now it didn’t know what to do with it.

“You’re not funny,” you said. Too sharp. Too flat.

“I’m kind of hilarious, actually.”

But he didn’t smile when he said it. Not really. He wasn’t doing that thing he usually did—leaning in too close, voice dipped just low enough to make you feel it. He wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t pushing. He just looked tired. Quiet. Like he was standing on the other side of something you couldn’t see yet.

You folded your arms across your chest. “I don’t remember much,” you said. Which wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

He nodded once. No judgment. No sarcasm. Just—“Cool. Then we’ll say nothing happened.”

That landed harder than it should have. You blinked. “You’re not gonna be annoying about it?”

“Nope.”

And he meant it. That was the worst part. No smug grin. No smug anything. He was offering you an out. A clean break. Like he’d already accepted whatever version of this you were willing to give him.

You scoffed, because it felt safer than silence. “Fine. Nothing happened.”

“Exactly.”

You turned to walk away. Fast. Too fast. Like you could outpace the heat still lingering on your skin or the phantom feel of his hands on your waist.

But then, just as the door creaked behind you, you heard him say it.

Soft. Almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it at all.

“But it could’ve.”

You didn’t stop.

But you felt it.

All the way down.

✧✧✧

You were halfway up the metal bleachers when you realised something was off.

It was supposed to be a quiet practice. The field was open, sun bleeding through low clouds, a few students jogging the track, the campus radio playing somewhere in the background. You’d come out here to clear your head, not to be witnessed. Definitely not to be ambushed.

And yet.

The radio cut out mid-song. A pause. Then: feedback. And then—his voice.

“This is probably a bad idea,” said Sukuna, crackling through the speakers like an accidental god.

You froze.

“But you’re ignoring me, and I’m not built for being ignored. So here we are.”

Heads turned. The girl stretching two rows down looked up, confused. A guy on the field pointed toward the press box, where the campus radio station was housed.

You turned slowly.

There he was.

Sukuna, leaning into the mic, half-laughing, one arm resting on the desk like he owned the place. A little breathless. Hair pulled back. That same damn look in his eye.

“You don’t like me. I get it. You think I’m an asshole—which is fair. But you also think I don’t notice things. That I’m not paying attention. And you’re wrong.”

You felt your heartbeat in your teeth.

“You always start your notes on the bottom line of the page. You mouth the words when you read. You don’t laugh out loud unless it’s mean or unexpected. You’re mean when you’re scared. You’re scared when you like someone.”

You were going to kill him.

Not immediately. Not in front of witnesses. But soon.

“So if you’re listening—and I know you are—just know this: I’m not asking for anything. I’m just saying I see you. And I’m still here.”

Then static. Silence. Someone started clapping. A few others joined. The moment cracked open like a dropped plate.

You stood up.

Walked down the bleachers.

And made sure not to look at anyone until you were off the field and back inside.

You didn’t text him.

But that night, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way his voice had sounded through the speaker.

A little unsure.

A little real.

Too real.

✧✧✧

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered, climbing into the passenger seat of his beat-up car.

“Sure you can,” Sukuna said, sliding into the driver’s side like this wasn’t the biggest win of his month. “You’re dying to hang out with me.”

“I’m skipping class, not confessing my feelings.”

“Same thing,” he smirked, revving the engine.

You rolled your eyes and refused to smile.

He didn’t tell you where you were going, but you didn’t ask. You just watched the trees blur past the window and tried not to think about how your chest still ached from hearing his voice on the radio yesterday. Or how he hadn’t pushed you afterwards. No smug comments. No, “so, you like me now?” Just a nod across the quad, like he knew what he’d done and wasn’t going to ruin it.

And then, suddenly—you were here.

It was an abandoned paintball park just off the edge of campus, tucked behind a shuttered rec centre and a forest that hadn’t been trimmed in years. Half the inflatables were sun-bleached. The other half looked like they were waiting to be condemned. It was perfect.

“Is this trespassing?” you asked.

He looked at you. “Do you care?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He pulled two masks and a backpack full of old paintball gear from the trunk and tossed you one.

“Winner gets to ask one question,” he said, already loading his gun.

“What if I win?”

“You won’t.”

You hit him first. Right in the ribs. Yellow paint exploded across his hoodie, and he staggered back, laughing—really laughing—and called you a bitch through the mask. You didn’t stop grinning for ten whole seconds.

It went like that for a while. Running. Hiding. Hitting each other with sharp, wet bursts of colour. At one point, you tripped and rolled behind a bunker, breathing hard. Sukuna slid in after you, tackled you with just enough force to knock the wind out of your lungs, and pinned you there.

You froze.

Paint smeared between you. His mask was off now. So was yours. His eyes were close, wild and bright. His breath hit your face in fast bursts.

Neither of you said anything.

Then—just like that—he kissed you.

Quick. Hard. Like he hadn’t meant to do it until it was already happening.

You didn’t stop him.

You kissed him back.

Your hands fisted in his hoodie, and his mouth tilted against yours, hungry, like he’d been waiting for this moment since the second you told him to fuck off during class that first week.

When he finally pulled away, he looked wrecked. Not from the game. From you.

You swallowed. “I still hate you.”

He grinned. “Sure you do.”

And then he kissed you again.

✧✧✧

It was supposed to be a quick stop. Sukuna had followed you downtown because you wanted “real food, not vending machine garbage,” and somehow that turned into ducking into a cramped little music shop just off the main strip. Guitars lined the walls like trophies, faded band posters tacked behind the counter. The whole place smelled like old wood and warm metal.

You didn’t say anything when you picked one up.

Just grabbed the pair of beat-up studio headphones from the display, plugged in, and sat down on the little stool in the back.

Sukuna watched from a distance, pretending to be interested in a rack of bass picks. But his eyes kept sliding back to you.

The way your fingers moved—confident, casual, muscle memory kicking in like it had never left. Your eyes were half-lidded, head tilted just slightly, as you plucked out something low and slow. Not a song he recognised. Maybe not even a full melody. Just sound. Easy. Yours.

You looked so fucking calm.

So quietly happy.

When you noticed him watching, you smirked and pulled the headphones off.

“Didn’t peg you as the lingering type,” you said.

“Didn’t peg you as the secretly talented type,” he shot back.

You shrugged. “Used to play. Can’t afford one anymore. Not like I’d have time anyway.”

Then you set the guitar back on the wall, careful, like it mattered.

And walked out like none of it had meant anything.

Sukuna stayed behind a second longer.

Long enough to memorise the make. The colour. The way your eyes had gone soft when you played.

He didn’t say anything about it then.

But he remembered.

✧✧✧

Naoya wasn’t a genius, but he wasn’t stupid either.

And something was definitely going on.

He watched them from across the quad—Utahime, Gojo, and that stupid little spiral of tension they tried to play off as banter. Gojo leaning in just a bit too close, Utahime swatting him away, but never really moving. Her eyes lingered. His hands were always busy—spinning a pen, adjusting his sunglasses, reaching for a piece of her attention like it was second nature.

They weren’t dating. Not officially. But it was obvious. Everyone could feel it.

And it pissed Naoya off more than he cared to admit.

He’d asked Utahime to prom in the most low-effort way possible—half a smile and a “You’re free Saturday, right?” by the vending machines. She’d paused for a second, then shrugged. “Sure.” No exclamation point. No heart emoji. Just sure.

Still, he considered it a win. Until later that week, when he overheard Gojo asking her what colour she was wearing so he could “match his tie to her aura.” And the worst part? She laughed. Laughed. The kind of laugh you didn’t fake for social survival. The kind that lived in your throat when someone actually got under your skin—in a good way.

Naoya stared from a distance, fuming silently as Gojo offered Utahime a bite of whatever overpriced pastry he was eating. She took it. Didn’t even hesitate.

That’s when it hit him.

Gojo didn’t care about prom. He cared about winning.

And Utahime? She wasn’t even pretending anymore. Not even a little.

Naoya didn’t say anything. Just watched them walk off, their shadows overlapping on the pavement.

He had a date to the prom.

But he was starting to wonder if he was the only one who didn’t know it was a joke.

✧✧✧

You didn’t expect him to ask.

You’d already decided you weren’t going. Told Utahime you hated crowds, loud music, the idea of putting effort into something that would end with people puking in bushes and fake glitter in your underwear. She didn’t believe you, but she knew better than to push.

And then Sukuna showed up.

At your dorm door. Leaning against the frame like he hadn’t just jogged up four flights of stairs, hair a little messy, a half-wrinkle in his shirt like he’d slept in it and didn’t care. Like always.

“You going to prom?” he asked.

You blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read a language he hadn’t studied enough. “Figured if I have to suffer through a school event, you should too.”

You scoffed. “Is this your version of asking nicely?”

“It’s my version of asking at all.”

You should’ve said no.

Should’ve shut the door in his face, curled up in bed, and watched something violent while pretending you didn’t care. But the problem was—you did. And the way he was looking at you? Not smug. Not teasing. Just… waiting.

So you said yes.

Quietly. Grudgingly.

And two days later, he picked you up for suit shopping like this was just a thing you did now. Like the two of you had rules. Traditions. Somewhere between enemies and not-quite-lovers.

The shop was tucked behind a row of old bookstores, with mirrors that made you look taller and music that felt like static. You tried on three suits before settling on one that didn’t make you want to punch yourself. Sukuna lounged in the corner chair the whole time, pretending not to watch you adjust the collar, the cuffs, the shoulders.

“You clean up,” he said eventually, like it was a fact. Like it didn’t mean anything.

“You’re staring,” you replied.

He smiled. “Can you blame me?”

You didn’t answer. Just turned back to the mirror, trying not to imagine his hands on your waist again. Trying not to remember the way he kissed you behind that bunker, like he didn’t care who saw. Like he’d been waiting to do it since day one.

Later, you sat cross-legged on your bed while Utahime painted a line of dark eyeliner under your lashes. Her fingers were steady. She didn’t ask you anything, didn’t tease you about your date or your nerves. Just hummed under her breath, like this was something she knew you needed.

Gojo texted her mid-mascara. Something about his tie.

She smiled when she read it. Soft. The kind of smile you used to wear around people you didn’t think could hurt you.

And for the first time in weeks, your stomach sank.

Something about all of this felt too good. Too smooth.

And when things felt this good, something always broke.

✧✧✧

The gym didn’t look like a gym. Not tonight.

String lights dripped from the rafters like stars trying too hard. The floor had been covered in some kind of black satin tarp, and the punch had actual fruit in it, which meant some overworked student council member was probably passed out backstage from exhaustion.

You stood in the doorway, fingers curling into the cuffs of your sleeves, breath caught somewhere between dread and disbelief.

And then you saw him.

Sukuna.

Leaning against the back wall in a suit that looked criminal on him. Shirt half-open. Tie loose. Hair swept back like he’d tried, then gave up halfway. He looked bored. Dangerous. Stupidly hot.

But the second his eyes found you, he stared. Like you were gravity.

“Damn,” he said when you reached him, voice a little rough. “You clean up scary good.”

“You look like you lost a bet with fashion,” you shot back, but your voice was softer than usual.

His grin cracked something in your chest.

You danced. Eventually. Not because you wanted to, but because the song was slow and the room had started to spin, and Sukuna held out his hand like it wasn’t a question. His palm was warm. His fingers were steady. One hand on your waist, one on your wrist, like he was grounding you and holding you hostage all at once.

“I don’t do this,” you murmured.

“Dance?”

“Let people in.”

His grip tightened just a little. “Maybe you should.”

You didn’t pull away.

Across the room, Utahime was laughing at something Gojo said, a crumpled corsage in her hand. Gojo looked so smug that you wanted to throw something, but she looked happy. Like… happy.

Then Naoya showed up.

Lurking on the edge of the crowd like a shadow that hadn’t been invited. Eyes sharp. Smile sharper.

You felt it before you saw him approach—Sukuna going tense, his posture shifting just slightly, like he’d spotted a crack in the floor and knew what was coming.

Naoya didn’t say hello.

Didn’t greet you.

Just looked at Sukuna and said, loudly enough to turn heads:

“So, how’s it feel? Winning the bet?”

The music didn’t stop. But everything else did.

You blinked. “What bet?”

Naoya’s smile widened. “Oh, you didn’t tell him? Thought that was part of the game.”

You looked at Sukuna.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t deny it.

Just stood there. Still. Silent.

And that—that—was all it took.

You stepped back. Out of his reach. Out of his orbit.

He tried to speak—tried to explain—but you were already walking away, mouth dry, vision tunnelling.

Utahime caught up to you in the hallway. “What happened?”

And then behind you: a smack.

Loud. Sharp. Clean.

You turned just in time to see Utahime’s hand drop from Naoya’s face.

“Don’t ever talk to me again,” she said.

Naoya stood there, stunned, cheek blooming red.

Gojo looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

And Sukuna? He was still in the doorway. Still staring after you. Still not moving.

Like maybe if he stayed still long enough, you’d turn around.

You didn’t.

✧✧✧

You stopped answering texts.

Not just Sukuna’s. Everyone’s. Utahime. Gojo. That one guy from chem who always sent you TikToks you never watched. Your phone became a thing that buzzed and blinked and begged for attention, and you left it facedown every time. Like ignoring it could make everything disappear.

The campus felt smaller after that night.

Every hallway echoed. Every classroom felt like a spotlight. Every glance from people who’d heard about the scene at prom—because of course they had—made your skin itch.

And Sukuna?

He didn’t vanish. That would’ve been easier. Instead, he showed up.

Everywhere.

Leaning against the locker outside your lecture hall. Sitting on the bench across from your favourite coffee place. Lingering by the library entrance like he didn’t know where else to go.

Sometimes, he tried to talk.

Not loudly. Not the way he used to. He didn’t yell or chase or beg. Just stood there, voice low, hands in his pockets, eyes rimmed red like he hadn’t slept in days.

“I didn’t think it would matter,” he’d said once. “Until it did.”

You didn’t respond.

Another time: “It wasn’t about the bet. Not after I got to know you. I swear to god.”

You walked away before he finished.

He never pushed. Never grabbed your wrist or blocked your path or made a scene.

And that, somehow, was worse.

Because he meant it.

Because if he’d laughed in your face, you could’ve hated him clean. Sharp. Easy.

But he stood there instead—like he’d been gutted. Like you were the one who’d broken him.

It would’ve been poetic if it hadn’t hurt so much.

The worst part was: you missed him.

You missed the stupid smirk. The way he leaned too close when you talked, like he couldn’t hear you unless you were touching. You missed the quiet moments. The half-finished thoughts. The way he said your name, like it was something earned.

But every time you remembered the gym lights, Naoya’s voice, and the way Sukuna didn’t deny it, you wanted to scream.

So you didn’t say anything.

You didn’t say anything.

And Sukuna stood in your silence like it was a cage he built himself.

✧✧✧

Sukuna had never really been afraid of silence. He’d lived in it, grown up in it, learned to weaponise it. But this? This wasn’t silence. This was absence.

A blank space where laughter used to live.

No more text messages with half-spelt insults. No more boots scuffing the tile next to his. No more eyes burning into the side of his face when he said something stupid just to get a reaction.

It was like he’d imagined the whole thing.

And he was losing his mind because of it.

He hadn’t been eating. Barely sleeping. His classes were background noise, the campus a grayscale blur he wandered through in a haze. Every corner reminded him of something. A smirk. A comment. That look—the one from the paintball park, all flushed cheeks and fire.

Gone.

He was in the quad when they found him.

Gojo and Geto. The human embodiment of chaos and judgment. The worst tag team in existence.

“You look like shit,” Gojo said, flopping down next to him on the bench. “Like, more than usual.”

“Thanks,” Sukuna muttered.

Geto sat on the other side. Calm. Calculated. “So. You ruined it.”

Sukuna didn’t answer.

Gojo leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’m just trying to understand how you managed to fumble that hard. Was the bet worth it? Huh?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Sukuna said, voice low. “Not really.”

“But it was, at first,” Geto said, no venom—just facts.

Sukuna stared at the ground.

Gojo exhaled sharply. “Look. I don’t care how it started. I care that you meant it by the end. And that you let him walk away without a fight.”

“What do you want me to do?” Sukuna snapped. “I already told him it wasn’t about the bet. I told him I was sorry. He doesn’t want to hear it.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Gojo said. “Not yet.”

“So what then? I keep showing up and making an idiot of myself until he forgives me?”

“Maybe,” Geto said. “Or maybe you show him something real. Something that proves it wasn’t just a game to you.”

Sukuna scoffed. “Like what? A fucking song? A love letter?”

Gojo grinned. “Oh my god. Please write him a love letter. I’ll frame it.”

“Be serious.”

“I am,” Gojo said. “You’re in love with him, Sukuna. Do something about it before it’s too late.”

That shut him up.

Because it was the truth.

He was. He was in love.

And he was going to lose you for good if he didn’t stop sulking and start trying.

✧✧✧

The assignment was simple: write a poem. Present it aloud. Be vulnerable. The professor’s words, not yours.

You weren’t going to do it.

But then you sat up the night before, fingers clenched around a pen, and the words came out like teeth.

So now you're standing here.

In front of half the class, with Sukuna sitting somewhere behind you, quiet for once, his presence like static behind your ribs.

You clear your throat.

Your hands don’t shake.

But your voice does.

“I hate the way you look at me,” you begin, tone flat, eyes locked just above everyone’s heads. “Like you’re already in on the joke. Like I’m something you’re about to ruin.”

Someone chuckles. You don’t stop.

“I hate the way you laugh when you’re nervous. Hate how it still sounds good anyway. I hate that I notice that.”

You breathe through your nose.

Don’t look at him.

“I hate the way you sit next to me like we’re not still pretending. I hate that you said it wasn’t about the bet. I hate that I believed you.”

The room is quiet now.

No laughter. No shifting chairs.

Just silence.

You swallow.

“I hate that I miss you when I shouldn't. I hate how you looked at me that night, like I meant something. I hate the paint on my old hoodie because it still smells like you. I hate that I can’t forget you. I hate that I don’t want to.”

Your voice catches.

You let it.

“I hate that I still look for you in crowds. I hate that I still love you.”

You fold the paper. Calm. Controlled.

And walk back to your seat without looking up—without looking at him.

Because if you did?

You might not survive it.

✧✧✧

A guitar was sitting in your passenger seat like it had always belonged there.

You stared at it through the open car door, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Your mouth was dry. Your hands were shaking. You didn’t know whether to scream or cry or smash it over someone's head, and honestly? That was on brand.

“Hey.”

You turned fast, shoulders tense.

Sukuna was standing a few feet behind you. Hoodie pulled over his head. Eyes soft. Like he’d been waiting hours to catch you alone.

“You broke into my car?” you said, because of course that’s what you said.

He lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Spare key. Utahime gave it to me. Under threat of bodily harm, for the record.”

You looked back at the guitar. Then at him.

“I meant it,” he said, before you could fire another round. “What I said. What I didn’t say. I was a dumbass. You know that already. But I meant everything. Every second.”

You exhaled, slow and shaky.

“I hate you,” you said, and you weren’t sure if it was true or not anymore.

“I know.”

“I still hate you.”

He stepped closer.

“I still want you.”

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Your hand fisted in the collar of his hoodie, yanked him forward, and kissed him like you were trying to kill the version of yourself that ever gave a shit about pride.

It was messy. Breathless. A little desperate. The kind of kiss that made up for all the ones you’d missed and then some.

He kissed you back like his life depended on it.

Like he’d been waiting.

When you finally pulled away, both of you dazed and a little stunned, he whispered, “Does this mean I can ride shotgun?”

You rolled your eyes. “Only if you shut the hell up.”

He grinned.

You tossed your bag in the back seat, slammed the door shut, and jerked your chin toward the car.

“Get in, asshole.”

He did.

And this time, he didn’t stop smiling.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

Taglist: @axetivev @yyuinaa @zaynesyumei @sageofspades @onyxmango @puccigucii @the-ultimate-librarian @sooobiinn @sooniebby @i2innie @tintenka1 @timaas-blog @darlinqvi @horrorsbeyondreality @rednugget @lysanderplume @leron1108 @kauo-writez @the0ishere @calgurl @kissenturine @bleedingbl0ssom @gayaristocrat @hyppernovva [comment to be added, or send an ask]

[awawage]

Kpop Demon Hunter Idea

Thinking about a K-pop demon hunter AU. But the reader is the top K-pop singer of the moment, not even Huntrix can defeat them. The reader goes by the stage name (S/N), they have the most fans, and everyone who likes Saja Boys or Huntrix has heard of (S/N) and is probably a fan too. I was thinking like Lady Gaga because everyone love Lady Gaga, my queen.

But there's a secret: you're actually half demon oops.

I'm new to writing so it might be ooc.

One night, Rumi, the workaholic that she is, is the only one awake, working on the lyrics of her new song. That is, until she feels a disturbance in the air. There, outside the window a small red spot in the middle of Seoul.

She decides to venture out alone since Mira and Zoey totally deserve a break. The tear is was small, so there shouldn't be too many demons.

----

Well, that’s unexpected. The tear is right above K Entertainment, one of the biggest K-pop companies in Korea. That's where big singers get signed in, if you're with KE then your life career is only about to go up.

That's where you were signed at, the biggest idol in Korea right now, not even Huntrix or Saja boys can get on your level. She never met you before but your works has always inspired her and other Huntrix members to keep going. You're the K Entertainment golden child.

She needs to enter the building fast. Who knows what star is inside getting their soul sucked right now? But just as she starts to climb up-

“So you're here too, huh?”

“Jinu? What are you doing here, demon?” she says while pointing her sword at him.

“Woah woah, demon girl—” The blade gets closer to his neck, poking his skin. He lifts both arms. “I mean—Gwi-Ma sent me here. There’s a portal that’s opened in this building under his control. I was sent to investigate since I'm already in the human world.”

"Another demon ? Who's not controlled by Gwi-Ma...?" She slowly lower her swords.

"That's what I thought too, I thought you were the only one but perhaps there's a another one that Gwi-Ma can't control "

"We need to investigate "

"That's what I was sent to do"

He received a hit to the side.

----

Inside the building, there are no signs of life at all. Every worker has probably gone home by now. But it doesn’t stop the strange feeling that settles in both their hearts. Something isn’t right.Rumi turns to Jinu.

“Are you sure this isn’t some plan by Gwi-Ma—”

“My, my.”

They both jump and turn around.

Jinu in a fighting stance, his nails sharpening, and Rumi with her sword ready to strike, until she sees who it is. You.

There you are.

The golden child of K Entertainment. Idol of the century.

Even though Huntrix has won a lot of awards, you’ve won higher-prestige ones and have far more influence than they’ll ever have. A star-born singer whose career skyrocketed since your teenage years, and still going strong.

Rumi can’t stop her giddy expression; her eyes turn into stars. You were her favorite K-idol– hell, maybe her favorite idol, period. She debuted not long after you, but seeing your solo success surpass her group’s so quickly made her form a bit of disdain at first.

But after watching your interviews and fancams… she slowly fell in love.(Oohh 👀)

Jinu quickly noticed her facial expression and threw an annoyed look at you, who were you and how come you made someone like Rumi so... Charmed? By you with a single look.

In front of you stood two weirdos. Sure, they’re good-looking, but one is holding a sword, and the other literally grew claws.

You recognize both of them from the trending K-pop groups, Jinu from Saja Boys who looked super confused, and Rumi from Huntrix who looked like she could explode from joy (still holding her sword towards you).

You obviously know what they are. But let’s entertain them, why don’t we?

“May I know why you’re trespassing the building...with a sword, no less?”

“OMG you’re (S/N). Zoey would be so jealous…”

“Who?” A big gasp leaves Rumi’s throat. She’s shocked and in disbelief.

“How can you be a K-pop idol without knowing the king/queen of our generation!?”

“Alright, calm down. You guys are lucky I recognize you, or I would’ve called the cops by now. Rumi from Huntrix, right?” She nods.

She knows you probably knew her, but hearing her idol say her name still makes her proud of Huntrix popularity.

“And you’re from that new group… Soja Boys?” Rumi almost chokes laughing as Jinu sweat drop.

“Actually, it’s Saja Boys…” says Jinu.

You look at him, perplexed. “Strange name…”

Before holding a serious expression. “What are you guys doing here? You know it’s totally off-limits to non-workers. Doesn’t matter if you’re famous idols or not.”

Rumi and Jinu share a look. They need to find a way out of this without raising suspicion, a look you don’t miss.

“Um… we’re here to meet with an contractor! And hmm… oh! I think we got the wrong time, haha…”

Rumi quirks a wobbly smile. Jinu nods beside her, even though he doesn’t believe the lie himself.

“Really now…”

You can feel the mark pattern slowly spreading under your clothes, from your torso up toward your neck.

“Yup! But since we’re wrong- we’re gonna leave now!”Rumi quickly grabs Jinu’s arm who was surprised, as she makes him turn around with her.

Your hands begin to thin, and sharp nails start growing out.

"Wait.."

Your voice sounds ominous and slow, sending a chill down their spines. They freeze and slowly turn around.

There you are, in your demon form. Your once bright eyes are now yellow with slits, purple/blue marks spread beautifully along your neck and face.

“A demon…?” they both whisper.

You smile.

There they are, your next prey.

“I’ve been waiting"

[pichichuu]

Abby Headcanons!

Kpop demon hunters, n$fw/suggestive, so mdni! mostly gender neutral but a few fem reader pieces here and there

a/n: i am such a freak for abby this man has me so inspired i need him kashkjfh... let's pretend that he wouldn't get like completely canceled for some of the more... public aspects of this

possessive man. if you go out in public together he ALWAYSSSS keeps a broad hand on your lower back. sometimes he'll stand behind you and hold you against him with two hands on your hips.

he's such a tease too. i mean we see how he acts with his abs for his fans but if you two are involved?? he does not hold back. will walk around the apartment shirtless constantly, band of his boxers peeking from his sweats. will stretch and manspread and lay back on things like crazy because he knows how his v-line draws your eyes to his bulge

he's also the type to keep a towel on for a little while after his shower, a smaller one laid across his head or around his neck. desperately wants you to notice the water dripping down him and catch you staring. will for sure tease you about it if he does.

touchy touchy touchy touchy man. will stand with his arm propped on your shoulder, put his legs on your lap on the couch, pull you into his lap, lay on your shoulder and groan about how bored he is, wrap a hand around your waist to pull you wherever he wants to go, and if you're shorter than him he'll put his chin on your head in conversations with others, hugging you from behind. he just loves the contact and having something to lean on

he drives you CRAZYYY how he looks at you, especially from between your legs. bro has a lethal stare and loves how you squirm under his gaze. he'll hold your hips close to his face with a firm grip, knowing you aren't intending to wriggle away from him

i just know he's such a smooth talker. he'd curl long fingers inside of you while flirting as if he hasn't already gotten you into his bed

loves shower sex. i can't explain why but i just know this is the truth

i feel like he would bite you occasionally when he cums. definitely is into marking aside from that, though. he likes leaving hickeys on you, but LOVESSSS when you give him hickeys. would for sure wear an almost completely unbuttoned top the next day to show off your scratches on his chest and the bruises littered across his neck

he's so cocky. feeds on the questions and looks he gets from the other saja boys when they see your artwork. he's a secret exhibitionist... honestly, he might not even realize it himself.

probably steals panties let's be honest... i just know he has a crazy sex drive and fs takes care of it himself pretty often. he likes to surprise you with it sometimes, shamelessly leaving his cum in them on top of your laundry hamper.

finally, he's more obsessed with you then he is with himself lol. he knows he looks good but he also knows he'll never look better than when you're standing next to him. he's so whipped and so horny for you.

[sugxto]

brutalizer(s) - eddie/volt/reader

⋆syn: You decide to "challengers" your new boyfriends. It, uh, doesn't go as planned.

⋆wc: 3.3k

⋆cw: m/m/f threesome, light dom/sub undertones, erotic electrostimulation, some very very minor dacryphilia, spit sharing, choking.

⋆notes: takes place immediately after the love route, but can be read independently. g/n pronouns for reader, called "good girl" and afab genitalia.

⋆snippet:

“Thought you did something there, huh?” Eddie’s voice is low, it hits you somewhere deeper in your belly than it has before. The whiskey sours earlier certainly aren’t helping. “It’s cute, but, come on.”

Volt chuckles, his lips against Eddie’s cheek, and his white hot stare locks on to you too. “Very cute, indeed. Really, spark,” his lips curl into what you can only describe as something dastardly, “did you honestly think I don’t already know his lips better than my own?”

“We could do a Volt and Eddie sandwich.”

The corner of Volt’s smile twitches, and he turns to Eddie with raised brows, hands nonchalantly in his pockets. Eddie’s face is uncharacteristically pink, and he casts a knowing glance at Volt, and pushes himself off the bar. 

“Well, seeing as how we’re… closed for the evening,” Volt starts, his eyes traveling back to yours, “I think, something to that effect, can be arranged. Eddie?”

The ice that you’ve come to know in Eddie’s stare is gone, the new spark glittering in it instead. He looks more lively, more excited, more… confident?

“I… wouldn’t be opposed.” His eyes rake over your body, as if finally allowing himself to fully drink you in the same way he drinks his whiskey sours. “It’s been a while since I’ve been up to… enjoying myself.”

Oh, they’re serious. 

I mean, you were serious too, but, right now? Right after they’ve just, essentially, come back to life?

But, who were you to turn down a good time?

You clear your throat. “Uh, here? In the club?”

Eddie scoffs, because you already knew the answer. “Absolutely not. No sex in the bar, that’s the one rule.”

“It’s not really a rule -”

“Volt.”

“Fine, fine, not here. Not tonight, at least.”

“Volt -”

“We live upstairs, a flat sort of thing.” Volt holds out his hand to you, want apparent in his gaze. “Shall I lead us there?”

You take his hand, that same spark from the first night surging up your arm, and you feel a second hand, strong and rough, at the small of your back as you head up the stairs. 

You realize, when you get to the bedroom, that you’ve… never done this before. Two. At once? Separately? How… exactly does this work. 

A thought sparks in your memory, of a movie you watched with Sam, where a girl swindled the two boys interested in her to kiss each other, and ya know, that’s something you might be interested in seeing. 

You’re all in the bedroom now, both of them eyeing you, expectantly, though not hurriedly. You giggle nervously, holding your hands to your heart. 

“I’ve uh, never done this before,” you admit. “Maybe, can I kiss you? And we can go from there?”

“Of course, darling. Whatever you want,” Volt cocks his head in Eddie’s direction. “I’ve already had the pleasure, so why not give Eddie a taste, hm?”

Eddie rolls his eyes and sighs. “Ignore him, he can’t help it.” He holds out his hand, and pulls you closer when you take it. “But, I wouldn’t say no.”

Eddie’s lips are different from Volt’s, more hesitant, but soft, and gentle as he learns your pace and the shape of your mouth. He tastes like a whiskey sour, and you just want to drink him down. 

Volt’s lips find your neck, and you notice he’s slipped off his shirt, and the air hums with the charge emanating off him. You lean into him, his strong arms, and Eddie pulls away to take off his own shirt as Volt smoothly whips off your dress. Eddie takes his turn at your neck, and the double dose of pleasure pulses like a current under your skin. 

You raise your hands, find their cheeks, and gently, oh so gently, you bring their lips towards each other, hoping they don’t notice it’s no longer you. You’ll only watch for a moment, you tell yourself, before you insert yourself back in. No one will be the wiser. As their lips touch, their eyes stay closed, and you step back to quietly sit on the edge of the bed. 

You watch their lips met with rapt attention, the ends of Volt’s hair sparking with each swipe of tongue you catch. Eddie’s teeth find the softness of Volt’s bottom lip, and a small sound escapes the back of your throat at the sight. 

You expected them to pull apart at the unexpected sound, to open their eyes and realize what they’d done (and, not a small part of you hoped, punish you for it).

So it’s a bit odd, you think, when their kiss deepens. When Volt’s large hand, his silver nails, find Eddie’s jaw, and swipe acros his stubble. When Eddie, in turn, half opens his eye, and a titanium stare finds you past Volt’s cheekbone.

Your heart hammers in your chest. This is either going to go better than you expected, or much, much worse for you.

You’re not sure which you’re hoping for more. 

Volt’s lips move to Eddie’s cheek, his jaw, exposing more of Eddie’s face to you - both his eyes, boring into yours. He’s barely hiding a smirk. 

“Thought you did something there, huh?” Eddie’s voice is low, it hits you somewhere deeper in your belly than it has before. The whiskey sours earlier certainly aren’t helping. “It’s cute, but, come on.”

Volt chuckles, his lips against Eddie’s cheek, and his white hot stare locks on to you too. “Very cute, indeed. Really, spark,” his lips curl into what you can only describe as something dastardly, “did you honestly think I don’t already know his lips better than my own?”

Oh.

Oh for amps sake. 

Because, actually, no. That thought hadn’t occurred to you. Why hadn’t that thought occurred to you? I mean, come on, there’s only one bed!

Your mouth goes dry, your jaw goes slack, your eyes zinging back and forth between pure white and pure steel. You’re caught. You’re so caught. 

“I, uh,” you start, but you’ve lost that bravado. “I never want to assume.”

Eddie huffs out a laugh, Volt’s thumb rubbing over his bottom lip. He pecks it softly. “Right. How thoughtful.”

“This is what you were wanting, though, was it not, live wire?” Volt purrs as he extricates himself from Eddie’s side, taking a step towards you in a way that reminds of that tiger feeding you once saw at the zoo. Like a predator. Stalking. Possessive. 

Oh fuck, you think. You’ve just fed yourself to the tigers. 

Volt’s hands are on either side of the bed next to your hips. Caging you. You can feel the sparks from his hair, the charge in his skin. “You wanted all three of us to enjoy ourselves, yes?”

You nod, and you see a flash of his canine teeth as he smiles.

“Exactly. And we most certainly will. But,” his jagged eyebrows lift, “you thought you could have an upper hand. And, it absolutely delights me to say, you won’t be having that.”

Rough hands are on your shoulders, and you’re shoved down onto the bed, Eddie’s unruly coils dangling over you. 

“Eddie, where did you -” you breathe, but one of those calloused hands is on your throat, squeezing just enough to silence you. Eddie’s grey eyes have darkened. Hunger, you think, he’s hungry.

Familiar sparks singe your inner thighs, but you can't lift your head to see what else Volt is doing - you can only feel the currents under your skin as his fingers find the crotch of your panties, pulling them only a little. Eddie only watches your face, how your brows furrow at the teasing, your eyes pleading for something he can’t give. Your hand comes to his wrist, not pushing him away, but needing to touch him more. 

“Eddie,” you breathe, feeling the weight of his hand on your neck. “Eddie please -”

“Do I look like the one you should be talkin to?” His brows lift, his stare curious. “Ya know, I don’t even really think you’re in a position to be talkin, period. Volt?”

You feel the man in question hum over the cloth of your panties, already hot, and the literal electricity isn’t helping. “I think I can occupy them, if you can keep them quiet.”

Keep them quiet?? Your eyes widen, but Eddie only chuckles. “My pleasure.”

With limited movement, you’re only acutely aware of what Eddie does with his other hand, until you hear the zip of his fly, the rustle of fabric, and -

Oh, fuck. 

Eddie’s cock is gorgeous, veiny in a way that reminds you of the wires he adorns, the head already leaking with pre. You lick your lips, staring at just a few inches over your face, and god, Eddie’s not the only hungry one. 

“Fuuuck, Eddie,” you moan, bringing your hand up to try and touch it, but the hand around your throat moves faster, leaving its mark to grab at your wrist this time. 

Eddie tsks his tongue. “Not so fast, live wire. Volt wants me to keep you quiet.” His other hand finds your cheek, stroking softly. “So, open your mouth, hm?”

The heat between your legs is getting unbearable, and you whimper when you feel Volt move the scrap of fabric to the side. “Yes, Eddie,” you manage, opening wide and offering your tongue. 

His cock is so hot as it finds your mouth, the soft tip and drops of pre languishing over your tongue, you can’t stop your lips from wrapping around his length as he presses in further, further -

A zap to your clitoris makes your hips buck in surprise, and your eyes shoot open - you see nothing save Eddie’s balls above your nose, and another zap elicits a squeak from your full mouth. 

Volt’s laugh is feral, his breath burning on your thighs. “Liked that, my little spark? Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of charge for us.” His thumb presses almost delicately to your bud, making the smallest of circles, testing, learning. “Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.” His thumb dips lower, finding your entrance already wet, waiting. “I simply must have a taste.”

His tongue is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before - Ben-Hwa’s vibrations are incomparable to the literal electricity that is swiping over your lips, your hole, your clit - it’s mind-blowing. It’s explosive. Volt works you almost too expertly to be believed, and your brain short circuits when a finger slips inside. 

Eddie groans as he feels you moan around him, your hips wanting to buck, but one of Volt’s forearms keeps your hips pressed to the bed. You’re pinned, caged, at the whims of these two men, and it’s making you ache. 

Faster than you can remember happening before, your belly coils with tension, your climax growing completely outside your control. Volt feels it too, he must, because he devours you with fervor, two fingers moving at an impossible pace inside you. It builds and builds and -

You see sparks as you cum, as your hips fight against Volt’s hold, as you struggle for something solid to hold to. Your skin tingles, you’re absolutely buzzing, you’re a -

“Mm, live wire,” you hear Volt’s smile as he says it, and he presses a kiss to your clit - it makes your leg shake unconsciously. “You are just too fun.”

You whimper, your body jello, your focus on keeping Eddie’s cock inside your mouth, but you feel him retreat, and whimper again at the loss. 

Eddie strokes your cheek again, and you feel Volt climb onto the bed, sitting by your side. His touch slinks up your torso, the side of your breast, your bicep, trailing sparks the whole way. 

He hums contentedly. “Good girl for taking Eddie so well, he says, and you flush, and watch him glance up at Eddie, who's sitting back on his knees. “And good boy keeping them quiet, Eddie.”

Eddie’s sigh sounds a bit amused. “You haven’t said that shit in a while.”

“Well, I mean it.”

“Uh huh.” Eddie’s hands reach for the back of Volt’s neck, pulling him closer. “Lemme taste, yeah?”

Volt’s chuckle is cut off by Eddie’s tongue swiping over his lips before pushing inside his mouth, and god, what a sight for sore eyes. The men pull at each other, teeth clashing, and in your blissed out state, you can’t stop the moan that leaves your lips. 

Two sets of eyes stare down at you, two sets of lips curling into grins. “Oh, darling,” Volt purrs, “you want a taste too?”

You can only nod, and you will your body to lift yourself onto your elbows to meet them halfway. You watch them share a look, and your arms tremble. 

“Open, then.”

You cock your head. “What?”

“Open. Your mouth,” Volt repeats, and you do, tentatively. 

“Very good.” Volt turns back to Eddie, pulling his jaw with his thumb, and Eddie’s mouth drops for him. Volt positions his lips above him, and a line of spit trails from his lips onto Eddie’s waiting tongue. 

These men. These men were going to kill you. 

Eddie hums, and as he bends down to you, his hand trails down Volt’s stomach. You press your legs together, the anticipation sparking back inside you. Your nails claw at the sheets when Eddie hovers a few inches above your head, and you press your tongue even further out. The spit travels from his lips and lands, cold, on your tongue, and your legs twitch, your fists clench.

“Swallow,” Eddie says, voice thick and gruff with lust. 

You do. 

And they pounce. 

You’re dragged up the bed, two sets of hands pulling and pawing. Somehow your bra is off, your panties are gone, you hear their pants hit the floor, and the temperature raises as more skin is exposed. You find yourself propped against the pillows, your back against Eddie’s stomach, Volt stomachs against yours, utterly pressed between them. 

“Feel good, spark?” Volt says, his hand at your waist. “Your sandwich living up to expectations?”

You giggle, realizing this was, in fact, exactly what you’d asked for. “Absolutely.”

“Good,” Eddie grunts, his lips on your earlobe. 

“We do aim to please.” Volt squeezes your side, grinding his hips against you, his length hard, pressing insistently at where your thighs press together. 

“I’ll make sure to leave a -“ you gasp when Eddie’s teeth graze your neck, “a, fuck, glowing Breaker Box review.”

Volt’s grin is back to dastardly, and he grinds his hips harder against you. “Let’s ensure five stars, shall we?” 

His hand moves from your hip to your thigh, a spark running down your leg as he lifts it and throws it over his thigh. His cock is pressed against your stomach, and another pair of hands reach around to cup your breasts, and now Eddie’s cock slots between your cheeks. 

“Now, spark,” Volt’s voice is low, honeyed, and Eddie’s bites to your neck aren’t helping the buzz in your head. “Who do you want first?”

Best sandwich you’ve ever had. 

“I, I have to choose?” You mumble out, barely able to form a sentence as Volt’s eyes study your face. Eddie groans, pinching your nipple to elicit a gasp from your lips. 

“Mm, darling, we’ll work our way to not having to.” His fingers dance along your thigh, and Eddie’s cock slides along your skin. “Patience, for now, however. We wouldn’t want to break you on our first outing.”

Oh, but maybe you did. 

You swallow, the wires of your mind completely disconnected. “Volt, I, I can’t. I can’t choose.” How could you? Between two perfect, adoring, electrifying men, that wanted you more than the currents in their bodies? It wasn’t fair, surely. They were one, they were yours, but you couldn’t choose.

Volt’s lips turn to a pout, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “Oh, poor wire. Feeling frayed?” He tsks his tongue when you nod. “Alright, no more choosing tonight. Let us take care of you, hm? Just close your eyes.”

You do, and he again lifts your leg, granting full access to anyone wanting your hole. You ache, the air charged and your lips dripping with want. You feel both of them pull away from you slightly, no longer able to feel their lengths, and you whimper from the loss of -

An intrusion of your entrance makes you cry out in surprise, and slowly, terribly, intensely, you’re being filled, and it’s like a fire has been lit inside your cunt, under your skin, in your heart. It burns, deliciously, beautifully. You eyelids flutter when the cock bottoms out, and a familiar, rough hand is suddenly covering your eyes. 

“You,” Eddie groans in your ear, “you, fuck me, feel perfect, spark.” His breath is ragged, and you curse when he thrusts, once, twice. “Oh fuck, oh, baby.” He says it reverently, lovingly. Your heart is going to burst out of your chest. 

A new hand finds your nipple, a zap bringing it to attention. “How does he feel, our spark? Doesn't his cock feel like it’s going to split you in two?”

In another state of mind, you might want to linger on the implications of that question. But yes, in fact, as Eddie’s thrusts became more frantic, the possibility of you splitting at the center did seem more likely. If Volt holding up your leg was the only thing centering yourself. 

Just as soon as you feel your climax building inside you, you’re empty, Eddie sliding out of you, and you grip around nothing, moaning at the emptiness. 

“No, no, Eddie, please!” You manage out before the hand on your eyes slips down to cover your mouth. The callouses on his hands are harsh against your lips, and you barely manage out a moan of protest before something new slips inside you, long and hot and slipping in so nicely. Moans of protest quickly turn to acceptance, and Volt’s cock is just so easy to accept. 

“Oh sweet amp.” Volt’s usually collected voice is shaky as he works his way inside you, taking his time much to your distress. “Live wire, I - we -”

“You,” Eddie breathes in your ear, “you might’ve been made for us.”

Ah. 

That’ll do it, then. 

You hardly even feel the build up, the spiringing coil, all you know if you’re cumming, you’re gushing without abandon on Volt’s cock, and tears spring to your eyes when they both curse, and Volt’s pace quickens. Eddie’s hand leaves your mouth, finding your neck again, controlling your air like he controls the very power of your home. Your body is slack, offering neither of them resistance, given over to the fire inside your belly, the weight of their hands, their control of your cunt. 

You feel Volt slip out, and now Eddie is back inside you. The tears spill over your cheeks, and an electric tongue licks them up. Almost as quickly as you adjust to Eddie, he’s gone, and Volt is back, then Eddie, then Volt, until you’re no longer cognizant of the difference. 

Eddie’s breath is erratic. “I’m, fuck, I -”

“Me too, darling,” Volt huffs. “Where -”

“S, stomach,” you moan. “Both, both, please.”

You’re on your back, your body liquid, but you open your eyes enough to watch their hands find each other’s lengths, pump once, twice, and then groan together as their cum lands on your skin, singeing like the flame of a candle. 

It’s a haze, what comes after. They’re kissing your cheeks, tucking your hair, singing what you guess are your praises in your ear. Volt’s voice is distant, but you hear how he calls you a good girl, while Eddie wipes away their spend with a towel from his discarded pants. 

You’re between them again when you return to earth, kisses peppered on your shoulder, tingles along your arms. It’s better than any dream, but somehow, you know it won’t disappear. 

“Back with us, spark?” Eddie whispers when your eyes flutter open. 

You smile softly, hum contentedly. “Always.”

“Very good,” Volt’s lips press to your collarbone. “You took everything beautifully, live wire. Our good girl. Our spark.”

You sigh, rolling onto your back, and find their cheeks with your hands. “You boys,” you smile, gaze flicking between them. “I love you.”

Steel meets white, then both meet you. “We love you too, little wire.”

[faramirsonofgondor]

AU where some new villain made a truth serum formula and captures Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, and Robin. This villain somehow knows they’ve all been Robin at one point and decides to use the truth serum to try and drive a wedge between them all so that they stop working together. He starts with Robin, asking him who he thinks was the best Robin (Nightwing), who he thinks is the worst (Red Robin) and why he thinks that (Red Robin is annoying and arrogant). He does the same with Red Robin and Red Hood and gets varying answers that, while somewhat mean, are not enough to break the dynamic between them. Then he gets to Nightwing, who claims (truthfully) that he doesn’t have a favorite or least favorite Robin. The villain is displeased with this so they start to come up different questions to try and start an argument between the boys.

Eventually the villain asks “Which Robin is closest to the original? Closest to your Robin? Which one reminds you the most of yourself?”. Dick tries to fight the serum for a while, before finally biting out “The fourth one.” They all turn to look at Damian, and the villain scrunches up his brows, asking “Him? Really?” It was somewhat of a rhetorical question but Dick is forced to answer anyways. “No, not him. He’s the fifth Robin.” It takes a second before it clicks into place. “The girl Robin? Seriously?? I heard she didn’t even last a week!” Before anything else can be said, Batman busts into the villain’s lair and manages to take him down.

When they get back to the cave, the boys try to question Dick about it, slightly offended by the fact that he considered Stephanie’s Robin to be the most accurate to his. Dick, however, manages to evade them until the serum wears off. Dick himself isn’t quite sure how he can explain it to them. He’s not sure how to tell them that while he’s proud of all the work they’ve done as Robin, he never shared their reasoning for becoming Robin. He’s not sure how to point out the fact that the main reason they got into the vigilante game was for Bruce, not for themselves. He’s not sure how to explain that Robin might’ve been given to them for them to find light and happiness in, but that initially Robin was born from his darkness.

He’s not sure how to tell them that when Bruce told him about Steph, about Spoiler, about how she designed her own suit and went out to stop the man she has a vendetta against, he was so violently reminded of himself that he hung up immediately and didn’t speak to anyone for two days. He’s not sure how to tell them that when Bruce came calling a little while later, telling him about Steph being in-over her head, about him firing her, about her going off on her own only to end up tortured and dead, it was like staring in a mirror of his own relationship with Bruce, and that he’d punched Bruce so hard he’d nearly broken a finger. He’s not sure how to tell them about the quiet nights he stayed up talking with Steph, when Bruce was lost in time and it was just her, Damian, and Alfred around. He’s not sure how to tell them about how when Steph had told him about her relationship with Dean, he’d been reminded of his relationship with Liu so much he’d nearly thrown up. He’s not sure how to tell them that when Dick had opened up about his guilt about what happened in Blüd, Steph hadn’t given him any false placations, and talked about the guilt she felt over her role in the gang wars instead.

He’s not sure how to tell them that while all of them have felt like failures to Bruce, none of them had felt the harsh sting of Bruce ripping Robin away from them, the pain of Bruce telling them how incompetent and unworthy they were as Bruce fires them. He’s not sure how to tell them that while he may their older brother, he was only ever Bruce’s ward. Bruce never adopted him, and despite how far they’ve all come to work as a family, Dick still feels like an outsider sometimes. He knows Steph gets it. She feels like an outsider too.

[theglassofmiddleearth]

Imagine Being Isekai'ed into KPOP DEMON HUNTERS.

The plane was late. The girls weren’t here and Bobby was freaking out. The crowd gathered outside the arena was rising into a crescendo, in raw anticipation. The tension was palpable, it was as if the energy was fizzling from the fans into the very ground of the stadium.

‘Everyone ready? Lets look alive!’ The man with medium length hair spun around, pointing at everyone, checking on progress. Bobby, the manager of Huntr/x frantically flitted around, looking absolutely frazzled.

‘Okay, ready? Yeah, we’re ready. But where are the girls?’ He frowned, turning around to Y/N. The girl in return, shrugged, her eyes glued into her notebook. She was writing a new song. One just in case Huntr/x decided to do another comeback early. The girl group was known for being random with their timings. This meant it make Y/N's job that much harder.

‘Check their location.' She sighed before looking up.

'Although, it isn't exactly unlike them to be late.’ Y/N shrugged, flicking back through her little black notebook. She wrinkled her nose, slightly concerned for the group's well being.

Y/N knew their little secret, for she was their trump card. You see, Y/N was the ghost writer. The one who made sure all the songs went viral, ensuring that the honmoon remained steadfast in its hold. It wasn't an easy job seeing as the songs had to chart well and actually be enjoyable. However, the girls did have great voices so that made it slightly easier.

‘It shows their plane veering off course?’ Bobby flipped his phone around, shoving it above Y/N’s notebook.

The girl looked up and gave a sly grin.

‘Start the music, they’ll arrive.’

Like comets raining down, the three managed to make it onto stage, half way through the song. Y/N looked out into the cheering crowd from behind the curtains, narrowing her eyes at the thin lines rippling with light. Tonight’s concert would be enough. Just enough to keep the shield up. It would hold until their next comeback after this concert. Right?

--

‘Did we just see gold?’ 

‘Ah! I can’t believe we’re doing it!’

‘It’s so exciting!’

The three cheered, shaking each other in sheer joy.

‘This means we can release our song soon and turn the honmoon gold!’ Rumi cheered.

Y/N gritted her teeth, slightly resentful. It was her song. She was the one who wrote it, slaved over it for weeks to make sure it sounded perfect for the girls.

‘It’s finally time!’ Mira exclaimed

‘Wooo!’ Rumi cheered until her voice suddenly cracked, her cheer suddenly muted. ‘Whoa that was weird.’

‘Do you need some water?’ Y/N mumbled, as the elevator doors opened.

‘Did someone say water?’ Bobby grinned, before gesturing frantically and calling out. ‘Water. Now!’

Y/N sighed, walking out from behind the group, watching how they all were showered in praise. Praise that never seemed to be shared with Y/N. It wasn't as if she was asking for all the credit, however it would be nice to hear a thank you once in a while.

‘What a way to end the world tour! And that guy in the finale who exploded confetti?’

‘Amazing special effects.’ Y/N cut in briskly, side eyeing Mira who returned her glance with a slightly panicked one.

‘Yeah it was super chill. Amazing song writing by the way Y/N.’ He added almost as a sidenote.

Y/N sighed and began to zone out. She didn’t need to be there anymore. It was time to go home whilst the girls decided what to do. Y/N had finished writing Golden two weeks before and Huntr/x had already recorded the song, meaning Y/N could rest. It would be a long time since Y/N was able to go home and get a full nights rest instead of being in the studio, mixing and mastering a new song for Huntr/x.

She trudged her way onto the dark streets where her own penthouse apartment resided. It was one of the perks for owning royalty on all the songs of Huntr/x. At least Y/N had been smart enough to invest in the shares of the company with her money. At this rate? She wouldn’t have to work for the next fifty years if she wanted to. Her retirement was set.

The streetlamps left much to the imagination, however, Y/N was too tired to be wary. The streets here were safe. It was a rich neighbourhood anyways. 

Y/N’s phone pinged.

Golden was being released in an hour.

Well that wasn't the plan. But then, did the girls ever tell her of any plans they had? She gritted her teeth, looking at the notification on her phone.

Was it wrong for her to feel slightly resentful? She could see the lines. She could see what the other girls could see, but she couldn’t harness the spiritual power to create a weapon. Y/N was an anomaly. A failure of a hunter.

She scrolled the comments, phone tightening in her hand as she read through each one. The praise was lavished onto the girls. Mira, Zoey and Rumi. Nothing mentioned her, the song writer, the producer. The reason Huntr/x even had songs to sing.

‘You’re looking awfully tense.’ A smooth, plush, voice noted.

Y/N whipped around, brandishing her phone into the shadows.

‘Who’s there?’ She snarled, eyes darting between the flickering streetlights.

‘Don’t be afraid. This won’t hurt one bit.’ Another voice snickered.

…

A pause.

Then another.

Then ten seconds had passed.

‘Um, what?’ The first voice sounded confused.

‘What am I supposed to be waiting for?’ Y/N shifted her posture, now feeling more confident.

‘Your soul. We were meant to take your soul.’ A deep voice muttered, as five boys stalked out of the shadows separately.

‘What the f-’

‘Who are you?’ The one with black hair, took point, walking towards her with a hungry glint.

‘My mother taught me not to tell my name to strangers.’ She snipped back, studying the new figures walking towards her. They were otherworldly in beauty. Jaws chiselled, faces unblemished and fair.

A flash of purple, jagged lines across skin.

‘You’re demons.’ Y/N deadpanned, facepalming. ‘No wonder you’re all so damn pretty.’

The one with pink long hair and heart shaped bangs snickered, sidling up to her. ‘You think we’re pretty?’ He gave a sickly sweet grin, reaching toward her chin.

‘Don’t get ahead of yourself asshat.’ Y/N slapped away his hand. ‘I’m actually not into pretty boys so don’t even try.’ Her body was tight, poised to jump at any time. Even if she couldn't harness the spirit power, she could fight just as well as the rest of the hunters.

‘Maybe she's more into guys like me.’ The one on her left spoke up, shifting into her line of sight.

Y/N’s eyes traced over the muscled man, her eyes lingering on his revealed abdomen as he stretched.

‘Huh, gym rats. Also not my type.’ She shook her head, turning to leave. ‘I’m not into conventionally attractive men. I don’t share.’ 

‘Who says you have to share?’ 

Y/N jumped slightly, surprised by the man with black hair standing now in front of her.

‘We know you write all of Huntr/x’s songs. It’s how they're so popular.’ The one with purple hair, wrapped an arm around Y/N's shoulder.

‘Don’t touch me.’ She brushed him off, backing away into a wall.

‘Yeah?’ The wall replied.

‘Huh?’ Y/N turned around, only to be met by a wall of solid muscle. ‘OKAY STOP.’ She whisper-yelled. ‘What do you guys want from me? I don’t carry cash.’

'What? We don' want your money.' The one with blue hair chuckled, leaning on a lamp post.

'We want something more valuable.' The tallest said, flicking away his pink bangs.

'And that is?' Y/N narrowed her eyes, suspicious of the group of strange yet alluring men.

‘Write for us. We need a debut single in three days.’ The one who looked like the leader gave a wicked smile.

‘What makes you think I would do that?’ Y/N crossed her arms, tilting her head in a question.

‘Because we can give you what you want. Fame, recognition, power.’ 

'Who says-' Y/N began before falling to her knees, clutching her head.

Unbeknownst to her, the boys hurriedly gathered around her as she fell, the closest catching her before she collapsed on her side.

The outside world was suddenly cut off from Y/N's mind. It was silent.

And then it began.

Pain.

Throbbing pain as visions filled her head. It was searing, as if a hot knife were being twisted. Visions, sounds, memories. This wasn’t her world. This was the world of…

KPOP DEMON HUNTERS.

[ggukivrse]

THIRD TIME'S THE CHARM | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.7k

warnings: swearing, they actually talk about their feelings :0, explicit sexual content, kissing, making out, hickeys, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (be smarter than them pls), a bit of banter, petnames (baby), they're really fucking cute in the end it makes me sick, let me know if i missed anything!

notes: idk if this counts as my first completed series buttt... i'm gonna act like it does. thank you so so much to all the love and support you guys have given me for the past two parts, i'm genuinely so beyond grateful for it all :<< hopefully, you guys enjoy this part too!!

ps. READ PART ONE HERE & PART TWO HERE!!

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

You open his chat window again like it’s muscle memory. Like your thumb don't know how to not betray you.

It’s not even about sending something. You’ve got no intention of doing that. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. But the screen is always open, staring back at you with that last unread message you sent almost a week ago — a throwaway meme you found on your lunch break. No reply. Not even a reaction.

And it hadn’t felt like a big deal in the moment. You sent it like always, light and dumb and nothing. But then the nothing kept going. No little gray typing bubble. No 'lol.' No double text. No late night 'you up?' Just this wall of silence.

You would’ve rather gotten a dry reply. Hell, even a thumbs up. Anything to prove that he saw you.

But now it’s been long enough that sending something new would feel desperate. Like you’re chasing him. Like you’re asking for something you’re not even supposed to want.

You lock your phone and throw it face down on your bed.

Then pick it back up five seconds later.

Then toss it again, harder, as if that’ll prove something.

You wish you were mad. You think you are mad — at least a little. But it’s a tangled kind of anger. One that knots itself up with embarrassment and sharp, bitter shame. You want to scream at him, yeah. But also at yourself.

Why did you let this happen?

Why did you let him blur the lines and kiss you like that and touch you like he meant it?

You were supposed to be smarter than this.

You lie back across your bed with one arm flung over your eyes. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. It was just sex. Just two nights. Two insanely good, dangerously close, way-too-connected nights. But still — technically just sex.

Except it wasn’t.

Not when he remembered your favourite sauce order without asking. Not when he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear while you ranted about work.

And especially not when he went cold the second things felt too good.

That’s what keeps twisting the knife. That shift in him. Like someone flipped a switch and rewrote the script. One minute, he was holding you like you mattered. The next, you were stepping out of his bathroom and into a stranger’s apartment.

You haven’t heard his voice since.

You bite the inside of your cheek and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push down that lump of feeling before it rises too high.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re overthinking it.

Maybe he’s just going through something. Maybe he didn’t mean to shut you out. Maybe he thought you didn’t want to hear from him. Or maybe he’s just a fucking coward who got scared when the stakes changed.

But then, why didn’t you reach out?

Why didn’t you ask if he was okay, or tell him he was being weird, or demand an explanation like you’re owed one?

Because you’re afraid.

Because you don’t want the truth if the truth is that he regrets all of it.

Because deep down, you know this isn’t just a friendship anymore, and pretending it is would break you worse than silence.

Your phone buzzes once on the comforter beside you.

You freeze. Then sit up fast, breath catching halfway in your throat.

Your eyes are already scanning the screen before your brain can fully catch up.

Kook 🍜: hi

One word. Just hi. Like the last seven days didn’t happen. Like your stomach hasn’t been in knots trying to make sense of his silence. Like he didn’t vanish without warning after folding you into his sheets and leaving you to figure out what the hell it meant.

Your breath leaves you in one uneven exhale.

You blink at the message, your body locked in this strange stillness. Your thumb hovers, frozen. Part of you is tempted to stare at it until it disappears. Ignore it. Let him feel what it’s like to be the one left hanging. But your hands betray you again — just like they always do with him.

You: Radio silence for a week and all I get is a fucking hi? Wtf Jungkook

It’s not even what you really want to say, but it’s the closest thing you can manage that doesn’t sound like I missed you so much it made me sick or please don’t do this again.

Three dots appear.

Your heart squeezes like it’s caught in someone’s fist. And then the dots vanish.

Then come back.

Then vanish again.

You mutter, “Fucking say something,” to no one. It comes out too small, too desperate. You shut your eyes tight for a second like you can wring the feeling out of yourself by force.

A minute or so passes before his reply finally sends.

Kook 🍜: sorry. can i talk to you today?

You reread it so many times the text starts to lose meaning. Can I talk to you today?

You feel sick.

There’s no way you don’t know what this is. The phrasing. The tone. He wants to talk? What the fuck else could that mean, if not that he’s about to cut things off? That he’s going to hand you some polite little speech about how you’re great, but this can’t happen again. That he wants to stay friends and he doesn’t want to confuse things any more than he already has.

Or worse — he thinks you guys are better off cutting contact all together.

You bite down hard on your thumb, suddenly on the verge of tears and furious at yourself for it. You should’ve never let it get here. You should’ve drawn the line before the second time. Before the car. Before the party.

You should’ve been more careful with your heart.

But you’re here now. So far past the line you can’t even see it anymore.

You open your keyboard, then close it again. You want to ask what he wants to talk about. You want to demand answers over text so you don’t have to see his face when he says the words. But you know you won’t get anything that way.

You: Where?

Kook 🍜: i can come to yours

You sit there for a second, just breathing. You feel like you’re bracing for a crash that’s already midair.

You: What time?

Kook 🍜: i can be there in an hour?

You don’t answer. Not right away. You’re too busy staring at your reflection in the dark screen, wondering why your face looks so calm when your body feels like it’s trying to collapse in on itself.

You: Okay

You put the phone down carefully, like it might go off again, or explode, and turn your gaze to the ceiling. Every minute after this is going to stretch like it’s mocking you.

You don’t know if you’re getting closure or clarity. You don’t even know which one would hurt more.

But you know you won't cancel.

Because if this is going to end — if he’s going to say it — it has to be to your face. You need to see it.

You need to know for sure.

Jungkook is fucked.

Like, actually, cosmically, irreversibly fucked.

He stares at the elevator doors like they’re the gates to hell, and his own reflection in the brushed metal does him no favours. He looks tense. Jaw tight, shoulders hunched up high like he’s trying to fold himself into a more manageable version. Someone chill. Someone who isn’t about to shit himself over the thought of seeing you.

He rolls his shoulders back, shakes out his hands. Useless. He’s already sweating through his hoodie.

Every nerve in his body feels like it’s tuned an octave too high. Like if someone so much as breathes in his direction right now, he’ll either snap or confess something humiliating.

He wipes his palms on his jeans again. That’s the fourth time since the lobby.

The worst part is, he knows how he got here. He knows exactly when it happened, too — the moment the line moved.

It was your laugh. The tired kind, all cracked at the edges after that hellish Friday you had. You were curled up in his passenger seat, half out of it, feet tucked under you, and you’d looked over at him with that soft, worn-down smile.

And it just… hit him.

The weight of it. Of you.

He wanted to reach over and touch your face. Not to tease. Not to start something. Just to feel your skin under his fingers like it was allowed now.

And the second that thought formed — clear and blinding and way too tender — it was over. Game fucking over.

Because it wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

You’re his best friend. Have been for years. He knows how you take your coffee, how you organise your playlists by mood, how you chew on the inside of your cheek when you're anxious. You’re not just some girl he hooked up with at a party. You’re you.

And now, he’s standing in an elevator on the way to your apartment, trying not to think about how badly he messed it all up.

He hadn’t meant to ghost you. Not really. It was just — after that night, after the way you looked at him, all warm and trusting — he panicked. Full-body, brain-scrambling, total system failure. He couldn’t even look at you without feeling like he was seconds from saying something stupid like "Don’t sleep with anyone else, please," or "I think I’m in love with you."

So instead, he shut down. Did the one thing he always swore he wouldn’t do with you — he pulled away. Got weird. Avoided it. Avoided you.

And now you’re pissed.

Rightfully so.

He deserved that text you sent. Probably worse. You could’ve ignored him completely and he wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t. You texted back and he’s clinging onto that like a lifeline. Because it means there’s still time. Still a chance to fix it — if he doesn’t blow it again.

He presses the heel of his hand to his chest like that might steady the erratic rhythm of his heart.

What the fuck is he even going to say?

Sorry for being an emotionally constipated idiot?

Sorry I ghosted you because I realised I’m in love with you and it short-circuited my whole fucking personality?

Sorry I thought I could fuck you and still keep pretending like you don’t mean more to me than anyone else?

The elevator dings.

Jungkook flinches like it slapped him, then scrubs a hand through his hair, lets out a tight breath, and steps through the doors before he can change his mind.

He’s here.

Fuck. He’s actually here.

Jungkook looks like he didn’t sleep last night. Hair messy, clothes a little wrinkled, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a second before they dart away again. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of what they’ll do if left unsupervised.

You tell yourself not to feel relieved. Not to let it show. He didn’t cancel. He showed up. That shouldn’t mean as much as it does. It really, really shouldn’t.

But still — there’s something in your chest that unclenches when you see him standing there, real and present. Even if he does look like he’s about to apologise for burning down your house or something.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

You step back from the door to let him in. Dry. Wordless. The move is automatic, but your body feels stiff with it, like your own muscles are annoyed on your behalf.

He hesitates before stepping inside, like he thinks the floor might swallow him up. You don't offer a smile. Don't even look at him once the door’s closed behind him.

You cross your arms and lean back against the edge of the kitchen counter, watching him with a blank expression that’s only half-real. The other half is tightly coiled under your skin — anger, sure, but under that, all the feelings you’ve been pretending not to have.

He does a slow, uncertain glance around your apartment like something might’ve changed since the last time he was here. But it hasn’t. It’s still your place. Same plants, same overhead light humming softly, same faint scent of laundry detergent that clings to the air.

He stands there awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It’s like he doesn’t know where to put his body.

You’ve never seen him like this before. Not around you. Jungkook’s always been comfortable here. The kind of comfortable that leaves shoes by the door without asking. The kind that opens your fridge like he owns a shelf. But right now, he looks like a stranger in someone else’s house.

You let the silence stretch out. You’re waiting for him to just speak, but he doesn’t

He doesn’t even try.

Eventually, your voice cuts through the air, a little too sharp. “Jungkook, you said you wanted to talk.”

His head snaps up like he forgot that was part of the deal. Like the fact that he came here at all already cost him everything he had in reserve.

“Yeah,” he says. His throat moves when he swallows. “I do.”

You raise your eyebrows, waiting.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to start, then closes it again. Shifts his stance. Rubs the back of his neck with one hand. You catch the way his eyes flick to the floor, then back to you, then away again.

You narrow your eyes. “Well?”

He breathes out a weak, almost bitter laugh and runs both hands down his thighs, like he’s physically trying to ground himself. “I don’t know how to do this,” he mutters.

You frown, arms still crossed tight across your chest. “What? Talk?”

You hate being like this towards him — you feel like a bitch. But it���s the only way that you can stop yourself from just spilling all of your thoughts and feelings to him.

“No, I—” He breaks off, jaw flexing. “No. I mean… say the right thing. Say any of it without sounding like an idiot.”

You blink, unimpressed. “So you came here without knowing what you were gonna say.”

He looks at you then. Fully. And for the first time since he walked in, you see the real wreckage behind his eyes. There’s nothing cool or casual about it. He’s unravelling in slow motion. Everything about him is quiet desperation wrapped in someone trying really hard not to fall apart.

“I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t know what I wanted,” he says finally. “And then I figured it out, and that somehow made it worse.”

You stay silent.

He shifts closer, not by much — just a few inches. “I fucked up,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “I know I did. I know I disappeared. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t care. I was just—” he stops, jaw tightening again. “I got scared.”

You scoff under your breath and look away.

“I’m serious,” he says, softer now. “It freaked me out. How fast it happened. How much it changed.”

You look back at him, jaw set. “What changed?”

He swallows again. Stiff. His voice cracks a little when he speaks next.

“You,” he says again. “How I feel about you. That changed.”

Your chest tightens.

You don’t react, not visibly. You keep your face still, unreadable, even though your brain is suddenly scrambling. You’ve been yanked in too many directions this past week. You’re not going to lean into hope just because he finally decided to speak.

So you say nothing. You just hold his gaze and wait.

Jungkook takes a breath, his shoulders rising with it, then falling in a slow, deliberate exhale. The nervousness is still there — but it’s settled into something quieter now.

“I kept trying to tell myself it didn’t mean anything,” he says. “That it was just— whatever. Two friends, getting carried away. We were drunk the first time, right? It was easy to lie to myself about that. Easy to say it didn’t have to go anywhere.”

His voice is calm, but there's tension underneath it.

“But the second time?” He pauses, tongue running along the inside of his cheek, eyes still locked on yours. “That wasn’t drunk. That wasn’t casual. That was me driving us across town just to make you feel better, because I can’t stand it when you’re not okay.”

You flinch — barely — but he sees it. You know he does.

“And then it was me kissing you like I’d lose my mind if I didn’t. You think I didn’t notice how different that felt? I’ve never kissed you like that before. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air between you.

You’re still standing by the counter, arms crossed, but now your grip has loosened. You hate how much this is getting to you, how badly you want to give in, how your chest aches just hearing him say the things you’d only let yourself think when the lights were off and your phone screen was dark.

Jungkook takes another step toward you.

“When I brought you back to mine that night… when you came out of the shower, and I saw you just standing there in my space, looking at me like I was safe…” His voice catches, but not in a way that makes him crumble — just enough to show the truth of it. “I freaked the fuck out.”

You blink at him, finally speaking. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He huffs out a breath that's almost a laugh, but not quite. “I didn’t mean to shut down. I didn’t even know what I was doing in the moment. I just— everything in me wanted to pull you close, and that’s when I realised I couldn’t keep doing this the way we were doing it. Not without losing my shit every time you left.”

Your throat feels tight, but you still ask, “So you decided to ghost me instead?”

That lands. His jaw flexes, and he nods once. “Yeah. I did. I thought if I gave it space, I could go back to being normal. Go back to just being your friend. But I couldn’t. I can’t.

“I don’t want to be just your friend anymore. Not because of the sex, not because it was good— which it was, but that’s not the point. It’s you. It’s always been you. I didn’t realise how much until I almost lost it completely.”

You swallow hard. Your arms are uncrossed now. Not folded in, not defensive — just hanging at your sides like you’re too stunned to remember what to do with them.

Jungkook steps in closer. Not touching you yet. But near enough that you can smell him — faint cologne, his laundry detergent, the scent you associate with your car windows fogging up.

“I missed you,” he says, and his voice turns softer. “Every day. And it scared the shit out of me, how badly I wanted to talk to you. Touch you. Just be around you. I wasn’t ready to admit it last week, and I was a coward for that. But I’m not running anymore.”

Silence again.

Except it doesn’t feel like the ones you’ve been drowning in for a week.

“I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says, lower now, like the words might break if he’s too loud. “And I’m not assuming anything. But if you still want me around— really want me— just say the word. I’ll figure out the rest.”

You inhale slowly, try to even out your breathing, but your chest still feels like it’s barely holding together. Your heart’s doing that thing where it thuds too hard without speeding up.

You hate that you believe him. That you always would’ve. That no matter how angry you were, no matter how cold you tried to be when he walked in — you still wanted him to explain, to prove it wasn’t what your worst thoughts told you it was.

And now he has.

He’s standing in front of you with open hands, with the words you oh so desperately wanted to hear. And for a moment, you’re not sure what to do with that.

“I hate you,” you say quietly.

It’s not true. Not even close. But it’s the first thing that leaves your mouth.

Jungkook huffs out a dry laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, nodding. “I figured.”

You shake your head once. “No. I mean it. I fucking hate you for this. For—” You break off, because your voice is shaking now. “For making me feel like I was crazy. For not even saying goodnight after… after everything.”

His face tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You could’ve just told me,” you go on. “You could’ve said it was too much. That it got weird. That you needed time. Anything. But you disappeared. And I had to sit here wondering if I made it all up."

You pause, pressing your lips together.

“And I— I missed you too, you know,” you add, quieter this time.

His mouth opens like he might speak, but no sound comes out at first. Instead, he closes the space between you by half, slow and steady, like he’s afraid of pushing too far.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you whisper, but your tone isn't mean. Not even close.

He laughs, soft and low. “Yeah. I know.

“You promise me you’re sure? Cause Jungkook, I will fucking cut off your dick if you pull this shit again.”

He smiles but doesn’t hesitate. “I promise. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You stare at him.

Long enough that the air between you stretches taut, thin as thread.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but still doesn’t know if he’s allowed. His jaw flexes, his chest rising and falling in uneven swells. You can tell he’s waiting — for a sign, for a go-ahead, for you.

And even though part of you still wants to be mad, still wants to make him sweat just a little longer, the rest of you aches. For his mouth. For his hands. For the solid, grounding weight of him.

So you move.

You step into the last inch of space between you and grab the front of his hoodie. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a year, but you don’t give him a chance to say anything.

You kiss him.

Not out of impulse. Not for show. You kiss him because you need to. Because your chest feels like it’s going to split open if you don’t.

At first, it’s quiet. Just lips pressed to lips — careful, slow. There’s a pause between each pass of your mouth over his, like you’re both trying to remember how this started. How you even got here.

But then he sighs against you — not loud, not dramatic, just a sound full of relief — and it unravels something.

His hands lift, hesitating for only half a second before they settle on your waist, fingers curling tight. You press closer, and his lips part beneath yours. The angle shifts. Your nose bumps his cheek. It’s not perfect, but it’s real, and when your tongue brushes his, everything tilts.

The sweetness melts fast.

He makes a sound low in his throat and drags you in like the distance is unbearable. Your hands slide up into his hair, fingers threading through the strands at the base of his neck, and the way he reacts — the little shiver he tries to swallow — sends heat straight down your spine.

You kiss him harder.

His body crowds yours until your back meets the wall. Not rough, not rushed. Just firm. His chest presses to yours, and you can feel the way his heart races. How your own pulse kicks up to match it.

The kiss deepens, turns messy at the edges. His teeth catch your bottom lip and your breath stutters, but you don’t pull back. You tilt your chin, chasing more, and the next time he kisses you, it’s hungrier. One of his hands slips to the small of your back, palm dragging slow and warm beneath your shirt. The skin-to-skin contact makes your whole body twitch.

You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his hands tightening. His other arm slips around your waist completely, pulling you flush against him, and suddenly you’re not thinking anymore. You’re just feeling.

The tension that’s been bottling up between you two — the silence, the week of wondering, the ache of missing him so much it hurt — it all floods to the surface.

You fist your hands in his hoodie, yanking him impossibly closer. Your hips shift forward, just enough to brush him, and the sound he makes is sharp and involuntary, caught between a breath and a groan.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely pulling back. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged. “You’re driving me insane.”

You huff, lips brushing his. “That’s fair.”

Then he kisses you again. Rougher this time. Desperate in a way that makes your knees go soft.

He doesn’t stay at your mouth for long. His lips trail down — your jaw, your cheek, the shell of your ear. His breath is hot and uneven, and when he finds your neck, your whole body reacts. Your hands clutch at him, your back arches off the wall, and the soft sound that escapes your throat isn’t one you mean to make.

He feels it. Hears it. Answers it with a low, reverent sound that seems to vibrate straight through you.

His tongue traces the spot beneath your ear, slow and deliberate, and your eyes flutter shut.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, your breath catching sharp in your throat. You pull back for a second before lowering your mouth to his neck, right where the collar of his hoodie dips. He lets out a small sound, hands flexing on your waist, when your lips press there.

You start slow. You can feel his pulse under your tongue, the way his chest rises against yours, unsteady and warm. Then you part your lips and suck gently at the spot just below his jaw. His whole body stutters, hips jerking against yours before he can stop it.

Your fingers trail down his chest, tugging his hoodie collar aside for better access. His head tips back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted.

You do it again, this time with enough pressure to leave a mark, and the sound of your mouth working against his skin is lewd.

He groans. It’s low and rough and barely held back, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You feel him hardening now, undeniable through the fabric where he’s pressed against you.

“All mine?” you whisper, your lips brushing over the new mark you’ve left.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “All yours.”

His voice is breathless. Wrecked. And so damn certain it knocks something loose in your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him — really look. His pupils are blown, his lips swollen, a flush climbing high on his cheeks. He looks at you like he wants to devour you. Like he would if you let him.

“I missed that mouth,” he mutters, hands gliding under your shirt again, palms broad and warm. “Missed everything.”

You kiss his throat in reply and drag your teeth across it until he swears under his breath.

His hips grind against you again, harder this time. You both feel it — the friction, the heat building between your bodies.

His arms shift beneath you and he lifts you clean off the ground in one smooth motion, hands strong under your thighs. A startled sound escapes your throat as your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, gripping him tight.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I want you so bad it’s actually stupid.”

You smile, drunk on the feel of him.

“Bedroom?” you murmur, tracing your lips over the new mark blooming against his skin.

He hums lowly, and shifts his grip on your thighs.

He carries you through the hallway and your lips never leave his skin for more than a second.

When he reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside and drops you onto the mattress in one fluid movement.

You barely get your bearings before he’s crawling over you, slotting his body between your legs, His mouth finds yours again, and you moan into it before you can stop yourself when his knee presses between your legs.

Your hips twitch, grinding down against the pressure, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through your chest as his mouth moves with yours. His hand slips under your shirt again, this time bolder, fingers spanning across your ribs and inching higher until his knuckles brush the curve of your breast.

You gasp softly, and he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Off.”

You sit up just enough to grab the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head in one smooth pull, your hair mussed from the friction. He watches the fabric fall to the floor, then looks at you.

“You’re so fucking pretty," he breathes.

You roll your eyes automatically, even though your face is already burning. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he says, and his voice drops low. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His lips part and he kisses along your sternum — slow, wet presses of his mouth that trail up and then out, over the swell of one breast, then the other.

You inhale sharply when his mouth grazes the sensitive skin beside your nipple, and his eyes flick up at the sound, pupils blown. He kisses lower, then higher again, murmuring against your skin, “Can’t believe I went a week without this.”

The vibration of his voice right against your skin makes you arch, and he meets you halfway, grinding down slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what you’re chasing and wants to stretch it out just to watch you squirm.

Your hands curl into his shoulders, nails biting down just enough to make him grunt softly into your skin. He rolls his hips again, slow and heavy, and the pressure against your core has your breath catching in your throat.

“Koo,” you whine out.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, lips pink and wet, hair falling into his eyes. He grins, crooked and hot and deeply pleased with himself.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, and his voice is pure sin.

You glare, but your thighs shift open under him anyway.

“Please.”

He hums, satisfied, and starts working his way lower. Every kiss is wet and unhurried. Down your chest, across your stomach. His hands follow, smoothing over your ribs, down to your hips, dragging the waistband of your pants just slightly with them. His thumbs hook in the fabric, pausing right above your pelvis.

He looks up at you, smug and dark-eyed.

“Gonna let me take these off?”

He's so annoying you're gonna kill him. “Do I look like I’m stopping you?”

“No,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your navel, “but I like hearing you say it.”

You huff, fingers threading into his hair again. “Take them off, Kook.”

He eases them down slowly — too slowly — dragging the fabric down your legs while his mouth follows in a path of heat and pressure. He kisses your hipbone, your inner thigh, every patch of skin he uncovers like it’s something sacred. When your panties go next, he makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat — more reverent than smug this time.

You’re already wet, already aching, and from the way his eyes flicker as he takes you in, he fucking knows it.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked. You missed me that much?”

You exhale hard, cheeks hot. “Shut up and do something about it.”

He grins again, slower this time. “Anything you want.”

His hands grip your thighs and spread them further apart, and before you can say another word, his mouth is on you.

The first swipe of his tongue is long, and delibirate. You jerk at the contact, a broken sound slipping from your lips, and he groans like he’s the one falling apart. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you in place, and does it again.

Every movement of his tongue is practiced and precise. He starts slow, almost gentle, licking through your folds with a kind of focus that makes your head spin. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but he pushes them apart with ease, never breaking rhythm.

Your hands move to the back of his head, gripping tight. His tongue circles your clit once, then again, and the third time he sucks it between his lips. You try to stifle a moan, but it slips from your lips anyway.

He pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your skin.

“Keep making those sounds, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Wanna hear every fucking thing I do to you.”

He movements turn faster, his mouth messy and hot and relentless. You’re already close, the build-up sharp and climbing, and he can feel it. One of his hands slips lower, spreading you open further with his thumb, and his tongue drags in tighter circles.

You’re writhing, panting, toes curling into the sheets. Your fingers tug at his hair, your spine arching off the bed.

“Fuck— Kook—” you gasp, head thrown back.

He groans again, the sound vibrating straight through your pussy. He doubles down, mouth moving faster, and when your hips start to stutter, erratic and desperate, he presses his hand over your stomach, grounding you.

“You’re gonna come for me?” he murmurs against you, mouth slick with you. “Gonna let me taste it?”

You nod frantically, unable to speak, your whole body wound tight and ready to snap.

He presses his mouth against you again, lips sucking against your clit, and the feeling has you squirming with pleasure.

“Kook—” your voice breaks open as you come hard against his mouth.

He moans, but his movements don't stop.

Your body arches helplessly, heels digging into the bed, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other still tangled in his hair as you ride out the wave. You’re gasping, blinking hard, your heart trying to punch through your ribs.

Only when your legs start to tremble uncontrollably does he finally pull back.

His lips are slick and swollen, jaw damp, hair messy from where you’ve been gripping it. And he looks wrecked — eyes heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, like just being between your thighs has undone something in him.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then drags his lips slowly up your inner thigh, leaving lazy kisses in his wake.

You’re still catching your breath, staring at the ceiling like your soul just left your body, when he plants a final kiss on the inside of your knee and murmurs, “Yeah. I’m never ghosting you again.”

You let out a breathless laugh, too blissed out to be mad. “You better not.”

“After that?” he says, crawling back up your body, slow and unhurried. “I’d be clinically insane.”

He settles over you again, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, then another between your breasts, then finally your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, and when he groans against your lips, it sends a fresh jolt of heat straight through you.

His body is flush against yours, his clothed cock thick and heavy where it presses against your thigh. You let your hands trail down his chest slowly to tug at the denim loops of his jeans.

"Want these off," you mumble against his lips.

He smiles and presses one last kiss to your mouth before he leans back onto his knees. His hands go to his belt, and you watch the way his fingers fumble for just a second.

He gets the buckle undone, then the zipper, the sound louder than it should be in your quiet bedroom. You watch as he shucks them down, boxers and all, and your breath catches slightly at the sight of him — flushed and hard and achingly ready.

“Better?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, breath shallow, and he’s already crawling back over you. The heat of him sinks into your skin as his body settles between your thighs, bare now.

Your legs part without hesitation.

His weight, the press of his chest to yours, the familiar scent of him wrapped in something raw and new — it all hits at once, and your whole body shivers.

He’s warm everywhere. The kind of warmth that soaks into your bones and makes you ache for more.

His hands slide along your arms until they find yours where they’re resting above your head. He threads his fingers through yours and presses them gently into the pillow, pinning you there. His eyes search yours, and you feel the first brush of him between your legs, just the tip, teasing the edge of you.

He doesn’t move yet. Just rests there, eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, like he’s hanging on by a thread.

You don’t answer — not with words. You just tilt your hips up, welcoming him in with nothing but a look.

He pushes in slow — painfully slow — each inch dragging fire across your nerves as your body stretches to take him. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp, your fingers clenching around his. When he’s fully buried inside you, he stills completely.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel… unreal.”

You can’t speak — your body’s too full, too wrecked already — so you kiss him instead. Slow and sweet and a little desperate. Your hips rock up, seeking more.

He groans into your mouth, finally starting to move, and every thrust is so fucking deep. It’s not rushed or frantic. It’s him savouring you, like he wants to remember how this feels with every part of himself.

His hands stay tight around yours, anchoring you both to the bed, to each other.

The rhythm builds, a slow burn that spreads everywhere, and between kisses you catch the way he looks at you — like he’s seeing something he’s afraid to lose. Like there’s something he wants to say but can’t yet.

“You were supposed to beg,” you manage to murmur against his mouth, breathless. “Grovel a little.”

That crooked smile curls against your lips. “My bad, baby,” he murmurs. “You can make me beg next time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna regret that.”

He shifts his hips, thrusting deeper, and your breath leaves you in a ragged gasp.

“You promise?”

The challenge in his voice is smug, but his eyes are dark and glassy, his control hanging by a thread. You whimper in response, thighs tightening around his waist, and he dips his head to your throat, dragging his lips along your pulse like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

He starts to move with more purpose now, making you feel every second of it. His cock grinds into that spot that makes your vision blur, and your whole body tenses, fingers squeezing his like a lifeline.

The moan you let out is shameless, high and wrecked, when he tilts his hips just right — again and again, like he’s carving his name into your body from the inside.

“Right there?” he murmurs, already knowing. His hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing you — every reaction, every sound. “God, you’re so fucking wet. You always get like this for me?”

“Koo—” His name slips out broken, a warning and a plea wrapped in one.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours. His thrusts get rougher now, faster, the rhythm losing polish but gaining intensity. “Let me have you, baby. Come again for me.”

The words send a bolt of heat straight to your core, your whole body winding tight. His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond, tongue tangling with yours, greedy and open and honest in all the ways his words still aren’t.

When he pulls back, he’s panting, “You feel like heaven, fuck.”

You can’t even process it — not now, not when his rhythm stutters and his hips slam harder, each thrust jolting a cry from your throat. Your legs are trembling, your grip bruising where it clings to him, and you can feel the knot in your stomach tighening.

“That’s it,” he groans, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters. “Let go for me. Let me feel you.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth catching on his skin as your orgasm crashes over you. Your body locks up, thighs clenching, and you cry out his name. His hand squeezes yours back, holding you through it.

Your walls grip him tight, and he groans loud against your skin, hips faltering. “Fuck— shit—”

He thrusts once more before spilling into you with a broken sound, voice rasping your name like a prayer.

His whole body shudders as he comes, arms locked tight around you like he needs you to stay exactly where you are — here, under him, around him, real. His forehead drops to your shoulder, damp curls brushing your skin as he exhales, long and shaky.

Neither of you move right away. The air between you is thick with heat and breath and a comforting silence.

Eventually though, he shifts just enough to press a kiss to your collarbone. Then another, softer.

His hand slides along your waist, fingertips brushing lazy patterns into your skin. You hum under your breath — not a word, just a sound — and he responds by kissing your shoulder again.

Your legs are still tangled together. His body still half-draped over yours. There’s a mess between your thighs and sweat clinging to your skin, and you should probably say something, anything — but there’s something sweet about the silence now. It’s soft. Unspoken. Peaceful, in a weirdly intimate way.

He shifts again, easing out of you with a quiet groan, and you wince a little at the loss.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, running a hand gently over your thigh like an apology.

“It’s fine,” you breathe, eyes closed, chest still rising and falling too fast.

He doesn’t go far. Just rolls to the side, still close enough that his leg stays pressed against yours, and reaches for the blanket to pull it up over you both. He tugs you into his chest like second nature, burying his nose in your hair, his hand stroking absently up and down your arm.

“You good?” he asks softly, lips brushing your temple.

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “You?”

He pauses. Then he nods against your skin. “Yeah. More than.”

You lay there like that for a while, heartbeats evening out. He’s still drawing shapes on your skin — fingertips slow, mindless — and you smile to yourself, warmth blooming low in your stomach.

“So,” you murmur eventually, voice still hoarse. “What now? We high-five and call it a night?”

He huffs a laugh into your hair. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to a high-five.”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrects, grinning. “But really—” He shifts a little so he can see your face, one hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “If we’re doing this, I wanna do it right.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Do what right?”

He raises an eyebrow, like it should be obvious. “Us.”

There’s a pause. You look at him, and he looks at you, and it’s terrifying and sweet all at once.

“I really like you,” he says, quieter this time. “And I’m not just saying that because I just got laid.” He cracks a small smile. “Though, to be fair, that was mind-blowing.”

You snort. “So humble.”

“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your nose with his. “I’ll take you out. I’ll plan dumb dates. I’ll be obnoxiously charming and show up with flowers. I’ll be— like— a gentleman, or whatever.”

You give him a look. “You should’ve done all that before you fucked me.”

His grin spreads. “Yeah, well. Guess I got the order wrong. You gonna hold that against me?”

“Maybe,” you say, lips twitching.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, fingers brushing your cheek. “You’ll see. I’ll be so romantic it’ll make you want to punch me.”

“I already want to punch you.”

“And yet,” he says smugly, pulling you closer, “you’re still in my bed.”

“This is my bed, dumbass.”

He pauses. “Okay, fair. But I am naked in it. With you.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face won’t go away. His arm tightens around your waist, and you let yourself relax into it — into him. For once, it doesn’t feel like something to second-guess.

He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

You tuck your face into his neck and sigh. “You better bring the good flowers. Like the ones that don’t die in two days.”

“Oh, so now you’re picky?”

“You said dates and flowers. I’m holding you to it.”

“Noted,” he says, fingers threading into your hair. “I’m gonna be so disgustingly good to you.”

You laugh softly into his skin.

And he just holds you tighter.

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

[sinsxo]

luckiest fan. —blue lock

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro.

synopsis. your interactions with them may have gone viral, but what the world doesn’t see is what happens after the cameras stop rolling. the notifications, the dms, and the quiet moves they make.

cw. drabble, cussing, fan interaction stuff, lighthearted fic.

wc. 1k words, not proofread.

part 1 & part 2 here!

isagi yoichi ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

the world may have seen isagi yoichi’s fan interactions with you — helping you pick up the phone you dropped, and taking a selfie with you after his team qualified for the semi-finals. it was a heartwarming and sweet gesture from him. people reposted it with captions like “wholesome king” or “i want what they have.”

but that was only the surface of it.

no one saw the notification that popped up on your phone when he liked the instagram story you posted — the one where you thanked him for being so kind, paired with the selfie he'd taken of you two.

and no one saw the reply to your story either.

isag1yoichi replied to your story.

isag1yoichi you're welcome :) glad the pic turned out well

you stared at your screen with your mouth open, taking a couple minutes to run laps around your room before responding.

you omg you ?!?!?!??!?!?!? you you were awesome on the field!!

isag1yoichi haha thanks :D glad you came again

you it was worth it! semi finals next, right?

isag1yoichi yeah! isag1yoichi are you coming?

you if i can get a ticket LOL

isag1yoichi maybe this will help

attached was a photo of a jersey.

his jersey.

with his signature on it.

isag1yoichi got you a ticket too, just pick it up at the ticket window. left your name with the staff :)

you WHAT you THANK YOU!!!

after jumping around out of joy for a few minutes, you laid on your bed, back flat against the mattress and stared at the ceiling like your soul just left your body.

itoshi rin ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

you didn’t tag him in your instagram posts. you just posted casually — photos of your outfit, the view from your seat, a pic of the gift bag you handed him, and your poor isagi banner that got stepped on (accidentally).

then you forgot about it — forgot that you even posted anything until you were mentioned in an article that featured you and rin with the headline: “a mysteriously soft interaction from the usually cold itoshi rin.”

your instagram handle was there. his was too.

a few hours later, a notification lit up your screen.

itoshi_rin liked your post.

then:

itoshi_rin sent you a message.

itoshi_rin thanks for the protein bars. never thought the day i could eat them again would come

you hoyl fcuk you i mean you you’re welcome you but wtf

itoshi_rin you coming to the next match?

you yeah

itoshi_rin great. make sure you cheer for the correct player this time

you hey i am cheering for the right player

itoshi_rin clearly not itoshi_rin make sure your banner has my face on it itoshi_rin and try not to drop it

you why you will you sign it?

itoshi_rin if you’ll be my protein bar supplier, then yes itoshi_rin or teach me your ways at least

you only iffffffffff you you get me isagi’s signature too

itoshi_rin lame.

you so you won’t? you then im not cheering for you

itoshi_rin add your number to the deal then i will

you OMFG???????????????????

and guess who showed up to the stadium with a rin banner instead of their isagi one.

itoshi sae ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

you posted an instagram story of the banner that he signed. both of it — the one he ruined and — nevermind, he ruined both.

the first time he signed ruined your banner, a viral article came out, talking about itoshi sae’s “dry humour” and “hidden playfulness”.

you thought it was just pure pettiness.

but two can play that game, so naturally, you fought pettiness with pettiness.

you got a signature on his own banner so you could sell it.

but he ruined it once again.

you posted it on you instagram story anyway, with the caption: “might sell this for 5 digits. who wants it 😋😋 #profitoffpettyboys”

then you tagged him. as a joke.

and he replied.

itoshisae_10 seriously?

you stared at the message, panicking.

you wth you WTH you WHY DID U ACTUALLY REPLY

itoshisae_10 ? itoshisae_10 am i not allowed to interact with fans now?

you WELL U NEVER DO you seems like u didnt expect that me to sell it huh you shouldve signed it properly if you wanted me to keep it you mustve hurt your ego ☺️

itoshisae_10 next time, make a better one. itoshisae_10 maybe i’ll give you a proper autograph that you can sell.

you wait actually?? you like actually? you no ykw you i dont want your autograph anyway

then he sent you a photo of his jersey with a signature on it.

itoshisae_10 shame. itoshisae_10 could’ve earned 6 digits from this. itoshisae_10 if you show up, that is

you weren’t sure what surprised you more. that he actually replied to your story and offered you a signed jersey or that you were now crafting a new banner for the same man who ruined your last two.

nagi seishiro ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

nagi seishiro doesn’t really go on social media unless he has to, and he definitely doesn’t track articles or read his own press. he thinks it’s too much work — unnecessary work.

but he did bring candy to the next match.

so when he saw you again, waving from the stands, grinning like you’d just won the lottery, he blinked slowly and made his way over.

“you,” he mumbled.

you grinned. “me.”

he pulled out a bunch of different candies out of his pocket and handed it over. “for you.”

you looked surprised. “really?”

he shrugged. “you gave me good candy. figured i should give you something back.”

you laughed, feeling touched. “thank you!”

he mumbled something that sounded vaguely like you’re welcome before walking off — hands in his pockets, head tilted back, yawning.

that night, you posted the candy on your story.

nagi gave me candy 🥹💕 #luckiestfanever

you tagged him, not expecting anything.

but a few minutes later, a notification popped up.

nagiseishiro replied to your story.

nagiseishiro did u like it?

you @#$$@%!???? you YES I LOVED IT you thank you :))

nagiseishiro ok cool nagiseishiro what flavour do you want next time?

you NEXT TIME?!??! 😭

nagiseishiro idk

you im not picky with the flavours, anything works!

nagiseishiro ok nagiseishiro same time next match?

you fhbajijhfsjkqwpokisjk you i mean of course!!

and that was how your casual matchday tradition began.

somewhere in between, it became something more.

taglist. tagging everyone who wanted a part 3, thanks for your support! @lexiestea13 @itoshiabi @chewiebee @pinkytoxichearts

© all written works are created and owned by @sinsxo. do not plagiarise, modify, repost or translate any of my content on other platforms under any circumstances.

all images, aside from the dividers, do not belong to me. credit belongs to their original creators on pinterest & xhs.

[verstappenverse]

hi! can i request that the reader and max anticipate their first child? he was so worried when the reader had a morning sickness and when the reader was about to deliver the baby? he worried whether he could be a good father or not to their firstborn baby. and how he was so protective, care, and just soft with the reader? thank you! i love your fics anyway, you're doing great! i hope you have a very good day ahead!! xoxo.

What If I Get It Wrong?

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max was never afraid of anything, but fatherhood? That’s a different kind of terrifying. As the two of you prepare for your first child, Max is protective, terrified, and completely in awe, and you watch the man you love fall headfirst into fatherhood. (Requested)

4.1k words / Masterlist

You weren’t expecting it to feel like this, equal parts overwhelming and breathtaking. A surreal mix of the mundane and the extraordinary.

Two faint pink lines on a stick, the distant hum of the bathroom fan. The sound of your shaky breathing as you sit on the edge of the tub, blinking down at something that just shifted the axis of your entire world.

Your hands tremble when you press your palm to your stomach. It’s still flat. Still unchanged. And yet… you already feel different. Maybe not physically, but something inside you is new. Expanding. Blooming.

You had a plan.

Of course you did. You’d always imagined telling Max with a smile too wide to hide, maybe over a fancy private dinner at home with the test tucked inside a gift box or a Red Bull baby onesie folded on his plate. Maybe filming his reaction when he opened it. Something worthy of the moment. Something permanent.

You even started writing a card, got as far as, "You changed my life once. Now—."

But when the door opens that night and Max comes in, home late from some media obligations, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, and grumbling about TikTok's and something you can’t quite hear. You don’t even get a word in before he presses a kiss to your cheek. “Sorry I’m late. What’re we having for—”

“I’m pregnant.”

The words leap out of you before you even mean to say them. It’s not soft. It’s not poetic. It’s raw and breathless and a little panicked.

The silence is immediate. Thick. His mouth stays open mid-word. His eyes flick to your stomach, then back to your face.

“I—” you start, already flustered, “I was gonna tell you in some big, sweet way, I swear. With a whole surprise and maybe a stupid cake or balloons, I even wrote like half a card and now I’ve just blurted it out like a maniac and—”

“Pregnant,” he interrupts.

You nod. Your voice is a whisper. “Yeah.”

It takes another two seconds before a breathless laugh escapes him. He crosses the room in one long stride, pulling you into his arms. His hands cradle your face like you’re something breakable. “You’re serious?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I took the test three times.”

He looks down at your stomach again. Then back at you. Then exhales a shaky breath that sounds like something breaking open in his chest.

“I’m going to be a dad?”

You bite your lip, eyes filling. “Yeah. You are.”

You nod again, and before you can say another word, he’s kissing you. Slow. Deep. His hand presses instinctively to your belly, protective already, and you feel his body tremble as his forehead rests against yours.

The nerves come quickly.

You’re crouched over the toilet, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain, on what feels like your fifth straight day of relentless nausea. Your stomach rolls again, and you groan, dry heaving into nothing.

Max hovers like a man teetering on the edge of a panic attack. He’s pacing the bathroom floor in bare feet, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other holding your water bottle like it might fix something if he just offers it enough times.

“Should I call someone?” he says for the third time in five minutes. “A hospital? Maybe your mum, I think, maybe Dr. Hendriks? I’ll fly him in. We have the jet, it’s—”

“Max,” you croak, cutting him off mid-spiral. “I’m fine. Just... a bit gross.”

He drops to a crouch beside you so fast you almost flinch. His hand is instantly at your back, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles over your spine like he’s trying to manually ease the nausea out of you.

“You threw up twice, you’ve barley eaten anything since yesterday, and you can’t even stand up straight. This isn’t fine,” he mutters, eyes scanning your face like he’s looking for signs of something worse.

You want to reassure him, but all you can manage is another gag and a feeble wave of your hand.

He makes a frustrated sound under his breath, somewhere between a growl and a groan and presses a kiss to your temple. You feel him shift beside you, still kneeling, still rubbing your back.

You’re pretty sure he was supposed to be on a flight to the Red Bull factory two hours ago. His suitcase is still zipped up in the hallway. His laptop sits forgotten on the kitchen counter next to the tea he brewed for you earlier, the tea you couldn’t even look at, let alone sip.

He didn’t even finish drying his hair. It’s still damp, curling at the edges. There’s a red line pressed into his cheek from where he must’ve fallen asleep beside you on the bathroom floor the night before.

“Max,” you mumble, finally able to lift your head. You rest your cheek against his shoulder, exhausted, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack before the baby’s even here.”

He tries to laugh but it comes out hoarse and half-broken. “I just hate this. Watching you like this. I keep thinking, what if I’m missing something? What if I’m not doing enough?”

You tilt your head up slightly, catching the crease between his brows, the lines of guilt that don’t belong there.

“You made me three kinds of toast this morning,” you murmur. “And cut the crusts off, and you held my hair and Googled ginger remedies until your phone died.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you press a hand to his chest right over the spot where his heart’s racing, fast and wild.

“You’re here,” you whisper. “That’s not useless. That’s everything.”

He exhales shakily, eyes locked on yours and for a second you swear they shine.

“I’m just so scared of getting it wrong,” he admits, barely audible. “This whole dad thing. Taking care of you. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done, and I keep feeling like I’m already screwing it up.”

“You’re not,” you promise, curling your fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt. “You’re already the best dad, because you care so much, because you show up.”

The weeks pass in waves. Ultrasounds. Appointments. Cravings that come out of nowhere at 2 a.m. and leave you both laughing in the kitchen in your pajamas, sharing a jar of pickles and toast with peanut butter. There are stretches of calm, slow, quiet mornings when the Monaco sunlight creeps across the bedsheets and Max wraps an arm around your waist, murmuring something sleepy against your neck. And then there are flashes of chaos, bags packed, schedules rearranged, Max on a video call with his race engineers while still rubbing your swollen feet with one hand.

Somehow, amidst it all, you find a rhythm.

You learn to time what you can around Max’s races, his travel, his returns. You count the days until he’s back, until he’s lying beside you again, one hand stretched protectively over your belly like it’s instinct now.

The first time you hear the heartbeat Max looks like someone knocked the air out of him. His mouth parts. His eyes fill.

“She’s real,” he whispers, the words barely making it past his lips. “Our baby is real.”

You haven’t even found out the gender yet, but he says she instinctively, without hesitation, like his heart already knows something the rest of you don’t.

You tease him about it once, smiling as he folds baby clothes that aren’t even needed yet.

“It might be a boy you know?” you say, watching him hold up a tiny lemon-patterned onesie like it’s the crown jewels.

He looks up from the clothes, something quiet and unshakable in his gaze. “Maybe, but I don’t know, I just feel it, every time I picture the future, it’s you... and her.”

You stare at him, your breath catching somewhere in your throat.

“She’s loud,” he continues, grinning now, his accent curling around the softness of his voice. “Talks too much. Bosses me around. Already a little menace. Definitely your child.”

“Excuse me?”

He laughs, quick and boyish, and leans over to press a kiss to your cheek. “You’ll see. She’s gonna have your fire.”

You don’t say it, but the truth sinks deep into your chest, he already loves this baby with his whole being.

He talks to your belly when he thinks you’re asleep. You catch him doing it all the time, quiet, unguarded moments where his world has narrowed down to two things, you and the life you’re creating together.

When you both lie awake at night, hands intertwined under the duvet, whispering about baby names and nursery colors and what kind of parents you want to be, Max is always a little breathless. Like he still can’t believe it’s real. Like he’s terrified and amazed in equal measure.

“She’s going to change everything,” he murmurs once, voice low in the dark.

“She already has,” you whisper back.

He nods slowly, curling into you like he always does, like you’re the only home he’s ever needed.

Max becomes… soft.

In every possible way.

It’s not just the way he handles you now, like you’re something precious and breakable. It’s not just the way he walks slower beside you or watches your face when you stand up too quickly or how he quietly puts your sneakers on for you when your feet start to swell.

It’s in the little things.

He buys three different pregnancy pillows, a full-body one, a C-shaped one, and some strange ergonomic wedge because he isn’t sure which one will help you sleep better. One night you catch him actually reading a parenting blog in bed next to you, blue light from his phone casting shadows across the duvet. He scrolls silently, occasionally muttering things like:

“Did you know babies can hear our voices by week twenty?”

Or,

“Apparently we’re supposed to play music for her.”

Then there’s the night you find him in the nursery.

It’s late. You’d gotten up to grab water and noticed the light was on down the hall. You pad softly to the doorway, heart already warm with affection and there he is.

Max. Standing perfectly still. The crib is built, assembled a few days ago it sits against the far wall now, freshly made up with soft cream sheets and a stuffed lion tucked in the corner.

He’s just staring at it.

Half terror. Half wonder.

“Max?” you say gently, stepping into the room.

He startles a little but doesn’t turn around.

“Do you think I’ll be good at this?” he murmurs.

You cross the room without answering and slide your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against the cotton of his t-shirt. He reaches for your hands, holds them tightly over his chest.

“You’re already good,” you whisper.

He lets out a long, shaky breath. The kind that sounds like it’s been sitting in his chest for months.

“It’s just…” he starts, and then pauses, struggling to find the words. “I didn’t exactly have the perfect example.”

You nod, letting the silence stretch. You don’t talk about his childhood much but he’s never needed to say much for you to understand. Jos was many things, passionate, driven, ambitious. But he was also sharp around the edges. Affection was earned, not given freely. Max learned young what it meant to perform under pressure. To please. To succeed, or suffer.

“I’m scared I’ll mess her up,” he says, voice quieter now. “That I’ll push too hard. Or expect too much. Or say something I can’t take back. What if she cries and I don’t know how to make it better? What if she needs something I don’t know how to give?”

You pull back just enough to tilt your head and meet his gaze.

“Max, you’re the most patient person I know.”

He snorts, but there’s not much humor in it. “That’s a word I don’t think has ever been used to describe me.”

“You’re patient with people you love,” you correct gently. “With me. You’ve been soft and kind and so careful this whole time, even when I’ve been sick or moody or irrational. You listen. That’s what she’ll see. That’s what she’ll learn.”

You hesitate, then add softly, “I’m scared too, you know.”

His brows draw together, surprised. Maybe he hadn’t realised, maybe you’ve hidden it well. “You are?”

You nod. “Every single day. I lie in bed and think about how much we don’t know yet. About how overwhelming it all feels sometimes. What if I’m not enough? What if she needs more than I can give?”

His arms tighten around you instinctively, like he’s trying to hold the fear out of your body.

“But then I see you,” you whisper. “And I remember… we don’t have to do any of it alone, and that makes all the difference.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just turns in your arms, eyes a little wet, and rests his forehead against yours.

“I don’t want to get it wrong,” he breathes. “Not with her. Not with you.”

“You won’t,” you whisper. “But if you ever feel like you are, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

He nods slowly. Swallows. “Promise me you’ll tell me if I ever forget, if I ever slip. If I start to become…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

“I promise, but I already know I won’t need to.” you say, holding his face in your hands.

You kiss him then, soft and sure, and he kisses you back like your faith in him is something he never wants to let go of. And in the stillness of that nursery, with your belly pressed to his and the crib waiting quietly behind you, Max lets the fear settle… just a little.

Maybe it’s okay to be scared, as long as neither of you is scared alone.

The last month is the hardest.

Your back feels like it’s been replaced by concrete. Your feet have swollen so much you’ve officially retired every pair of shoes you own except one pair of very ugly slides. You cry at everything, a dog food commercial, a voicemail from your mum, Max just looking at you across the kitchen.

You’re tired in ways you didn’t know were possible. Your body feels like it’s working overtime to grow a person and also remind you of gravity’s cruelest tricks.

Max, meanwhile, has entered full protective mode. As if the impending arrival of your daughter has turned every single instinct inside him up to eleven.

He won’t let you lift anything.

Not a grocery bag. Not a chair. Not even your own overnight hospital bag.

You once reached for a water bottle and he appeared out of thin air swiping it out of your reach with a sharp, scandalized look.

“Max,” you deadpanned, “I’m pregnant, not paralyzed.”

“I’m aware,” he muttered, already unscrewing the cap and handing it to you like a peace offering.

“You think the baby’s going to fall out if I hold a Fiji bottle?”

“No,” he said seriously, “but why take the risk.”

You rolled your eyes then. You do it often now. But secretly?

You love it.

You love how protective he is. How he walks slightly behind you in crowds, like a buffer. How he started driving ten kilometers under the limit the second you entered your third trimester, even though he used to complain that Monaco traffic was basically just expensive cars parked in motion.

You love how he fusses, quietly but constantly. How he now triple-checks that your favorite snack is stocked before leaving the apartment, how he installed a nightlight in the hallway so you wouldn't trip during your nightly bathroom trips. How he downloaded six different white noise apps on his phone so you could try them out in bed. "For practice," he said, “in case she’s fussy.”

But what really gets you, what makes your chest ache with something warm and vast and impossible to describe is the way his face changes every time you talk about the baby.

A softening around his eyes. A slight tilt of his head. The more you speak about her name, about what she might look like, about whether she’ll like racing or painting or maybe dinosaurs, the more he leans in.

He’s never looked at you like this before. Not when he’s on the podium. Not even after winning his first championship. This? This is different.

This is awe. This is devotion. This is Max Verstappen world-class driver, famously unshakeable completely and utterly undone by the thought of his daughter.

He leans down and kisses your skin. “She’s going to wreck me isn’t she?”

“She already has.”

He looks up at you, eyes shining under the soft lamp light, and for once he doesn’t have a smart reply.

Then the day finally comes.

You wake at 3:13 a.m. with a pressure in your abdomen that steals your breath. It isn’t sharp, not at first. Just a heavy, aching pull deep in your core, like gravity has shifted suddenly inside you.

For a moment you think it’s another false alarm.

You shift under the covers, already rehearsing the mental checklist your doctor gave you: hydration, time the contractions, don’t panic. You ease out of bed, try walking to the bathroom, just like they said to do when you’re not sure it’s real yet, but then the pain tightens, sharp and low and unmistakable. It doesn’t come and go. It grips.

Just like that you know.

You shuffle back to the bed and place a trembling hand on Max’s chest.

“Max.”

He jolts upright as if someone’s fired a starter pistol. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it time?”

His voice is gravelly with sleep, but his body is already moving.

You nod, barely able to get the words out through the rising wave of pain.

“Okay. Okay. Alright, okay,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, as he flings the covers off and springs into motion.

What follows is like watching a pit stop in human form.

Max moves with sharp, terrifying focus. He’s already helped you into the comfiest clothes he can find, sweatpants and one of his old t-shirts, before you even finish brushing your teeth. He pulls the hospital bag from the front closet, double-checks its contents, grabs your water bottle, chargers, snacks, the car keys.

But the entire time, his hands are shaking.

You notice it in the way he fumbles with the seatbelt when helping you into the car. In the way he presses the elevator button three times like it’ll come faster.

By the time he’s in the driver’s seat, knuckles white on the steering wheel, you’re gripping the side of the door, breathing through another contraction.

“Max,” you whisper, chest rising and falling in short bursts. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing, you need to breath.” he says quickly, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror even though the road is deserted.

“No, you’re hyperventilating.”

“I’m not, maybe a little,” he admits, cheeks flushed. He loosens his grip on the wheel, forces one deep inhale through his nose.

You reach across the console and take his hand, squeezing through the contraction.

“You’re going to be amazing,” you say through gritted teeth.

He glances at you, eyes shining under the dashboard light. “You’re the one doing the hard part.”

You laugh sort of. It’s half a wheeze, half a whimper. “Hard doesn’t even cover it.”

He presses a kiss to your knuckles at the next red light. “Just keep holding on. I’m right here.”

The labour is long.

Twenty hours of chaos and calm. Of excruciating pain and quiet moments in between, your hand curled tight in Max’s.

He never leaves your side.

“I love you,” he says every few minutes, even when you’re too far gone to reply. “You’re doing so good. You’re so strong.”

He hovers beside you, whispering soft encouragements, brushing sweat from your forehead with shaking fingers.

And then, after everything, comes silence.

The kind that feels holy.

The room stills. You collapse against the pillows, exhausted and trembling. And then it happens.

A sound. Fragile. Piercing.

A cry.

Your baby’s first breath shatters the stillness, high-pitched and perfect and real.

Max sags beside you like his legs can’t hold him anymore. He buries his face in your shoulder, and for the first time since you’ve known him, since the earliest days of cautious flirtation and long-distance calls, since the podiums and the plane rides and the quiet "I love you"s you feel him cry.

“She’s here,” he chokes out. His whole body shakes. “She’s really here.”

When the nurse places your daughter on your chest, something in you clicks into place. She’s tiny. Wrinkled. Red-faced and slippery and making the most outraged little sounds, but she’s perfect. She’s yours.

And Max… Max looks like he’s been struck by lightning. He can’t move at first. Just stands there, one hand braced on the edge of the bed, the other hovering like he’s afraid to touch her. His face is wet with tears. He looks shell-shocked.

“She’s…” he starts, but he can’t finish. His voice breaks again.

You reach for his hand and guide it gently to her. His fingertips brush her hand and her tiny fingers curl around his pinky, as if she already knows him.

“Hi, kleine meid,” he whispers. “I’m your dada.”

Just like that he’s gone.

Hopelessly, entirely, irreversibly in love.

Later, after the visitors come and go after your families cry over tiny fingers and kiss your cheeks with soft, trembling mouths, after nurses shuffle in and out with gentle voices and kind hands the hospital room falls quiet again.

Just the three of you now. The soft hum of machines. The muffled hallway beyond the door. The gentle rustle of a newborn’s breath in the bassinet beside the bed.

Max lies beside you on the narrow hospital bed, somehow fitting his long frame against yours like puzzle pieces. One arm is curled protectively around your back, anchoring you to his chest. The other hand rests on the side of the bassinet, fingers still.

You watch him as he stares at her. He hasn’t looked away in over twenty minutes.

Not since the nurse gently wheeled her over and whispered, “She’s all yours now.”

“She’s got your nose,” you murmur sleepily, the exhaustion pulling at you like a tide, but the kind you’d wade into again without question.

Max smiles, slow and full and a little dazed. His eyes are glassy, bloodshot from lack of sleep and tears he no longer bothers hiding.

“Poor thing,” he says softly.

You chuckle, too tired for more than a breathy laugh. “She’s lucky.”

He looks over to you, his gaze heavy with affection. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there like he’s silently thanking the universe for bringing you through it.

“No,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’m the lucky one.”

You curl into his chest a little deeper, feeling the solid beat of his heart beneath your cheek. His hoodie smells like hospital linen and baby powder and Max, warm, worn-in, familiar.

“You were worried,” you say quietly, almost to yourself.

He nods without hesitation. “Terrified.”

There’s no bravado in his voice now. No need to pretend.

He exhales, glancing back at your daughter. “I’ve been trying to imagine this moment for months. Her face. The sound she’d make. Whether I’d be good enough for her.” His fingers flex slightly against the edge of the bassinet, just brushing the corner. “And now she’s here. And I just keep thinking… how do I live up to her?”

“Still scared?” you whisper.

He hesitates. “Yeah.”

He glances down at the baby again. She’s sleeping now, her tiny fist curled near her cheek, lips parted in a soft, steady rhythm.

“But it’s different now,” he adds. “I think… how is she real? How did we make her? How is she breathing and blinking and making those tiny sounds like it’s the most normal thing in the world?” His voice catches. “How do I ever make sure she knows how much I love her?”

You reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his. He grips yours back immediately, tight, like he needs to feel your pulse to believe any of this is real.

“She already knows,” you whisper. “She’s felt it. She’s felt it every time you talked to her. Every time you rubbed my back or held my hair or teared up during an ultrasound.”

Max looks at you then, and you see it all, the vulnerability, the devotion, the pure, unfiltered wonder that hasn’t left him since the moment she arrived.

You smile through the tears clouding your lashes.

“We’re in this together,” you say.

He nods. “Always.”

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @lenamds @blueskies4everxo @teamnovalak

[wosospacegirl]

dinosaurs and...sex? - Alexia Putellas

Summary: Alexia's girlfriend is way too stressed out for her own good, so she puts matter into her own hands (fingers)

Word count: 2.2k

Warning: (+18) fingering and oral (r receiving) and at the end suggestive to oral (r giving) because we are all switches here at wosospacegirl

A/n: I think I've found my niche in fanfic and it's writing nerdy lesbian sex...sorry it's repetitive but it's just so fun to write them...

this is a scheduled post because I *actually* have a dinosaur test to study to and I don't have alexia to eat me out so--

..

"Can I come in, or are you still acting like a monster?" Alexia said from the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. She was holding something, but you couldn't quite see what, mostly because your eyes had stopped functioning after reading the word Mesozoic for the ninth time.

You had decided to go to university.

 And now you carry that burden every day. Every. Single. Day.

It was finals week, and you were an absolute wreck. You were so stressed that you had caught the worst cold ever known to humankind. Why your immune system gave up on you at the slightest sign of stress, you didn't know.

Alexia had taken care of you and made sure you rested. But of course, that meant you hadn't been able to study for three whole days.

And now here you were, at Alexi's house, sprawled across her bed, surrounded by books that were open at completely random pages, with class notes you didn't even remember taking.

Your eyes hurt. Your head hurts. Everything hurt. But mostly your soul, because you felt like you barely had one. Surely you had long lost it between the Jurassic and the Cretaceous period.

And when everything hurt, it made you angry, because you couldn't study the way you wanted to. And when you were angry, you were rude.

Alexia had shown up (to her room, in her house) and asked if the two of you shouldn't take a walk or do something relaxing. AKA: She was getting stressed from watching you mumble like a maniac about something called…Coelurosauria?

You, ever the sweet and understanding girlfriend, had snapped at her, questioning why the hell she was bothering you while you were studying.

It wasn't a "Hi, Alexia, I'm sorry, I can't talk right now."

It was a "Oh my fucking God, Alexia, can't you leave me alone for two whole minutes?"

Alexia–who was actually sweet and understanding– didn't say anything. She just stepped closer to where you were sitting, kissed the top of your head, and left a protein bar beside you before quietly walking away, probably heading for a lonely walk around Barcelona.

You cried while studying the skeleton of the Brachiosaurus because you felt guilty afterwards.

You didn't want to be mean, but finals brought out the worst in you. Still, Alexia wasn't the one to blame.

You knew Alexia was back when you heard the front door on the first floor opening and then closing. You heard her taking off her shoes and making her way upstairs.

You felt the mattress dip beside you, and when you turned around, Alexia was sitting there. You gave her your biggest, most apologetic eyes. 

"I'm sorry," you said, genuinely.

Alexia looked at you, cupped your jaw, and brought your mouth to hers. She kissed you sweetly. "It's okay," she murmured against your lips as you closed your eyes. 

"I know you get grumpy when you're overwhelmed with school. No need to say sorry."

"Yes, I do," you said, breaking the kiss and flopping back onto the bed, almost like a starfish. Your book was lying open beside you as you stared at the ceiling. "I was rude, that's not okay."

"It is okay," Alexia said, as she hovered above you, her hair tickling your cheek. "Because you sound hot when you're mad."

You rolled your eyes and pecked her lips. "Okay, now you're stretching."

"I'm serious," she said, getting off of you and sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed. "You pout and your brows furrow…It's like  exactly the face you make when you're about to cum–"

"Okay!" you interrupted, throwing your book at her, your face burning. Alexia could be so crude when she wanted to.  "No talking about sex, or–"

"--you cumming?" Alexia teased, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," you groaned. "This is literally the most boring subject ever. It doesn't pair well with dirty talk."

Alexia stayed quiet for a few seconds, and you took that as a sign to return to your notes and re-read them. You were lying on your stomach now,  your paper was spread out in front of you, when you felt Alexia climb on top of you and drop all of her weight onto your back.

Out of the sudden, you had a book to your face as well–your zoology and evolution of dinosaur book.

Alexia cheekily snatched your notes, and before you could complain, her voice filled the room as she read the book.

"Thyreophora, often known as armoured dinosaurs, were a group of ornithischian dinosaurs that lived from the Early Jurassic until the end of the Cretaceous…"

You listened as Alexia spoke, and you couldn't help but feel as if she was… reading it erotically?

You felt her weight on your back, the way she held your book right in front of you, holding it with one hand while her other hand stayed pressed to your ribcage.

"Primitive forms had simple, low, keeled scutes or osteoderms," she continued, her voice low as she pressed more fully into your body like she was getting cosy, relaxing. "Oh, those are cool, right, bebé?" she said against your ear, and you couldn't help the shiver that ran through you.

You had known Alexia long enough to recognise when she was doing this on purpose.

Sometimes, you had the willpower to push her away and to fight back. You had to study, your exam was tomorrow!! But right now?

Right now, you wanted to be pliant.

"Most thyreophorans were herbivorous and had small brains for their size," she said, her hand slipping under your shirt, her cold fingertips grazing your skin just above your ribs. 

"Oh, does that mean they were dumb?"Alexia asked innocently, placing a kiss on the back of your neck.

"N-no," you stammered as you tried to move, but her body was still pinning you down. "Brain size doesn't really determine intelligence…"

Alexia hummed against your skin, letting the book fall onto the bed with a soft thud. 

Now her full attention was on your neck, she was licking your skin before sucking the it into her mouth.

"I thought the bigger the brain, the smarter?" she murmured.

She sat up from behind you and turned you over, leaving you flat on your back. Then she kissed you deep and slow, biting your lip.

"No, it doesn't mean that," you mumbled, lifting your arms as Alexia pulled off your shirt, leaving your torso bare. "W-what is intelligence, after all, right? It's a very human construct and we…."

Your breath hitched as Alexia kissed your stomach, slowly making her way down to your navel, then she gently tugged at the waistband of your pants.

You lifted your hips, helping her in the process of getting you naked.

"Keep going, amor, "Alexia said, kissing you just above your underwear. "I don't want to distract you from your studies."

Her fingers slid down to your centre, where the wet spot of your underwear was. Your eyes were closed now, but you knew Alexia was smirking.

"What were you saying about intelligence?"Alexia coaxed, her voice innocent, as if she wasn't doing anything wrong, as if she really was helping you study.

But thinking about dinosaurs or intelligence or anything was nearly impossible as she hooked her fingers into the sides of your underwear and pulled them aside, exposing you completely. She slid her fingers just above your cunt, spreading your weteness slowly around your folds, teasing you.

You moaned as Alexia pressed just the tip of your finger inside of your cunt, your hips moving, begging for more contact, but Alexia didn't give in. She wanted to make you work for it for a bit.

"If you don't talk," Alexia said sternly, kissing the inside of your thigh, "I'll stop. Keep going. Tell me about the subject."

You were in silence, your brain mush. It was like you forgot you even knew any words, let alone the evolution of ornithischian dinosaurs.

Although you were quick to remember it when Alexia took her mouth away from your body.

You clutched at her head, pressing her against your cunt. 

"Please, keep going–"you whined. "I-I was saying that intelligence is a human parameter, and we shouldn't judge other species based on it because it's honestly a very anthropocentric concept…"

"There she is, my smart girl, "Alexia purred. And just like magic, she slid her index finger inside of you, and your body welcomed it immediately. "What else can you tell me about those Thy… Thry…"

"Thyreophora," You breathed as Alexia slid another finger in, thrusting into you so slowly it made you want to cry. "There are two major groups, th-" 

You didn't even get to finish, because you felt alexia's hot breath against your cunt, her mouth touching your clit, wrapping her lips aorund itand sucking gently. "Fuck–more." 

Alexia slapped your thigh; it didn't sting, but it was a warning.

"Keep talking." 

So you did.

Alexia ate you out slowly as if she was savouring every single drop of your wetness. You were very aware she was enjoying herself way too much; you also knew she was doing it as a form of revenge, too.

But you didn't mind for her motives, not when she kept fucking you like that. She only stopped when you stopped talking. 

She really was taking your studies very seriously.

Alexia's tongue was thrusting inside of you. You didn't know how she had mastered the ability to penetrate you so deeply with her tongue, but you (once again) didn't care.

Her hands were pinning you down on the mattress, clutching your hip bones, not letting you move an inch as she continued to thoroughly pleasure (or maybe torture) you.

It took you a while to cum, but not because Alexia wasn't giving you what you needed, but because your body had trouble switching from stressed, anxious and overstimulated to relaxed.

Alexia didn't say a word about it. She didn't make you feel bad that it was taking longer than usual. She just kept her mouth on your cunt, as if she had all the time in the word.

And when you finally came, it felt like your body had truly relaxed for the first time in days. 

You felt as if all of your muscles relaxed all at once. Your eyes rolled back, and you yanked at Alexia's hair with a little more force than you were intending to, but she didn't complain. 

You were trying to catch your breath when alexia finally lifted her face from your cunt. 

She made her way up your body, kissing your stomach and your breasts before (finally) kissing you, and sliding her tongue in to let you taste yourself.

"See," Alexia whispered as she broke the kiss. She lay her head on your chest, her finger gently tracing your face. "I was right."

"Rigth about what?" You barely manage to say. 

"Your face when you cum," She said against your sking, kissing your collarbone. "The pout, the furrowed eyebrows."

You blink, still pretty much dizzy. "Did you make all of this... too prove a point?"

"Maybe," she said, smiling. 

"I hate you," you murmured, closing your eyes and letting your hands run through her hair.

"You don't," Alexia said. "You just came in my mouth, I think that was a love confession, actually."

You chucked at Alexia's words. 

Maybe it was the oxytocin running through your body stream, or maybe it was the quiet realisation that this was the first time you and Alexia were properly intimate in days, mostly because of your schedule at uni and her schedule at Barcelona.

You surprised yourself by lowering your head and kissing her again, your hands slipping under her shirt to trace the back tattoos you knew by heart.

Alexia kissed you back–and what was a sweet kiss–turned into something urgent.

"I want you," you breathed against her mouth, your hand curling around the back of her neck. "Now."

"Yeah?" Alexia smirked. "How?"

"On your back, legs spread open," you said.

"Okay," she simply said.

She did what you asked of her. 

She lay down, but she winced slightly when one of your pens dug into her back.

You watched her for a moment, admiring her, and then you undressed her completely. You took her shirt off, and then her training bra.

You wrapped your lips around her nipples, sucking them until Alexia was gasping, asking for more.

Without wasting another second, you pulled down her shorts and underwear in one go. 

You spread her legs apart with each of your hands and began kissing the inside of her thighs, biting them softly,  leaving teeth marks where no one would see them.

You were in your moment now.  Feeling hot and heavy, watching Alexia's cunt dripping right in forn of your face, how pretty her cunt looked, how ready she was for you.

But just as you were ready to taste her, Alexia said.

"Do you want me to read your notes out loud while you do it?"

You paused, your mouth still slightly open, looking up at her. You truly had a problem reading her facial expression.

At the same time that it looked like she was teasing you, it also seemed like the proposal was sincere, like she might actually do it if you said yes.

You glared at her, your eyes narrowing, trying to make your point across without having to use any words.

"Okay," she said quickly. "I guess that's a no."

..

A/n: Got the dino infos on Wikipedia!

Tag list: @footy-lover264 , @fortifyde, @naomigirmadefender , @neutraiise , @milkveed, @browercc , @ace-of-baked , @ikzzzya , @sky-the-trans-guy00 , @knight-16 , @wosohk04 , @evaissleepy13 , @papimapileon , @unpoppablebubbles @whiskeredshrimp-blog @goodloe-e @liloandstitchstan @s0ciety-cxv @dfwspky @karmajn @awosofavs @wosofavfanfics

[yasministration]

want you to stay - peter parker

summary: peter is absolutely appalled when he sees you beginning to leave the party when his frat brother yells "if you're not a brother or fucking a brother, get out!" wc: 2.1k+ a/n: new au :))

It was getting late.

Not in the sense that you were tired, but you’d had your fun with your friends, all of whom were ready to leave, and the one person you were here to see kept on disappearing from your sight. You didn’t want to follow Peter around like a clingy situationship, so you focused on making the most of the party with the friends you had come with. But the boy dipped in and out of the house, switching between wrecking havoc with his friends and finding you inside.

Peter had stolen you away from your friends for a dance, pressing you up against him and moving his hips with yours. You had felt his smile against the skin of your neck, pressing the occasional kiss as you sang along to lyrics of the deafening music playing. You had spun in Peter’s hold, slinging your arms over his shoulders. Peter had leaned his head down, his nose brushing against yours, lips hovering over yours. Your breath had hitched then, and Peter had smiled widely, chuckling at your reaction, as though you’d never kissed before.

“Give me a kiss.” He had whispered, and you didn’t know how you heard him over all the noise in the house. Perhaps you had just read his lips and hoped he had said what you wanted to hear. But you pushed yourself up on your toes anyway and kissed him anyway. Peter’s hands came up to cup your cheeks, and just as you pulled tilted your head to deepen the passionate kiss, he had jumped away from you.

Blinking quickly, you took in the sight of one of Peter’s frat brothers, tightly clutching Peter’s shoulders. You hadn’t heard what he had said, but Peter had ducked his face down shyly, a hand trailing down to your waist as his friend continued speaking loudly to him. Peter tugged you closer to him, telling you “I’ll be back!” But he never returned.

Now, you were huddled with your friends in a corner, discussing the plans to return to one of your dorms and debrief the night. Luckily though, you didn’t have to discuss the situation any further, because suddenly, the music cut out and someone clambered on to a coffee table.

“Everybody listen up! If you’re not a brother, or fucking a brother, GET OUT!”

Your friends scoffed, and you could nearly hear the roll of their eyes. “Let’s go.” You told them, nodding towards the door. You took the hand offered to you, following the crowd out of the house. But as you approached the door, a hand curled around the wrist of your free arm, softly pulling to attract your attention.

Peter stood in the midst of the crowd, a confused look on his face. You felt your friends’s eyes on the two of you, exchanging glances behind your back. “Hey, where are you going?” Peter’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, the confusion clear on his face. Clearing your throat, you felt your face heat up at his question. Shrugging, you said “I don’t, we were just-“

“Didn’t you hear what he said?”

“I did, yeah. I just, I didn’t…”

Peter shifted his weight from one foot to the other, removing his hand from around your wrist. He swallowed thickly, throat bobbing. “You don’t want to stay?” Your eyes widened as you realised what this looked like; you escaping his party with your friends and averting all his questions.

“No, I-I mean, do you want me to stay?” You hated yourself for how small you sounded — how you were clearly seeking his approval. Peter smiled, nodding assuredly. “Yeah, I do. I want you to stay.” It was impossible for you not to smile at his words, or to feel insecure anymore. Chewing on your bottle lip, you turned over to face your friends, all of whom were expectantly looking at you.

“Okay, have fun.” One of them said, leading the others outside and ditching you with your… Peter. “Come here.” He mumbled, extending an arm towards you. You pushed past the bodies around you until you were close enough for Peter to wrap a muscular arm around your shoulders. He led you towards the emptying living room, keeping his gaze on you. Peter paused in the hallway, looking past you and towards his frat brothers lounged on the couches.

“Do you want to come up to my room? Or stay down here a little?” Wrapping an arm around Peter’s waist, you followed his gaze, eyes widening as the men in the living room broke into another fit of loud laughter. “Can we go to your room?”

“Yeah, of course baby.” You felt your face heat up at the pet name, letting Peter guide you up the set of familiar stairs. His hands lingered on your waist until the door to his room was shut.

“Thank you for letting me stay.” You said, voice quiet as you sat down in Peter’s bed. Peter followed you, standing in front of you. He cupped your cheek, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I wouldn’t want you anywhere else.” You attempted to bow your head down to avoid his gaze, but Peter’s hand was slipping to your chin and pushing your head up. When your eyes met his, he smiled, and you couldn’t help the way your lips tugged upwards in response.

“Do you want to take off your makeup? Matt’s girlfriend basically lives here, so he should have some wipes or something.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.” Peter’s hand dropped from your face and he scoffed disapprovingly, instantly turning around and walking out of the room. He left the door wide open behind him, so you saw as he trotted down the stairs, his shoes padding loudly on the wooden floor. You tapped your fingers on the fabric of your skirt, knee beginning to bounce nervously. When Peter returned up the stairs, he was accompanied by someone – tall with a head of thick black hair. He wore a navy blue polo shirt, and guided Peter into the room directly facing the one you were sat in. Matt lingered in the doorway of his bedroom when Peter returned to his own room, carrying a bottle of micellar water and cotton pads.

Matt caught your eye, putting a hand up and waving animatedly. “Hi y/n.” He said, drawing your name out in a sing song voice. “Hi Matt.” Unlike the other frat brothers, you were a little familiar with Matt, who had met you the very first time you’d entered this house. It was against your free will that you had met, but retrospectively, you were thankful for the familiar face. Peter twisted his torso, frowning at his housemate, who travelled across the hallway in a few steps, leaning against the doorway of Peter’s room. “So…” He started, waggling his eyebrows as he nodded towards Peter.

“Matt, go away, she doesn’t feel like talking to anyone.”

“No, that makes me sound so rude, Peter!”

“No, it’s alright, we get it. We’ll all be here tomorrow morning anyway, if you want to meet the others. Or not the others, just Meg. She really wants to meet you.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be sure to say hi to Megan if I see her.”

“Oh, she’ll make sure you see her tomorrow.”

“Okay, Matt. That’s enough.” Matt rolled his eyes, slapping a hand on the top of the doorway before walking down the stairs. Peter closed the door gently, moving to sit next to you on the bed. “Is this okay?” He asked, presenting you the items in his hands. “It’s more than okay, Pete. Thank you.”

Peter watched silently as you rubbed the cotton pad across your face, makeup smearing on your face. He leaned forward, dragging the trash can from under his bedside table towards you. You dropped the used cotton pads in the bin, running a hand across your face when it was finally clean. It felt odd for some reason – being so domestic with Peter when you were usually in and out of his room after a hook up, or a date that had never been labeled as one. Standing up slowly, you wobbled on your feet, forgetting about the heels you wore. Peter’s hand shot out, steadying your waist. “I’m going to wash my face, if that’s okay.”

Peter nodded, standing up. He kept his eye on you as you walked into the hallway, entering the bathroom. He walked over to his closet to find you a hoodie and sweatpants. When you returned, face still mildly damp and eyes tired, Peter was quick to wrap you in his arms again. He smiled as you melted against him, cheek pressed against his chest. The touch was nice and warm, and had you leaning into his body. “You tired?”

“M’yeah.” Peter chuckled, chest bubbling against your face. He pulled away slightly, but your arms kept him close to you. “Come on, just to get changed then we can cuddle.”

Cuddle. You barely ever cuddled, unless you were watching a movie, which led to inevitable sex. Peter steered you out of your small top and bra, guiding your face into the hole of his hoodie, followed by your arms into the sleeves. You wiggled out of your skirt, shaking your head when Peter offered you his sweatpants. He chuckled, folding them again. “Do you want some water?”

“Yes please. God, I can already feel the headache coming.”

“You sobered up?”

“Yeah. I didn’t get drunk, I think it’s just the noise. How do you feel?”

“Yeah, good. I didn’t drink much either, so I feel sharp.”

You grinned, accepting the metal bottle of water Peter offered you. It had a capital 'P' on the front, and wasn’t completely full, but you took two big gulps from it anyway, then offered it to Peter. “Sharp? Senses acute, Mr. Parker?”

“Yeah, exactly like that.” His smile disappeared behind the rim of the water bottle, and he took a long sip, sighing loudly in satisfaction when he swallowed. You climbed into Peter’s bed, settling under the covers. Peter undressed from his jeans and t-shirt, leaving them in a pile on the floor before reaching for the sweatpants he had just folded. He followed you into the bed, hands finding the curve of your waist and pulling you flush against his bare chest.

“Thank you for staying.” He whispered. You smiled softly, pushing yourself up on the bed so you could press your lips against his. Peter’s eyes fluttered shut as he relaxed into the kiss, pressing himself harder against you. He stroked his fingers against your cheek as his legs tangled with your bare ones under the sheets.

“I’m happy I did.” You finally said, settling back down on the pillow. Peter sighed, breaking eye contact for a brief moment and opening his mouth, as though to say something, then closing it again. “What’s wrong?”

Peter’s gaze snapped back up, and his mouth dipped open again, though no words came out. He looked around, gathering his thoughts before finally saying “I’ve really been enjoying our time together.” You froze, eyes hardening as you pushed yourself to sit up, the cautious tone Peter was using sending you into a panic. Peter followed your movements, twiddling with his thumbs as he continued, “But I don’t- I think we could, I could enjoy it more if I really understood the nature of our relationship.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, scanning Peter’s posture. His shoulders were slightly hunched, nerves clouding his eyes as he gathered his thoughts. “Pete? I don’t… I don’t understand.”

“Would you like to be my girlfriend? Officially?”

“Oh!” Peter’s chest deflated at your quiet gasp, and he nodded, as though you’d already rejected him. You reached out to place a hand on his thigh, attracting his gaze back up to your face. “Peter, I’d love to.”

“You would?” Peter grinned widely, a relieved sigh leaving him as you nodded, shuffling closer to him on the bed. Peter licked his lips, cupping your cheeks and leaning forward to kiss you quickly. You giggled, launching yourself onto Peter to hug him, arms settling around his waist. Peter laughed, kissing the top of your head and he laid back down on the bed. The room was silent for a long moment, the two of you holding each other lovingly.

“Do you want me to turn off the lights?” He asked quietly, but you shook your head softly. “I’m not really tired anymore.”

“Oh... Do you want to kiss for a little bit?

“Yeah.”

taglist: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @bxuzi, @rory-cakes, @dlljdhsh, @aouoo, @fandomhoe101

[sourkiki]

LOVE ME A ✨️Jealous hoonie✨️

ALBUM'S CONTENT: explicit mature content, established relationship, dom! 박성훈 x fem! reader, jealous! sunghoon, sunghoon's hella mean here, fingering, begging, edging 𖤐 1108... ᧔♡᧓ catalogue.

FROM PRODUCER:hye writing someone else other than riki?? how shocking!

Sunghoon is not a jealous man. 

At least, that’s what he likes to believe. You see, he has complete faith and trust in you. He has dated you long enough to know you’re not the kind of person to fool around, flirt with someone else. According to his friends, it’s hard for you to do that, even if you wanted to because Sunghoon’s always following you around, like a dog following its owner.

Wherever you go, one will be able to find him hot on your heels. Some find it cute. Some find it suffocating. You, on the other hand, find it downright amusing. 

Sunghoon is not a jealous man. But why does he feel something ugly crawling inside him as he watches from where he stood. He crossed his arms, watching with narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows at the sight of you engaged in a conversation with some…peasant. Someone who thought they had the chance to be with you. The thought itself was laughable, enough to make him roll his eyes. 

He had accompanied you to the party after you had pleaded with him for fifteen minutes straight. Sunghoon didn’t want to go in the first place, as he’d rather be at home, like the introvert he is. But he’s nothing more than just a man whose head over heels for you, which led him to his current situation. 

His jaw tightened as they had the audacity to lay their hand on your shoulder. You tried to politely tell them to remove their hand but they paid your words no mind. To add fuel to the fire, they even invaded your personal space, acting like he knows you when he doesn’t. Unable to take it anymore, Sunghoon pushes himself off the wall and approaches you, silently seething with rage as he gets closer. 

“Come on, we can get out of here. I don’t see that boyfriend of yours anywhere and he’s stupid to leave a pretty—” 

“Get your fucking hands off her.” 

You turned, shoulders sagging in relief to see your knight in shining armor coming to save you. Sunghoon was immediately by your side, one arm possessively wrapped around your waist, pulling you close until you’re pressed against his side. Shivers ran down your spine and heat pooled in the depth of your stomach at the fleeting sensation of him drawing circles on your skin, through the fabric of your skirt. 

Thankfully, the guy didn’t put up a fight and was quick to scurry away, with his invisible tail between his legs. Sunghoon rolled his eyes at the stranger’s cowardice and dragged you out of the venue, not giving you any chance to speak. 

“Sunghoon—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off, and you go silent at the coldness in his voice. 

He didn’t say another word the entire ride home but you could tell he was barely holding onto himself. The silence was filled with so much tension that one could practically slice it apart with a mere butter knife. Eventually, you arrived home and the moment you stepped foot into your apartment, Sunghoon was quick to pin you against the nearest wall surface. You let out a gasp, which was cut short when he crashed his lips against yours. 

Unlike the usual ways he kissed you, which was filled with nothing but pure love and adoration, this was him taking control of you. Dominating you. You couldn’t keep up with him, your lungs screaming from the lack of oxygen but there wasn’t room for you to make your escape. You whined into his mouth when he tugged your skirt and panties down, leaving them pooling around your ankles. You cried out his name as Sunghoon pushed two fingers into your pussy without warning. 

“Fuck, you’re already dripping wet. Was it because of him?” He snarled, jealousy evident in his voice. “Was he the one who made you like this?” 

You had to break the kiss, tilting your head up, hands scrambling to find something to grip onto but the only nearest thing was a wall behind you. “N-No!” You managed to squeak out, eyes rolling up as your boyfriend easily found your sensitive spot with just his fingers alone. 

You tried to tilt your hips forward so you could feel more of his fingers but you were stopped by Sunghoon tightening his grip on your waist. It was a silent warning. A warning where you knew too well. Your boyfriend chuckled at the needy look you gave him, hoping there was some part in him where he’s still kind enough to give you what you want. Instead, he pressed his thumb down on your pussy lips, savoring the way your legs spasmed. You would’ve fallen to the ground if he didn’t catch you in the nick of time. 

“Look at you, you’re dripping all over me. Don’t even need lube with how wet you are,” he murmured, purposely saying those crude words directly into your ear, knowing the effect they have on you. 

True enough, you tightened around his fingers as you shakily exhaled, shoulders trembling. “H-Hoonie.. please…wan’ you.” 

“How do you want me, sweetheart? Use your words and tell me,” he coos, moving his fingers in a scissor like motion, opening and preparing you for what’s to come. 

You couldn’t speak, not when you were this close to cumming. In a desperate attempt, you tried to push forward. Keyword: tried. Only for Sunghoon to rip his fingers out from your pussy. It didn’t matter how hard you clenched down on him, trying to prevent him from slipping out. You let out a disappointed whine, pawing at the front of his shirt but he wasn’t fazed. He’s not falling for your pitiful act. Not this time. 

Sunghoon used his clean hand to grab your face, forcing you to look at him. A twinge of satisfaction curled around him at the sight of your current state. To him, you looked divine despite your teary, dazed eyes and swollen, bruised lips. 

“Look at you, you’re already a mess when I barely did anything,” he chuckled, leaning in to brush his lips against your neck, savoring the way you whimpered. 

You blindly reached out, hands gripping onto his shirt. “Sunghoon, p-please…touch me.” 

You heard him sharply inhaled with how delicious his name sounds from you. Just when you thought you had him, your boyfriend pulled back, ignoring your poor attempts of holding him in place. You shivered at the sight of his dark, stormy eyes. 

“This is just the beginning, princess. I hope you’re prepared and by the time we’re done, you’ll only know how to scream my name.”

tags list: @chuhees, @byshens, @hoonstqr, @doucious, @emisluvr, @riqomi, @onlyywwon, @jjung-v.

[kilojulietsierra]

It Means Family (Dr. Jack Abbot x FemNurse!Reader) Oneshot

Based on this request from @pear-1206 : Jack Abbot x fem reader. She had a younger brother (you can give him a name if you want) who is a bit skeptical toward Jack since he's very protective of her. She had been his guardian since their parents died and he was practically being raised at the Pitt by everyone. Jack is friends with her and helps her with everything until their feelings change toward each other. He accepted Jack as his sister's bf but still held his opinion because he didn't want to see her hurt. After some time, Jack knew that he wanted to marry her and wanted her brother's permission. Maybe a series of attempts of Jack trying to gain it and the boy just messing up with him😆😆. Maybe after he's given it, she asks her brother to handoff her at her wedding. Maybe you can do it in two parts or just a long one shot. Either way, it's up to you. Suggestive, friend to lovers, kisses, etc. Ask me if anything. Tag me later!!! Thanks!!! :))? (I hope I did okay!)

~~~~~~

He had been there the night you got the call.

You wouldn't even have answered it, it had been a crazy night, but after the fifth time your phone vibrated in your pocket you got a sick feeling in your stomach.

You had dropped to the floor in the middle of the ED, your vision blurred, heart rate pounding in your ears. Blurred images of Lena and Ellis running your way, then Jack appeared.

Through your blurry vision and ringing ears you could almost see him, almost hear him saying your name. "Tell me what's wrong."

"They're gone..." It didn't sound like you talking, more like an echo, someone elses voice. "They're gone."

Then it was bereavement leave, a long flight to Honolulu, two coffins, a twenty one gun salute and a folded flag. A house on base you had 48 hours to pack up and clear out. A kid brother well over a decade younger than you that just had the whole world fall out from under him.

Night shift changed to day shift, late nights out with friends changed to school drop offs. Everything changed.

If you had worked anywhere else you weren't sure you would have made it through the first year. Lena, Dana, Bridget and Perlah, every one of them a Godsend. Without them, without Robby, and Cassie, Mateo, Princess, Frank and his wife, without them you would have drown under the weight of all of it.

You had loved night shift, but there was no way to keep that schedule and take care of your brother. You loved Robby, he was a great attending to work with, a great chief, but he wasn't Jack.

It didn't take long for you to start finding reasons to show up early if you could, or stay a little late, just to be on Jacks shift even for a few minutes. He never made a big deal about it, but he did always take the time to check in. If you were okay, if Marcus was doing ok, if you needed anything. "If either of you need anything, don't ever hesitate to ask. Okay?" There was no doubt in your mind that he meant it.

~~~~~~

"Did it hurt?"

"Yeah bud, it hurt. Still does some days." Jack had his pantleg pulled up and Marcus was staring intently at the titanium and fiberglass that made up Jack's prosthesis.

"Marcus!" You hissed at him across the counter.

"He's fine." Jack had turned to look at you over his shoulder with a smile, "Just curious. Nothing wrong with that."

"Sissy, have you seen Dr Jacks fake leg?" Your little brother looked up at you from his seat on the floor, eyes wide.

You had to try not to flush from the embarrassment, "Yeah Marc, I've seen it. It's called a prosthesis though, not a fake leg. Okay?"

Your brother nodded, fumbled over the word, "Prosthesis." He nodded again, "Can I touch it."

"Marcus!" You thought you'd drop dead.

Jack just busted out in a laugh.

"Go grab your stuff out of the breakroom, please." You pointed towards the door, "We need to go." Once Marcus was gone you through a pleading look at Jack, "Dr Aboot, I am so sorry."

He stood up, shook his head with a smile, "Don't be, he's fine. Just wants to know how stuff works is all."

You gave him an apologetic smile and changed the subject, "How's night shift been?"

"We get by, not the same without you though."

"Oh I'm sure." You laughed it off but it spiked your heart rate none the less.

~~~~~

It had felt silly at first. The little crush you had always harbored for Dr. Abbot. Not in any gross or even serious way really. Just... appreciation.

You thought that it would fade after everything and with the switch to days, but instead it seemed to have magnified it. Every moment no matter how brief now had your stomach spinning and your heart racing. You lived for the little moments between shifts and had finally started to admit to yourself that you had started to seek them out. Not just to visit, to catch up with your old team mates, but because it felt good. Exilerhating.

That particular night though, you hadn't meant to see Jack. Honestly you hadn't wanted to see anyone. You had parked yourself on a bench outside the ER, grateful at first that Dana had let you slip out a little early. Then the heaviness had settled over you.

Abbot had seen you, stood and watched for a moment from the ambulance bay before heading towards you. He approached cautiously and his voice was soft, "Hey, everything okay?"

Your stomach dropped. Embarrasment, guilt, something else. "Yeah, yeah, just... needed a minute I guess."

He stared at you. Nothing new. Then he glanced at his watch and the hospital then back to you. His bag thudded on the sidewalk and he groaned softly as he settled into the bench beside you. "Want to try that again? More convincing this time?"

The laugh tasted sour, "Everything's totally fine!" You hadn't realized you had felt like crying until just then.

Jack nodded, a slim smirk at your attempt. "Where's Marcus?"

"Perlah's mom picked him up and took them over for a sleepover."

He nodded again, "That's good. Boys'll have fun."

You nodded in return and swiped at your eyes. "He talked about it all night last night, all morning."

Jack leaned his elbows on his knees and turned to try and catch your eye. "So, want to tell me what's going on?"

"I don't..." You choked out another laugh, "I would if I knew. I don't even know. How stupid is that? I just feel..."

"Exhausted? Alone? Like maybe you don't want to go home to an empty house?"

You turned to look at him so fast it made him chuckle.

"I recognize that look. I know it well."

"How stupid is that?"

"Not at all."

You were both quiet for a long moment before you added, "I don't know how I ended up here. I don't know what I'm doing. I just..."

"You're doing great. Marcus is a good kid. Just need to take care of yourself too." Jack finished for you with an encouraging grin. "Go home and enjoy your night off. Drink too much, watch trashy TV, stay up late." He smiled a little wider at your chuckle. "Or go do something, go out while you have the chance."

You laughed again, harsh and still a little rough, "Go out? You're funny."

Jack grinned a little wider, "Well then go home, enjoy your night off." He stood up and grabbed his bag and then grabbed yours too. He held it out to you and used your grip on the bag to pull you to your feet. Once you finally looked him in the eye, still fighting back the tears, his smile softened slgihtly. There was something else behind it though.

"Next time you have the night to yourself, I'll take you out."

The expression on his face never changed, he just held your gaze, nodded after a moment and then gave you a quick wink before turning away and heading into the ED.

For several long moments you stood there, watching Dr Abbot walk across the street, totally taken off guard.

~~~~~

Before dinner with Jack you thought were going to have a panic attack. You'd paced your apartment, made Marcus and the sitter both stare at you oddly, came up with a dozen excuses to cancel. You only came up with one reason to follow through though; you really, really wanted to.

After dinner with Jack you couldn't even begin to remember any of the reasons you had panicked. When he stopped you a few feet short of your door and pulled you into a kiss you thought you were going to pass out. Your head spun so fast all you could do was hold onto him and hope he could keep you on your feet. Of course he did, strong arms holding you close and keeping you steady. He chuckled against your lips when a little moan escaped and you flushed with embarrassment as he pulled away to look at you.

"Not gonna lie, I've wanted to do that for a long time." He cracked a smile and studied your face as his hands smoothed over your waist.

When you could think straight you nodded, eyes stuck on his lips, "You should have done it sooner."

Jack chuckled again as he settled his lips back over yours and walked you the last few feet to your door. "I'll make it up to you, if you let me."

You moaned again and your grip on his shoulders tightened. You glanced over your shoulder at the door, conflicted, but Jack grabbed your chin and pulled you back to look at him.

He gave you a quick kiss and shook his head, "Not tonight hon." Another longer kiss, and he kept his voice low, "He's gonna have a bunch of questions if I walk in there right now."

"He always has a bunch of questions." You laugh and lean your forehead against his shoulder.

Jack wraps his arms around you fully and chuckles, breath warm against your ear. "Yes he does." He dropped a kiss there, and then selfishly dropped a longer, heated one against the side of your neck. Not pulling away until you shivered and pushed him back. Eye to eye again he gave you that look, the one you knew and loved so well, "We'll figure it out."

You nodded, smiling, heart racing, "Yeah we will."

~~~~~

"How old are you?"

"So old."

"Have you seen Lilo & Stitch?"

"I have not."

"Would you let me have a pet alien?"

"That would depend on the alien I guess."

"We lived in Hawaii. Have you been to Hawaii?"

"Once, while I was in the Army. I've even been to the base your Dad was stationed out of."

"Did you see his boat!?"

"I'm not sure, bud."

"Are you missing any other body parts?"

"Just the leg?"

"Are you a vampire?"

"Would I be out in the middle of the day if I was?"

"Can you make cheeseburgers?"

"Awesome cheeseburgers."

"Have you ever had an actual girlfriend before?"

"Yeah bud, I've had a girlfriend before."

"Have you and Sissy kissed?"

"Yes, your sister and I have kissed. More than once."

"Was it gross?"

"Not even a little bit." Jack was enjoying himself way too much as Marcus bombarded him with questions from the backseat of the truck. More specifically Jack was enjoying the way you were slumped against the window hiding your face in your hand trying not to laugh or cry.

"Marcus, I think that's enough questions." You gave Jack a pleading look, silently begging him to shut it down.

"Dr. Jack said I could ask anything I wanted."

Jack smirked at you, eyes hiding behind dark sunglasses, but you knew they were shining with glee at your suffering. "He's right, that's what I said."

"Are you going to make me eat vegetables?"

"Does Sissy make you eat vegetables?"

"Yes." Marcus mumbled.

"Then yes, I'm gonna make you eat your vegetables." Jack reached across the console and grabbed your hand. He gave it squeeze when you finally looked his way you couldn't help but smile. Jack looked over his shoulder at your little brother, "So, when do I get to start asking questions?"

"That's not fair!"

"Oh yes it is and I think it's miy turn."

~

Jack was sitting at your kitchen counter watching you make a cup of coffee, still half asleep. "What's Marcus up to today?"

You sipped the coffee while it was still hot enough to burn, "Perlah took the boys to some action park thing they just built on her end of town, gokarts, mini golf, all that."

"Should be fun. What's that gonna cost you?" Jack smirked, content to watch you wake up and sip your coffee.

"Five shifts in a row. So, they can take a long weekend." You pushed off the counter and came around like you were going to sit in the stool next to Jack.

Instead he grabbed you gently by the hips and pulled you to him, settling you between his legs with his arms around you. "You sure you don't want me to leave you alone? You can just relax today if you need to."

You let out a grumble, the meaning of it not entirely clear, but the way your weight sunk into him Jack took it to mean he should stay right where he was. It feels good to hold you like this. Head on his shoulder, face buried in his neck, and all of your weight against him with no doubt he would hold you up. "Don't know why I'm so tired," You mumbled into his neck, "Feel like I'm the one that worked last night."

Jack squeezed you tighter, "Why don't you go lay down? No reason you can't be lazy for awhile."

You grumble again, your coffee cup gets set on the counter and then you quietly ask, "Come lay down with me?"

For a second Jack froze, a dozen thoughts racing through his mind. He moved his hands back to your hips and just as quietly he whispered into your hair, "Can do that if you want." He dropped a kiss on the crown of your head and had to bite back a smile when you nodded against his shoulder. "Okay, c'mon."

Before you could stand up straight Jack had a hold of the backs of your thighs and hoisted you up to carry you down the hall. Your arms and legs wrapped around him tight and he was pleasantly surprised when you didn't act surprised, didn't argue or give him a hard time. Just let him carry you to bed.

~~~~~

A few hours later you woke up, warm and comfortable, one of Jacks arms under your head like a pillow and the other wrapped around your middle. When you sighed and shifted deeper into his hold, the arm around you tightened and you felt him press a kiss to the back of your head.

"What time is Marcus going to be back?" He sounded like maybe he had nodded off for a bit as well, his voice rough and raw.

"After lunch sometime. Sent them money for pizza." You couldn't bring yourself to open your eyes. Didn't want to do anything that meant you would have to get out of bed yet. Not when Jack was there with you, finally.

He nuzzled into the back of your hair and kissed you again, "Ready to get up?"

You shook your head and shuffled back, just a little closer to Jack, eyes still closed. "Aren't you normally asleep by now?"

Jack just hummed, spread his one hand wide over your torso, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your shirt. "Took a nice nap." His breath was warm and suddenly directly beside your ear. When you shivered and moved to shift your hips back, his hand moved from your stomach to your hip and clamped down, stopping you. "Stay right there." His grip softened, but his hand stayed put.

In an instant your heart began to race, "Why?"

"Because we're cuddling, and it's nice."

You bit your lip, hearing Dr Jack Abbot say 'cuddle' nearly making you giggle. "Feels good."

Behind you Jack chuckled, something a little extra behind it. "Yeah it does." He chuckled again when you tried to move, "Hon, I said stay there."

When the thought finally occurred to you you chuckled with him, "Dr. Abbot, is something wrong?" "

Jesus." His hand on your hip squeezed harder than he'd ever gripped you, "Yes and that's not fucking helping." Jack let out a painful groan when you freed your hand from your blankets to pry his fingers lose from your hip. Not that you had to try very hard, he let you move him easily, pull his arm back around you again and finally shift your hips back flush with his. "Jesus Christ." He breathed out as both his arms caged you against him.

A shudder ran down your spine, his breath against you neck, his lips, the muscles in his arms and chest flexing as he held you tight and the shameless way he caved in ground his erection against your ass. Another giggle escaped you, this one breathy and unsteady.

"Happy now?" Jack teased as his kissed the back of your neck.

"Yes." You shifted back against him again, testing the waters, and smiling when his breath rushed out him. "What time is it?"

He twisted the arm under you so he could see his watch, "Little after ten."

You took a deep breath, building up the courage, your desire doing a lot of the work for you, "I'm not tired anymore."

Jack had always known you too well, and you were so grateful for that because that was all you had to say for him to snap. His hands moved exactly where he wanted them as he coaxed you to turn your head to kiss him. If the kiss hadn't knocked the wind out of you already his words would have.

"You're gonna be."

~~~~

Jack was still there when Marcus came home, changed from his scrubs into the spare jeans and shirt he kept in his backpack. He'd stayed out of sight while Perlah and you chatted by the door, neither of you quite ready for that round of questioning just yet. Or the dozens that would follow.

Your heart did a little flip in your chest when Marcus lit up upon realizing Jack was there. Your brother immediately began to explain in excruciating detail all the excitement of the adventure park and Jack seemed more than content to listen.

You watched from the kitchen, hair still wet from the shower you had taken after spending the last couple hours of your morning in bed with Jack. Your heart flipped again when you heard Marcus ask, "What are you doing here anyway?" No filter, your brother still had no filter.

Jack threw you a look and the tiniest smirk before he answered, "Came by to see your sister after work. Thought maybe I'd hang out here today and we could go out to eat later. Sound okay?"

"Yeah! Can we go to that steak place again?"

"Marc, we don't need to go someplace quite that nice."

"Why not?" He looked at you a little put out.

Jack turned to look at you again, barely holding back a full on smirk, "Yeah hon, why not?."

You knew your face had betrayed your thoughts, because that smug asshole smiled, actually smiled. "Because it's pricey" You snark back at him even as he makes his way around the counter to come stand behind you.

He sets his hands on your hips and pulls you close, "So?" He pries. Then quieter, just for you he adds, "We're celebrating."

"Stop it." You hissed at him, a flush creeping up your neck. You did your best to ignore the feel of him chuckling behind you and turned your attention back to your brother, "We aren't going anywhere until you finish your homework anyway."

"SIssy… It's Saturday." He dropped himself onto the couch dramatically.

"And we made a deal that you could go this morning and have fun if you promised to finish your homework this afternoon."

"But Dr Jack is here, we can go do fun stuff!"

Jack must have felt your deep sigh because he held you a little tighter and kissed the back of your head. He whispered, "If he get's it done can I take you guys to dinner?"

You hummed in thought and dropped your head back against his shoulder, "Ok Marc, how about you get all your work done, and then maybe we can all go to Saltfork for dinner? Seem fair?"

"Can I have the brownie skillet thing!?" He launched back up off the couch with wide eyes.

Behind you Jack full out laughed and all you could do was pinch the bridge of your nose, "We'll see."

He did a little touchdown dance in the middle of the living room and then sprinted to his room.

Once you were alone Jack turned you around and pulled you closer. Stared into your eyes, smirk still firmly on his face.

"You don't have to bribe him to like you, you know? You're like the coolest person he knows." You wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your face in his shoulder.

"Maybe I just like spoiling you both a little. Ever think of that?" His one hand slid down to cup your ass and squeeze. "Plus, like I said, we're celebrating." He snorted when you bit his chest through his t-shirt.

"Stop being so smug or it's not going to happen again." You mumbled.

Jack smirked, slipped his hand up and under the back of your shirt, warm against your bare skin, "So, you do want it to happen again?"

For a minute your embarrassment kept you silent, but you nodded and spoke into his shirt, "As often as possible."

That must have made him happy because Jack didn't say anything. He simply tipped your face up to his and kissed you. Deep, long, slow kisses that made your pulse skyrocket.

"Eww. Dr. Jack will you help me with my homework?" Marcus had reappeared.

Jack gave you one last kiss and a wink before he pulled back, "Yeah bud, what d'ya got?" He gave your hip a squeeze and then followed after Marcus as the boy ran back into his room.

~~~~~

"Is Jack going to move in?" Marcus asked one night while it was just the two of you eating dinner in the living room, watching Lilo & Stich. A treat for the both of you, acting like bums after a long week and watching a favorite movie. Even if Marcus swore it was for little kids. Never mind he knew it word for word and had watched it a thousand times.

"Jack has his own house Marc, he owns it. He's not going to move into an apartment with us." You fought down the nerves already spinning in your stomach.

"He's here a lot and normally, if you two had been together this long, you'd be living together. Right?" Marcus was a teenager now and you kind of sort of hated it. Raising your little brother was one thing, quote unquote raising your teenage brother was another game entirely.

Jack had been in Marcus's life for years now in one way or another. First as a friend of yours, then as your boyfriend, now it was clear that Jack Abbot was playing a big part in the young man your brother was becoming.

"Maybe." You pause to sip your drink, buy yourself time, "It's not always that simple though."

Your brother is quiet for a minute, watches the movie and shoves a handful of fries in his mouth. "So, are we going to move in with him?"

A week later he had asked Jack the same question. You had to work so Jack had gone to Marc's baseball game on his own. After the game they'd gone through the drivethru for food and while they waited Marc asked, "Would you want Sissy to live with you?"

Jack had a hell of a poker face, but he still nearly let it slip at that. "What do you mean?"

"If It was just you and her? You'd want to live together right?"

"Where's this coming from?"

"Just curious."

Jack thought for a minute, let the truck roll a few more feet ahead in the line. "Would you want to live with me?" He turned the question on the boy.

Marcus stared out the window, "I'd think it'd be kinda cool I guess."

"Don't think it would be weird?" Jack found himself getting his hopes up.

"Do you know how many times I have to explain to people you're not my Dad, you're my sisters boyfriend? It's already weird."

He couldn't help but laugh. Jack nodded a couple of times, "Fair enough."

~~~~~

In the middle of Jacks living room surrounded by storage totes you stood up to catch your breath and squint across the room at Jack, "Do you ever feel like we've been manipulated by a thirteen year old boy that just wanted a bigger bedroom?"

"Not a doubt in my mind." Jack laughs as he sets another tote down. "But," He closes the distance between the two of you and grabs your hips. Pulling you to him by the waistband of your shorts, "Jokes on him, I'm the one getting what I wanted all along."

You let him kiss you, enjoyed the butterflies in your stomach from making out in the middle of the house that would be your house now, not just his. Then you pulled away, "Have you ever lived with a teenage boy? You might regret this."

"I've lived in barracks." He pulls you back to him with a grin, "I've lived in a canvas tent in the middle of the desert, with twenty other dudes barely old enough to drink with no showers and eating MREs for three meals a day." You grinned along with him, while he made his point. "Think I can handle one thirteen year old boy." He sobered a little, eyes scanning your face, "Especially if it means I get you here in bed with me." Jack kissed you again, intention behind it this time as his fingers traced the waistband of your cutoffs.

When his fingers settled on the button you couldn't help but giggle against his lips, "Supposed to be unpacking." You still let your arms wrap around his shoulders, fingers combing through the curls at the nape of his neck.

"You're very distracting." He dropped his gaze down to his hands as they popped the button, "Especially in these fucking shorts." His fingers moved to the zipper, pulling it open so slowly.

"So I should probably get rid of them?" You teased, but it came out breathless and jittery as he walked you back towards the couch.

Jack bobbed his head to the side as he moved to kiss you again, "No, but you should definitly take them off."

~~~~~

The number of times you watched Jack over the years, sit down with Marc and talk about anything and everything. Talk through the loss of your parents, missing out on sports team tryouts, girl troubles, trouble with friends, life in general. From the time he was a young boy and barely knew Jack beyond Dr. Jack, Sissy's friend, Marcus had always seemed to see Jack as a source of knowledge and little to no judgement.

Bad behavior that sent you up the wall was nothing to Jack. A simple conversation or at worst a hard look and it was handled. To the point that you wondered what you would have done without him if it had just been you and Marcus.

Then one night while you were out with friends, something you were finally able to do again, Jack got a call. He nearly didn't answer, because he didn't recognize the number, but he was glad he did.

He didn't speak for a long while when he entered the hallway where Marc and his three friends were sat. He simply stared them all down. When he did finally break the silence, it wasn't the sisters boyfriend Jack that spoke. It was former Army NCO Jack Abbot, Dr Jack Abbot. Stone faced he simply said, "Explain."

To Marc's credit he stood up straight, looked Jack in the eye and told the truth. Something that went a long way.

Jack took him home, the drive long and painfully quiet, and when they got home he sat him down at the kitchen to wait for you to come home.

In bed that night you had stared at the ceiling. "At least it was just a gummy. RIght? And it came from a store."

Jack grumbled next to you. You both had lectured him on how dangerous it was to take any substance when you didn't know what it was for sure or where it had come from. Anyone could say they got it from a friend of a friend that was old enough. "He's a good kid, hon. He's smart. He told the truth and that's what matters I think. Just did a dumb teenager thing."

"Thank you for going and getting him."

"Of course."

You moved closer and cuddled into him, "I'm glad he has you."

~~~~~

One morning later that summer you were getting ready for work, watching Jack in the mirror as he slipped on his running blade.

Like always Jack sensed you, knew what you were thinking before you could say it out loud. "Coach told Marc if he wanted to make JV next year he needs to work harder." He stood up and shifted his weight back and forth on the specialized prosthesis. "So, he wants to start working out with me this summer." Jack came up behind you, eyes locked on yours in the mirror. "We'll see how he feels after today."

"Is it weird I think it's kinda sexy when you put that thing on?" You chuckled as he grabbed your hips.

"Yeah, it's weird." He dropped a kiss to the side of your neck, "I like weird though." You elbow him in the side and he only laughs, smacks your ass, "Have a good day, baby."

While he and Marcus jog around the neighborhood Jack can't help but let his mind wander. Half of him paying attention to Marcus talking about being able to take his driving test soon, and that he would need a car. The other half of his mind though, was occupied with a different conversation he needed to have with your brother.

Jack was a little ashamed to admit it took him the whole three miles to build up the guts to do it. They were walking down the street towards the house, cooling off. "Marc, I want to ask you something."

Your brother was still more than a little winded from the run, which honestly made jack feels a little better about himself, "Okay."

"How would you feel if your sister and I got married?" Just get it over with.

Marcus didn't answer right away, when he did it caught Jack off guard. "Why?"

"What do you mean why? Because we love each other, been together for years, because I want to."

"No, I mean," Marcus sucked in a deep breath, "Like, why now? You said it, you guys have been together for like ever."

Jack rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses, had to remind himself that to Marcus it was forever. Nearly half the boys life Jack and you had been together by that point. "Honestly bud, you're old enough now that her life doesn't revolve around you like it used to." Jack had always made a point in his relationship with your brother to be as upfront as possible. "You're older now, more mature. When you were a kid I didn't want to get in the way of you and her. That was more important." He didn't know if that made sense at all, to anyone but him.

Marc nodded as they crossed a street and after a few minutes he finally responded, "Is it alright if I don't know how I feel?"

"Of course it is." Jack stopped at the corner, knew that Marcus would follow his lead, "I love your sister, think you know that, and I love you too. It's important to me that you'd be okay with it."

"So, have you already asked her to marry you or something?"

He shook his head, "No, not yet. I wanted to talk to you first. Man to man."

Marcus nodded, "Nothing... nothing would really change right?"

Jack could see that kid in him then, the one that had once upon a time had the whole world ripped out from under him. "Not really. She might take my last name, that would be about it. It'll be easier for her to get my benefits and everything if something happened, but no, life will be pretty much the same."

"If you couldn't marry her? Are you going to get pissed?"

"Don't say pissed, especially around your sister. We'll both get in trouble. No bud, if she doesn't want it I'm not going anywhere."

"So, is this like, if our Dad was alive and you were going to ask for his permission to marry Sissy or something?"

Jack laughed, "Not quite, but sure you can think of it that way if you want."

"What if I said no?"

There was something in the kids eyes that Jack recognized all too well. "Then we're turning around and doing another three miles." Jack shoved him jokingly, "So, don't get a big head."

Marcus laughed as he caught his balance, "I don't know how I really feel about it I guess," He started as the two of them kept walking, "But, I think it would make her happy."

Jack didn't expect the stab of emotion in his chest. "Well, then how about you think on it and we can talk about it again later?"

It took Marc less than 24 hours to come back and tell Jack he thought it would be a good idea and then threaten him that if he broke your heart Jack would have him to deal with. Jack had laughed but nodded, "Understood."

~~~~~~

You had cried when Jack proposed to you, but now you could not quit smiling. Sprawled across his chest you stared at your hand in front of you, the diamond he had put on your finger, smiling.

Jack had one arm behind his head, but his other hand was drawing lazy patterns over your bare back, perfectly content to watch you in that moment. "Maybe I should have asked sooner."

Your eyes snapped back to his, "No, this is perfect." You moved to crawl up to meet him, kiss him, humming happily at the feeling of his two rough, warm hands settling low on your hips and then smoothing up your sides, over your back.

"Yeah?" He asked quietly, lips brushing over yours as he looked up at you, watching you intently.

"Perfect." You lowered more of your weight over him and he wrapped his arms around you, kissed you deeper. "Everything is perfect." You moaned when his hands moved back to your hips, pulling you straddle him. "I'm so happy Jack, you've always made me happy."

Jack nodded, cradled the back of your head and spoke directly against your lips, "Good. That's all I want hon," He paused to kiss you, the love and the meaning behind it bone deep, "Just want to make you happy."

You lost yourselves in it for a moment, kissing and touching eachother, both of you coming to terms with the knowledge that this would be the rest of your life. Jack was finally, officially, going to be a part of your tiny, broken little family. The missing piece that had brought it all together.

Suddenly you laughed, unable to stop it.

Jack grumbled, fingers dug into your hips, "Something funny?"

"I'm sorry." You kissed him, traced his tongue with yours in apology, "I just thought of something."

"Oh yeah?" Jacks eyes were laser focused as you sat up, still straddling his hips, your hands coming to rest on his torso. He let his hands slid down your thighs to rest, "Want to share?"

You bit your lip, "It's slly."

Jack just stared up at you, waiting. "Ohana."

Jack watched you, gently shook his head to say he wasn't tracking.

"Lilo & Stitch?"

Jack furrowed his brow, then shook his head, still confused. Marcus had forced him to watch the with him plenty of times when he was younger. Even still Jack would find the two of you on the couch watching the kids movie. He hadn't really put much thought into it.

"It's us." You shrugged and looked away for a second, "We watched it once, I'd only had Marcus with me for maybe... a month, if even, and I had no idea what to do so we watched movies. Like all the time." You nodded to yourself at the memories, your fingers absently tracing over the lines of muscle and a few scattered scars over Jacks chest and abdomen. "He said one day, ' Sissy! it's us.' and it is. A lost, sad, lonley, little kid, and an older sister just trying to do her best, but has no fucking clue what she's doing. Just trying to do what she can after their parents died. It's even set in Hawaii." You snorted out a laugh, "It's stupid but it was nice at the time, to see that, for both of us I think." You took a deep breath and smiled down at him.

"It means family?" Jack finally nodded, understanding he thought, his hold on you tightening, "It's little and broken, but still good, right? That's what they say?"

You nod, eyes burning again. Jack watches you, his eyes taking in all of you and then the corner of his mouth ticks up, "Does that make me the surfer dude boyfriend? WIth the muscles and the floppy hair that follows her around like a kicked puppy?"

The laugh rips out of you before you can stop it and you smack him across the chest, "I think it does." You're smiling like an idiot again as you stroke your hands over his strong core and chest, trace your fingers over the corded muscles in his arms and then you lean down. One hand combing through the graying curls you loved and your lips brushing over his. "Technically fiance."

~~~~~

It felt strange to be back in Hawaii. The last time you were here was for your parents funeral. So many emotions. You had woke up early, your internal clock messed up, but it gave you an excuse to sit and watch the sky light up over the early morning breakers. Your heart skipped a beat when Jacks arms wrapped around you from behind, his lips brushing over the side of your neck. You dropped your weight back into him, happy to feel him take it easily, keep you standing like he'd always done.

"Second thoughts?" He whispered against your ear, arms wrapped tight around you.

"Not a chance. You're stuck now, no getting out of it."

Jack hummed, a hint of a laugh in it, "Damn." His lips moved down your neck, over your shoulder. He didn't have to see you to know you had rolled your eyes. "Don't have to be up for a long time yet, hon." His hands moved to slip beneath the shirt you had worn to bed.

"Are you telling me to come back to bed?" You couldn't help but smile as you dropped your head back against his shoulder, let yourself enjoy the moment.

"Asking nicely." He chuckled into the side of your neck, "For now.'

"Well," You started, turned in his arms, "Since you asked nicely." You wrapped your arms around Jacks neck and kissed him as you let him take you back to bed.

For a few more hours anyway.

Then he was waiting for you, looking so calm and confident, smiling at you while your heart felt like it was going to rip out of your chest.

Beside you Marcus gave your arm a squeeze, and then he gave you an easy smile. His eyes locked on yours and unwavering. God, there was so much of Jack in him now. The way your brother stood, the way he carried himself, the confidence and certainty on his face as the seventeen year old boy stood in for your father, ready to walk you across the beach and up to the alter.

There had been a time, after that phonecall that had brought you to your knees in the middle of the ED, that you thought your life was over. Far from it you realized, It was just beginning. Sure, maybe your PTMC family was going to be a little annoyed with you when you get back from your "family vacation" and find out you and Jack had eloped, but they'd forgive you. Eventually.

~~ The End ~~