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buckysleftbicep · 1 month ago

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what's left behind 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, soft smut, unprotected sex, lots of vulnerability, angst, arguments

summary: after finding out bucky’s leaving on another mission without telling you, everything falls apart. the argument is brutal, but that night, he comes back to hold you. just once more. maybe for the last time.

word count: 3.6k

author's note: hi loves, i hope you enjoy this fic, thank you for stopping by! i love ya and stay safe out there!

requests are open!

The training room pulsed with familiar noise, the heavy thud of gloves against bags, low music crackling from the corner speaker, the distant echo of Alexei's grunts as Yelena dodged and countered with practiced ease. You were seated near the mats, crouched low to tighten your bootlaces, half-listening as Ava adjusted the wraps on her wrists beside you.

Then came John. He wandered over with a towel slung around his neck and a water bottle in hand.

“Man,” he said with a half-laugh, “Barnes really got the short end of the stick this time, huh?”

You didn’t look up. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugged, grinning like it was just another joke. “Val’s sending him to Prague for that off-the-books recon shit. Solo op, no backup. Tonight, I think. Hope he’s got his will written.”

The blood drained from your face.

“What did you say?”

John blinked, caught off guard. “What? I figured you—”

Yelena’s head snapped toward him mid-spar. “John,” she barked, sharp as a blade. Her gloves dropped to the mat with a thud as she stalked over, face thunderous. “sometimes you should shut up"

But the damage was done. You were already rising, the laces on your boots forgotten, breath stuck somewhere between your ribs and throat.

“What mission?” you asked, voice brittle.

Yelena slowed as she approached, expression softening the second she really looked at you. “Shit,” she muttered, shoulders slumping. “He didn’t tell you.”

Your stomach turned. Ice spread through your limbs like a warning.

“No,” you whispered.

The room began to distort—muffled punches, shifting feet, the faint ring of metal-on-metal—all of it warped around the sudden roar in your head. You looked at Yelena, waiting for her to laugh it off, say she got the timing wrong, that it wasn’t a big deal.

She didn’t.

“It’s just recon,” she offered weakly. “Val briefed him this morning. Probably nothing.”

“And all of you knew?” you asked softly.

No one said it out loud, but the looks on their faces answered for them. Yelena's hesitation, Ava's downcast eyes, John's wince—it was written in the silence, heavy and unspoken.

“Then why didn’t he tell me?” The words were low, almost strangled. No one answered.

John had the decency to look like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, guilt crawling over his features. "Maybe he just... didn’t want you to worry," he offered quietly, voice far too late and far too unsure.

You had heard that sentence one too many times. The last few instances Val had pulled him for something like this, he came back a mess, bloodied and bruised.

Once, he was rushed straight to the med wing in the middle of the night, unconscious, soaked in blood that wasn’t all his. And even then, he hadn’t been alone. John had been there, Ava too as his backup

But this time? This time he was going alone.

Alexei, still leaning against the ropes, huffed and shook his head. "Barnes is idiot," he muttered.

Ava moved like she might say something, lips parting slightly, then thought better of it. Yelena didn’t look away, she just watched you with something that looked too much like sympathy.

You stood there in the stunned quiet, heart crawling its way up your throat.

You inhaled sharply, blinked hard, and turned for the door.

“Where are you going?” Yelena asked, her voice soft now.

“I need to find him.”

You didn’t wait for a reply.

The doors slid shut behind you as you stepped into the corridor, every footfall too fast, too loud. The air outside the training room was cold, sterile, and it did nothing to cool the heat rising in your chest, that bitter, crawling ache you only ever felt when he shut you out.

He didn't even bother telling you.

Not even a word. Not at breakfast. Not when he kissed your forehead half-asleep last night. Not when he curled around you, hand resting warm on your hip like he always did when he didn’t want to talk about what was coming.

He was going to leave. Again. No note. No warning. You’d have woken up alone, found his side of the bed cold and empty, and the duffel gone.

Without telling you.

He came back around six that evening.

The door creaked open with that soft, careful click, the one he always used when he thought you might be sleeping. Like if he was quiet enough, you wouldn’t notice the weight he was carrying. Like he could still pretend this wasn’t about to break you.

You were already sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows braced against your thighs, hands clenched so tight your knuckles were bone-white. You heard the soft rustle of fabric as he stepped inside.

The quiet thud of his boots. He smelled like sweat and cold air and hotel soap, still damp from the showers downstairs, hair curling faintly at the ends. The black tactical shirt clung to his frame, soaked down the spine. He moved like nothing was wrong.

He set his gloves on the dresser. Dropped his bag near the closet. Reached for the strap of his holster.

“When were you going to tell me?”

His hands stopped moving. He turned slowly, eyes cautious, like he already knew.

“It’s just recon,” he said, voice steady in that way he used when he knew you were about to snap. “In and out.”

You rose to your feet. “Don’t do that,” you said, voice shaking. “Don’t stand there and lie to my face like it’s not another off-the-books op with no support. Don’t act like Val doesn’t send you to bleed for her."

He exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched. “I wasn’t lying.”

“You weren’t telling the truth either,” you said. “You weren’t going to tell me anything. You were going to disappear. Again.”

He stepped back, defensive. “I was going to tell you—”

“When?” you cut in, voice cracking. “When I woke up to an empty bed and your fucking dog tags gone?”

His mouth opened. Closed. He ran a hand through his hair like he could smooth out the mess he made with silence. “I didn’t want you to panic.”

“Bullshit,” you hissed. “You didn’t want to see me panic. You didn’t want to watch me fall apart because you would rather carry everything alone and pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

His tone sharpened. “You think this doesn’t kill me too? You think I want to leave you? That I don’t lie awake every time I get called and wonder if it’s the last time I’ll see you?”

“Then why do you keep letting them take you?” you cried. “Why do you keep letting her use you like you’re expendable?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed, teeth grinding. “Because she doesn’t ask. She corners me. Hands me a file and reminds me what happens if I say no.”

“That’s not an excuse,” you snapped, eyes glassy as tears threatened to spill.

“No,” he bit out, “it’s not. But it’s the truth. You think I get to walk away? Say, ‘Sorry, Val, not this time’? She doesn’t care. She reminds me what I was built for. What I’m good at.”

“You’re good at surviving,” you shot back, breath catching. “And all you’ve done lately is survive. Bleed for people who don’t care if you make it home and you let it happen.”

He turned away, pacing like the walls were shrinking around him. “If I don’t go, someone else does. Someone who won’t make it back.”

“So that’s it?” you said, voice rising. “You martyr yourself over and over again and I’m just supposed to sit here and watch?”

“I’m not a fucking martyr!” he exploded, voice cracking. “I don’t sleep. I don’t breathe when I’m not out there. I come back in pieces and pretend I’m fine because I don’t want to see that look in your eyes.”

“You don’t want to see me scared?” you asked, furious tears spilling freely now. “Then stop giving me reasons to be fucking terrified.”

He stopped. Breathing hard. Looking at you like it hurt just to meet your eyes.

“You think I don’t want to stay?” he whispered. “You think this is easy for me?”

“I think you’re punishing yourself,” you said, voice trembling. “Because somewhere deep down, you still think you deserve it.”

He didn’t deny it.

You took a step back, chest heaving. “You let Val own you,” you whispered. “You let her decide how much of you I get to keep. And every time you go, I get a little less.”

His voice was thin. “I never wanted you to see me like this.”

“I see you Bucky,” you said. “And I love you anyway. But you don’t let me hold any of it. You don’t trust me with the parts of you that hurt.”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

So you kept going. “I’m not asking you to quit. I’m asking you to stop walking out that door like you’re already halfway gone.”

And that’s when he said it.

“Maybe you should stop waiting for me like I’m gonna die.”

Your lips parted. Your breath stopped. A sob caught somewhere in your chest and refused to move.

He froze.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t throw anything. You just stood there, broken open in the center of the room, tears pouring freely down your face.

Your voice trembled when it came. “I wait for you because I love you. Not because I want to lose you.”

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t reach for you. Didn’t even move.

You wiped at your face with a shaking hand and stepped back.

“I hope the mission’s worth it.”

And then you turned and walked out, footsteps too loud in the hallway, tears burning every step of the way—while behind you, the man you loved just stood there.

And let you go.

You sat curled in the corner of your bedroom, back pressed to the wall like it might hold you together, knees drawn tight to your chest.

The shirt on your skin was his—the one he had left draped over the chair last night. It smelled like him. Damp in places, creased from your grip, warm where your body clung to it. You hadn’t changed. Couldn’t. Peeling it off felt like severing the last piece of him you had left.

The silence wasn’t quiet. It was hollow. Heavy. The kind that followed after something had cracked wide open and left nothing in its place.

You didn’t know how long you’d been sitting there—long enough for the ache to settle into your spine, for your breathing to level out into something quiet but not calm.

The clock ticked on, cruel in its indifference. You imagined him already gone, the duffel slung over his shoulder, the bed behind him cold, the door clicking shut like none of it ever mattered and you waiting for him, heart thundering in your chest as you awaited for an update from someone, anyone.

Then came the knock.

Three soft taps. Hesitant. Uneven. Like he didn’t know if he was still allowed to be on the other side of your door.

You didn’t move. Not yet. The second knock came after a pause. Then nothing.

Eventually, you stood up, not because you were ready, but because you couldn’t not know. You opened the door.

He was still in the same gear, shirt clinging to his chest, sleeves, pants creased and dust-streaked. The holster was gone, but his boots were still on. His hair was damp from a rushed shower, curling faintly at the ends. Those cerulean eyes were red-rimmed, glassy, he looked wrecked.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he, not at first.

Then his voice broke the quiet. “I shouldn’t have said that.” Your voice came out flat. “No. You shouldn’t have.”

He nodded once, jaw flexing hard. His hands twitched uselessly at his sides. “I’ve been out here for twenty minutes,” he said, hoarse. “Trying to figure out what the hell I could say that’d make you open the door. That might make this less fucking ugly.”

You didn’t respond. Your heart ached, but your mouth wouldn’t move.

“I-I don’t know how to leave you,” he said quietly, “and still get on that plane.”

You looked at him then—really looked. He wasn’t wearing armour anymore. Not the kind that mattered. Not the kind that could keep this out. He was unraveling, standing there like he didn’t know where to put the hurt.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” he said, voice shaking now, almost breathless. “But please, baby, Just tonight. Let me stay. Let me hold you. Before I go."

And you stood there, heart cracked open, staring at the man who had broken it and realising, in the hollow quiet between you, that he was bleeding too.

He didn’t press. Just stood there for a breath longer, eyes on yours, like he was waiting for you to slam the door or let it fall open wider. And when you didn’t move, when you didn’t speak or breathe or push him away, he stepped inside, quiet and slow, like he was afraid any sound might shatter what was left.

He looked around the room like it hurt to be in it, like every corner still held a trace of his voice, his laughter, the way his hands used to hold you without hesitation.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t make excuses. He just came to you. And when he reached you, he didn’t plead. He simply gathered you into his arms.

You didn’t resist, no, you couldn’t. Not when his warmth surrounded you like that—desperate, unsteady. Like he was terrified this might be the last time.

His hands trembled where they touched your back. His breath hitched when your face pressed into his shoulder. And for a long moment, neither of you said a word. You just stood there, wrapped up in each other like it was the only way to stay upright.

Then his voice cracked the silence, low and barely there. “Please. Just one more night. Let me love you one more time before I go.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt. He pulled back only enough to look at you, eyes red, jaw tight with restraint, like this whole thing was holding together by a thread.

And when you didn’t answer, when your eyes only shined up at him, raw and full, he kissed you. It wasn’t desperate or rushed. It was like he was trying to remember every part of you by heart, like he was memorising the taste of you.

His hands moved slowly, down your back, over your ribs, under your shirt. The cotton lifted over your head with careful fingers. He undressed you the way someone handles something precious they’re afraid to lose—gently, every motion saying I’m sorry.

His lips trailed along your collarbone, your jaw, the corners of your eyes. When he laid you back against the mattress, his mouth moved lower, kissing your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thighs.

And when he pressed his lips to your skin, you whispered his name like it was a prayer, like it was the only word left in you.

He took his time. He touched you like he wanted to worship every inch. And when he finally moved above you, when he pushed into you slow and deep, it wasn’t to claim, it was to remember.

He buried his face in your neck, his hand tangled with yours beside your head. The stretch of him made your breath stutter, but you didn’t care. You wanted to feel it. All of it. Wanted the ache, the weight, the heat. So you could remember exactly how it felt to be his. His pace was slow, measured, meant to carve into you like a promise.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking with the effort not to fall apart.

“I’m scared,” you whispered, your voice breaking on the words.

“Me too,” he said—and the quiet agony in it wrecked you.

You clung to him tighter, wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your legs around his waist. And still it wasn’t close enough.

You cried before you came, not from pain, not even from pleasure, but from the weight of it all. From the terrifying, beautiful knowledge that this might be the last time. That you were loving each other like you were running out of time because maybe, this time, this mission, you were.

And when you shattered around him, he was right there, whispering your name, holding your face like it was something holy. He followed soon after, breaking apart with a ragged groan into your mouth, like he couldn’t bear to let go of you even for that.

And when it was over, when the world quieted again, he didn’t move. He just stayed wrapped around you, one hand cradling your cheek, the other resting low on your back, his heartbeat thudding hard against your chest.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. Because in that moment, your bodies said everything your hearts couldn’t. And maybe that was enough.

You lay sprawled across his chest, skin still slick with sweat and salt, your cheek rising and falling with every unsteady breath he took. His arms were wrapped around you like a lifeline, like he couldn’t bear the thought of not holding you if this was it.

His voice broke the silence, quiet, so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.

“I told Val this is the last one for a while."

Your fingers twitched against his ribs, but you didn’t speak.

“I want peace," he whispered. “And I want… you.”

That was what did it. Not the words, but the way he said them. Like a man who finally realised what he could lose.

“Will she let you?” you asked, barely above a breath.

He exhaled, a rough sound that cracked in the middle. “Doesn’t matter. Even if she doesn’t, I’m done, at least for now. I won’t let her take this from me too.”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t trust yourself to. You just let him press a kiss to your wrist, to the fragile skin where your pulse raced like it knew time was running out.

“I’ll come home (y/n), I swear to you."

But even as he said it, you both knew the truth—promises made before war rarely survived it.

Sleep came slow and fitful. When you finally drifted off, you curled yourself around him like you could anchor him there, like your body could keep him from slipping through the cracks.

But the morning came anyway.

And with it came the emptiness.

You woke to a bed that was too quiet, too cold. The warmth of him was fading fast, almost like he had left just minutes before. The pillow beside you was indented where his head had been. Your fingers reached for it before you could stop yourself.

No sound. No footsteps. No gear being packed in the hallway. He was gone.

For a second, your throat closed. Then you saw it. Right there on the nightstand.

A folded note with your name written on it in his sharp, slanted scrawl.

And beside it were his dog tags.

Not around his neck. Not taken for luck.

Left behind. Your heart seized.

You picked them up with shaking hands. They were still warm—and somehow, that broke you even more. Like he hadn’t wanted to take that piece of himself with him. Like he knew he might not come back, and couldn’t bear to let you be without it.

You opened the note.

I love you. I need you to believe that. If something happens, it was never because I didn’t try to get back to you. You’re the only thing I’ve ever been sure of. Wait for me. — James

You didn’t cry right away. You just sat there, staring at the words. Holding the tags to your chest like a lifeline. Like maybe if you clutched them hard enough, he’d come back through the door.

But the door stayed closed.

Now, all you had was a note, a promise, and the weight of him still lingering in the sheets.

So when he returned two weeks later, quiet and bruised, with a half-healed cut beneath his eye and his duffel slung over one shoulder, you didn’t breathe at first.

His eyes found you immediately, and for a long moment, the hallway went still.

You didn’t run to him. Not at first.

Because you didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust your own legs. Didn’t trust that this was real and not just another dream you had to wake from, sweating and empty, with his dog tags clutched in your hand and his note folded beneath your pillow.

But he stopped walking. Dropped the duffel.

Held out his arms. And that’s when you moved.

You collided with him all at once, fists against his chest, then fingers in his jacket, then your face pressed to his neck. His arms came around you instantly, crushing you to him like he needed proof you were still here.

Still his. Still waiting.

“I told you I’d come home,” he whispered, voice raw, rough with exhaustion.

You didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, trembling, forehead pressed to his jaw, tears threatening again.

“I know Bucky" you said. "I believe you."

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic.

It was everything he hadn’t said.

Everything he’d nearly lost. And everything he came back for.

a/n: i think i have a penchant for writing angst, i enjoy it and i hope you enjoy my work!

requests are open!

1K notes · View notes

minniesfiles · 4 months ago

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SEVENTEEN AS GIRL DADS

❧ PAIRING; ot13 x reader

❧ GENRE; fluff, very light angst

❧ TAGS/WARNINGS; tooth rotting fluff, sprinkle of angst in some parts, some dramatic situations but fluffy ending, established relationship, first time parents

𐚁₊⊹

SEUNGCHEOL

Seungcheol was sitting at his desk leaned over his laptop as his fingers quickly moved across the keyboard. His brows were knotted in concentration as his eyes were fixed intently on the screen. With the deadline approaching, he was committed to completing this document before the end of the evening.

Then suddenly the door to his study room bursted open, slamming against the wall. Before he could react, a small figure rushed inside with her tiny feet pounding against the wooden floor. His five-year-old daughter, Haeun, ran straight towards him crying out loud with her red and tear-streaked face.

Hot on her heels was you, looking frustrated and exhausted. “Haeun, come back here!” you called as you stepped into the room.

But Haeun didn’t stop. She launched herself onto her father’s lap and buried her face into his chest. Her little body trembled as she cried.

Seungcheol’s heart clenched. He immediately forgot about his laptop, the document, and the upcoming deadline. Nothing mattered more than his daughter’s distress. He wrapped his arms around her small frame and rubbed soothing circles on her back.

“Shh, princess. What’s wrong?” he asked gently, tilting his head to look down at her.

“Mummy said…I c-can’t have…ice cream before dinner!” she managed to get out through hiccups and sniffles.

Seungcheol barely suppressed a smile. He glanced up at you, who crossed your arms and let out a tired sigh.

“She threw a tantrum when I said no,” you explained, shaking your head. “Then ran straight to you for backup.”

Your husband exhaled softly and pressed a kiss to the top of your daughter’s head. It was a small thing, really, but to a five-year-old, it was the end of the world.

“Hey, princess,” he murmured, gently pulling Haeun back so he could look into her teary eyes. “I know you really want ice cream, but Mummy’s right. If you eat it now, you won’t be hungry for dinner. And you need a good meal first, don’t you?”

Haeun sniffled as her lips quivered. “But…but I really wanted it…”

“I know, princess” he said as he wiped away a stray tear from her cheek. “How about this? If you eat all your dinner, we’ll have ice cream together afterward. Does that sound like a deal?”

Haeun hesitated, her big brown eyes searching his. Then, after a moment, she nodded slowly. “Okay…”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? I said the same thing, and she threw a fit.”

Seungcheol rinned. “Dad privilege.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Fine. But only if she eats her vegetables.”

Haeun pouted but nodded again. “Okay Mummy.”

Seungcheol lifted her off his lap and set her on the floor. “Now, go wash your face, and we’ll have dinner soon.” Haeun gave him a quick hug before trotting off.

You sighed and leaned against the doorframe. “I swear, she’s got you wrapped around her little finger.”

Seungcheol chuckled as he turned back to his laptop. “Yeah…and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

JEONGHAN

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon when your six-year-old, Jiwoo, looked up from her colouring book and studied her father’s long, smooth hair. Jeonghan was sitting on the sofa reading a book as his dark brown locks brushed over his shoulders effortlessly. You often teased him about how unfair it was that his hair looked better than yours with minimum maintenance.

Jiwoo tapped her chin thoughtfully, and an idea formed in her head. She set her crayons down and hopped off the sofa, marching over to her father.

“Daddy?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head.

Jeonghan looked up from his book. “Yes sweetheart?”

“Can I braid your hair?”

“Braid my hair?” he blinked.

Jiwoo nodded eagerly. “Please! Your hair is so pretty, and I want to make it even prettier!”

Jeonghan chuckled and set his book aside. “Well, how can I say no to that? Alright, let’s do it.”

Jiwoo clapped her hands in excitement and grabbed his wrist, leading him toward her bedroom. “You have to sit on my bed! And you can’t move, okay?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, grinning as he obediently sat on the small pink bed which his legs barely fitted.

“Wait here!” she instructed before running over to her little play hairdressing station in the corner of her room. She rummaged through her plastic vanity and began gathering her toy hairbrush, colourful clips, and a few ribbons she saved from old presents.

Jeonghan patiently sat with hands resting on his lap as his daughter returned with her arms full of supplies. She placed everything on the bed beside him, then climbed up behind him and ran her tiny fingers through his hair.

“Wow Daddy. Your hair is so smooth! Mummy always says she’s jealous,” Jiwoo said, giggling.

“She does, doesn’t she?” Jeonghan smirked.

From the doorway, you leaned against the frame with your arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with an amused smile. “Don’t get too proud Yoon Jeonghan. I let you have the better hair,” you teased.

“Of course dear” your husband chuckled.

Jiwoo, who was completely focused on her work, began brushing his hair with exaggerated care. “You have to be very still Daddy! I don’t want to mess up.”

Jeonghan straightened up his posture. “Not moving an inch,” he promised.

She nodded in approval and got to work. She hummed softly as she created a long, wobbly braid, occasionally stopping to add a colourful clip here and there.

You on the other hand covered your mouth to stifle a laugh as your daughter sprinkled in pink and purple ribbons, tying them into small bows at random spots.

After several minutes, Jiwoo finally clapped her hands. “All done!” She reached for a small mirror from her vanity and handed it to her father. “Look Daddy!”

Jeonghan held up the mirror and burst out laughing. His hair was an absolute masterpiece of uneven braids, mismatched ribbons, and bright butterfly clips.

“Well?” Jiwoo asked eagerly.

“I love it! Thank you sweetheart” Jeonghan smiled warmly.

JOSHUA

Joshua had been through his fair share of tantrums. Having a toddler meant that outbursts were a normal part of life. But today’s meltdown? This was on a whole new level.

He held Byul in his arms as she screamed, her little face red and wet with tears. The two-year-old kicked and squirmed as she tried to escape his grip. Her loud wails were practically echoing through the entire grocery store. It was the kind of tantrum that made people stop and stare. The kind that turned heads and made strangers mutter under their breath.

You on the other hand walked a few steps ahead, pushing the shopping trolley. Your face was carefully neutral, but Joshua could tell that the stares you were getting were bothering you. You exhaled softly and glanced at him. “She’s really going for it today,” you murmured.

“Oh, you think?” Joshua muttered, adjusting his grip as Byul twisted again, nearly knocking his baseball cap off. “She wanted the chocolate chip cookies, I said no, and now we’re here.”

You sighed while grabbing a box of cereal from the shelf. “People are staring.”

Joshua didn’t need to look around to know that was true. He could feel the eyes on him — annoyed glances from shoppers who just wanted to get through their day without a screaming child in the background. An older woman shook her head disapprovingly as she passed by, and a man near the dairy section shot Joshua a look that practically said, ‘Control your kid’.

Joshua tightened his hold on Byul as he bounced her slightly. “Bubba, please,” he whispered, brushing damp curls away from her flushed face. “I know you’re upset, but we can’t get cookies right now. We’ll have a snack when we get home, okay?”

But Byul wasn’t having it. She threw her head back and let out another ear-piercing wail. Joshua felt the frustration slowly creeping in. He was usually good at keeping his cool, but this was exhausting. He looked at you helplessly. “Any ideas?” he asked.

You pursed your lips, then reached into the trolley. You pulled out a bag of baby carrots and waved it in front of your daughter’s face. “Byul, look. Want some carrots?”

Byul, still sniffling, peeked at the bag and immediately shoved it away with a furious, “NO!”

You shrugged. “Worth a shot.”

Joshua sighed. He was sweaty, tired, and feeling the pressure of every judgmental stare that was coming his way. But then, an idea struck him. He didn’t know if it would work, but it was worth trying.

He turned Byul around in his arms so they were face to face. “Bubba,” he said in a softer, playful tone, “can you take a deep breath with Daddy?”

Byul, still hiccupping from crying, shook her head stubbornly.

Joshua exaggerated a deep breath, making it loud and dramatic. “Biiiiig breath in—” he puffed out his cheeks, “—and whoooooosh, out!” he blew air gently on her face.

Byul blinked. She was still upset, but something about his silly breathing caught her attention. And so he did it again. “Whoooosh!”

Byul let out a tiny giggle between sniffles. “One more?” Joshua grinned. She hesitated, then copied him, taking a tiny, shuddering breath in and blowing out.

The screaming stopped, and both of you were relieved. “You’re a wizard” you smiled, shaking your head.

Joshua chuckled, “nah. Just a dad.”

JUNHUI

Junhui adjusted the straps of his backpack while holding his three-year-old’s hand. Mei clutched her stuffed bunny tightly as her eyes darted around the unfamiliar space. It was her first time on an airplane. More importantly, it was her first trip to China to meet Junhui’s side of the family for the Spring Festival.

“Are you excited to see Grandma and Grandpa?” Junhui asked as he crouched to her level.

Mei nodded hesitantly, and then looked up at you who smiled reassuringly. “It’ll be fun, sweetheart. And we get to fly in a big airplane!”

Mei didn’t look so sure about that part.

After checking in and going through security, you finally boarded the plane. Mei sat in the middle, with you by the window and Junhui by the aisle seat.

She fidgeted in her seat with her small legs dangling above the floor. Her nervous energy was apparent as she looked around to take in her unfamiliar surroundings.

Junhui then helped Mei put in her small earplugs, hoping they would soften the unfamiliar sounds. “These will make it nice and quiet,” he promised as he tucked a blanket around her lap.

When the flight attendants finished their safety announcements, the plane rumbled to life.

Despite the earplugs, the deep growl of the engines startled her. She flinched, eyes widening as she looked around in panic. Junhui reached for her hand. “It’s okay darling. That’s just the plane getting ready.”

But Mei didn’t look convinced.

The aircraft began rolling toward the runway, and the motion made her grip her bunny even tighter. Then the speed picked up — faster, faster — until suddenly, the nose lifted, and you were taking off.

The three-year-old felt her heart drop at the unfamiliar motion, and soon panic set in. She let out a whimper as her face scrunched up. Tears welled up in her eyes, and then — she bursted into sobs.

Junhui’s heart clenched. He hated seeing her scared. Ignoring the glances from other passengers, he unbuckled his seatbelt just enough to lean closer.

“Mei, it’s okay,” he said gently while rubbing her back. “Daddy’s right here.”

“I don’t like it!” she wailed as her little hands gripped your shirt tightly. “I want to go home!”

You pressed a kiss to her head. “Shh, baby, we’re safe. The plane is just going up in the sky, like a bird.”

Mei sniffled but still whimpered. Her tiny body trembled as she cried while gripping her bunny like a lifeline.

Junhui hated seeing her in distress. So he thought for a moment, then reached into his backpack and pulled out a small red envelope. “Hey, Mei, look what I have.”

Her sobs slowed just enough for her to look at it.

“This is a hóngbāo from Grandpa,” he said, opening it just enough to show the shiny coin inside. “He sent it early for you. And guess what? He can’t wait to give you more when we get there.”

Mei sniffled, eyes still watery but now distracted.

You wiped your daughter’s tears gently. “And when we land, we’ll see Grandma and Grandpa, and there will be lanterns, fireworks, and lots of yummy dumplings.”

Mei hesitated, then clutched the red envelope along with her bunny. “Dumplings?”

“Lots of them” Junhui grinned.

The plane soon steadied in the air, and the worst of the takeoff behind was now over. Mei’s sobs faded into sniffles as she leaned sleepily against her father’s arm.

Maybe this trip wouldn’t be so scary after all.

SOONYOUNG

The music stopped. The cheers faded. And the winner was announced.

But it wasn’t him.

Soonyoung sat backstage, slumped against the wall with his arms resting on his knees and his head hanging low. Sweat dripped from his tired face, while his tank top was soaked through from the hours of dancing under the bright stage lights.

His chest ached, but not from exhaustion. This pain ran deeper. Months of practice, of pushing his body to the limit, of dreaming of victory…all for nothing.

He clenched his fists, his breathing shaky. He told himself it wouldn’t matter if he lost, and that the experience alone was enough. But now, sitting here alone in the dim backstage area while the winner celebrated, he felt like a failure.

A choked sob escaped his lips. He buried his face in his hands, and his body trembled as tears silently rolled down his cheeks.

“Daddy?”

Soonyoung felt his breath hitch. He looked up with his tear-blurred vision.

There he saw his five-year-old daughter, Arin, standing a few steps away with her small hands clutching the hem of her pink dress. Her big brown eyes were filled with worry. Behind her stood you with a sad smile as you let your daughter go ahead.

Arin took a cautious step forward. “Daddy…are you sad?” she asked.

Soonyoung swallowed the lump in his throat as he tried to find his voice. “Yes baby,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Daddy lost.”

Arin frowned, then quietly sat in front of him, folding her legs. She reached out her tiny hands and placed them gently over his own. “It’s okay Daddy.”

Soonyoung let out a shaky breath as fresh tears spilled over. He tried to hold it together, but with his little girl sitting there, looking at him with so much love and concern, the dam broke. He sobbed openly and pulled her into his arms.

Arin wrapped her small arms around his neck, patting his back the way he always did when she cried. “Don’t be sad Daddy,” she said softly. “You’re still the best dancer in the world.”

Soonyoung’s shoulders shook as he held her tighter. “Oh, baby…”

Arin pulled back slightly and cupped his tear-streaked cheeks in her tiny hands. “You dance so cool Daddy. Even cooler than the people on TV!”

You knelt beside them and rubbed your husband’s back. “She’s right, you know,” you murmured. “You worked so hard, and no trophy can change that.”

Soonyoung let out a weak chuckle through his tears, and looked into his daughter’s hopeful eyes. He wiped his face and kissed her forehead. “Thank you, my baby.”

“Can we dance when we get home?” Arin grinned.

Soonyoung exhaled, and a genuine smile finally broke through his sadness. He nodded. “Yeah. We can dance as much as you want.”

And at that moment, the loss didn’t feel so heavy anymore. Because to his little girl, he would always be a champion.

WONWOO

Wonwoo loved the beach in theory. The soft sand beneath his feet, the salty breeze that tousled his hair, the crashing of the waves — it was beautiful, and peaceful. But the ocean itself? That was different. Ever since he was a child, he had feared the water. A near-drowning incident during his childhood left a scar in his mind, one that never fully faded.

Still, he wouldn’t let his past keep him from making memories with his family. You were laying out your small picnic on a checkered blanket while humming a tune as you arranged the sandwiches and fruit.

Your five-year-old daughter, Yoonji, was giggling as she played near the shore with her bright pink floaty bobbing in the gentle waves. Wonwoo was distracted by your laughter and the task at hand that he unintentionally forgot to keep a close eye on Yoonji.

When the food was ready, he stood and dusted the sand off his hands. “Yoonie! Come eat!” he called, but there was no response. His heart began to race as he turned around, scanning the shoreline.

Then he heard the screaming.

His head snapped toward the water, and his heart nearly stopped. A small figure thrashed in the waves, the familiar floaty drifting farther away from her.

Yoonji.

A terrified scream tore from your throat as you ran towards the sea, but Wonwoo was faster. His body moved before his mind could catch up. Fear gripped at him as he approached the sea. He felt his past fear creeping in, but nothing mattered more than his daughter.

“I’m coming baby!” he frantically exclaimed as he charged into the waves.

The shock of the cold water sent his heart racing as he dove into the sea. For a brief second, the old memories surged back. But then he saw Yoonji’s tiny arms struggling against the waves with her mouth opening and closing as she tried to stay afloat.

His fear vanished. All that remained was the desperate need to reach for his child.

His strokes were fast and uneven, but determined regardless. The salty water splashed into his face and burned his eyes, but he pushed forward. He had to.

Finally, his fingers brushed against Yoonji’s trembling form. He pulled her into his arms and cradled her against his bare chest.

“I got you, baby. Daddy got you” his voice broke, but his grip was firm.

Yoonji held onto her father as she sobbed against his shoulder. He could feel her tiny body shaking. With every ounce of strength he had left, he swam back. His muscles burned, but he refused to stop.

At last, his feet found the sand. He stumbled but held tight to his daughter. “You’re okay, baby. Daddy is here” his breath was ragged as he carried her onto the shore.

You rushed towards them with tears streaming down your face. You wrapped Yoonji in your arms and pressed frantic kisses to her wet hair.

Wonwoo collapsed onto his knees beside you from exhaustion. But guilt soon overwhelmed him.

He took his eyes off her. He let this happen.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered with a hoarse voice.

“You saved her” you reassured him.

Yoonji sniffled as her small hands clutched his arm. “I was scared.” Wonwoo swallowed hard and pulled her close. “Me too baby.”

As he sat there, holding his daughter in his arms, he realised something. He feared the ocean all his life, but nothing had ever terrified him more than the thought of losing his daughter.

JIHOON

Jihoon sat hunched over his keyboard with headphones covering his ears. He was working on a track for another but k-pop group amongst his long list of requests. He adjusted the bassline and nodded slightly as he felt the groove settle in. He was close, but not quite there yet.

A sudden knock on the door pulled Jihoon from his focus. He barely had time to react before the door opened, revealing two of his favorite people in the world.

“Daddy!”

A high-pitched squeal filled the room as his six-year-old daughter, Nari, dashed towards him with her small feet pattering against the floor. Jihoon turned in his chair and pulled off his glasses as a wide smile stretched across his tired face.

“Come here my princess,” he said, spreading his arms wide.

He chuckled as Nari wasted no time leaping onto his lap and wrapping her tiny arms around his neck. He felt the warmth of her hug melt away the heavy exhaustion of the day.

“I missed you Daddy,” she mumbled against his shoulder.

Jihoon pouted in guilt. He had been working late for weeks now, buried in projects and fine-tuning beats until the early hours of the morning. He kissed the top of her head and inhaled the familiar scent of strawberries from her shampoo.

“I’m sorry princess. Daddy’s been really busy.”

You walked in with a soft smile before leaning down and pressing a kiss on your husband’s lips. “You should take a break love,” you whispered.

Jihoon exhaled. He knew you were right. But before he could argue, Nari gasped and wiggled out of his grasp. “Daddy! Can I play the piano?” she asked with her eyes twinkling with excitement.

Jihoon chuckled. “Of course princess. Show me what you got.”

Nari scrambled off his lap and ran to the sleek black piano sitting in the corner of the studio. You and Jihoon followed, taking a seat beside your daughter as she placed her small fingers on the keys.

With absolute focus, Nari pressed the keys one by one as she attempted to play a tune she heard him compose before. The notes weren’t perfect — some were offbeat, others hesitant — but she was determined. Jihoon exchanged a knowing glance with you before both bursted into soft giggles at your daughter’s intense concentration.

“You almost got it baby,” Jihoon encouraged and guided her tiny fingers to the right keys.

She pouted slightly, frustrated with herself, but tried again. And again. Jihoon’s heart swelled with pride. He loved that she shared his passion for music, even if right now, it was just for fun.

After a while, Nari suddenly turned to him with her best pleading expression. “Daddy, can we go home now? Let’s have s’mores and watch a movie together! Please?”

Jihoon hesitated and glanced back at his computer screen. He had so much work left to do. The deadline aside, Jihoon was a perfectionist. It was why he spent so much extra time in the studio to make sure the tracks he produced were top quality.

But then he looked at his daughter’s hopeful eyes as her small hands tugged at his sleeve.

Work could wait.

Jihoon sighed, then grinned as he scooped Nari into his arms. “Alright, alright. You win princess.”

Nari cheered in victory, and you laughed shaking your head.

As you all left the studio together, Jihoon knew he had made the right choice. Music was his passion, but his family was his heart. And in the end, no melody in the world could ever compare to the sound of his daughter’s laughter.

SEOKMIN

The park was quiet, save for the gentle rustling of leaves in the evening breeze. You and Seokmin walked along the park path with your fingers intertwined as you rested your head on his shoulder. It was one of those rare, peaceful moments he wished could last forever.

Ahead of you was your four-year-old daughter, Hana, skipping happily with an oversized ice cream cone in her small hands. She was talking a mile a minute about her day at kindergarten, barely pausing for breath between licks.

“And then, Miss Kim said my drawing was really pretty, and I got a gold star!” Hana announced proudly.

“That’s amazing sweetie. What did you draw?” you smiled.

“A rainbow! With a unicorn! And sparkles!” your daughter exclaimed, turning slightly to flash you both a wide, toothy grin.

“Sounds like a masterpiece” Seokmin laughed.

Hana nodded eagerly and took another bite of her ice cream. Everything felt perfect. The quietness in the park, the warmth of your body against his, your daughter’s innocent laughter — it was a moment he’d tuck away in his heart forever.

But then, in an instant, that peace was ruined.

A man, walking briskly and not paying attention, carelessly bumped into Hana. The impact sent her tiny body stumbling backward. She landed hard on the pavement while her ice cream slipped from her grasp and splattering across the ground.

There was silence for a second before a wail cut through the air.

Seokmin’s stomach dropped as he sprinted forward and dropped to his knees beside Hana. She was holding onto her arm with tears streaming down her flushed cheeks.

“Hey, Daddy got you, hmm? Are you okay? Let’s check your arm” his voice was gentle, but his hands trembled as he checked her over.

“My arm hurts,” she whimpered as her little body shook. “And my ice cream is gone…”

You knelt beside them and quickly examined Hana’s arm. “I don’t think it’s broken, just a little bruised,” you reassured as you brushed her hair from her face. “You’re so brave sweetheart.”

Seokmin’s jaw clenched as he turned to the man who had knocked into her. The guy — dressed in a dark hoodie and jeans — barely stopped. He looked back briefly but made no move to apologise or help.

And something in Seokmin snapped.He stood up abruptly with his body rigid with anger. “Hey!” he barked with a sharp voice.

The man hesitated, but then scoffed. “Wasn’t my fault, the kid wasn’t watching where she was going.”

Seokmin took a step forward, his fists clenching. “You knocked over my daughter, and that’s all you have to say?”

You, who was still crouched by Hana, snapped your head up. “Seokmin…” you called out to him.

But Seokmin was already stepping closer. He had never been the type to pick fights, but seeing Hana cry and the indifference on this guy’s face — he couldn’t just let it slide.

“You need to apologise,” he growled as his fists itched to do more than just demand words.

The man scoffed again. “Whatever,” he muttered before turning to walk away.

Seokmin took another step forward, but suddenly, a small voice stopped him.

“Daddy?”

He turned back and his eyes met Hana’s teary ones. She wasn’t scared of the man — she was scared of him. He shut his eyes and exhaled a deep breath before fluttering them open again.

He walked back over to her and crouched down to her level. He cupped her cheeks and wiped away her tears. “It’s okay baby, you’re okay.”

Hana sniffled again and looked at her fallen ice cream. “But…my treat…”

“Then let’s go get you another one. How about two scoops this time?” you said.

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

You hummed and then turned to your husband, touching his arm gently. “Come on love. She needs you more than he deserves your anger.”

Seokmin took a deep breath, forcing himself to let it go. With one last glare at the man’s retreating figure, he lifted Hana into his arms.

Hana immediately wrapped her arms around her father’s neck and snuggled into him. As you walked back toward the ice cream stand, Seokmin kissed the top of his daughter’s head, holding her close. Some fights weren’t worth it — but protecting his family always would be.

MINGYU

Mingyu stepped out of the shower feeling his body aching from an exhausting day at work. The warm water had helped ease some of the tension in his muscles, but the fatigue was still there weighing heavily upon him. He ran a towel through his damp hair and sighed as he prepared himself for what he hoped would be a quiet evening.

Then he heard it — a sharp, piercing wail resonating through the house. Aera’s cry — tiny yet somehow powerful enough to make his heart stop.

Mingyu didn’t think twice. He dropped the towel and hurried toward the nursery. The moment he stepped inside, he saw you sitting in the nursing chair cradling your newborn daughter against your chest. You looked exhausted, and your eyes were glassy with unshed tears.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” you said over the frantic cries. “She won’t latch…she won’t stop crying…”

Mingyu’s heart ached at the sight of your struggling. He knew how much you wanted to breastfeed, and how much pressure you put on yourself to make it work. But your daughter, barely two weeks old, was inconsolable as her tiny fists flailed, refusing to settle.

Without hesitation, he moved towards. “Let me take her.”

You hesitated, but your shoulders slumped in relief as you gently passed Aera to him. The moment she was in his arms, Mingyu was struck again by just how tiny she was. At six feet-two inches tall, his arms broad and strong, she fit against him like a fragile doll, so impossibly small and delicate.

“Shh, baby girl,” he whispered to her as he held her close. “Daddy’s got you.” his voice was softer than it had ever been.

Her cries didn’t stop immediately. They were still loud, her tiny face scrunched in distress, but Mingyu remained calm. He placed her upright against his bare chest, one large hand supporting her fragile back while the other cradled the back of her head. He began to rock her gently as he paced across the nursery.

The frantic hysteria in her voice soon quieted just a little, turning into tiny whimpers as her small body slowly relaxed against him. Mingyu pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the faint scent of baby lotion.

You watched from the chair as tears rolled down your cheeks — not just from exhaustion, but from relief.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” you whispered.

Mingyu turned to you while still rocking Aera. “You’re not doing anything wrong love.”

Your lip quivered. “She wouldn’t stop crying…she wouldn’t eat…”

Mingyu walked back over and crouched down so you could see your daughter’s peaceful face as she nuzzled into his chest. “She just needed a minute to feel safe. And she will eat, when she’s ready.”

You exhaled shakily and nodded as you wiped away your tears. Mingyu leaned in and pressed a soft kiss against your lips. “You’re doing an amazing job,” he assured you. “She’s lucky to have you.”

Aera let out a tiny sigh as her tiny fingers curled against his chest as she finally settled into sleep. Mingyu felt his heart swell. He was overwhelmed by love for the little family you and he had created.

Exhaustion didn’t even matter at that point. Work didn’t matter. All that mattered was this — holding his daughter close, keeping her safe, and making sure you knew you weren’t alone.

He would always be here. For both of you.

MINGHAO

Minghao adjusted his glasses as they slipped down the bridge of his nose. It was a movement so familiar that it became muscle memory. He barely noticed anymore — just a simple push, a brief pause, and then back to the task at hand.

Stacks of student papers sat before him, each marked with his red pen in his neat handwriting. It was late, far later than he intended to stay up. But even as a college professor, he had deadlines. The responsibility was big.

Then, a sound broke the quiet atmosphere. He heard soft cries growing louder as they approached the living room.

Minghao set his pen down and turned just as you entered. Your face was lined with exhaustion, your eyes glassy with worry. In your arms, your one-year-old daughter, Daiyu, whimpered pitifully as her tiny face scrunched in distress.

“I think she has a fever,” you murmured as you shifted Daiyu in your arms.

Minghao’s heart clenched at the sight of his little girl’s flushed cheeks and tear-streaked face. Without hesitation, he stood up and reached for her. And with gentle but firm hands, he took her from your arms.

Daiyu squirmed. He felt her warm body radiating heat against his chest. She was clearly burning up. He rocked her gently and pressed a kiss to her damp forehead.

“Shh, bǎo bèi,” he whispered. “Daddy’s here.”

You hovered close while rubbing your arms as though you were cold. But your worry was visible. “What should we do?”

“Let’s check her temperature first.”

Carrying Daiyu, he walked towards the medicine cabinet and grabbed the thermometer with one hand while balancing her with the other. He placed it under her arm and murmured soft reassurances as she fussed. A few seconds later, the reading confirmed what he was already worried about.

“She’s definitely running a fever,” he said as he kept his voice steady, though his heart ached at the sight of her discomfort.

You bit your lip as your hands twisted together. “Should we call the doctor?” you asked.

“Not yet,” Minghao said gently. “Let’s give her some medicine first and see if it helps.”

He carefully measured out the correct dose of infant fever reducer and gently encouraged Daiyu to swallow it while whispering soothing words. Despite her little whimper, she leaned against his chest and gripped his shirt with her small fingers.

He resumed pacing around the house while rocking her in his arms. His professor’s mind was now entirely focused on his daughter. The academic world, the papers waiting for his attention — none of it mattered right now.

You sat on the sofa watching them with a soft expression. The tension in your shoulders eased slightly as you saw how gently Minghao held your daughter.

For nearly an hour, he walked, whispering lullabies, stroking her back, feeling her tiny breaths against his neck. Slowly, the fever medicine began to work, and Daiyu’d cries quieted. Her body relaxed against him as her breathing evened out.

Finally, when he was sure she was fully asleep, he carefully laid her in her cot. He stood there for a moment and watched her to make sure she was truly resting.

You stepped beside him and leaned into his side. “Thank you,” you murmured.

Minghao sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired face. “She’s our baby. I’d do anything for her.”

As he looked down at your sleeping daughter, peaceful at last, he knew he’d stay up all night if he had to — because some things were far more important than grading papers.

SEUNGKWAN

Seungkwan let out a satisfied sigh as he sank into the sofa after putting the laundry in the dryer. He knew you would appreciate coming home to clean clothes instead of another argument about his procrastination. You worked long hours, and the last thing he wanted was to hear you yelling about unfinished chores.

Just as he was about to close his eyes for a well-earned break, a small voice interrupted him.

“Daddy?”

Seungkwan opened one eye to see his five-year-old daughter, Yuna, standing beside him with an eager grin. “Yes darling?”

“Can I put makeup on you?” she asked.

Seungkwan frowned. “Makeup? But Yuna, you don’t have any makeup.”

“I’ll use Mummy’s!” she giggled mischievously.

Seungkwan sat up straighter. “Uh…I don’t think Mummy would like that,” he said carefully. “She doesn’t like anyone touching her stuff.”

“Please Daddy?” Yuna pleaded with her big eyes shimmering with hope. She clasped her little hands together and tilted her head like a puppy begging for a treat.

Seungkwan hesitated. The idea of having his face covered in lipstick and eyeshadow wasn’t exactly appealing. But how could he say no to that face?

“Alright,” he finally relented with a sigh. “But! Mummy can’t know, okay? It’s our little secret.”

Yuna squealed in delight and grabbed his hand before dragging him upstairs to the bedroom. She climbed onto the bed and rummaged through your emergency makeup bag with the enthusiasm of a treasure hunter. Seungkwan at patiently, already regretting this decision.

The next fifteen minutes were filled with giggles and concentration as she dabbed powder onto his cheeks, swiped red lipstick across his lips (some of it ending up on his chin), and painted his eyelids with an uneven mix of shimmering pink and purple.

Seungkwan caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and nearly laughed out loud. He looked ridiculous. But when he saw Yuna’s face beaming with joy, he didn’t care.

“You look so pretty Daddy!” she said proudly.

Before Seungkwan could respond, the sound of the front door opening made his stomach drop. You were home.

“Quick! Clean up!” his eyes widened.

But it was too late. The footsteps got closer, followed by your voice. “Yuna? Kwanie?”

The bedroom door swung open, and there you stood.

Your gaze swept over the scene before you — the makeup scattered across the bed, your daughter holding a mascara wand like a paintbrush, and your husband sitting there with his face covered in a colorful mess.

Your eyes widened in shock, “my makeup!” you shrieked.

Yuna flinched at your tone, but Seungkwan quickly spoke up. “Honey, I—”

“You let her use my expensive makeup for this?!” you interrupted.

But then, as you stared at them, something shifted. You saw the way Yuna giggled with her little hands covered in powder. You saw Seungkwan looking utterly ridiculous but grinning as your daughter beamed with happiness.

And just like that, your frustration melted away.

Seungkwan gave you a sheepish smile. “I’ll buy you new ones, I promise” he told you.

He then glanced at Yuna, who was now giggling uncontrollably. “But…look how happy she is.”

You let out a deep breath. Then, against your better judgment, you laughed. “You’re lucky she’s cute,” you muttered, shaking your head.

“So, do you want Yuna to do your makeup next?” your husband grinned.

“Yes! Mummy, can I do your makeup next?” Yuna jumped up.

“Not a chance” you deadpanned.

HANSOL

Hansol sat at his tiny desk typing away on his laptop with one hand while the other cradled his six-month-old daughter Nabi against his chest. She was so warm and peaceful in his arms. Her tiny fingers curled into the fabric of his grey hoodie as he gently rocked her with his knee.

He was exhausted, but exhaustion had become second nature by now. Between his final year of university and fatherhood, sleep was a luxury. His dissertation deadline was in two weeks, and with every keystroke, he fought against time. He was determined to finish strong, if not for himself, then for you and his daughter.

Nabi wasn’t exactly planned to begin with. When you found out that you were pregnant, it hit him hard. Both of you were scared. Hansol remembered sitting on your dorm room bed with his hands gripping his hair while you cried softly beside him. Neither of you had an idea how you were going to manage university and a baby. It felt impossible.

But that was until Nabi was born.

Hansol wasn’t the type to cry easily, but when the nurse placed her in his arms for the first time, he broke completely. She weighed like a feather, so small and fragile, and yet the weight of her in his arms felt heavy.

Every doubt, every fear, melted away in that moment. He made a silent vow to her that he would do anything to protect her and give her the life she deserved.

It wasn’t easy. Balancing classes, assignments, and sleepless nights with a newborn pushed you both to your limits. But he and you faced every challenge together. You leaned on each other when things got overwhelming.

And tonight was no different.

Hansol adjusted Nabi slightly to make sure she was comfortable, and kept typing. His dissertation deadline was fast approaching, and he still had a long way to go. He tried to focus, but the warmth of Nabi against him and the rhythmic sound of her breathing made it hard not to get distracted.

And then, without warning, Nabi stirred. She let out a tiny gurgle before she vomited all over him.

Hansol’s body froze.

The warmth of the spit-up seeped through his hoodie and onto his chest. His eyes widened in horror as he realised some of it had also landed on his dissertation papers.

“Oh, come on,” he groaned as he pushed his chair back abruptly. He carefully lifted Nabi away from the mess, wrinkling his nose.

“Babe! I need backup!”

A moment later, you appeared in the doorway with your own tired eyes widening as you took in the scene. Hansol, covered in baby vomit, Nabi blinking innocently in his arms, and his once-pristine papers now splattered with milk.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, but a snort of laughter escaped. “You look like you just lost a fight,” you teased.

“Yeah, and she didn’t even have to try,” your boyfriend muttered, trying to wipe himself down while keeping Nabi steady.

“Can you grab me a towel? And maybe some clean paper while you’re at it?”

Still giggling, you disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a damp cloth. You wiped Nabi’s mouth first before handing Hansol another towel.

“You’re taking this surprisingly well,” you mused.

Hansol looked down at Nabi, who was now grinning up at him, completely unaware of the chaos she had caused. He couldn’t help but smile back, shaking his head.

“She’s worth it,” he said simply.

“Aren’t you princess?” he looked down at his daughter with a smile before leaning down to kiss her forehead. Nabi giggled as she reached her arms up to grab his face.

You leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your boyfriend’s cheek. “Yeah,” you murmured, “she really is.”

Life wasn’t perfect. It was messy, exhausting, and full of unexpected surprises. But as Hansol looked at his daughter and the love of his life, he knew one thing for sure — he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

CHAN

Chan stepped out of his car and stretched his arms as he took a deep breath of the cool night air. It had been a while since he went out with the boys, and though he enjoyed the break, he was eager to be home. The comfort of his wife and daughter was where he truly belonged.

But the moment he stepped inside, he knew something was wrong.

The house was in chaos. There were pillows thrown from the sofa, toys scattered everywhere, and a sippy cup knocked over, juice pooling on the coffee table. Then he heard his four-year-old daughter, Dahyun, crying and screaming loudly.

Chan’s stomach tightened as he hurried towards the living room.

When he walked in seeing you holding Dahyun by her arms and guiding her down onto her bottom with an exhausted but sharp glare.

“Sit on your bottom, now,” you ordered, your voice raised and filled with frustration. “You do NOT throw toys across the room like that when you’re told no. That made Mummy very sad!”

Dahyun froze, startled by your angry tone. Her big, tear-filled eyes locked onto your face as her little chest rose and fell in quick breaths. The room was silent just for a second, and Chan saw the confusion in his daughter’s expression. Then, she bursted into loud, uncontrollable sobs with fat tears rolling down her flushed cheeks.

Chen’s frown deepened. His heart squeezed painfully watching her wail with her tiny hands gripping her pyjama shirt as she hiccupped between cries.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

You let out a long, tired sigh as you rubbed your temple. Dark circles under your eyes showed just how drained you were. “She threw her toy at me when I told her she couldn’t have another custard tart,” you explained softly but still frustrated.

“It nearly hit me Chan. I can’t let her think that’s okay. She needs to learn.”

Chan nodded understandingly. You were home with Dahyun all day managing her tantrums, her tireless energy, and her stubbornness. He knew how exhausting it was. He also knew that you weren’t usually this harsh. You were just at your limit.

Still, the way Dahyun was crying, the way her little body shook on the floor, made his chest ache unbearably.

“Don’t comfort her yet,” you added quickly, sensing his thoughts. “She needs to understand that what she did was wrong.”

Chan hesitated as his gaze shifted between you and your daughter. You weren’t wrong — Dahyun needed to learn boundaries. But the way she was sobbing and struggling to breathe between her cries made it impossible for him to stand by and do nothing.

He couldn’t.

Ignoring your warning, he stepped forward and knelt down before scooping Dahyun into his arms. She held onto him immediately with her little fingers grasping the fabric of his shirt as she buried her wet face into his neck.

“Shh, my baby, calm down” Chan whispered as he rocked her gently.

Dahyun’s cries softened into hiccups as he rubbed her back in slow circles. He pressed gentle kisses to her tear-streaked cheeks while murmuring soothing words as he held her close.

You sighed as you leaned back against the sofa, exhausted. “Chan..”

“I know,” he said before you could finish. He knew discipline was important. He knew Dahyun had to learn that throwing things in anger wasn’t okay. But he also knew she was only four and was still learning how to handle her big emotions. Right now, what she needed more than anything was comfort.

You exhaled as your anger faded into quiet understanding. “It’s just been a long day,” you admitted.

Chan nodded while he adjusted Dahyun as her sniffles finally calmed. “We’ll teach her together,” he promised. “But I can’t just watch her cry like that. I just can’t.”

“I know” you offered a smal, tired smile.

As Dahyun’s small body relaxed against his chest, Chan knew that parenting wasn’t about being perfect. It was about balance. Discipline and love, lessons and comfort. And at the end of the day, no matter how difficult things got, love would always come first.

a/n; comment your favourite!

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totalswag · 7 months ago

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Hii I have reques if you feel comfortable with it!

I read your drew fic with the arrest and I loved it!! I was wondering if reader was preforming bed chem outro instead of the back up singer it’s Drew and they get a little to carried away in front of the crowd. If That makes sense💕

bed chem ⎯ DREW STARKEY

authors note thank you for sending this request and it makes glad you liked my arrested for being too hot fic. my requests are still open and i'm gonna be working on the requests that are in my inbox right now from recent requests. also, you can picture singer!reader picture any way you want <3 i’m using sabrina carpenter as inspo for singer!reader.

taglist ⤕ if you would like to be notified every time i post you will type in your username then be all set.

summary drew coming on stage at the very end of your song and you both get lost in the moment for a second in front of fans.

warning(s) mentions of intimate positions, kissing, touching.

Earlier in the show, you arrested Drew, your boyfriend, for being too hot— everyone in the arena went crazy seeing him. What they aren't expecting to Drew making a second appearance.

At the very end of bed chem one of your backup dancers will come into frame holding a camera on his shoulder, and when the curtain closes you pretend to do intimate things then the stage lights go off.

Prior to the show you asked Drew if he would be okay to go this— he agreed. Making sure he's comfortable was your first priority. He talked about different ways coming on stage that were so funny.

You start singing the final chorus of bed chem on your knees, legs wide out and free hand in front of you as you lean forward. The curtain signal is about to close. From the corner of your vision, you can see Drew approaching with the camera on his shoulder, dressed in dark pants and a white tank top—fans immediately began to cheer as he entered the frame.

He looked so good you couldn't control the redness of your cheeks spreading like a teenager seeing their crush.

To make the moment better, you sway your body around on the bed, allowing yourself to relax. Drew is looking at you with a smile on his face as he gets closer to the edge of the bed.

Motioning him to get closer— he lifts one leg on the bed as the curtain makes its way around the bed. Slowly setting down the camera on the edge of the bed.

You moved closer to Drew, pressing your bodies together in a false display of intimacy. Drew played along well, massaging your sides as he drew you closer. The crowd's cheers intensified, and the excitement in the arena reached a fever pitch.

You leaned in and kissed Drew deeply, as the curtain began to close behind you. The kiss was supposed to be a tease, a staged performance for the spectators, but you found yourself becoming lost in it.

Drew's hands crept up to cradle your face, his touch soft yet forceful. You forgot about the crowd, the cameras, and everything. It was just you and Drew, completely lost in each other.

Your hands drag down his bare chest, and he leaps forward into you at the gentleness of your touch, sending lightning down your body.

Once the lights turn off you both pull away from each other. Everything in your body right now is all over the place you think you are gonna explode. You are breathing heavily.

"You always know how to put on a show," he said quietly, his voice hoarse.

You giggled softly, your fingertips tracing the contour of his jawline. "And you always know how to make it unforgettable."

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lay-z · 3 months ago

Text

You're the reincarnation of Peitho, the Greek goddess of temptation.

cw: 18+ | sex; cheating; angst; hurt/comfort; fluff; open end

No one could’ve expected this mission to turn out the way that it has after the endless briefings, preparations, and provided intel—but things turned sideways rather quickly and much more dangerous than anticipated—which led to tensions rising within the team.

Now, forced to fall back to a safe house somewhere in the wilderness of Verdansk, TF-141 is waiting for backup, tending to both fatigue and damage as they take turns on sentry duty.

While Ghost and Soap are keeping their eyes out for hostiles outside, patrolling the perimeter, Gaz is sleeping on the couch in the living room, and Captain Price is cleaning his rifle methodically at a wobbly desk in one of the dusty bedrooms upstairs.

At the sound of a timid knock against the bedroom doorframe, his eyes flit up and narrow.

“Come in.” He calls, his eyes lingering for a moment longer on his rifle before shifting over to the younger woman in the doorway.

By the way he hesitated, you can tell that he knew it’s you.

You have noticed that things have become even more tense between you and the Captain since he had that incredibly close call that surely would’ve ended in a rather complicated KIA report if Gaz hadn’t reacted the way he did and pulled him to cover fast enough just a handful of hours ago.

And now everyone is pretending that didn’t happen, which only infuriates you more.

“Captain,” you greet him tersely before clearing your dry throat.

There’s another pause as he patiently waits for you to continue while you’re momentarily distracted by the uncharacteristic slight slump of his broad shoulders and an unfamiliar kind of softness peeking through the usual sternness in his steel blue eyes.

“I just... just wanted to check on you. Make sure you’re okay, sir.”

He gives a soft scoff, setting down the rifle for a moment before he gives you a lazy smirk. “I'm fine, Sergeant,” he pauses for another moment, his smirk wavers into a grimace as he reaches back to rub his shoulder, “just a bit sore.”

Observing his tight grimace as he barely manages to tend to his injuries, you take an involuntary step into the bedroom; ignoring the thought that you’re intruding and clearly crossing those blurry lines you two have been dancing around for months on end now.

Still, the door falls shut after you give it the weakest push, and then your footsteps are nearly silenced by the thin carpet on the floor despite your heavy boots as you approach the queen-sized bed.

“You’re clearly hurt.” The statement is laced with obvious worry that goes beyond a simple superior/subordinate relationship, but you could care less in this moment.

You almost lost him today.

His smirk fades away and he gives a small sigh as he realizes that he can’t just ignore you—or the elephant in the room. John takes a seat on the edge of the bed and reaches for his shoulder to gingerly touch a particularly sore spot.

“Fine. I’m sore as hell, but that’s all.” He murmurs with a wince of pain, pulling his hand back as he tries to dismiss how bad it actually is.

“We've got painkillers for that, y’know.” The sharp remark earns you another gruff huff and you notice how he tries to straighten his shoulders once you take a seat next to him on the bed. Sitting down on one leg, you turn sideways to get a better view on his form.

“Let me at least check if there are any major cuts or scratches that need to be cleaned, okay?”

John sighs once again, clearly exasperated, but he doesn’t protest further, aware that it’s futile. “If you must.” He grumbles, reluctantly giving in, and then he reaches up to take the hem of his shirt; his fingers briefly brushing your knee for a moment as he tries to pull it over his head.

His body is lean and toned from years of military service; a fair amount of scars peeking through dark, coarse body hair along with the faded ink of old geometrical tattoos that look like coordinates. The large muscles of his arms flex as he pulls his shirt off, revealing an ornament of bruises and scratches littered on his buff torso.

“Yes, I must.”

As soon as he rids himself of his sweaty olive green undershirt, you suck in a small hiss as soon as you see the level of bruising on his right shoulder and flank.

“Nasty bruise you got there, sir,” you remark empathically, fingers already itching to touch before you eventually reach out to skim them over the deep bluish–purple marks.

You click your tongue in chide as he flinches away, and you grab a gentle hold on his flexing biceps to keep him steady as you check his skin for other wounds, and you must admit that you almost get lost in the feeling of his warm skin beneath your fingertips. You trace the curve of his back, feel each bump of his vertebrae, the raised skin of marks and old tattoo ink, the way his muscles twitch and quiver, goose bumps breaking out wherever you touch.

There is an imperceptible hitch to his breath, but he doesn’t stop your gentle ministrations.

“Looks mean, but you’re gonna live, John.” You announce casually when he eventually clears his throat as if to snap you out of your sudden trance.

The feeling of your fingertips on his skin is almost addictive—too goddamn pleasant. John can’t help but shiver when your touch grazes over his old and new bruises as well as the sensitive areas of his skin. He tries to focus on anything other than you, but it’s getting more and more difficult, and he lets out a soft laugh at your faux casual tone, trying to mask the fact that he’d really like to have you touch him further.

“Thanks for that enlightening analysis, princess.” The pet name slips out by accident and it rolls off his tongue too damn easy.

You swat at his biceps, purposely avoiding his bruised skin. “Is that the proper way to talk to your amateur nurse, Cap?”

He gives a low laugh at your playful smack, his smirk returning as he lets you inspect his bruises and wounds.

“Well, to be honest, I’m not sure if nurses should get so handsy.” He teases you in return, his smirk growing as he tries to ignore how good it feels to have your hands on him.

“Pfff.” You snort. “I can show you handsy, sir. This is nothing. I was just worried.”

He chuckles again, his dark beard twitching with the motion of his face. “Such thoughtful concern over your superior, hm?” He quips, his eyes trailing over to the closed bedroom door before returning back to you. “Ghost and Soap have guard duty until later in the night. Gaz is gettin' some rest downstairs. We’re basically alone.”

He cringes internally at his own assessment; sounding like a right numpty, though you don’t seem to mind.

“Mhm,” you hum absentmindedly, taking one last look at his back before glancing at him–only to find him already gazing at you, causing your heart to thump harder and your cheeks to warm. “What?”

John doesn’t respond right away, his blue eyes taking a long, lingering moment to drink you in. He takes in just how soft you look in the dim lighting of the bedroom, even still clad in your dirty fatigues. How your thigh is pressed against his the way you’re sitting, and just how perfect your hands look roaming over his bare skin.

He finally takes a deep breath and exhales slowly as he tears his eyes away from you to check out the door again before looking back once more, eventually answering in a soft murmur: “Nothin’.”

Meanwhile, your mind is racing: He’s my captain. He's taken, fucking married. He’s not mine. Not mine. Not mine to take. Not mine to want.

And yet, you almost find yourself pleading as you utter his name pathetically: “John–”

He eyes flicker immediately as you say his name like that—all needy and desperate. He swallows thickly as his heavy gaze lingers on you, taking in your flushed cheeks, parted lips, and how your lashes flutter.

John responds in kind; your name a gravelly murmur on his lips, just as quietly with the same hint of need in his voice.

He shouldn’t. You’re his subordinate and you’re too young. And he’s bloody married.

But he’s a weak man at heart, after all, and his blood is starting to rush and simmer while that familiar tingle starts low in his gut, causing his cock to stir in his cargo pants.

He nearly lost his life today—which wasn’t the first time, but the realization that he’s getting slow is clawing at his shoulders like a heavy burden since it happened.

John takes a deep breath, his bare chest rising and falling as his gaze flickers between your flushed cheeks and soft-looking lips. “You shouldn’t... You shouldn’t look at me that way. You’re my subordinate. I’m married–” He pauses, as if struggling to put his thoughts into words, before he continues: “I’m older than you. I’m your captain.” His voice is barely above a whisper–his way of warning you, of holding back, of convincing himself that this is a bad idea.

Your jaw clenches as his words sink in, settling deep and heavy in your gut and causing your own shoulders to slouch, my chest to ache, your stomach to drop. He’s right, of course, but that doesn’t make the situation better.

Heaving a shaky and long sigh, you glance at the dusty carpet briefly, trying to sort your jumbled thoughts and feelings before closing your eyes.

You’re tired. So fucking tired to pretend that you don’t want him, of having him pretend he doesn’t want you.

Letting your head loll forward, you rest your forehead against his naked upper arm; discreetly breathing in his scent before murmuring: “Then send me away, John. Give me the order and I’ll leave through that door.”

The feeling of your forehead on his bare shoulder makes him shiver, his fingers curling into himself as he tries to fight against the urge to reach out to touch you, to take what he’s been craving for months.. John can feel how exhausted you are—emotionally, physically, and mentally, and it mirrors how he’s feeling. He hates that he’s partly the reason for it, but he doesn’t dare to do anything to change it.

So he just sits there, listening to your words and trying to resist the impulse to wrap his arms around you in comfort.

“You should leave.” His voice is rough, though the usual command in his tone replaced by uncertainty.

You let out a snort, but it’s lacking any humour. This is unfair. Life is fucking unfair.

He smells musky; like three day old sweat, dirt, and stale cigar smoke, and you want to lick his throat, to finally have a taste while you rake your fingers through his thick chest hair.

“That’s not an order, sir,” you sigh, “that’s a bloody suggestion.”

John grits his teeth, his jaw clenches tight. He can’t deny that you have a point—he knows that his attempt at shutting this down is pretty pathetic. He knows it, but he’s not willing to admit it.

“You’re pushing it, Sergeant.” He warns you then, his tone more commanding now as he tries to keep himself from pulling you into his lap and doing something that he’ll most likely regret come morning.

“Get out.”

It’s a right stab to your heart as much as your ego, even though you know he’s doing the only right thing.

And of course, you will leave, hobbling away like a kicked puppy, and you will lick your wounds in some corner far away from him—and you might even finally let Soap lap at your neglected cunt like he’s been half-jokingly asking for until you forget your goddamn feelings for John Price.

Leaning back at once, you straighten up, clearing your throat before getting up from the bed, rolling my sore shoulders—sore from your rifles kickback and weight, sore from keeping your composure since watching your Captain nearly die today.

Perhaps somewhere in your silly, illogical mind, you thought it would change things between you. In a perfect alternate universe, John Price would’ve realized that there’s more to life than duty and survival—and he would be yours.

“Yes, sir. Have a good night, sir.”

John watches you go, his eyes following your every move as you roll your shoulders and clear your throat, slipping back into your role as obedient soldier, his sweet little Sergeant. He’s relieved that you’re finally leaving, he really is—or he desperately tries to make himself believe it.

Yet, there’s a feeling in his chest that says something entirely different. He can’t quite put a name to it, but it’s there none the less.

And it hurts.

“Good night... Sergeant.” He responds, his voice rough and uncharacteristically quiet as he continues to watch you, fighting the urge to call out for you to come back and stay.

And you don’t dare to turn around again before the bedroom door softly clicks shut behind you, leaving you standing by yourself in the semi-dark, narrow hallway of the safe house while your heart is racing, and your throat tightens as you swallow down a myriad of emotions before exhaling a shuddering breath. What the hell were you thinking? Throwing yourself at him like that?

That gruesome pressure returns in your chest and your eyes sting with tears as you lean against the door briefly, desperately trying to get a grip on yourself.

Distraction. Your spine straightens. You’re in desperate need of a distraction before you do something really stupid.

The sound of your footsteps slowly fading away brings an almost eerie feeling to the quiet night.

John remains seated on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands now as he tries to sort through his conflicting thoughts and emotions and will away the chub in his trousers. He’s more than aware that it was inappropriate for him to allow you so close to him, but he can’t deny the powerful urges he felt when you were touching him.

The sound of your sigh as your forehead rested against his bare skin haunts him; the memory of your touch on his shoulders now burned into his mind.

He never questioned it before, how the touch of Annette has never left him as breathless and discombobulated as yours, but perhaps it’s just the near death experience from today that has left his mind, body, and soul in such a bloody frenzy.

You find Soap downstairs, sitting on the tattered couch where Gaz is supposed to be; his head leaned back against the backrest, his canteen clutched tightly as it rests on his thigh.

Picking up on his light snoring, you approach slowly, careful not to startle him.

“Psst, Johnny?” you whisper, nudging the tip of his booth with yours, “Johnny? Aren’t you supposed to be on bloody watch with Lt.?”

Soap’s eyes shoot open at the sound of your voice. He’s a light sleeper as it is, but this mission has made him even more restless, and he rubs a hand over his face, scratching at the stubble at his scarred chin as he glances up at you, his bleary blue eyes narrowing as he tries to figure out what you’re doing here.

“Gaz’s takin’ my shift. What d’ye want?” He rasps out, his deep voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah, he’s a nice lad, innit,” you remark quietly, pondering for a moment as you take in his dishevelled state.

There are black grease smudges on his face, a purple bruise adorning his cheekbone, dark Mohawk looking like a hen’s nest, his tac vest half unclasped, woodland fatigues in disarray. He looks like a proper mess, though you’re not faring any better.

“You look like hell, Tav,” you whisper, mouth curling with a suppressed smile. He snorts, lifting his free hand to flip you off haphazardly. You huff in amusement, shuffling on your feet as you glance back at the stairs that lead to the first floor, and then back at Soap.

“I know you’re tired, but uhm–” Your stomach flutters and you stuff your hands into your pockets to keep them from fidgeting nervously. “Fancy a shag?”

Soap’s thick eyebrows shoot up at your blunt question, his tired expression shifting into one of curiosity and surprise. “A shag, eh?” He chuckles roughly, his lips curling into a wolfish smirk while his previously tired eyes start sparkling with bright glee.

“Cannae say I was expectin’ tha’ one now.” He straightens slightly, sitting up to get a better look at you and you almost shiver under his suddenly molten gaze as he looks you up and down agonizingly slow, before nodding his head in response.

“Aye, ‘m down.”

Exhaling a sigh of relief, some tension finally leaves your battered body.

“Brilliant,” you mutter with a step towards him; taking his canteen, you drink a long swig of the chilled water as if preparing for a marathon, before screwing it shut and holding out your free hand to him invitingly.

“C’mon, then. Don’t want the others to fuckin’ walk in on us.” You try to quip casually, though deep down, it’s a valid fear of yours.

Soap chuckles, and of course he notices your skittish nervousness, though how could he ever decline your offer—especially after a fucked up op like this one.

“Fair point.” He stands up from the couch, his body towering over you as he gives your hand a tender squeeze before he follows you towards the stairs obediently, his hand remaining securely in yours.

The sound of muffled moans and gasps fills the air, mixing with the creaking of the old bedframe and the wet slapping of skin on skin.

Soap has been sitting propped up against the worn out headboard; rough hands tightly gripping around your thighs as you ride his painfully hard dick at a tortuous slow pace, his grunts and curses blending with your soft mewls and whimpers while you roll your hips all sensual in a way Soap never dared to imagine.

He’s always fantasized about you ravishing him like a starved wildcat; scratching and biting as you tell him to fuck you harder—though he doesn’t mind the opposite. Not at all.

However, this is slowly turning into proper torture as you keep edging him—intentionally or unintentionally, he can’t tell; his brain is filled with cotton, his muscles bunched tightly with restraint to keep himself from bouncing you on his cock or fucking up into you with wild abandon. He watches how his cock disappears inside you; your essence creaming around the base of his shaft and matting his pubes as it runs down his sac.

The smell of your combined arousal is heady in the air; stuffing the small bedroom with pheromones and the scent of sex—intoxicatingly so.

Gripping your flesh tighter, his blunt fingernails dig into your soft skin as he growls out a command. “Faster. Fuck, baby–” He licks his dry lips, drinks in the bonnie flush on your cheeks, the hazy look in your eyes, and his chest puffs out. Steamin’ Jesus, you like it. “Go on, ride me faster, princess.”

Your lashes flutter shut, and you almost want to protest at the nickname, a meek attempt to keep yourself from catching anything too emotionally serious, but then Soap’s hand cups your jaw, pulling you back into the here and now with him.

“Look’it me, baby,” he murmurs deeply, his darkened eyes staring up at you in the low, gloomy lighting—a deep shade of indigo the way his pupils are blown.

And you don’t fight it. You let him guide your face down to meet his gaze, your breath hitching in your chest as you meet owlishly big eyes, seeing the raw adoration behind a faint glimmer of something feral and animalistic—like you’re something special and worth looking at, worth wanting, while his reverent touch sends wave after wave of violent shiver down your arched spine.

Then, with his cockhead nudging your cervix and his shaft stretching your sopping walls deliciously, you notice how gorgeous Johnny MacTavish is—especially like this. All debauched and fucked out because of your doing. Fucking hell, no, he’s gorgeous all the time if you’re truly honest with yourself.

A louder, more pathetic moan slips past your lips as your head lolls back when you finally pick up your pace at his encouragement. You’re properly impaled on his fat cock; feeling him in your guts as you ride him mercilessly, hands braced on his broad shoulders while his fingers dig into the fat of your ass. Your tits bounce with each grind, sore muscles clenching with exertion as you pant against his sweaty skin.

“Yeah, fuck... just like that, princess.” Soap murmurs, eyes rolling back as you start bouncing on his throbbing prick with wild abandon. “F-Fuck, so bonnie, baby. Feels s’fuckin’ good, fuckin’ perfect–ngh–” And he grits his teeth, nostrils flaring with sharper breaths, as he feels that familiar pressure in his balls, those electric tingles at the base of his spine.

He doesn’t know what you did, but he’s going to come sooner than he planned to. He forces his eyes to open as you moan his name; the sound causing his cock to twitch inside your tight channel.

And, fuck—

The sight of you is a goddamn fever dream; your body moving on top of him so perfectly, the pretty flush on your cheeks, the way your lips are parted, kiss-swollen because of him, your brows furrowed in pleasure. He can still taste your cunt on his tongue from when he’d sucked your essence off his fingers during foreplay.

You’re a bloody vision—a beautiful, sinful vision.

He tightens his grip on your ass cheeks, breath stuttering at the obscenely wet sound when his cock disappears inside your dripping hole, skins sticky with precum and your slick. His fingers dig deeper into your flesh as he pulls you closer with each movement, bucking his hips to meet your body halfway, to bury himself deeper inside you—desperate to leave his mark, to burn this moment into your memory.

Soon enough, you can feel yourself at the precipice of your own orgasm as you roll your hips more frantically; fucking yourself stupid and using his body while he’s taking what he needs just as desperately in return. He plays with your bouncing tits, slips one hand between your thighs to rub his thumb over your slick, swollen clit, leans in to drag his tongue from the valley between my breasts up the column of your throat before wrapping his bulky arms around your waist and pulling you close enough to capture your lips in a bruising kiss.

“M’gonna come,” you mewl hotly against his lips, legs trembling and nails digging into his meaty muscles as he grins back wolfishly. “Please–”

His lips are messy against yours as he captures your mouth in a fierce kiss, his tongue delving deep as he swallows your moans, licking into your mouth and lapping at your silky tongue like an eager dog, greeting his owner with a wagging tail.

Soap is losing control—control he was trying so hard to keep even before you proposed this.

His fingers slide up your body; from your ass to your hips to your waist, roaming over your sensitive skin with greed. He’s about to tip over the edge, all it take is another fluttering squeeze of your cunt as desire and adrenaline rushes through his veins. In this pleasurable frenzy, he growls out a command: “Cum f’me, princess.”

And you do—you come apart on top of him, your walls clenching and rippling rhythmically around his rock hard cock in a vice grip, and a guttural moan is torn from deep within his chest as he follows your lead and lets go.

His legs jerk, his toes curl against the mattress, and his abs flex under coarse body hair as he spills his load into the condom.

For a moment, neither of you finds the strength nor mental capacity to say anything as you heavily against one another for support. The room quiets at once; silence only broken by your panting breaths as you twitch and writhe with glorious aftershocks.

Then, Soap leans his head back against the headboard, a dull thud followed by a boyish chuckle as he keeps holding you close, your face buried against his shoulder, your quaking body pressed flushed to his. His other hand pets your hair soothingly—a stark contrast to the harsh command he had whispered into your ear moments ago.

“Good girl.” Soap smirks triumphantly as he feels how you relax against him, your muscles gradually easing and melting in his embrace.

His hand continues his gentle ministrations, his touch so gentle as he holds you close, your head resting on his shoulder as your lips skim along his collarbone, causing his flushed skin to pebble with gooseflesh.

“Ye feel better now, princess?” he asks, his voice soft and almost tender, a subtle hint of his Scottish brogue lingering in his words.

You nod slowly. “Better,” you repeat softly, vulnerable, the word coming out slurred. Pressing a kiss to his collarbone, you pull back with a lazy smile while his cock softens inside you, giving the occasional last twitch whenever you move and squeeze around him.

“Saved me lots of trouble tonight, you could say.”

“Ye’re welcome.” Soap murmurs in response and his arms tighten around your naked body, unwilling to let go just yet. He’s knows what you mean.

He could feel it right from the start, knows about the strange thing between you and the Captain, knows that this was just to take the edge off—a simple distraction, though a welcome one. He can’t quite help it, though—the protective, possessive side of his nature is suddenly rearing it’s ugly head.

It’s no secret that he’s wanted this, wanted you, basically since you joined the bloody task force. And he’d tried, God, he’d tried to shoot his shot with you multiple times now—and it’s the only one he keeps missing despite his sniper skills.

“Don’t fall in love,” he mutters under his breath before cupping the nape of your neck, pulling you even closer before he buries his face into your neck, breathing you in deeply.

Quirking an eyebrow, you let out a sharp snort, though your stomach flutters at his quip.

“I feel like that should be my line, Tav.” Soap is an emotional man—as tough and quick-tempered as he is playful and caring. A right sap that one, if you’re close enough to him.

Soap sighs, shoulders sagging. He wasn’t talking to you.

You drag your bottom lip through your teeth in thought, carding your fingers through his mussed Mohawk. “We’re good, yeah?” you ask, voice genuine, before you pull back slightly to meet his eyes.

They’re nearly shining in the dimmed light—bright and so beautifully blue again now that the cloud of lust has vanished.

Soap hums, his gaze momentarily flickering to your face as you ruffle his short hair with the tips of your fingers. He’s still breathing deep and heavy, his chest rising and falling beneath you in a steady rhythm, and he doesn’t answer your question verbally—instead, he simply grabs your chin with his free hand, angling your face towards his as he leans in for another kiss.

It’s sensual, passionate, and so very... intimate. Perhaps too intimate for the words he forces out next: “Aye, no strings attached, princess.”

The aftercare drags on longer than it should. You know that and he does, too—yet neither of you can help it nor cares.

Eventually, Soap lifts you off his lap carefully, and he sucks in a sharp breath when his overstimulated cock slips out of your abused cunt. He’s quick to grab his shaft at the base, keeping the full condom in place; smacking his lips at the sight at the sight of it—a waste of a perfectly good load.

Meanwhile, you roll over onto the mattress like dead weight, letting out a soft groan and feeling deliciously boneless.

Soap chuckles quietly at the endearing sight of your relaxed body and dopey expression.

His own body is still thrumming with a strange sense of energy, though he’s also feeling rather limp, sated. He rolls the used condom off of his softening cock, knotting it and reaching over to toss it into the open rubbish bin next to the bed before flops down beside you onto the old mattress, inhaling deeply as he stretches out his large frame, sore joints cracking and popping.

“Mmmh, ye’re one hell’uva woman, ye know,” he mumbles, his deep voice even rougher as he reaches out to pull you close with ease, tucking you in and holding you snuggly to his side while his calloused hand starts stroking up and down your back.

“Perhaps Cap should’ve more near death experiences–” He snorts.

Even in his exhaustion, he doesn’t miss how soft and right you feel pressed up against his large, muscular body, your head resting against his bare chest while his heart thuds strong and steady. He could get used to this. He wants to get used to this.

“–if it means ye’re gonna come crawlin’ into m’arms each time.”

Please consider leaving a like, reblog, and/or comment if you enjoyed this and voted. Thanks! :)

#peitho #call of duty #john price #john soap mactavish #john price x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #proce x reader x soap #cod #tf 141 #soap x you #soap x reader #price x reader #cod x reader

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artdagz · 2 months ago

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First and foremost, Jazz prowl mecha AU is so fun and I'm reading so much of it and sometimes I really just want to share something.

As most probably already know this was started by @keferon and this AU is so fun, I really can't, everyone is so creative and there's so much to learn and see everywhere, the angst, the evolution and cheesy romance mix with hurt comfort is just🤌

So please, it's just some idea, but I hope this gives somebody something ><

(First part is big hurt, second part is rescue. So prowls death and not being treated like a human, when his conscience is in the mech, but he gets safed/saves himself with jazz. )

What if prowl becomes somewhat like Vortex in the mecha au, but with the downside of now being a supercomputer trapped in a mech that won't move without a pilot.

And as they notice he can still calculate stuff for them but is no longer a fragile human and also conveniently can't say no to requests, they use that without remorse. Prowl is allowed to move freely in the field when fighting quintessons but used in his spare time to do all sorts of administrative tasks that commanders are too lazy to do..

It happens along these lines:

Tarantulas notices Prowl won't be able to be doing the whole upgrading forever.

He's failing more and more, getting worse.

So next time he has him under his knife, he's doing something so in case prowl won't make it There is a safety backup of prowl in his mecha, so that's how prowl becomes a mech.

When Prowl suddenly stops in battle and all jazz can do is get them out of there, back at base there's nothing they can do for human prowl anymore.

While the battle is still raging around them, Jazz just sits next to prowls mecha hoping prowl will make it.

But it's as everyone feared and jazz is just sitting there close to prowls mech knowing his friend will never return and nobody dares to come closer.

Tarantulas approach being met with a visor that dares him to get any closer.

They organize a small funeral, one of the other pilots inviting jazz. Jazz goes, out of his suit for once, to attend.

When jazz is back his suit informs him that someone had been in prowls mech.

And it was Tarantulas.

Jazz thinks about confronting Tarantulas, but instead goes into prowls mechs cockpit, looking around to find out if he did anything.

And there's this button that's blinking, it's the startup button and jazz just absentmindedly pushes it, the mech whirring to live around him and the cockpit closes.

Text is running on the screen that looks like startup of a computer, then there's just text that's scrolling down further until it gets to the bottom.

The little blinking bar indicates the last line is just blinking for a while as jazz stared at it.

Then suddenly it moves again.

One word catches his optic

Jazz

Written on the screen.

And another line appears.

Help.

So, prowl is stuck in his mech, which wouldn't be as bad if he could move.

Jazz hacks the programming that makes it necessary for there to be a pilot and everything is a 100% better cause he can move.

Still unlike before, prowl can't just get out of his mech and walk around and that's so frustrating, cause his health isn't an issue anymore but now he got military breathing down hus neck, who are ecstatic at not having to worry about prowl being human anymore and prowls workload suddenly becomes so much that even if he was allowed to move he doesn't have time.

The programming and the reinstalled tacnet making it so he can't say no even though he wants nothing but a break.

Jazz being in Prowls mech trying to talk to him and more often than not he'll be sitting in the cockpit and prowl suddenly cuts off and his vents kicking on, as they use prowl to calculate scenarios like a piece of equipment.

Jazz noticing this installs a blocker that prowl can use to deny dumb requests and suddenly prowl can hear his own thoughts again.

When military gets on jazz’ case about doing that, threatening him to reverse what he did, prowl interferes.

He threatens them back he'd go with jazz and if they do anything to him he'll do the same to his own mech (himself).

Now prowl and jazz get to go out on walks together.

And prowl finally comes to realize that he actually died and everything just feels so much in a robotic body that is all built for efficiency but not for expressing oneself or even just feeling anything.

#mecha pilot jazz au #reverse mecha au #jazz #prowl #tw death #robot body #does this fit #holds up a puzzle piece

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spencereidluver · 1 month ago

Text

T is for Two Time

april 09, 2009

summary: Spencer gets jealous when you have to dress sexily for a case.

word count: 3.1k

warnings: s m u t. jealousy, angst, dom!spence, creampie, oral (f receiving), fingering, there is two smut scenes in this part, the second one is much much much softer than the first.

“Y/N, I need to speak to you,” Hotch says, approaching you from behind.

You were sat at a table in the LAPD. The BAU had been called in three days ago to assist in catching a serial killer. This particular killer had gained a plethora of media attention and was dubbed “The Nightclub Nightmare.” Spencer sat across from you sharing his psychological profile with you before finalizing it with Hotch.

You spun around in your chair to face him. “Alright,” you said, waiting for him to speak.

“Alone,” he said, glancing at Spencer to signal for him to leave.

Spencer’s eyes met yours, a sympathetic yet questioning look being sent at you. You nodded at him, simultaneously telling him to do as Hotch asked and that you’ll tell him what this was about as soon as you can. He stands from his chair, taking his file folder with him to the conference room nearby to continue working.

“I need you to go undercover,” Hotch says.

You’re a bit taken aback. It was rare for BAU agents to go undercover, typically other teams did that. And on the few occasions your team did, Emily was often the one to do so. She’d had plenty of experience in the secret and undercover agent field. So why were you the one to be approached by Hotch this time?

“W-what?” you stutter out, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he says firmly. “You fit his target victimology perfectly.” He can sense your apprehension of the subject. “You’ll have backup every step of the way. Morgan and Prentiss will be posted inside the club with you and Reid and I will be in the van just right outside. We’ll have eyes on you the entire time.”

His eyes don’t leave yours as he awaits your response. Despite his reassurances, you still feel uneasy. “I- I just don’t know if I can do it,” you admit, voice faltering in a whisper.

“Y/n,” he says, using your first name to be more sincere, “I wouldn’t ask you to do something I didn’t fully believe you were capable of doing.”

You shift your weight in your seat. “Okay,” you finally say after what felt like an eternity, “I’ll do it.”

A flat line appeared on Hotch’s face, the closest thing to a smile he could give. “Good. Thank you, agent. We’ll start the preparations immediately. You will be going out into the field tonight, we don’t have time to waste.”

He walks away from you before you can think twice.

What have you gotten yourself into?

Your head is in your hands, fingers rubbing your temples, as the realization sets in. Not often do you even enter the field, now you’re expected to have a one-to-one with the unsub?

“You okay?” you hear a familiar voice say.

Spencer had returned from the conference room and was sat across from you once again.

“Yeah, I-” you look up at him, “Hotch wants me to go undercover to catch the unsub.”

Spencer’s eyes go wide. “You? Why not Emily?”

“I fit the victim profile better than her. He’s far more likely to approach me on his own.”

“Yeah, but Emily is trained for this, you’re not even tactical certified, it’s dangerous.” His voice was strained a bit, higher than normal.

“Spencer, I have to,” you say.

“I know, I’m just… Be safe, please.”

____

The dress was barely a dress. Technically, it was a black backless slip that hit mid-thigh, with a slit up one side and tiny spaghetti straps that made your cleavage spill just enough to look accidental. The heels were five inches. Your hair was curled and pinned in a way that screamed expensive.

You looked like someone who partied at this club every Saturday night. Exactly the kind of girl the unsub hunted.

Spencer didn’t say a word when you stepped into the surveillance van.

He looked at you, eyes trailing slowly from your curled hair to the way your thighs peaked from the hem of the dress, and he swallowed hard.

Morgan whistled low. "Damn. You're going to make the guy crash and burn in five seconds."

"That’s the plan," you said.

But your eyes were on Spencer.

He hadn’t blinked.

You sat down next to him and rested your hand on his knee. "You'll be okay, right?"

He nodded. Slow. Silent.

____

The club was everything you'd expect. Dark, crowded, noisy, with overpriced drinks and a smell that lingered somewhere between sweat and cheap perfume.

You let yourself fall into the role. Your hips swayed with the music, your body language open, inviting. Within ten minutes, the unsub had spotted you. You saw him first in the mirror behind the bar.

He was tall. Unshaven. And way too confident.

He approached like he owned the place.Cocky, smug, the exact predator the profile described. He bought your drink, leaned too close, eyes already roaming up and down your body like he was choosing his next meal.

"That dress is wasted on this place," he murmured, eyes lingering far too long on your chest. "But I like the view."

In the surveillance van, Spencer was already tense, watching the screen like it might explode.

"He’s touching her," Spencer mumbled.

"She knows," Hotch replied.

"He’s not just touching. He’s gripping. Hard." Spencer's voice pitched up. "That's not part of the plan. That wasn't cleared."

On screen, the unsub moved closer. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Leaned in to whisper something.

"He just tried to touch her face. Hotch, I'm going in."

"No, you're not."

"He's going to kiss her!"

Spencer was on his feet. The monitor shook as his hand slammed the table.

"SHE HASN'T SIGNALLED!" Hotch turned, voice sharp like steel. "STAND. DOWN. REID."

Spencer’s jaw clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitch from across the room. His fists were white-knuckled. His entire body buzzed with fury.

On screen, the unsub placed his hand on your bare back, slowly dragging it downward.

"She’s baiting him," Hotch said, barely holding his patience. "Let her work."

Inside the club, you moved. Swift, sudden, precise.

Just as the unsub leaned in, his lips brushing your cheek, you shifted your weight and drove your knee hard into his stomach.

He doubled over with a sharp cry.

Your hands went to his shoulders, slamming him down onto the bar, your voice clear and strong.

"FBI! Hands where I can see 'em!"

Morgan and Prentiss were already on him, cuffs out.

Chaos erupted. The club lit up with panicked screams and flashing lights.

Outside, Spencer was already gone.

The club erupted in screams and chaos. You stood, winded, flushed, and furious. Outside, Spencer had already flung the door open. The unsub was being dragged out, bloodied and shouting.

You stepped outside, hair tousled and high heels clicking against the pavement, and stopped at Spencer's side. The unsub locked eyes with you the whole way to the squad car. Then, he winked.

You didn’t get to process it before Spencer’s hand was at your waist. Tight.

"He winked at you," he said, voice low.

"Spencer, it’s fine. He’s in cuffs."

But his fingers gripped harder. Possessively. Hard enough to bruise. You gasped. His lips were suddenly on your neck. Firm. Wet. Claiming.

"You’re mine," he growled into your skin. "He needed to see that."

You gasped. Your fingers fisted in his jacket. Around you, the team awkwardly looked anywhere but at the two of you. Spencer didn’t care.

"He doesn't get to look at you like that," Spencer growled.

______

The jet was quiet on the way home. You sat next to Spencer. He hadn’t let you go since L.A.. His hand stayed on your thigh, his body angled toward yours, his eyes dark and unwavering. His hand drifted under the hem of your dress, just slightly. His thumb brushed the inside of your thigh a little too close.

You turned to him, breath caught. "Spence..."

"You looked so good tonight," he whispered. "Too good."

"You were jealous."

"I am jealous. I can’t stop seeing him touch you."

You reached out to take his hand, but he pulled away, fingers dragging like he didn’t want to but had to.

"You volunteered," he said, his voice too quiet. Too flat. "You chose to do that."

"I did it for the case. You know that."

His laugh was hollow. "Yeah. And he got to touch you. Got to smile at you. Got to wink at you."

You bit your lip. "Spencer, I'm right here. I’m safe. It’s over."

He turned his face away, but not before you caught the sheen in his eyes.

"It didn’t feel like it. Not in that van. Watching him touch you, knowing I couldn't stop it…it felt like I was losing my mind."

You slid your hand onto his again. This time, he didn’t pull away.

_____

Your back hit the door with a thud.

Spencer’s mouth was on yours before you could speak, his hands sliding under your jacket and yanking it down your arms in one swift motion. His fingers were rougher than usual. Gripping, pulling, and claiming.

“I couldn’t stand it,” he growled between kisses. “Watching him put his hand on your leg, watching him lean in like he could kiss you…”

You groaned as he pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, his thigh sliding between yours to hold you against the door. The hard press of him through his slacks was unmistakable.

“He touched what’s mine,” Spencer spat, dragging his lips down your neck and biting just below your ear. “He looked at what’s mine.”

“Spencer…” you breathed, hips rocking into him.

“You wore that tiny skirt,” he continued, nipping your collarbone, “and those heels, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”

You whimpered when he finally released your wrists and tugged your dress up over your head, tossing it to the floor. Your bra followed. He bent to kiss between your breasts, open-mouthed and messy, as if he was making up for every second he couldn’t touch you earlier.

When he dropped to his knees, you braced yourself, but nothing could’ve prepared you for the way his hands gripped your thighs and ripped your panties down like they offended him. He lifted one of your legs over his shoulder, forcing your back flat to the door.

Then his mouth was on you.

He licked and sucked like a man starved, eyes locked on yours the entire time. When your hand slipped into his hair, he groaned against you, deep and guttural, and gripped your ass to keep you exactly where he wanted you.

“Spence,” you moaned, head hitting against the door, knees shaking.

“You’re already so wet,” he said, pulling back briefly to smirk at you. “Is this all for me?”

You whimpered.

“Answer me,” he growled, biting your inner thigh.

“You,” you gasped. “Only you.”

“Good girl.”

He stood, wiping his mouth and grabbing your face with both hands, kissing you hard, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. Then he spun you toward the wall. You heard the click of his belt, the rustle of fabric, and then the hot, heavy weight of him pressing himself between your thighs.

“Do you need me to be gentle?” he asked, voice low and dark in your ear.

“No,” you breathed. “Show me who I belong to.”

That was all it took. He gripped your waist and thrust into you in one sharp, desperate motion that had you gasping loud against the wall. He was deep. Stretching you. Owning you.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “So perfect.”

You could barely breathe. Every thrust slammed you against the wall, your hands scrambling for purchase as he pounded into you with more force than you’d ever felt from him. There was no rhythm, just need.

“I should’ve stopped it,” he said, panting. “Should’ve ripped him off you the second he touched you.”

You moaned as his hand gripped at your waist, the bruises already forming, and fucked you harder. You cried out with each thrust, your body burning from the intensity.

“Say it,” he demanded.

“S-say what?” you stammered, nearly incoherent.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You,” you choked. “I’m yours, Spencer. All yours.”

“That’s right.” He reached around and slid his fingers between your thighs, finding your clit and rubbing fast, tight circles.

You clenched around him immediately, vision going white at the edges.

“Spencer—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he growled. “Show me you’re mine.”

Your orgasm ripped through you so violently you nearly collapsed. Your legs gave out, but Spencer caught you, never stopping, driving into you through the aftershocks.

He chased his release with ragged thrusts, burying his face in your neck as his hips stuttered.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he groaned. “Gonna mark you from the inside. Let him wonder what it feels like when I’m the one fucking you.”

You moaned weakly, nails digging into the wall as he came with a strangled cry, holding you tight as he pulsed inside you, breathless and trembling.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You stayed pressed to the wall, panting, Spencer wrapped around you like he was afraid to let go.

When he finally pulled out, you both winced, your legs nearly collapsing again.

He scooped you up bridal style before you could fall and carried you straight to the bed, laying you down gently.

You were shaking. Ruined. Completely his.

He leaned over you, eyes softer now, brushing sweaty hair from your face.

“You okay?” he whispered, guilt flickering in his voice.

You nodded slowly. “More than okay.”

He smiled faintly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I love you.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down on top of you. “Good. Because after that, you’re not going anywhere.”

_____

Sunlight streamed in through the blinds, soft and golden. The apartment was quiet, aside from the occasional city noise beyond the glass. You stirred under the covers, limbs tangled with Spencer’s, the scent of him still clinging to your skin, coffee from yesterday, and something darker: sweat, arousal, love.

You blinked slowly, still warm from sleep, your body delightfully sore in all the right places. Every inch of you was proof of the night before, the bruises on your hips where Spencer had gripped you, the ache between your legs, the lovebite on your collarbone.

He was already awake beside you.

You could feel it in the way his fingers softly traced shapes on your bare back, his body curled protectively around yours. When you shifted, his touch stilled.

“Morning,” you whispered.

Spencer let out a soft breath. “Hey.”

His voice was thick with sleep, low and gravelly in a way that made your skin prickle.

You tilted your head up and met his eyes,glassy with something sweet and soft, nothing like the feral fire from the night before.

“You okay?” he asked, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“Mmhm.” You smiled. “Are you?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Just… a little overwhelmed. I’ve never…” He stopped himself, biting his lip. “I’ve never felt that kind of jealousy before. Not like that. It scared me.”

You reached up and cupped his cheek. “You didn’t scare me, Spence.”

His eyes fluttered shut at your touch. “I meant what I said last night. About you being mine.”

“I know. I meant it too.”

He leaned down, pressing the softest kiss to your lips, not urgent, not hungry, just reverent. The kind of kiss that felt like a promise.

You sighed into it, threading your fingers into his messy curls, tugging gently until his body was flush with yours again.

He groaned softly when his hips pressed into yours under the covers.

“You sure you’re up for it?” he whispered.

Your thighs instinctively squeezed around him. “I’m sore. Not sorry.”

That made him smile, before his lips were on yours again, deeper this time.

Spencer took his time. Every movement was careful, slow, adoring, a stark contrast to the bruising rhythm of the night before. His hands explored you like you were something sacred, brushing over your sides, your thighs, your stomach, making you shiver under him.

When he kissed down your neck, it wasn’t possessive. It was worship.

He pulled the sheets back and slid down your body.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

You flushed at the compliment, heart thudding. He parted your thighs slowly, placing one soft kiss on the inside of each, then looked up at you with awe in his eyes.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he said.

You nodded, breath catching when his fingers pushed their way inside you.

“Still so sensitive,” he whispered. “So perfect.”

His touch was featherlight as he stroked you, taking his time,circling your clit, dipping inside you just enough to make you whimper.

You reached down and gripped his wrist. “Spence… I want you.”

He blinked. “Now?”

“Now.”

He kissed his way back up your body, slotting himself between your legs, brushing his cock softly against your entrance without pushing in.

“You’re sure?”

You looped your arms around his neck. “Please.”

He exhaled shakily and pushed into you slowly, a stretch, yes, but easier than last night. This time, your body welcomed him like it missed him already.

Spencer dropped his head into the crook of your neck, letting out the softest moan.

“God, you feel so good,” he breathed. “Like you were made for me.”

You held him close, your chest to his, heartbeat syncing with every slow roll of his hips.

It was slow. Gentle. He kissed you through every thrust and whispered your name like it was fragile and holy.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured. “So good for me.”

Your hands gripped his back as he moved deeper, slower, grinding just enough to make your toes curl.

“I love you,” he whispered again. “Love you so much I don’t know what to do with it.”

You gasped as your body trembled under him, the pressure building slow and tight. “Spence…”

“I’ve got you,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Let go for me.”

You came with a soft cry, your whole body shaking around him, clinging to him like you never wanted him to leave.

Spencer followed with a quiet groan, hips stuttering, burying himself inside you as he came deep inside you, his lips pressed to your temple, hands holding you like you might slip away. He stayed there for a long moment, unmoving, wrapped around you like safety and sunlight.

You traced lazy circles on his back, letting your breathing settle.

“Spence?”

“Mmhmm.”

“If you kiss me like that every morning, I’ll never let you leave.”

He chuckled softly. “Deal.”

_____

next chapter: U is for Unraveled

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version!

_____ BUY ME A COFFEE _____

a/n: this part was super fun for me to write for some reason. i love putting earlier season spencer into more dominant roles in a learning position rather than just expecting him to be like that.

_____

Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

_____

taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @ada--44 @moongirl27

@hopelessheaven @shycreationdreamland @cultish-corner @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls

@hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @hizzielover @jem08

@princessbowbaby @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @smalltownbeautyqueen @spencereidapologist @lunajay33

@softlysunrays @maybe-not-this @wannabewolf @sylv3in @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles

@pillsbury-doughgirl @monfleurr @novaeatsworld @pleasantwitchgarden @vivixir @lolita-hc

@pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @guacam011y @super-nerd22 @khxna

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staryuee · 11 months ago

Text

WHAT THEY DO WHEN THEY’RE IN LOVE!

꒰warnings꒱ not proofread, dainsleif/pantalone may be ooc (´°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥ω°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥｀)

⠀꒲ ` synopsis . . . just cute habits, actions etc that they do, whether intentionally or not, after being struck with cupid’s arrow.

⠀꒲ ` characters . . . jean, diluc, zhongli, xiao, nilou, xianyun, dehya, wanderer, arlecchino, pantalone, dainsleif

⠀꒲ ` notes . . . scrolling through the genshin tag makes me wanna die sometimes…i’m trying to do investigative work and i have to quickly scroll past the same smutty language like it’s booktok torture + also i’ve been playing baldurs gate 3 for the past several days and i think i’ve developed a problem…

G. JEAN — 琴

ʚ jean is very subtle in the way she loves someone, she doesn’t want to keep it secret per se, but her love is always almost adjacent to a puppy crush; something that seems fleeting but in the long run returns harder and hits oh so much worse.

ʚ she can’t necessarily abuse her powers, and she wouldn’t dare dream of messing up the order she so carefully has managed to maintain, so the way she tries to convey her feelings across isn’t too brash or loud.

ʚ simple things like letting her hands brush against yours when she passes you documents, allowing you to visit her office whenever you please even if it’s to just sprawl down at a nearby couch and read a book you found in the library while meandering, and even letting you join her on her daily walks across the courtyard.

ʚ during windblume festivals she won’t hesitate to strike up a seemingly harmless and friendly conversation, all the while sneaking a flower into your hair that resembles the feelings you stir up inside her fuzzy heart.

ʚ jean is overall quite an awkward person when it comes to anything related to romantic or plantoic ties, she’s a bit of a people pleaser in that way where she prefers to assume everyone’s a friend before an enemy… or in this case, “interested”.

ʚ with backup and sought guidance from her good friends lisa and kaeya, she’ll try a myriad of tactics to get you to notice her; a little shoulder massage there, a heartfelt sticky note placed on your workstation there, inviting you to classic candlelit dinners etc.

ʚ yes, believe me, she even tried the cartoonish “rose bit between teeth and uncomfortably arched side lean on a wall” approach before deciding it’s much better to listen to herself than the flamboyant duo.

R. DILUC — 迪卢克

ʚ diluc is the actual epitome of a gentleman. his love is so pure and genuine you can’t help but flower press every petal from the various bouquet he personally delivers to you on special occasions (anything from you completing a particularly hard or draining mission to doing something you thought you’d suck at).

ʚ his coat is also yours now. it’s like a six sense at this point to notice when you’re shivering out in the cold winds, and it’s become even more of a routine for him to simply shed that fluffy coat of his and drape it appropriately over your shoulders, trying to maintain a comfortable distance between you two as he adjusts it both to ease your tension and assure the pounding of his heart goes unheard.

ʚ diluc doesn’t enjoy using his riches to woo someone, it’s uncouth and just shows a desperation unbecoming of someone who dates to marry. if he wants to know you’re in it for the long haul, he’ll be much more sensitive and thoughtful when picking out gifts for you, each them have to hold some level of significance in your life.

ʚ the whole fiasco with his poor maids and some sneaky, perverse stalkers and diluc’s flaming great sword certainly applies to you as well; he’ll quietly ensure your safety in the night, helping you walk home with his arm hooked under yours, and in broad daylight he won’t hesitate to swing that polished wolf’s gravestone of his against any onlookers.

ʚ diluc is extremely closed off but deeply sentimental, he can so easily find himself rambling about his childhood stories to you; anything from how he used to collect seashells with kaeya to bring back to their dad, or how him and jean used to let baby barbara braid their hair together while babysitting…to things that are slightly more troublesome and heart wrenching to even mutter.

ʚ he may be less vocal than most in terms of feelings, but that doesn’t mean he won’t commit to it if he’s in love with someone. diluc isn’t the slightest bit dumb, he understand in order to get his feelings across he needs to do more than take random days off to spend time with you, he needs to at least hint it in a way that clearly gets his intentions across.

ʚ believe me, whenever you come by to dawn winery per notice, everyone raises a brow at you with curious smirks and gazes as diluc nearly stumbles on his words to get the phrase: “you look lovely tonight” out.

ZHONGLI — 钟离

ʚ he has up to thousands years of romantic customs under his belt, he understands the vague signs and ways to further communicate how much he adores you.

ʚ … that would be the case in its full if not for the fact for the first thousand couple years of his life he wasn’t busy maiming other gods and shedding blood. safe to say, his memories of mortal “courting” is slightly, if not absolutely, a massive, weaving and overlapping trail of various centuries and cultures he’s been accustomed to; anything ranging from the days when khaenri’ah was still in its prime to nowadays with newfound slang.

ʚ he’ll recite the most beautifully heartfelt and awfully sincere poem all the while you’re fighting your life in a haunted house (he’s heard this activity is helpful to get couples closer to one another, and given the fact you’re clinging on for dear life at the edge of his coat, he assumes he’s on the right track!)

ʚ he wants to impress you while also maintaining an air of genuineness to his actions, and while that does sometimes end in awkward situations where he ends up wearing regal attire to what’s supposed to be a casual dinner at wangmin, his heart remains completely pure in its endeavours.

ʚ oh, let’s not forget this man is quite literally a dragon too!

ʚ sometimes he can forget you don’t have the same complexion as him and will proudly present you some sort of glimmering relic from his hoard, forgetting that certain materials that existed back in the day were deadly and or toxic for mortals to touch let alone possess.

ʚ with a little nudge in the right direction, he’ll quickly learn everything there is to know for how to properly handle your precious heart. whatever you’d like, you may have — if it’s within his reach, that is. but it doesn’t mean he’ll stop at what’s available, no, just how much he’s willing to risk for you.

XIAO — 魈

ʚ he’s already embarrassed and awkward enough with accepting the fact he likes you, so accepting the fact that he loves you had left him with a lengthy exorcism spree down in some forgotten areas in liyue (it didn’t help).

ʚ in all honestly, not much changes; both because he’s rather emotionally constipated but also because he’s more than sure he’s loved you for longer than he seems to currently acknowledge.

ʚ letters that came only on special occasions like your birthday or his became much more frequent and a lot less poetic, it felt more like he was writing about his thoughts at the time, a little akin to how you’ve made him feel less constricted and much more free; he can finally have the courage to step out of his comfort zone.

ʚ all those small acts of love he used to subtly express (i.e gifting you two crystaflies, personally inviting you to come hang out, etc) he manages to double, he can’t have you thinking his intentions are the same as before. no, they’re much stronger now.

ʚ his guard softens around you regardless, but when you randomly fall asleep on his shoulder on your weekly visits at wangshu inn, instead of taking you to one of the rooms, he’ll sit there and allow you to rest, and if he’s assured you’re not awake to ridicule him, maybe, just maybe…he’ll sneakily loop his arm around your waist.

ʚ even just the thought of you makes him spiral into daydreaming, sitting atop a tree and swinging his leg back and forth carelessly as he stares up at the night to await for a new light, knowing full well the only sun he wants to see is you…just imagining his hands holding your waist like they did so long ago makes him shiver (hopefully this time he’ll get to do it when you’re not falling, and instead are falling for him)

NILOU — 妮露

ʚ nilou is basically a disney princess, if you see her singing to random birds that come watch her performances, everyone in the grand bazaar already knows it’s because you’ll be in the crowd that night.

ʚ each step within her routines are done with the little more passion, if that even is possible given her character, all because she imagines that pride and hopeful heart eyes in your eyes as all the attention is on her.

ʚ sometimes this fixation can lead to dumb mistakes on stage which bring her to sulking away with a hand on her forehead dabbing away at the sweat, but even the mention of your name as you pass by several sumeru streets is enough for her to brighten, do a quick wardrobe switch and run off to tackle you within her embrace.

ʚ nilou is not loud, but definitely not subtle. the exact representation of how she feels when you come to encourage her at her lowest (though those days are few). you’re there for her in ways you don’t imagine, and that alone is enough for her to daze away into the night as she cuddles her pillow, legs wrapped around it and all, and begins thinking about the what ifs of your relationship.

ʚ sometimes it’s a little comedic the way she speaks about you, it almost sounds like she’s reminiscing about a fictional book character with how much she takes pride in whatever little thing you do. no one tires of seeing her footsteps lightly tap against the ground in circles as she gushes about how when you complimented her the other day, you touched her cheek seemingly subconsciously ∩^ω^∩

XIANYUN — 闲云

ʚ she’s a little embarrassed at just how obvious she can be sometimes, it doesn’t help the fact her own children keep using this love of hers to their advantage.

ʚ she keeps nagging them about not taking care of themselves (she’s all too keen about their health and whereabouts now that she dwells alongside liyuean people) and yet just the mention of your name has her slightly stuttering in a ditzy trance as she hooks her glasses back up her nose bridge.

ʚ without hesitance, she’ll show you a photo album she has of all those close to her; would you like to see the drawing little ganyu made when she just barely had her horns? or perhaps the polearm young shenhe broke when she miscalculated her own strength in training?

ʚ her family is her pride and joy, it’s only natural for her to want you to be part of it even if it’s something as silly as raking through photos of a chubby ganyu eating the stem of a flower or teeny shenhe napping on a tree.

ʚ a peaceful life mingling with mortals has left her with ample time to enjoy the trivialities of life, and yet she finds her mind all too quickly wandering to you; had you been taking care of yourself? were you feeling lonely? did you need her to make something for you?

ʚ a secretive worry wart that quickly becomes that ancient adetpus she used to pride herself as soon as your delicate hands accidentally brush against hers; suddenly she’s perked up, chest heaven up high with a confident hand on her shoulder: you wouldn’t even think that flurry of pink hues gushing across her cheeks was real if not for the light providing evidence.

DEHYA — 迪希雅

ʚ oh she’s absolutely ecstatic!!

ʚ there’s genuinely nothing better than love in her eyes, especially just having the ability to love and trust someone fully when you haven’t been able to do so for a plethora of years.

ʚ doesn’t try to hide it, like at all, if anything she makes it rather obvious with the way she constantly pulls you closer as if you were already an item, arms constantly clinging onto you and your sides or her hands messing up your hair as you greet her.

ʚ she’ll take you anywhere you ask, free of charge of course (just promise to smile…and maybe if you’re up for it give her a kiss on the cheek, that’s sure to be enough reimbursement).

ʚ she’s already quite a confident and outwardly friendly person (if the price is right that is) but when in your presence? what’s wrong with just a little bit of showing off…

ʚ dehya needs you to see the best side of her!! maybe then you’ll finally give in and realise that her constantly asking for you to come join her on her travels and commissions isn’t brought out of mere timed coincidence

WANDERER — 流浪者

ʚ i saw that a few people were upset and confused by wanderer’s sudden switch up into being more kind/friendly, but i think we all forget what kind of person he was before his betrayals.

ʚ he loves wholeheartedly, if he adores something it consumes him in a warm pit of mushy domesticity — he doesn’t hate love or being kind, he hates the way it makes him vulnerable and the way it reminds him of the way he used to be.

ʚ that also means he’ll completely ignore you, or, try his best to rather.

ʚ wanderer knows within his heart that he completely years for you, just the accidental slip of his gaze meeting yours makes his brain go haywire, sending volts of electricity down his spine — you make him feel so alive.

ʚ it’s terrifying to return to a person you once were especially now with the knowledge of how being the way you were lead to some sort of tragedy, he’s managed to build up these walls so high and here you were, sneaking in through cracks he didn’t even know he had.

ʚ and he both loves it and hates it; loves the fact he can still feel, but hates how he’s so easily susceptible.

ʚ loving you turns into self-loathing and brooding, his feet pacing up and down every street at night to clear his muddled head. small distractions like taking strolls in meadows or sleeping up in the vines of trees lead to just thoughts of you and you alone.

ʚ wanderer refuses to be overly friendly and buddy-buddy with you even if he’s aware that if you decided to just one day hold him sincerely he’d burst into tears, but he can compromise with being less cutthroat.

ʚ “shut the fuck up” turns into him just rolling his eyes at you as you ramble (he soaks up any piece of information he can and locks it away), items you gift him now are more apparent in their value as he yells at those who dare question the dumb aranara pin you bought him and placed sneakily on his hat…oh and he gives you hat privileges.

ʚ it’s raining? …get close to him so you don’t begin complaining about the way the rain feels on your skin.

ARLECCHINO — 阿蕾奇诺

ʚ she starts treating you less like an asset in her “contact if in need of assistance” roster and more like a friend — of course, she maintains that distance between you two, but she lets you wriggle around in her heart to see if you manage to fit.

ʚ chances are, you will — unknowingly she’d grown to love you in ways that may have even gone unnoticed by her given how natural they were; inviting you to random gatherings when the whim arises, pulling your chair out for you when out for brunch, or even tucking away strands of hair and twirling it around playfully.

ʚ arlecchino’s love isn’t something immediate or expected, she’s a woman who keeps every card close to her chest and her children even closer, you have to prove to her that you’re worth it, in a way that doesn’t necessarily mean spilling blood but more so answers the question: do you care, and are you willing to accept her blinding love?

ʚ it’s like a shepherd dog with a lost lamb, but that little sheep is just you, and she’s a wolf in need of a muse.

ʚ cute tea parties aren’t uncommon with the two of you, she’ll happily let you indulge yourself in treats as she leans back with scorching tea in her hands while memorising every curve of your lips as you chew and swallow, she loves watching the way your eyes crinkle when you smile and the little sway from side to side you occasionally do as an expression of joy.

ʚ once arlecchino notices that she’s began treating you as another authority figure in the house of hearth, she’ll reach and collar you gently, intertwining her dark, cursed hand into your flowery one.

PANTALONE — 潘塔罗涅

ʚ one of the most attractive qualities a man can have is knowing when to shut the fuck up and to slide his card over during a dinner — both such things pantalone can do effortlessly, especially when it comes to you.

ʚ arlecchino claims that: “he allows his actions to be governed by the vengeance and hatred locked in the depths of his heart.” something that definitely translates into his love affairs in more than obsessive manners.

ʚ don’t be afraid of the massive hauls of clothing and sparkling jewellery galore that are being trudged in by multiple men, darling, it’s just a menial souvenir from his latest travels and newfound connections that he thought you might enjoy ^^

ʚ while his grandeur usually stems from his deep hearted desire to overthrow the imbalance between immortals and mortals, rest assured the luxury he provides you purely stems from his desire to make you his.

ʚ whether that entails you being his pet for him to seek comfort from on the occasion or a genuine connection where he can comfortably hold you at night purely depends on you.

ʚ oh, you’ll let him chew your ear off about his recent expedition and extravagant plan? consider your rent payed for the next few months and a few kisses on your cheek that certainly aren’t actually part of the snezhnayan custom (let him indulge in those little cravings or else he’ll undoubtedly be petty).

DAINSLEIF — 戴因斯雷布

ʚ has a breakdown.

ʚ a little dramatic, but honestly if his entire life wasn’t a disgusting mess already, you’ve come to make it worse. fate is deliberately mean to brooding blondes it seems, given the fact he’s now stuck pacing around back and forth on a trail of dead abyss mages as he rereads a letter you’ve sent him weeks ago.

ʚ everything you give to him, everything you say, do, write, whatever, he remembers implicitly. each word you say is engraved into him as if they were important artefacts regardless of how pointless and mundane.

ʚ it can honestly get a little…scary at times? you’ll mention liking something once and all of a sudden you find it within your possession at least a few weeks later.

ʚ dainsleif doesn’t have enough time to wallow in the glory of mushy, all consuming love despite desperately wanting to imagine how your hand would feel caressing down past each of his scars, but what he can do is protect you, and to him that’s a greater blessing than intimacy he knows will end eventually.

ʚ a big tough man who would honestly fold the moment you call him any variation of a pet name, specifically with the word “mine/my” at the beginning — hey, it’s nice knowing you mean something to someone the point they view you as inseparable.

ʚ the timings at which he comes to aid you are all too convenient and believe me he’ll try his best to downplay it as coincidence, all the while he’s breathing heavily both from the face your eyes are scanning his so closely and the fact he used up so much energy to merely make a portal to sneak into your space.

©STARYUEE do not copy, steal or repost ♡ ᴜsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ɪʜᴇᴀʀᴛɢᴀɴʏᴜ

#genshin x reader #soon as i finish bg3 i’ll be reborn anew. IM STUCK ON ACT 2 BC OF THAT DUMB MYKRUL #genshin x gnreader #genshin x you #genshin x gn!reader #jean x reader #diluc x reader #zhongli x reader #xiao x reader #nilou x reader #xianyun x reader #dehya x reader #wanderer x reader #scaramouche x reader #scara x reader #arlecchino x reader #dainsleif x reader #pantalone x reader

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mashtatosworld · 2 months ago

Text

to be loved

summary: summer is approaching and Jiyong is teaching your girls how to swim

warnings: discussions of bodies

a/n: hi, just wanted to add a little note to say that this work includes discussions on body weight and mental health. If you feel uncomfortable please feel free to message me for a summary instead but I feel it's important to represent the struggles of real life. Body image is something I've struggled with myself and all bodies deserve to be listened to, loved, and seen.

Love always,

Mash xxx

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

It was supposed to be a quiet, easy summer afternoon. But quiet didn’t exist anymore - not with two little girls and one very persistent husband.

Jiyong was waist-deep in the pool, cradling baby Angel in her red inflatable ring.

She floated with that soft, milk-drunk expression babies got when they were just happy to exist, a little sun hat covering her dark hair and chubby legs lazily kicking. Her little arms waved now and then, making tiny ripples in the water.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” Jiyong cooed, carefully gliding her across the shallow end like she was made of glass. “Just like your big sister did. Remember that, Jagi? She used to float just like this.”

You smiled faintly from the comfort of your lounger, parked under the umbrella.

You remembered.

You remembered the first time Diva was this small, this round-cheeked, with Jiyong just as eager to teach her everything - even when she was too little to understand.

He was patient, careful, endlessly tender.

Just like now.

But your body shifted uncomfortably as you adjusted your dress over your thighs again.

The warmth wasn’t helping.

You were roasting beneath the fabric and it clung to your body as the heat continued to rise.

A loud giggle broke the silence and then -

“Jia, don’t - !”

SPLASH.

Too late.

Water exploded around the pool like a mini tsunami, soaking Jiyong’s face, hair, and half of the inflatable ring where Angel sat, blinking in startled silence.

Jiyong sighed, flicking droplets off his Chanel sunglasses. “Yah! I told you no jumping near your sister!”

Diva popped back up with a grin that had mischief written all over it, her bright pink armbands bobbing as she paddled like a wild little duckling.

“She liked it!” she chirped, splashing her baby sister gently, who gurgled something halfway between a giggle and a hiccup.

“Appa did not.” Jiyong wiped his face again, then carefully adjusted the strap of Angel's hat. “Aish, your sister is a menace today.”

You smiled and sipped your iced tea.

“Jagiya - ” Jiyong called, dragging out the syllables in his playful, singsong whine. “Come swim with your husband. You love me, remember?”

You raised a brow. “Can't I love you from here?”

He pouted dramatically at your words. “I need backup over here, okay?”

“I think you're doing a great job.”

“Exactly,” he grinned, adjusting the brim of his bucket hat. “Father of the year. Come give me my reward.”

You tilted your sunglasses down, eyes gleaming despite the smile you forced. “My reward is sitting right here, remaining dry and unbothered.”

He started drifting toward the edge of the pool, one arm gently guiding Angel's float as he swam. “Come on, Jagi. You’re so hot when you’re wet.”

Your brows shot up at his statement. “Jiyong.”

He grinned innocently. “What? I’m just telling the truth. I’ve seen you in less than a swimsuit. Don’t act like I haven’t.”

Your fingers curled tighter around your glass.

Underneath the loose sundress was a swimsuit, yes.

One you used to feel good in.

But your body still didn’t feel like yours anymore.

Clothes clung a little differently now, certain parts felt softer, wider, newer.

And you could feel Jiyong’s eyes on you sometimes and would worry - even though you knew better - that maybe this time, they lingered a second longer in surprise, not in desire.

With Diva, it had been easier.

You’d bounced back so fast, because you had to - your tour rehearsals started just months after she was born, and your body had no choice but to fall in line.

But with Angel, you weren’t rushing back.

You were slower.

Still healing, inside and out.

And still trying to like the person in the mirror again.

But Jiyong didn’t know that.

Because he still looked at you like you hung the stars. Because to him, you did.

Knowing that didn’t stop the feeling.

You turned away before he could say anything else, setting your glass down and pretending to scroll your phone.

Jiyong frowned.

He noticed the shift - subtle, but there.

Still, he didn’t push.

Not yet.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Eventually, lunchtime rolled around.

You snacked on sandwiches under the shaded pergola, little plates with fruit slices and juice boxes.

Angel was passed out in her stroller with one arm flopped over the side. Diva chattered endlessly about swimming like a mermaid, her wet hair stuck to her face.

You were standing over her, towel-drying her arms, gently patting her skin before rubbing in suncream again when Jiyong came behind you, fingers brushing at the hem of your dress like he could just sneak it off you.

“You must be boiling in all this,” he murmured, low and teasing, gently tugging you backwards and into his wet body. “Why don’t we get back in the pool while they rest? Just us, hmm?”

You tensed - subtle, but he felt it.

He grinned, fingers hooking gently in the hem of your dress. “Come on. I want you in the water with me.”

Your heart stuttered. “Jiyong, don’t - ”

His hands tugged a little more insistently.

“Jiyong - ” your voice came out sharper than you meant.

He paused.

“I said don’t,” you snapped, more forcefully this time, grabbing his wrist and stepping out of his touch.

There was a beat of silence. His brows furrowed, eyes wide - confused and slightly hurt.

Diva looked between you both, then went back to her grapes.

You kept your gaze down, shifting back over to your daughter intent on finishing applying her sunscreen.

“You can get back in the pool in twenty minutes,” you said softly, smoothing the protective spray across her shoulders. “Let your food go down and the suncream dry.”

“Nooo,” Diva groaned, flopping dramatically in her seat.

You smiled at her performance, but Jiyong was still standing behind you, silent now, his hands falling to his sides.

He didn’t understand - not the full picture - but something in your voice told him this wasn’t just about the pool.

And when you didn’t meet his gaze he quietly moved over to the stroller, occupying his hands with adjusting the sunshade instead, making sure it was protecting his baby from the sun.

He didn’t say anything else.

But his mind was already racing.

Because something was hurting his girl - and he didn’t let hurt linger in this family.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Diva, now armed with a neon water gun nearly as long as her leg, had taken to watering the windows, although you were suspicious she was really aiming for the birds.

Angel was once again snoozing peacefully in the shade, chubby cheeks flushed with warmth and comfort.

You had settled back on the sun lounger, your sunglasses back in place, but your body still tense.

You were quietly berating yourself for snapping at him, for the sharp edge to your voice when he was just - being him. Playful. Flirty. Trying to bring you into the moment.

You didn’t hear his approach at first. The quiet pad of wet feet.

But then his shadow fell across your recliner and you looked up to find Jiyong standing there, towel draped over his shoulders, his expression gentler now.

He didn’t tease. Didn’t smile.

He just sat down on the edge of your lounger, still damp, still glistening in the heat, and looked at you with warm, steady eyes. “You okay?”

You glanced at him, lips pursed. “I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier I just..."

You weren’t sure how to say it without sounding silly or vain.

Jiyong leaned in, his hand brushing gently against your bare ankle, thumb stroking a slow line up your skin.

He shook his head. “Don’t apologise. Just tell me what’s going on.” His voice was soft.

You hesitated.

It wasn’t something you said out loud often. Maybe not even to yourself.

“I… haven’t been feeling good. About myself. About my body.”

Jiyong blinked, stunned. “What?” He tilted his head, brow furrowing.

You nodded, embarrassed. “It’s stupid. After Jia, everything just snapped back. But now, I’m - tired. And it’s harder. It’s not going away like before.”

Jiyong was quiet for a moment. Then his hand moved up, cradling your calf, warm and grounding.

“You gave me two daughters,” he said, voice thick with sincerity. “y/n, you’ve never looked more beautiful to me. Every curve, every line. You’re everything.”

Your eyes burned suddenly. You blinked hard behind your sunglasses.

He leaned forward, brushing a kiss just above your knee. “It’s just us here. Me and our girls. You don’t need to hide from us.”

You nodded slowly, your chest loosening.

He leaned in, grip on your leg tightening. “Besides,” he whispered, grinning now, “you don’t have to take off your clothes to go in the pool.”

You squinted at him suspiciously. “Wait. What are you - ?”

But by then, he was already moving, pulling you up into his arms with surprising ease.

“Jiyong! Don’t you dare!”

“I absolutely dare,” he grinned, holding you like a bride as he padded toward the edge of the pool.

You shrieked, half-laughing, half-serious. “I swear to God if you throw me in - ”

“I’m not throwing you,” he said matter-of-factly. “We’re jumping.”

And before you could protest again, he launched the two of you into the pool, landing with a tremendous splash that sent water flying in all directions.

You came up sputtering, soaked and blinking water from your lashes, but Jiyong was still holding you tightly, laughing like a kid.

You were laughing too, your dress clinging to your skin, but you felt cooler now.

Lighter.

There was something freeing about the absurdity of it, the way he looked at you like you were still that girl he’d fallen in love with - only more.

He leaned in, kissed your temple, your cheek, then your lips, soft and warm and unhurried. You curled your fingers into his shoulder and let yourself melt into him, finally - truly - in the moment.

But of course, peace didn’t last long.

A smaller body rocketed into the water beside you.

“EOMMA!” Diva called, bobbing up with glee, her little legs kicking as she paddled toward you with no armbands on, completely fearless.

You gasped, meeting her half way. “Jia, you swam to me!”

She threw her arms around your neck, squealing with pride. You beamed, holding her close. “So proud of you, baby.”

But Jiyong was already frowning, wading closer. “Hey, hey, hey - where are your armbands? And we just did suncream!”

Diva blinked innocently at him - then lifted one tiny hand and splashed water right into his face.

“YAH!” Jiyong gasped, dramatically wiping his face.

“Swim away, Eomma! QUICK!” Diva shrieked in excitement, and you burst out laughing as she kicked her little legs, trying to propel both to safety.

Jiyong narrowed his eyes. “You’re both in trouble now.”

But he was smiling. Soft and full of something warm and grateful.

You darted backward with Diva clinging to you, her giggles carrying through the afternoon air, Jiyong play-chasing you both as the sun glinted on the pool water and the world shrank down to only the sounds of splashing and laughter and home.

And somewhere in between his splashing and your laughter, the heaviness in your chest lifted just a little.

You weren’t just seen.

You were loved - completely.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

The house was finally quiet.

Diva had passed out with her arms flung over her head, still mumbling about mermaids. Angel was snoozing in her crib, lips puckered around her pacifier. You and Jiyong had tiptoed out, holding your breaths until the door closed behind you.

Back in your bedroom, you dropped onto the mattress in one of his oversized shirts, letting your head fall back with a groan. “My back is wrecked from carrying the girls around. Jia is getting so big. How do you do it everyday, old man?”

Jiyong leaned against the door, watching you - quiet, sharp-eyed, shirt half-buttoned and undone from the top. His gaze dragged down your legs, up the hem of his shirt, lingering.

“Do you want a massage?”

You huffed a laugh. “Does it include a happy ending?"

“Of course,” he said, pushing off the door and walking toward you slow, like he had all night. “I can't resist my wife. In my shirt. Legs bare. Hair still wet. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

You shifted slightly, eyes catching his. “I was trying to survive bedtime, not seduce you.”

He leaned down over you, one hand sliding up your thigh as he braced the other on the mattress. “You’re doing both.”

You bit your lip as he kissed along your jaw, his mouth hot and deliberate, making a lazy trail to your ear.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he murmured, his voice rough against your skin. “The way you looked in the pool… your legs wrapped around me.”

You tilted your head, letting him in closer, your fingers threading into his hair. “So you were distracted.”

“Completely.”

You smirked. “Must’ve been hard, being a responsible dad and a desperate husband at the same time.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark. “Do you have any idea how badly I want you?”

Your breath caught as he pushed the shirt higher, his hands sliding slow up your thighs. “Show me, then.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He moved over you, mouth finding yours in a kiss. Deep, unhurried, like he wanted to taste you first before anything else.

And just like that, the stress of the day disappeared.

His hands, his body, the weight of him pressing you down - it was the only thing that existed.

You weren’t tired anymore.

You were alive under him.

And the night was just getting started.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

💛

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

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andhumanslovedstories · 8 months ago

Text

Last two shifts I worked, I had the same patients but was precepting (training) different nurses. So two nights in a row, I have a patient with a post-op complication (guts not moving) that the surgeons are taking a conservative approach to (wait and see if the gut starts moving). This treatment plan makes sense for the specifics of this patient, but that means we’re doing a lot of symptom management without directly treating the thing that’s causing the symptoms. In this case, symptoms are pain and nausea so bad that the patient said if they’d known this is how they’d feel after, they’d have skipped the surgery and just rolled the dice with what that colon polyp would do if left alone.

So we’re throwing meds at this patient, we’re walking them so their bowels can get moving, we’re giving ice chips and gum and cold wash clothes, we’re giving IV fluids (which is SUPER rare in the hospital right now because due to one of the recent hurricanes, we are critically low on IV fluids), we’re doing basically all my tricks short of putting another tube in this guy. And it’s working okay. Like we’re keeping pain and nausea just below “intolerable” but not by much.

That first night I have that patient, while I’m talking to the surgeon on the phone, my preceptee is in the room talking to the patient. I don’t get any new orders because most usual meds that would help are contraindicated in this particular circumstance. I’m feeling frustrated about that—I HATE when I can’t get symptoms significantly under control—when my preceptee comes up excitedly and says that the patient says they’re feeling much better after the therapeutic intervention my preceptor did. The intervention was hanging out in the room for 15 mins and talking with the patient about their hometown in Canada.

(Which, hell yeah. Very proud of that new nurse because she said one of the biggest things she wanted to work on was being less nervous talking to patients.)

Next night, I got the same patient, still miserable, and a new preceptee. We’ve got more meds this time, but still only marginal success with managing symptoms. I tell my preceptee, “next time you’re in the room, plan on staying and chatting with the patient for like ten minutes.” Next time we’re in the room, we do just that—we talk sports, hobbies, plans, past surgeries, how much this surgery sucks, just the three of us shooting the shit for a while before we have to go give pain meds to another patient. (It was a surgical floor. That night was mostly handing out ice packs and oxy.)

Anyway, the patient tells us that this chat has been the best they’ve felt all night. My preceptee comes out of the room, and my preceptee is like “wow that really was our best intervention.” And I get to be like “yes witness the power of chit chat as nursing intervention.”

Reflecting back, I’m grateful that the patient was so expressive about what we did that was working. I told the patient at one point, in the midst of their most acute misery, that we were going to give them everything we had available, and if that didn’t work, I had backup plans in mind. Like you might spend the night miserable, but it’s not because we didn’t keep trying stuff. And after I say that, the patient goes, “that was good, I like that you said that, that comforted me.” Which was very nice and convenient because before we’d gone into the room, I’d talked to my preceptee about how to make patients feel supported and cared for, even when none of the care we do is working. When we left after that, my preceptee was like “wow, you’re right, that really worked,” and I was like, “I KNOW, that’s cool right? I mean you always hope it works, but sometimes you just can’t tell if it actually does.”

I love really open patients, they are such fantastic teaching opportunities. For example, I had another patient both night who was also very open, specifically about what a bad job the hospital was doing and how everyone should just stay the hell out of their room. Considerably less pleasant feedback, equally valuable, about essentially the exact same situation that the first patient was in. Talking through that patient with my preceptees was also very useful and very easy, because the patient had been so explicit in their feedback.

It’s always odd training nurses because you don’t want bad things to happen to your patients, but you also need to new nurses to see bad things. And sometimes you get a patient assignment that is so good for teaching, it’s like it came from a textbook. Very convenient for me personally as a preceptor. Feels weird to say that about patients who are having absolutely miserable times, that their misery is useful to me, but (as preceptors normally say about stuff like this) if it’s happening, at least it’s happening where we can learn about it. Anyway, great couple of shifts to practice therapeutic communication.

#nursing tag #b.

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prael · 6 months ago

Text

Day 2: Covered

IVE An Yujin x male reader smut

words: 6,374 12 Days of Praelmas Masterlist

They said you could have been special; you would argue that you are.

Destined for greatness. A bright future. Whichever other way they wanted to express it.

The thing is, not everyone is cut out for the centre stage, and that's okay. You still get to do what you love, surrounded by people who share the same passion and work just as hard. Sometimes in life, you are the backup dancer in someone else's story. Sometimes, you literally are the backup dancer.

Yujin however, Yujin is the star. The one the world adores. The one that everyone around her seems to orbit.

You're just another face in her gravitational pull. You're on the stages and you're in the videos but no one remembers your name. There's probably an edit on Weverse somewhere with a sticker on your face. It's fine though. You've long made your peace with it.

You refuse to let that take away from the fact you spend so much time with An fucking Yujin. You've seen her in every single state, every emotion. She likes her 5 am coffee black and her mid-day one with ice. Yujin loves it when you massage her shoulders after practice and hates it when you play the same song twice in a row. However, the thing she loves above all else (and this can never go public) is having you on your knees—serving her like the queen you know her to be.

That's her secret. It's one you bear—one you're fine with keeping.

The final shoot is tomorrow, and today's practice is over but you know better than to follow everyone else out of the studio. You wait and you linger, and when the room clears out and you're sure everyone has left, you kneel and you wait. Sure enough, she notices and a smile creeps onto her face.

You don't bother to look up. Instead, you stay kneeling, waiting, knowing she's going to make her way over to you.

She does.

You hear her soft footsteps approaching and see the shadow fall over you as she stands there, looking down at you. You look up, slowly, eyes trailing up the length of her legs, over the expanse of her bare thighs and then just as you reach her hips, her fingers slip into your hair. She tightens her grip and yanks your head back so she can stare directly into your eyes.

"Did I say you could look at my legs?"

You gulp, feeling the tug on your hair and the way it makes your scalp burn. Your throat is dry, mouth parted and eyes wide. "No," you respond.

"Then what are you looking at?"

"I'm sorry," you quickly apologise, your hands clenching into fists and relaxing again as she tugs harder, her grip unrelenting.

"Sorry isn't good enough," she scoffs. "Why do I always have to teach you a lesson?"

You open your mouth to speak but the words die in your throat when she shoves you to the ground and kicks her leg out, planting her foot on your chest.

"Take off my shoes, don't talk."

You rush to comply, untying the laces of her sneaker before slipping it off. Yujin switches foot and you obediently repeat the action, putting the shoe beside the first one. You know that you can't allow your eyes to linger, but her bare legs are right over you and it takes all your self-control to look away.

"Socks," Yujin mutters.

You take a deep breath, knowing exactly what she wants you to do. You're slow to reach out, placing a hand on her ankle. She lets you, allowing you to gently lift her leg and slide her sock off, dropping it to the ground beside her. Your hand slides higher, caressing the soft skin of her calf, tracing the contours of her muscles. You're almost distracted until Yujin clears her throat, glaring down at you.

You nod, sliding the second sock off her foot and letting that join the first. You don't know where to look, her skin is right in front of you, begging to be kissed. Her eyes are boring into you, demanding all your attention.

"I don't know if you deserve it," she hums, lifting her foot. She drags her toes over your chest, the ball of her foot pressing down just beneath your collarbone.

"Deserve what?"

"To taste me," she laughs. "Don't think I didn't notice how distracted you were today. Don't think I didn't notice you staring at me."

"I wasn't—"

"Don't lie," she interrupts. "It's a bad habit."

You're so hopelessly disarmed. Lying underneath her on the hardwood floor of the studio with your body burning. She's so beautiful, and it's not fair. It's not fair how the universe created someone who can ruin you so easily and look so effortless doing it.

"You're lucky it's recording today tomorrow. You know what that means."

Like any other day before a big something, Yujin has a need for a release. It's a tradition at this point. The days leading up to something are so full of stress and excitement that it all gets too much and the only way for her to relieve herself is to use you.

You nod. You know exactly what it means.

She lowers her foot, and you feel her toes brush against the crotch of your shorts. You suck in a breath as she rubs up and down the fabric, pressing into you. She's watching your reaction, watching the way you bite your lip and clench your fists.

"You've been bad today. Distracted. Not focusing. Do you think you deserve this?"

"No," you shake your head.

"I don't think you do either." She removes her foot, stepping back.

It's torture. You clench your eyes as hard as your fists, desperate not to act out of turn.

"But you know what I want," she continues as you dare to open your eyes and look up. She's staring at you, hands on her hips. "You know what to do to get back on my good side."

You nod. Of course, you know. It's not the first time you've found yourself on the floor beneath her. You sit up on your knees and shuffle forwards. Her shorts are black and loose. Your fingers slip into the waistband and you tug them down slowly, sliding them over the curve of her ass, past the smooth, glowing skin of her thighs and down to her ankles.

You take a breath. You're so desperate. So hungry. She's wearing the laced panties you like. The ones you bought for her and left in her bag. They hug her so tightly that she seems to be straining against them. Her ass looks perfect, her thighs thick and inviting and her cunt...you can see the outline of her folds. The thin material barely covers her. She knows how much it affects you.

"You're staring again," she huffs, pushing her hand into your hair once more and tugging roughly.

"I can't help it," you whimper.

Her fingers twist and you feel the burn in your scalp once more as you wince in pain. Yujin's hand moves from your hair, dragging down the length of your neck and around to the front of your throat. Her hand squeezes gently, thumb and index finger digging in just below your jaw.

"You can. You will."

You gasp, her grip is tight and you can't breathe, your eyes watering with the pain and the pleasure that it brings. She leans forward, her breath hot against the shell of your ear, her grip tight. You're trembling, shaking with the effort of holding back.

"Beg me," she whispers.

"Let me taste you. Let me kiss you. Please, please let me—"

Her grip on your neck tightens, cutting you off. Your words dissolve into a whimpering mess and your eyes roll back in their sockets as your body melts into her. Her touch, her words, her everything has such an effect on you that it takes you to another world. The only thing that exists is the two of you.

"Pathetic," she scoffs, her lips brushing your ear. "You'll do anything, won't you?"

"Yes," you moan, and you mean it.

"Good," she says as she pushes you away and you collapse back against the ground. "Now make me feel good, will you? I'm sick of waiting."

Yujin steps over you, her legs on either side of you and she pulls the laced underwear to the side, lowering herself down until she's hovering just over your mouth.

She looks ethereal like this, the lights shining down on her. The goddess of your dreams, the star of your story.

"Please, let me—" You don't even need to finish your sentence, Yujin sinks down, pressing her pussy onto your lips and you open your mouth to lick at her. A mouth full of pussy, the taste of her arousal hitting your tongue. She grinds down, the soft skin of her thighs pressing in on either side of your face, trapping you. You lick again, tongue flat against her, licking up from her entrance and over her clit. She grunts and her hips buck forward, grinding her pussy down harder on your lips.

"More," she pants.

And you give it to her. Your tongue laps at her, teasing her clit. Her hips roll and you feel the slickness between her legs growing and it's all over you, coating your face as you desperately reach for her thighs. She slaps your hand away.

"Did I say you can touch?"

You struggle to shake your head between her legs.

"So keep them down."

Your hands go back to your side and she groans in approval, grinding harder and faster, using you like she knows she can. This is so Yujin, to use you like she's nothing but a toy for her to play with. You don't care, you'll do whatever she wants.

You're lost in the moment, your tongue licking, tasting and teasing as you desperately try and find the rhythm she's moving in. Her thighs tighten around your head, trapping you there. You cut shapes across her clit with your tongue and you feel the shuddering of her legs as she whines. She loves it when you write her name with your tongue. The letters spelling out An Yujin.

It's all it takes for you to be consumed by her. She's in your system and all you want to do is make her feel good.

Even the powerful, composed, elegant, Yujin has to succumb in some form to the pleasure. She's been riding you with so much poise and posture. Her back is slightly arched, so above you is just the beautiful expanse of her upper body—clung to by a sweat-soaked white shirt. She's running her hand across her chest, her fingers twisting a nipple as she works herself into a frenzy on you. Her head rolls, her hand moves to the base of her neck and she moans.

She basks in the light shining down on her, and it's a sight to behold. The way it glistens on her skin. The sweat runs down her chest. Her hair, her face. The way she looks when she's so completely in the moment.

"Fuck—" she gasps and her thighs tense around your head.

You're trapped and you're struggling. Your face is covered in slick and your mouth is filled with her taste. You feel like you're suffocating and all you can think is that this is how you want to die, with Yujin all over you. Yet you know there's more to come. She starts to crumble. The poise fades and she leans forward, slamming the palm of her hand against the floor.

She hunches as she rides harder. She's fucking down onto your face. Grinding her pussy on your lips and your chin, chasing the ecstasy that she needs. She's so close you can feel it in the way she trembles. You hear it in her moaning, her whines. She's there. Right there, on the cusp.

And how you wish you could take hold of her. Grip her juicy ass in your hands and push your mouth against her cunt and fuck her with your tongue. You'd do it. You would. Your hands twitch at the thought. Your fingers curl into the floor instead. There will be no marks on Yujin's perfect skin from your fingers right now. You keep them clenched and do as you're told.

"Fuck—" She grunts, her thighs trembling. You can't move and you can barely breathe. All you can do is lick at her and let her ride you like a toy.

It's enough. Yujin cries out and her back arches, her head falling backwards. She comes and it's the most glorious sight, watching her body tense as her thighs tremble, clenching around your face. She grinds, rubbing against your tongue as she draws it out. It's messy and loud. She's panting, her chest heaving and she moans, rocking her hips and gasping.

It's like the tension washes out of her body and she sinks down, relaxing against you. She sits on your chest, looking down at you, a satisfied smirk on her face. You try to smile back but all you can manage is a dopey grin as you struggle to catch your breath. She's beautiful like this. Her eyes shine bright, the light behind them twinkling. Her skin glows and she looks like a work of art. A masterpiece.

"You did well," she praises, reaching out to touch your face, stroking her fingers across your cheeks, "you always do well for me, don't you?"

You nod. "I'd do anything for you," you say, and you mean it.

"I know you will." She shifts her hips, her thighs clamping down around your face again, restricting your air. Yujin laughs. "You'd let me suffocate you if I told you to."

And you would. You really would.

"But, I still have use for you," she tells you as she dismounts. Yujin relaxes on the floor next to you, her head propped up on her elbow.

You take a breath and roll over to look at her, still gasping for air. She smiles, reaching out and cupping your face with her hand, thumbing the wetness of her from your cheeks. You're a mess, covered in her, and her eyes tell you how much she loves that sight. How much she enjoys the power of having you like that.

Yujin leans over, her lips grazing over yours. The kiss is so light it makes you shiver. A complete contrast to what you've just experienced. She walks this balance so perfectly. The rough and the gentle, the affection and the torment. She's the best at both and she plays with them like an instrument.

"Do you like me?" Yujin blinks innocent eyes and it's a trap that you fall right into.

"Yes. You know that I do. I like you a lot."

Yujin grins. "Do you like my body?" She shuffles closer, looking down at you a little more. "Do you want to fuck me?"

You gulp, your mouth watering as your eyes wander over the curves of her figure, the way her nipples press against her shirt, the way the hem of it has risen, exposing her midriff and how she plays with the lace of her panties on her hip. You're so hard that you're aching and she knows that. You want her, you need her, you'd give anything to feel her.

"Yujin," you whimper. "Please."

"Do you deserve to fuck me? After being so bad today?"

"I can make up for it. I'll do anything—"

"I bet you would," she hums. Her hand reaches out, sliding over your shorts, her fingers grazing over the obvious bulge. "You want it that badly?"

You nod and you're desperate.

"You want to be inside me?"

"Please, Yujin," you whimper.

She grins, tugging at the waist of your shorts and slipping her fingers under the waist. "You want to grab my ass while I ride you like the toy that you are? Do you want me to bounce on your dick, hm? The one that belongs to me?"

You bite your lip as you nod fervently, watching the way her eyes shine and the corners of her lips twist. Yujin lets out a soft laugh at your desperation.

"Then worship me." She pulls her hand away from your crotch and places it on her hip to pose. "Show me how much you like my body."

Yujin rolls onto her back, throws her hands above her head and bends a knee as her other leg stretches out. She looks so perfect, so inviting. So you climb to your knees, looking over her as she relaxes. There's a natural arch to her body between her shoulders and her ass that leaves a sliver of light between the small of her back and the floor. She's an art piece. Like a statue carved from stone, sculpted and designed to be admired. A creation so beautiful and elegant.

And you're on your knees for her, kissing up her outstretched leg. Your hand traces over her thigh. You're slow, taking your time. The skin beneath your lips is so soft, so smooth, so delicate. You don't deserve her. Your lips press into the path your hand paves up her body. Gentle kisses of appreciation on the thigh you adore so much.

"Yujin—" you breathe the words hot onto her skin. A lick, to taste the sweat from her body, a kiss, to mark the spot. A honey-laced laugh rings in the air. "You're so beautiful," you murmur.

Your mouth presses against her hip, tongue trailing over her skin. Your fingers lip up under her tight-fitted shirt. She's so warm. Her body feels like it's burning and her breaths are heavy.

She looks down the length of her body to watch you as your hand slides up, pushing her shirt with it. Your lips graze over your stomach, tongue teasing and tracing over the defined lines. You're in awe of her. She's perfect, and she knows it, but you still want her to know that she's appreciated. That she's worshipped, admired, adored, lusted for, and wanted.

"I know I am," she laughs, "but tell me more."

"An Yujin," you breathe the name into her skin as you kiss your way to her chest, your hand sliding further up her body until the palm of your hand rests on the softness of her breast. "No one is like you," you whisper as you squeeze the mound in your hand, feeling her body beneath you, feeling the way it moves when your hand does. "You're so flawless."

She moans softly when your fingers pinch her nipple. "Keep going," Yujin hums.

"You're stunning," you continue, looking up at her face as you kiss across her chest to the other breast, your hand still fondling. Your mouth hovers over her nipple and your eyes flicker up to meet hers as you lick over it. She gasps and you lick again, teasing and flicking over it. "You're the most decadent, alluring thing I have ever laid eyes on."

"I'm your fantasy?" Her hands move to the top of your head, her fingers twisting into the strands of your hair as you lick, sucking her into your mouth again, teasing her with the flat of your tongue. You suck and she lets out a sharp hiss of a moan.

"My fantasy," you breathe the words against her chest. "You're my dream."

Her hips lift, pushing against you and the growing ache of your erection. The friction, the heat, the feeling of her—it's so good. She grinds, rolling her hips and rubbing against your cock, smirking at the way you whine, your eyes fluttering.

"You want to cum," she taunts. "Don't you?"

"Yujin," you moan her name again as her fingers twist tighter in your hair. Your hips roll down to meet the grind of her body and your mouth finds the crook of her neck. You inhale the scent of her. You're surrounded by Yujin. It's dizzying. She's everywhere. The smell of her, the taste of her on your tongue and lips, the feeling of her skin on your hands, under your body, the sight of her, the sound of her voice. Everything is Yujin, and you can't think of a better world to live in. "I want you," you tell her. "I want to be inside you, I need you."

"I know what you need," she hums. Yujin's hands tug on your shirt and you sit back and pull it off. Her palms press against your chest, pushing you to lie back on the floor. You watch her and the grace with which she moves, kneeling over your waist as she peels her own shirt over her head and tosses it to the side.

Your eyes are all over her body. Yujin's hands run over the softness of her skin, and she cups her tits in her hands, rolling her thumbs over her nipples, her eyes locked on yours as you watch. Her body is a wonderland. There's no part of it that you haven't seen. No inch of her skin you haven't touched or tasted. You know every crevice of it, every mark and blemish, every imperfection. You know them all and you love them. They're the most perfect imperfections you've ever seen.

She knows the power that her body has over you, the control it gives her. Yujin knows how to wield that weapon, how to make it into the sharpest sword, and how to cut you with it.

"Fuck me," you plead, the words escaping your lips in desperation. "Yujin, please."

"You beg so beautifully for me," she smiles, her fingers sliding under the waistband of your shorts. "Lift your hips."

And you obey, lifting them from the floor. Yujin's fingers tug at the fabric, pulling them down your thighs. She smiles at the sight of you, hard and leaking. Yujin's hands slide over your bare thighs. You're exposed, and the feeling of the cool air hitting your skin sends a chill up your spine. Her palms slide up until she wraps one around the base of your cock and her touch sends a shiver through your body. Yujin strokes up, slowly, twisting her hand on the upstroke. Your hips buck at her touch and she grins at the way your cock twitches, the precum leaking across the back of her hand as she reaches the top.

"You're so needy," she says as her hand glides back down. Your eyes are wide, watching every move she makes as if your life depended on it. "I like it," she tells you.

"I'd do anything—"

"I know you would," Yujin laughs, cutting you off. She shuffles forward on her knees until her thighs press on either side of your waist, caging you between her. The way she towers over you, with that look in her eyes that says you belong to her. "You're my toy, aren't you?"

"I'm your toy."

"That's right." Her hand squeezes tighter around the base of your cock as she lifts her hips, hovering just over you. You don't know how long she's going to keep you waiting, you never do. It could be seconds, it could be minutes. She has a sadistic streak that you've never understood and it's always a game of how desperate can she make you before giving in to your begging. "And who does this belong to?" she asks.

"You. Yujin. It belongs to you," you breathe the words, your fingers curling into the palms of your hands.

"That's right, it belongs to me. This cock," she strokes up again. "It's mine. Isn't it?" Yujin's fingers trace up, circling your tip.

"It's yours," you whimper. The desperation has you whining.

"It is," she laughs, and it's a sound that makes your stomach twist into knots. She squeezes you and lifts her hips just a little, enough for you to feel the heat of her body. You feel her thighs squeeze against you as she grinds her pussy on the underside of your cock, dragging the length of you through her folds and over her clit.

Instinct dictates that you bring your hand to her hip, but you know you can't just take hold of her, not unless she's given the go-ahead. You clench your hands tighter, biting your lip to hold in your frustration, your desperation.

Yujin's hips rock against you again, grinding down and using your cock to get herself off. You can feel the slickness between her legs. You can hear the wet sound it makes. She's using you, and she's loving every second. It's the sound you know too well. She's getting herself off. The feeling of her is intoxicating, and your cock is throbbing, twitching as it slides against her pussy, hitting her clit. The moans from Yujin's lips tell you exactly what it's doing to her. How much she loves the way it makes her feel.

You can't touch. You can't take control. All you can do is lie back, your head tipped back against the floor as your fingers grip in vain at the floor, struggling to keep them from reaching out for her. Yujin's body moves like silk in the wind, and you know she's so close. The sound of her, the feeling of her. She's riding the edge, grinding down, the tip of your cock catching on her entrance as she teases you with every move.

"Yujin—" you beg her name as your head falls to the side, eyes clenched closed.

"What?" Her voice is thick with lust and you feel her hand on your chin, gripping your jaw, her nails biting into your cheeks. She turns your face and forces your eyes open to watch the way she moves. "You want to be inside me?"

You can only nod in reply, feeling her fingers tighten around you, squeezing. She grins, leaning over and you feel the breath of her laughter on your neck. Her lips brush your skin. Her teeth nip, biting down on your shoulder, making you wince. Yujin's hips roll forward, and the tip of your cock catches on her entrance. She holds there for a moment, a silent torment of anticipation as your mind swirls and your stomach flips. And then you feel the heat, her warmth as she slowly pushes herself onto your cock. You watch with a hitched breath, your heart hammering in your chest. You feel her. She feels you.

The breath you'd held rushes out, a gasping moan, the feeling of being enveloped by her body. The tight warmth as Yujin sinks all the way down. Her pussy grips your length, squeezing tight and you can feel the way it flutters, the way it grips, the way it clenches around you. Your eyes meet hers, and you can see how much she enjoys having this effect on you. How she loves the way you react, the sounds she forces you to make, the way you squirm and gasp beneath her. She owns you. Completely. Utterly. Irrevocably.

Her hands press down on your chest, and she starts to move, rolling her hips, circling, lifting up just enough that she can feel you slide in and out of her. You can feel it all, you're aware of every movement she makes. How she grinds her clit against your body on the downstroke, the way her hips tilt to find the right spot, the way she moans when she hits the perfect angle. The way she moves when she finds the right pace, the perfect rhythm. It's everything and all at once.

"You feel so good inside me," Yujin purrs. She leans back, placing a hand on the top of your thigh. Her body is open to you. She's exposed. The panties she still wears are pulled to the side, her breasts bouncing with every move of her body, her stomach tightening, the soft skin pulled taut as her abs clench. She's a sight, a beauty to behold and a treasure to worship.

"Yujin, please," you breathe the word into the space between the two of you. It's not enough, you need to touch. You have to. But you're trapped and she's in charge. "Let me touch you."

"No." It's simple, the way she says it. It's like she's not even thinking about the effect she's having on you like she doesn't even realise what she's doing to your sanity. She rides you like a toy, her hips moving, grinding down, her thighs squeezing and relaxing as she works. You can only whine, lying back against the ground. You watch as she takes what she needs from you, her hand slipping down her stomach and to her clit, circling quickly as her moans fill the room. "This is my cock," she breathes, "and I'll do what I like with it."

"Yes," you hiss as your hips push upwards, your hands balled into fists at your sides. You're so hard it hurts. It aches and it throbs, and all you can do is lie back, trapped beneath Yujin and her powerful thighs. "Yujin—" you breathe, but the words stick in your throat.

Her eyes are dark, the lust-filled pools staring down at you as you lie back, completely helpless and at her mercy. Your cock twitches and she gasps, her hand on her clit, rubbing furiously, chasing her release. She's getting closer and closer with each passing second and it shows in her face. Her brow creasing, lips parted and eyes fluttering.

She's fucking herself on your dick. Yujin is using you to get herself off and you love every second of it. The feeling of her walls gripping you tight, squeezing, her body clenching around you. The way her thighs tense and shake as she moves. Her moans, her gasps. Her eyes are on you, watching you watch her.

Yujin gasps and her body shudders, her pace quickening, her fingers circling faster, rubbing frantically at her clit as she chases her orgasm. You know how close she is, and all you can do is watch her face as she gets closer and closer. Her body is shaking, trembling as the wave builds inside her. Her moans get louder, and more intense. Her fingers work harder, and you feel her tightening, the walls of her pussy squeezing down, and then she cries out, her head tipping back, her body arching, her chest pushing out as she rides the waves of her orgasm.

It's beautiful. The way her body reacts to it all, the way she looks when she comes undone. Yujin moans your name and it sends shivers up and down your spine. She looks ethereal like this. A deity to be admired. A queen on her throne.

She's beautiful. She's breathtaking. She's Yujin.

When the waves stop crashing, Yujin collapses onto you, her body limp and spent. The warmth of her body pressed against you feels like heaven and your cock is still inside her, pulsing, aching, begging for its own release.

"I don't know if I should let you cum," Yujin pants in a whisper, her face pressed against your shoulder, the hot breath on your skin sending shivers down your spine. "Could just leave you here like this. All hard and frustrated. Aching. You'd probably go home and get yourself off thinking about me."

She's right. Of course, she's right. You would.

"Or maybe you can show me just how much you appreciate me," she breathes, pushing herself up, hands on either side of your head. "Would you like that?"

"Anything," you tell her. Your hands twitch, desperate to reach up to her. "You know I would."

"I know." She smirks and sits up. Her hips lift until you feel your cock slipping out of her, her wetness dripping onto you. Yujin's fingers trace over the mess she's left, smearing it on her fingertips before bringing it to your lips. You know what she wants. She doesn't even need to ask.

Your mouth opens and she pushes her fingers between your parted lips, letting you lick them clean. You suck her fingers and her eyes watch you, a glint of something dangerous shining. She pulls them out slowly, dragging the tips over your bottom lip. "Good," Yujin breathes the word as she climbs off of you and turns around.

The curve of her ass is a beautiful thing to see. It's soft, smooth, plump. She catches a glance at you staring, a smirk tugging on her lips. She plants her hand against her ass (a harsh reminder that feeling it yourself requires her permission) and squeezes the flesh before letting out a laugh. It's all a game to her.

"You're going to show me, by cumming for me. Cumming on me." She settles back onto the floor, gracefully lying back into a pose. "You have two minutes. Two minutes to show me how much you love my body." She runs a hand from her chest all the way to her hips and you watch, entranced by every movement she makes. Yujin laughs again. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

The words kick you into action and you scramble to your knees and shuffle towards her. She laughs at the sweet, sweet honey sound that makes you melt. Your hand wraps around the base of your cock, the wetness from Yujin's pussy coating it, slick and smooth as you slowly stroke your length. You stare at her, watching the way her chest rises and falls with each breath, the way her fingers trace up and down the skin of her thigh, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips.

It's intoxicating. You're drunk on Yujin, high off of her beauty, and you're addicted. There's no going back. You're hers, completely. Your fist tightens around your length and your strokes quicken. The feeling of it is so good and your cock is still throbbing from being trapped inside her. You can feel the lingering heat of her body on your skin. The scent of her, the taste, the sound. It's everywhere. Surrounding you. Enveloping you. Engulfing you. Consuming you.

"Two minutes," she hums the reminder, her fingers sliding between her thighs. Yujin's fingers slide over the panties she still wears. "Two minutes to make yourself cum for me. To make a mess of my body."

"Yujin," you whimper her name like it's a prayer. The sound of her voice, the sight of her body. The knowledge of what you've done, of what you've experienced. You've been inside her. You've had the taste of her on your tongue, the sound of her in your ears. Her pussy is still dripping and her thighs glistening. You're still so hard that you're aching, and all you can do is stroke yourself. All you can do is pump your hand and feel your fingers glide up and down your shaft.

Your eyes flicker from the smooth, warm, inviting skin of her chest to her pussy and back. You've tasted her. You've felt her. You've felt the way she grips and clenches, the way she feels. The sound of her when she cums.

"I don't know if you can do it. I don't know if you can cum." Yujin teases and she knows how to play you. "One minute."

"Yujin," you moan her name again and again as you feel it building. The pressure. The heat. Your cock twitches in your hand as you stroke. The sensation of the wet heat, the friction, the knowledge that Yujin is beneath you, but you're hers to command, to control. It's too much and it's everything. You feel it in your core, a twisting, coiling, winding tension that's threatening to snap.

"Do you want to cum on me?" Her voice breaks through the fog. "Do you want to mark my body with your cum? Make a mess of me?"

She throws her hands above her head, stretching out her body and presenting herself for your load. "Thirty seconds," Yujin warns, the hint of danger on the tip of her tongue.

"Yujin—" You can only whisper her name as you stroke. Hard and fast, gripping and twisting. You're so close. Right there, standing on the precipice.

"That's it. Be a good boy for me," she praises. "Show me how much you adore me."

"I—I—" Your words die in your throat, a gasping, breathless moan. You're cumming, the tension snaps and it's all too much. The pleasure rushes over you like a wave. You're drowning in it. You're suffocating. Your hips stutter, thrusting into your fist, pumping your length as you feel the hot spurts of your cum painting over Yujin's perfect, beautiful skin. The first spurt splashes across her breasts, the second spattering across her stomach and chest. Her laughter fills the room. She loves this, seeing the way she's ruined you.

Your body shakes, your hand slowing as the final drops fall from your cock to the expanse of Yujin's body. Your mind swims as you struggle to breathe. Your head spins and your vision is blurry. She's laughing, her fingers swiping through the cum, rubbing it into her skin. Her hands roam all over her body and you're entranced. Your body feels like jelly as you collapse, slumped onto your side on the floor beside her.

"Good boy," Yujin purrs, her hand sliding over her stomach and down between her legs, rubbing at her clit with your cum. She's smearing it everywhere, all over her pussy, her fingers slipping between her folds and then back to her clit. It runs over her chest, dripping down the side of her tit. Her breath hitches and you watch, mesmerised by her. "Such a good boy."

"Yujin," her name falls from your lips as if you've lost all other words, the way a prayer is uttered, reverently and devotedly. "I—"

She laughs again. It's light and playful. "I know. I'm the best, right? You're so lucky."

"Yes." It's the only thing you can think of to say. You are lucky. So unbelievably lucky.

#Yujin smut #Ive smut #male reader #kpop smut #m reader #Yujin x reader #praelmas #smut #kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #an yujin smut

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gf2bellamy · 6 months ago

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protective — aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: hotch doesn't let you do your job because he's too worried content warnings: reader is sort of aware of hotch's feelings, bau surrounding unsubs house, reader is irritated

The team stood huddled near the black SUV. The tension was palpable as Derek outlined the plan.

“We’ll go in from the left,” Derek said, his voice calm as he nodded toward you, his eyes searching yours for confirmation.

You shifted slightly, adjusting the weight of your vest as you nodded back, trying to push down the nervous energy thrumming in your veins. “Got it,” you replied, your tone firmer than you felt.

Before you could fully process the plan, Hotch stepped forward. “No,” he interjected, his deep voice calm but resolute. “I’ll go with Morgan.”

The words hung in the air for a beat too long. His dark eyes met yours, unwavering.

“Hotch—” you started to protest, but his sharp gaze silenced you. Not unkind, but firm.

He wasn’t giving you a choice.

“This isn’t up for debate,” Hotch said, his tone softening slightly as he turned back to the group.

He began giving instructions, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Reid, take the back exit with JJ.”

The team dispersed quickly, each moving to their assigned positions. But as the group spread out, you remained rooted in place, realizing you’d been left without a specific task.

Hotch finally turned toward you, his expression unreadable. “You’ll stay here,” he said simply, gesturing to the black SUV. “We need someone ready to coordinate backup if this goes south.”

Your stomach twisted at his words. Stay outside? That was it? After everything—after proving yourself time and time again—you were sidelined?

Your jaw tightened, frustration bubbling under the surface. You opened your mouth to argue but stopped yourself at the last second.

This wasn’t the time.

Not with the unsub barricaded in the house, the potential for danger at its peak.

“Yes, sir,” you said tersely, your voice clipped as you forced yourself to fall in line.

You didn’t miss the flicker of something in his eyes—was it guilt? Concern? Whatever it was, it was gone before you could figure it out. He gave you a small nod and turned back to join Derek.

The others moved out, slipping into the shadows as they approached the house, leaving you standing next to the SUV with the bitter taste of frustration in your mouth.

You watched them go, your chest tightening as Hotch disappeared from view.

You knew better than to second-guess him, especially in the field. But as you stood there, gripping your comms radio tightly, you couldn’t help but feel like you’d been benched for reasons that had nothing to do with strategy—and everything to do with Hotch’s unspoken worry.

It was maddening. Yet, deep down, a part of you couldn’t entirely fault him for it.

Not when you knew the way he looked at you, how he couldn’t seem to keep the lines between personal and professional from blurring sometimes.

Even now, as irritation simmered under your skin, you couldn’t ignore the subtle warmth creeping into your chest at the thought.

Shaking your head, you forced the distraction away and focused on the radio, ears straining for updates. You couldn’t let yourself dwell on Hotch’s motives—not when the team was walking into the lion’s den.

Hours later, the case was over. The unsub was in custody, and the adrenaline that had fueled you during the operation had long since burned out.

Now, you sat in the team’s jet, staring blankly out the window.

A book rested in your lap, open to a page you hadn’t read a single word of.

Your thoughts circled back to Hotch’s orders from earlier, replaying his tone, his expression, his decision to sideline you.

You sighed quietly, shifting in your seat, and let your eyes wander to the empty one in front of you. You’d intentionally picked a spot away from the others, hoping it would help ease the frustration still twisting in your chest.

It didn’t.

You tilted your head back against the seat, closing your eyes for a moment.

The sound of soft footsteps drew your attention. You opened your eyes to see Hotch making his way down the aisle. His gaze swept over the cabin before landing on you.

For a brief second, you considered pretending to be asleep, but the intensity in his eyes made it clear that wasn’t an option.

He stopped next to your seat, his voice low enough not to draw the others’ attention. “Mind if I sit?”

You hesitated, but only for a moment. With a small nod, you gestured to the empty seat across from you.

Hotch lowered himself into the chair, his posture as straight and composed as ever, though his eyes held a flicker of something softer. He leaned slightly forward as he studied you.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said finally, his tone careful, probing.

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head as you closed the book and set it aside. “Didn’t think I had much to say,” you replied, the words laced with more bitterness than you intended.

Hotch didn’t react, his expression remaining unreadable. “You’re upset about earlier,” he said plainly, cutting straight to the point.

“Upset?” you repeated, meeting his gaze. “I was benched, Hotch. What do you think?”

His jaw tightened slightly, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, almost gentle. “It wasn’t about your abilities.”

“Then what was it about?” you pressed, leaning forward, unable to keep the frustration out of your tone. “Because it sure felt like I was being pushed aside for no good reason.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face briefly before meeting your eyes again. “It was about risk. About keeping you safe.”

You stared at him, his words sinking in like a stone dropping into a still pond. Part of you wanted to argue.

But another part—the part that couldn’t ignore the way his voice softened when he looked at you—understood.

“Hotch,” you said, your voice quieter now, more measured. “I know you care about the team. About all of us. But you can’t make decisions like that—decisions that feel personal—on a case. It’s not fair. To me or to anyone else.”

He looked down for a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line. When he looked back up, there was something raw in his eyes—something he rarely let show.

“You’re right,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t fair. But that doesn’t mean I’d make a different choice.”

The honesty in his words caught you off guard, leaving you momentarily speechless.

“I can’t separate how I feel about you from the job,” he continued, his gaze steady on yours. “And maybe that’s something we need to talk about. But not here.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the hum of the jet filling the silence. Finally, you nodded, your frustration giving way to something else entirely.

“Okay,” you said softly, a small, tentative smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “We’ll talk.”

Hotch gave a slight nod, a flicker of relief crossing his features before he stood.

As he walked back to his seat, you felt the weight in your chest begin to lift, replaced by a nervous anticipation that you weren’t sure how to process.

#aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner x you #criminal minds x you

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fluentmoviequoter · 1 year ago

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Mom and Dad are Fighting Again

Requested Here!

The Bradfords Series Masterlist

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!wife!reader

Summary: You and Tim become Lucy's station parents, and you show your care for her in different ways.

Warnings: fluff, brief angst, grumpy!Tim to softie!Tim, "mom and dad are fighting again" is a Castle reference

Word Count: 2.5k+ words

“Bradford!” Wade calls.

“Which one?” you and Tim ask together.

Wade sighs, and Angela adds, “He’s tired just thinking about the conversation. That means he needs Tim.”

“Tim,” Wade clarifies. “Let the other Bradford help Chen prep the shop. I need to talk to you about something.”

“Ooh,” Angela and Lucy taunt.

You roll your eyes, but it is a bit like being called into the principal’s office. Luckily, Tim and Wade get along well. You tap Lucy’s shoulder and wave for her to follow you. After you sign for your gear, Lucy gets hers and Tim’s. Once you’re in the garage and your bag is in your shop, Lucy turns to you with a pout.

“If a Bradford had to be my TO, why couldn’t it have been you?” she asks.

“Tim is the best there is, Luce. I know he can be grumpy and push a little too hard, but I promise learning from him is worth it,” you reply.

“At least I have you to stand up for me.”

“Ah, so that’s why you wanted to be my friend.”

“We’re cops, not friends,” Tim interjects as he walks out of the doorway behind you. “Let’s go, boot.”

“We’re not friends,” Lucy murmurs under her breath. “Says the guy who’s married to another cop.”

“What was that?” Tim asks.

“Tim,” you warn gently.

You shake your head, and he takes a deep breath before getting in the driver’s seat. As you climb into your shop beside him, Lucy rolls her window down and gestures for you to do the same.

“Dad says he loves you,” she says with a wide smile.

“Chen!” Tim yells.

“I love him too. Be safe, both of you,” you call before pulling out.

“We need to talk about boundaries, Chen,” Tim grumbles.

“Better than not talking,” she argues.

Tim leans against the side of the shop and stares straight ahead. It’s an interesting situation, but no matter how long he looks, he can’t decide what the best approach is. Lucy has spouted numerous ideas, and he’s vetoed each one.

“We could call for a lift truck,” she suggests as she paces on the sidewalk.

“Can’t get close enough,” Tim replies.

“Then you know what we have to do.”

Tim looks at Lucy, who now has her hands on her hips and a determined look.

“We have to call smarter reinforcements. Call Bradford,” she demands.

“I’m not calling my wife because we can’t- how could she even help?”

“She’s brilliant. You of all people have to know that.”

“Sounds like you should be running her fan club,” Tim complains.

“Having a hero isn’t wrong. If you don’t call her, I will.”

“And I’ll write you up.”

Lucy sighs and turns to look at the scene again. Tim runs through a few more ideas in his mind, but they all end in a worse situation than the current one. He sighs as he pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“Hey,” he greets when you answer.

Lucy turns around quickly and claps quietly. Tim glares at her, but her excitement doesn’t diminish as he continues talking to you.

“Are you busy?” he asks.

“Just tell her we need help!” Lucy implores.

“Yeah, that’s Chen. And we do need help.”

Lucy pumps a fist over her head in victory. When Tim ends the call, though, she steps back and quiets.

A few minutes later, you park beside Tim’s shop and exit your car with a smile.

“Someone called for the cavalry?” you joke. “So, what’s so strange Tim Bradford had to call for backup?”

Tim doesn’t answer but grabs your waist and leads you to stand between him and Lucy. He points up through a gap in the trees and you follow his finger. Your responding “huh” does little to make Tim think you’ll have an easier time solving the problem.

“What am I supposed to do about it?” you ask.

Tim turns to glare at Lucy again, and she ducks behind you. You look at Tim from the corner of your eye and he accepts your silent reprimand and gives Lucy some space.

“Did you try to get up there?” you ask.

“No. There’s no good approach,” Tim answers.

“I thought we could climb onto the roof beside it for recon and find a way to reach it,” Lucy says. “Or maybe get a ladder truck in the yard.”

“Roof recon isn’t a terrible idea,” you agree. “Why didn’t you do that?”

“Because I don’t agree that it would get us any more information than we can get from the ground,” Tim explains.

“We can’t get to it from here, though,” Lucy argues. “This park is protected, and we can’t bring CSU out here to traipse all over it. That house is our best bet.”

“Chen, you are not in charge,” Tim snaps.

“Tim,” you warn softly. “Just hear her out.”

“She’s my rookie. I don’t have to do anything she says.”

“I’m not saying to do exactly what she says, but you’re training her, not dictating her. Give her a chance to work this.”

Tim clenches his jaw and breathes out of his nose. The situation is stressful, you know, because every element of being a cop is. But Tim arguing with Lucy will only delay the inevitable.

“Please?” you add. “If her plan to scout from the roof doesn’t work, then I will call the park service and tell them to deal with it.”

“We don’t even know who owns that house.”

“One way to find out,” Lucy says.

You let Lucy take the lead and stand beside Tim on the porch as she talks to the owner of the home. He doesn’t seem inclined to let three police officers climb onto his roof to deal with something that he can’t see.

“I’m done talkin’ to ya,” he says before slamming the door in Lucy’s face. It opens a moment later and he adds, “One more thing.”

You can tell he’s prepared to do something stupid and pull Lucy back quickly. His fist misses her face by an inch, and you move her toward Tim before turning toward the homeowner. His second hit is luckier and lands against the side of your nose, but he’s not trained like you are. When you hit him in the same spot, he goes down hard and fast. You raise your hand to your face and immediately feel blood coming from your nose. There’s likely no real damage, just a busted blood vessel or two.

Lucy begins apologizing as Tim calls for backup and another unit to deal with the issue in the park. He returns his radio to his belt and lays his hands on your shoulders to look at you.

“We’re going back to the shop. Stay with him until backup gets here, Chen,” he commands.

“Yes, sir,” she answers quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Lucy,” you offer.

“We’ll discuss that later,” Tim interjects. “Let’s go.”

Tim keeps a hand on you during every step of the short walk back to the shop. He presses a wad of gauze under your nose and uses his other hand to tip your head slightly forward. When the top of your head hits his chest, you feel him sigh.

“What would you have done? If Chen wasn’t here?” he asks.

“I don’t know, Tim. A huge, gaudy murder confession nailed to a tree in a park is a new one. Park department wouldn’t have been much help, so it may have been one to pass off. Or trespass.”

Tim looks away from you when Lucy returns. You cover his hand to pull the gauze from your face, and when you see there’s no fresh blood, you pull an antiseptic wipe from the first aid kit and clean the dried blood from your chin and Tim’s hand. Lucy waits silently, and now she looks like the one waiting to be called to see the principal.

“What were you thinking?” Tim demands when you release his hand. “You never just stand in front of someone’s door. If we hadn’t been there, or if he had opened the door with a knife, what would have happened, Chen?”

“It won’t happen again, sir.”

“You’re right it won’t! I don’t know why you refuse to listen to me or remember basic, common procedures, but it will get you killed, and I’m not going to let that happen. I will take your badge if this is the kind of police work you’ll do once you’re out on your own!”

“Tim!” you interrupt. “She messed up. We all have. Maybe let her prove that she learned something before you threaten her career.”

“No! I don’t want her on the streets alone. I don’t want to imagine what I’d hear if she was partnered with you someday.”

“Drop it,” you demand as you stand.

Your chest presses against Tim’s, and his eyes bore into yours. Lucy watches on with her hands pulled tightly behind her back and guilt in her eyes.

“Or what?” Tim asks.

“You’re making it about me. But you’re done yelling at Chen. Lucy, get in my shop, we’re all going back to the station.”

“For what?” Tim scoffs.

“To learn some human decency, apparently. And if you’re still acting like this when we get back, I’m taking Chen for the rest of the week.”

Tim watches you toss the keys to Lucy before she walks away. His brow furrows and you realize he thought you were leaving him to drive back with Lucy.

“You trust her to drive your shop?” he asks.

“What is this about?” you counter. “Because she was just in a bad place, which is the best that could have happened.”

“She doesn’t apply what she knows. Lucy is smart and she’s got instincts, but she gets excited and jumps too soon.”

“Then walk her through everything. Standing back and being a drill sergeant is only going to make her rush more.”

“When did you become an expert on being a TO?”

Tim smiles softly at you, and you pat his chest.

“Guess you’re teaching me, too.”

“Bradford,” Wade calls over the radio. “The guy you booked for assault on an officer is claiming that Chen harassed him. I need your body cams as soon as you return.”

Tim pulls the seatbelt too hard and locks it. You answer Wade that you’ll all be back with your cams shortly. After replacing the radio on the dash, you lay a hand on Tim’s arm and encourage him to take a deep breath.

“That’s not Lucy’s fault,” you remind Tim.

“It was her plan,” Tim responds.

“I agreed with it. Does that make me a terrible cop?”

“Of course it doesn’t, but this isn’t about you!”

“Then what’s it about?” you ask, your voice raising to meet his.

“I feel like I’m failing her and that’s why we keep ending up here!”

Tim huffs as he finishes, and you watch him carefully. His shoulders drop, and you want to hug him but know better than to try while he’s driving.

“You’re not failing her. But there is always room for improvement. Being a teacher doesn’t mean you can’t learn, too.”

“How do you trust her like this?”

“You said it yourself. She’s smart and has good instincts, but she needs a bit of room to learn and hone those skills without feeling pressured to be perfect.”

Tim nods, and you whisper an apology for yelling at him. He shakes his head, and you agree that he doesn’t need to apologize either.

When you exit Wade’s office after surrendering your body cam and making your statement, you hear Angela ask Lucy where you and Tim are. Or, as you’re referred to at the station, The Bradfords.

“Oh, Mom and Dad are fighting again,” Lucy jokes.

“About you?” Angela asks, playing along but aware that Lucy isn’t completely wrong in her phrasing.

“What else?” Lucy counters.

“Chen, a word?” Tim asks as he moves around you.

You watch as he apologizes, and smile to yourself. Angela winks at you as she passes, and you join Tim and Lucy.

“Wade said I could stay with you two for the rest of shift. What are we up to?”

“We still have to deal with the murder confession in the trees,” Tim groans. “Hey, Nolan, have you dealt with a murder confession yet?”

Nolan shakes his head, and Tim looks around for Bishop. When he sees that she’s not close, Tim steps into Wade’s office and asks him to transfer the call to Nolan.

“Thanks, Officer Bradford!” Nolan replies happily.

“No problem,” Tim says.

Lucy hides her smile as she walks beside you. Every moment spent with her requires a level of parenting, and though you’re relatively close in age, you and Tim feel responsible for Lucy. As more than a cop. You show it in your own ways, but she knows how much she means to you and Tim and feels the same.

During one of your very few days off, you want to surprise Tim with dinner. The recipe that you want has seemingly disappeared, though, and you’ll have to call Lucy to get it again.

When her phone rings, and she answers, “Hey, Mom,” Tim shakes his head.

“No personal calls in my shop,” Tim says.

“You answer for her.”

Tim’s brows furrow until he realizes Lucy isn’t talking to her biological mom, but her station mom. He nods to let her know she can continue talking to you.

“Dad says hi,” she says, just to bother Tim.

“Dad says he needs a day off, too,” Tim grumbles.

“Don’t you dare answer that,” Tim says against your lips. “Date night, not LAPD night.”

“It’s Luce,” you argue as you reach for your phone.

Tim catches your wrist and brings it to his lips to distract you. Your phone rings again, though, and Tim’s chimes with an incoming text. He releases your arm hesitantly and pulls you so he can lay his head against your shoulder.

“Hi, Luce,” you answer.

“Put me on speaker!” she requests happily.

“Alright. Tim and I are both here.”

“I passed my rookie exam! I know you’re both off today, but Sergeant Grey knew we couldn’t wait to hear the results. Thank you, both of you, so much!”

“Congratulations!” you and Tim say together.

“We’ll celebrate when we get back,” you add.

“I knew you could do it,” Tim says. “Good job, Lucy.”

“Okay, okay, I need to call my mom and tell her that she was wrong. Enjoy the rest of your time off.”

The line beeps as she ends the call, and you and Tim lock eyes.

“She called us first, didn’t she?” you ask.

“We really are turning into her parents,” Tim says with an exaggerated shudder.

“You look pretty good for a dad,” you tease. “And you care about Lucy no matter how much you pretend not to.”

Tim looks at you for a moment before asking, “You know Lucy’s real parents set the bar low, right?”

“Let me have this. She’s my daughter and she’s no longer a boot.”

Tim groans, but before you can tease him again, he pulls you down to continue kissing you. Until your phone begins buzzing nonstop with excited texts from Lucy, at least.

#hanna writes✯#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford x fem!reader #tim bradford x y/n #tim bradford x you #tim bradford fic #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford #the rookie abc #fem!reader #the Bradfords🩶🚓

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mydearestbeloved · 8 months ago

Text

Chapter 8 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

CW:

Inspired by @circeyoru ‘s “Future Power Couple”

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

It was inevitable that Jinwoo would introduce you to Yoo Jinho.

As you stood there, the lower half of your face concealed by a laced black mask patterned with butterflies, you had to hide your grin. The mask, enchanted with illusion magic, ensured that most people couldn’t recognize or remember your face easily, except those you wanted to be recognized by.

Perhaps it was because you were mentally older than your physical age in this world, or maybe you were just prone to cuteness aggression. E-rank Jinwoo had been spared only because you couldn’t reveal yourself at the time. But now, facing Jinho, you really wanted to squish his boyish face. Thankfully, you managed to rein that urge in.

You could almost see Jinho’s thought process as he saw Jinwoo with you. Jinho’s tendency to misinterpret situations had been a refreshing comic relief in the manhwa, but now wasn’t the time to focus on that.

“Don’t think too hard about it, Child,” you said, ruffling Jinho’s hair and making him stumble forward slightly. Perhaps you exerted too much force?

Jinho blinked, his eyes wide with surprise. “Ah, uh, yes! I mean, no! I mean...”

You chuckled softly, scanning your surroundings. The people hired just to fulfill the requirements of raiding a gate had already started to mind their own business, used to the routine by now, barely sparing you or Jinwoo a second glance.

That was fine; the less attention, the better. But your gaze caught Han Song-Yi standing a little farther off. You smiled beneath your mask and gave a small wave. But when you saw Han Song-Yi, you smiled behind your mask and waved. She seemed surprised before hesitantly waving back.

You turned to Jinwoo, who was already in front of the gate, waiting for Jinho and you.

As you approached, Jinwoo raised an eyebrow. “Ready?”

"Shall we?" you asked quietly, stepping up beside him.

Jinho, still flustered, scrambled to stand beside you. “Ready, Hyung!”

The butterflies embroidered on your mask seemed to shimmer for a moment as you prepared yourself for the challenge that lay ahead.

---

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Jinho. I'm (Name)."

Yoo Jinho's mind was already swirling with a dozen thoughts the moment his Hyung introduced you. Jinwoo rarely worked with others, so your presence threw him off.

(Name). No last name. A C-rank healer, not widely known, but Jinho had heard a few whispers about you. Word was that you had a nurturing, kind disposition every time the South Korean Hunter Association dispatched you for backup in raids.

His first impression? You looked like a professional. Your combat-ready outfit was practical, and the long coat draped over it hinted at versatility, allowing freedom of movement. There was no visible armor, but the way you held yourself, with your hair styled elegantly yet suitable for combat, spoke volumes. Even with the mask obscuring part of your face, Jinho sensed you were what most would consider a subtle beauty.

"(Name) will be joining our raids from now on," Jinwoo stated matter-of-factly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world..

Wait, what?

His Hyung, who had always preferred to raid solo, was now bringing someone along—and acting like it was a routine occurrence?!

Did you and his Hyung perhaps—

Before Jinho could finish the thought, you ruffled his hair fondly, startling him with the unexpected strength behind your gesture.

“Don’t think too hard about it, Child.”

“Ah, uh, yes! I mean, no! I mean…” Jinho stumbled over his words, clearly flustered.

You chuckled softly, your demeanor warm.

That was how the day began.

Jinho spent most of the raid gawking as you and Jinwoo seamlessly coordinated your attacks. He watched in awe as you effortlessly took down enemies alongside Jinwoo. More impressive was how naturally Jinwoo seemed to work with you, almost as if the two of you had been doing this for years. It was like watching a finely tuned machine in action, with both parts working perfectly in sync.

For a moment, he felt a little lost. What was he supposed to do when his hyung and you didn’t seem to need backup?

Then, as if sensing his uncertainty, you approached him. “Hey, Jinho? Thank you. Jinwoo might not say it out loud, but I’m sure he appreciates your company all this time.”

Jinho perked up at your words, feeling a surge of pride, only to become flustered when he heard you giggle. You were trying to be discreet, but it was clear you found his reaction amusing.

Another time, during another raid, you commented on Jinho’s armor—more out of thoughtfulness than criticism. “That’s some expensive armor you’ve got there,” you remarked, noticing his attire.

Jinho, eager to explain, mentioned the high-end gear he had bought back when he first started working with Jinwoo. His hyung had thought it was excessive, but Jinho wanted to be prepared.

You hummed thoughtfully. “It won’t hurt to be a bit more prepared,” you said, and before he knew it, you pulled something out of thin air—a small, unassuming butterfly brooch.

Jinho’s eyes widened. How did you do that? He had never seen anything quite like it. You pinned the brooch to his clothes with a graceful motion. “It’s imbued with some spatial magic,” you explained. “Try clicking it three times.”

Curious, Jinho did as you said., and his eyes lit up as his expensive armir were replaced by a sleek, high-quality combat suit. The fabric was sturdy yet comfortable, allowing for easy movement. He marveled at how perfect it felt.

“How… how did you do that?” Jinho marveled at the suit, admiring its design and function.

You bring a finger to your lips.

“Don’t worry. Your current wear was just switched out, it’s in there if you want to switch again.”

Before he could offer to pay you back, you raised a hand to stop him. "Just take it as a thank you, for always accompanying Jinwoo. If that’s not enough, consider it an advance payment for your continued help in the future."

From that day on, Jinho started calling you Noona. He couldn’t help it—you had earned his respect and admiration. Plus, you always looked out for him, even when it wasn’t necessary. You had a way of making him feel important, part of the team, even though he knew you and Jinwoo were leagues ahead.

You weren’t just cool. To Jinho, you were someone he could look up to.

Even Jinwoo seemed to tolerate it, though you noticed a slight twitch in his expression whenever Jinho said it, making you suspect that Jinwoo wasn’t as indifferent as he let on.

---

"Woah, who's that?" "She looks so cool..."

You could hear the whispers as you removed your helmet after parking your motorcycle in the parking lot. The students stared, intrigued by the mysterious figure you cut against the backdrop of their daily lives. Your eyes, however, were trained solely on the building in front of you.

It wouldn’t hurt to be a bit more prepared, you reminded yourself, as you often did.

---

Inside the school, Jinwoo didn’t expect to run into you. He had come for Jinah’s parent-teacher meeting, but here you were, in a place that seemed far from your usual.

You spotted him almost immediately.

“What are you doing here?”

"Straightforward as always. I'm here on personal business," you said, offering a brief, cryptic smile.

He raised an eyebrow, the suspicion clear in his eyes. “Personal business? At this high school?”

Before he could question you further, Jinah’s voice broke through the conversation. “Oppa!” she called out, jogging toward them. Jinwoo sighed, shifting his attention to his sister. You, meanwhile, stood a little off to the side, watching the sibling banter unfold with an amused glint in your eyes.

Jinah quickly noticed you standing there, and her eyes lit up with recognition. “Wait—are you the cool unnie my friends keep talking about?!” she asked, her voice filled with excitement. "They said you visited the school a few times!"

You smiled warmly at her. "That might be me," you said, not denying it. “I’m (Name),” you said, offering your hand to Jinah. “Nice to meet you.”

Jinah took your hand eagerly, her curiosity piqued, but you didn’t linger. “I’ve got some things to take care of, so I’ll leave you two to your meeting,” you said, with a nod to both siblings before walking off toward the administrative wing.

Jinah turned to Jinwoo with wide eyes. “Do you know her, Oppa?”

Jinwoo only nodded, his gaze following you until you disappeared around a corner. His instincts told him there was more to your presence here than you were letting on.

---

Later, as Jinwoo sat in the meeting room speaking with Jinah’s teacher, your name came up again—though this time in a different context.

“Miss (Name)?” the teacher asked, recognizing the confusion on Jinwoo’s face. "She’s one of the school’s key investors. A remarkable woman. She funds a portion of the scholarship program for students with financial difficulties. She was here today to inspect how the program was progressing.”

Jinwoo raised an eyebrow at the revelation. He certainly didn’t expect to hear that you were involved in something like that. He had always sensed that you were up to more than you let on, but this? He didn’t imagine you were the philanthropic type—

Okay, he had been on the receiving end of that exact action for the past few years, but still!

After the meeting, at the teacher’s request, Jinwoo briefly met with Han Song-Yi. After they talked, Jinwoo felt a sudden shift in the air. A butterfly—one of yours—fluttered into the room and landed on his shoulder. It was your usual method of contacting him without drawing attention, and he had come to expect it.

---

Jinwoo followed the butterfly, and soon enough, he found you waiting just outside the school, leaning casually against the establishment’s wall, your arms crossed. The street empty.

“I heard from Song-Yi that you're planning to take her into a dungeon soon.”

"Since when have you been in contact with Han Song-Yi?" he said, getting straight to the point.

You didn’t flinch under his scrutiny. “She’s got potential,” you answered casually. “She reminds me of someone… so I decided to lend a hand.”

Jinwoo’s suspicion deepened. “You’ve been helping her?”

“I’ve been making sure she has the opportunities she deserves. Just as I’m helping others.”

Before he could react, you handed him an impressive stack of homemade meals, each one neatly packed for travel. "These are imbued with magic, of course," you said casually, as though giving enchanted meals was the most normal thing in the world.

"...Isn't this too much?" Jinwoo asked, looking between you and the stack of containers.

You scoffed lightly, almost rolling your eyes. “You never know what might happen. Besides, it’s for your other raid members too." For a moment, you could’ve sworn you saw his expression twitch, but it was gone as quickly as it came. Was he annoyed? Amused? It was hard to tell with Jinwoo sometimes. "You can store them in your system’s inventory. I see no problem."

As if that wasn’t enough, you produced a small pouch filled with shimmering stones. "And here. Mana gems, made by me. Break them if you’re low on mana. Otherwise, they’re versatile—use them however you see fit."

Jinwoo stared at the gems for a moment, before closing his hand around them. “You’re not coming?”

"No. Not this time."

There was a brief silence as your words hung in the air. Before he could respond, you gave a slight wave, already turning to leave.

“Have a safe journey, Jinwoo,” you said softly over your shoulder, disappearing into a flurry of butterflies before he could say anything more.

Jinwoo stood there for a moment, watching the last flutter of your butterfly vanish into the distance.

---

You stood at the edge of the red gate with <Illusory> activated, arms crossed as you stared at the shimmering barrier before you. The system’s all too familiar message blinked in your vision, barring you from entering.

[Access Denied, Trial Player.]

Figures.

You had expected this. The system had been unpredictable at times, but this was one of the moments you knew too well—it wouldn’t let you intervene directly when it came to certain pivotal moments in the story, like this red gate.

“Well,” you muttered to yourself, “that’s why I prepared those meals and mana gems.”

You could only hope they would be enough to make a difference, lightening the load on Jinwoo’s shoulders while he navigated the dangers inside. He’d grow stronger through this trial, but you didn’t like the idea of just standing on the sidelines.

---

Inside the red gate, Han Song-Yi took a bite of the meal you had sent through Jinwoo, her eyes widening in amazement. “Oppa, this is amazing!” she exclaimed between mouthfuls. “I’ve never tasted anything like it!”

The rest of the party, seated around their small campsite, were similarly engrossed in their meals. It wasn’t just the taste that astonished them—it was the feeling of being energized, as if the food itself was somehow infused with power.

For a moment, they all forgot they were stuck in a deadly red gate, too busy enjoying the brief reprieve you had provided.

Meanwhile, Jinwoo sat on the outskirts of the camp, watching his shadow soldiers march silently in the distance. He had been taking the opportunity to level up while they hunkered down in a safe area. The enemies within the red gate were tougher, as expected, but that was precisely what he needed to test the maximum potential of his shadows.

It wasn’t long before he had acquired new soldiers to add to his ever-growing army.

As he observed his surroundings, Jinwoo’s gaze landed on the mana gems you had given him. They had proven more versatile than he initially thought. holding them for a few moments seemed to give him a temporary stat boost. The warmth that radiated from the gems was also useful, especially given the freezing environment inside the red gate.

The most surprising discovery, however, was that the gems could recharge themselves. Even after they had grown cold, they would warm up again in an hour or two, ready to be used once more. Jinwoo eyed at the small, glowing stone between his fingers, his thoughts drifting back to you.

How does she do it? Jinwoo wondered, turning the gem over in his hand. It glowed faintly with residual energy, pulsing slightly as if alive. The craftsmanship was unlike anything he had seen before.

Jinwoo pocketed the gem. There was always a sense of assurance that comes with you. The meals and gems you had provided, along with his newly strengthened soldiers, he knew they stood a better chance at survival.

With each passing moment, the line between curiosity and fascination grew thinner.

---

You knew how things would unfold, like in the story you once knew. Still—

Stay strong, Jinwoo, you thought, turning away from the gate. You had done everything you could from the outside. Now, it was up to him.

---

In the heat of the battle with Baruka and his army of ice elves, Jinwoo instinctively crushed one of your mana gems, expecting the usual mana regeneration to help keep his shadow soldiers going. What emerged, however, wasn't just an influx of replenishing energy but dozens of your familiar butterflies.

They swarmed out with a grace Jinwoo had grown accustomed to. While he focused on defeating Baruka, the butterflies spread through the battlefield, weaving between the ice elves. Some of them fluttered around the elves, casting illusions that confused their enemies, while others began draining life force, transferring that energy to Jinwoo's shadow soldiers, all while simultaneously regenerating Jinwoo's mana. It was an unexpected but welcome bonus.

Then something else that happened: a few butterflies, glowing faintly and without hesitation, imbued themselves directly into his daggers. The familiar system notification popped up.

[System Notice: Trial Player’s summons have used <Indwelling>. Your weapon has been enhanced.]

The magic now coating his weapons shimmered, adapting to the weaknesses of the enemies Jinwoo faced. The attack stats of his daggers surged, responding fluidly to the situation at hand. With each strike, the butterflies seemed to anticipate Jinwoo’s movements, boosting his strength at just the right moments.

The thrill of battle coursed through his veins even more intensely than before.

---

After Baruka’s defeat, Jinwoo tried to extract the ice elf’s shadow. To his irritation, the extraction failed, leaving him frustrated. But something else quickly caught his attention.

He noticed the butterflies again—fluttering around his shadow soldiers. The red one, always lingering near Igris, hovered quietly. But Jinwoo’s eyes were drawn to two new butterflies: one settled on the newest addition to his soldiers’ nose, making the large shadow blink in confusion, while another perched on the biggest shadow ice bear’s ear, which twitched periodically in response. It was subtle, but these butterflies seemed different, more distinct somehow.

If I can't extract Baruka's shadow, Jinwoo thought, can I at least make use of his remains?

His musings were suddenly interrupted by a voice that wasn’t his own.

“We can make a mana reservoir of his left-over life force, for future use, Sire.”

Jinwoo immediately stood on alert, scanning for the source of the voice. Was there another enemy nearby?

“At ease, Sire. We’re under orders from our Mistress to assist you.”

The realization hit Jinwoo like a tidal wave. Slowly, he turned his gaze to the red butterfly, now fluttering in front of him, its delicate wings moving calmly, as though it were the leader of the swarm.

Did... did your butterflies just...?

“Correct, Sire. We can communicate with you using the sub-skill: <Sensory Illusion>.”

The red butterfly drifted closer to Jinwoo, its shimmering wings catching the light of the dungeon. Even Igris seemed momentarily shocked by the sudden speech coming from one of the familiars, his shadowy form tense.

The red butterfly hovered in front of Jinwoo, as though bowing slightly before him. It spoke again, this time with more clarity, its tone eerily reminiscent of you. "Let us confirm, Sire. Would you like us to make a condensed reservoir of the enemy’s remains?"

It paused for a brief moment, as if allowing Jinwoo to process the information. Then it added, “With Our Lady’s current skills, she can surely make something of it that will be helpful to you in some way.”

Jinwoo's eyes narrowed slightly. This butterfly was sly—cunning, even. He smirked slightly. Even your summons had your subtle charm.

"Do it."

The butterfly bobbed once, almost like a respectful bow, before flitting away to relay the message to the rest of the swarm. Jinwoo watched as they began their work, weaving magic that siphoned the residual energy from Baruka's remains.

Once again, you had surprised him, even in your absence.

End Note:

Unedited Draft of [020/10/2024] -

#solo leveling #solo leveling imagine #solo leveling x reader #sung jin woo x reader #sung jinwoo #sung jinwoo x reader #yandere sung jinwoo #only i level up #solo leveling jinwoo #fanfic #solo leveling fanfic #fanfiction #fem reader #x reader #reader insert

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magnagaruzenmon · 1 month ago

Text

Happy Ending

A little something silly for our fantasy/ dnd lover fans

The barbarian paladin approached the Temple of Bovara with an injured gait that was more limp than strut. He was bruised, bloodied, and smelled like scorched leather and dragon breath. In short: it had been a week.

He needed healing. Maybe some holy milk despite the rumors . Possibly a divine intervention. But mostly—he needed her.

The temple doors loomed large, carved with sunbursts, sacred vines, and a suspicious number of lovingly detailed cow thighs. Diablos shoved them open with one massive hand and immediately inhaled the rich perfume of the place: roses, honey, and something thick and sweet that always clung to the back of his throat. Like cream. Or sin.

And there she was.

At the altar, a whirlwind in white and gold silk, her horns peeking through dark hair in two perfectly askew buns. The cleric was humming—humming—as she tried to stack jars of milk higher than seemed advisable. One fell. She caught it. Barely.

“Momo,” he said softly.

She turned, bright-eyed. Her whole face lit up like he was a birthday cake and she was two glasses of wine deep.

“Diablos!” she chirped. “Oh no—you look like you got stomped by a wyvern.”

“Elder dragon,” he muttered.

Her nose wrinkled. “Ugh. You know I hate when you fight those.”

“You hate that I make you worry,” he rumbled.

“No, I hate that you keep ruining your hot dumb body.” She stalked over, hands immediately on his chest, glowing faintly. “Honestly, you need a leash.”

“I’m open to that,” he said, giving her a crooked grin. “But I thought your goddess was more into ropes.”

She flushed—hard—and smacked his chest with a glowing palm. “Inside. Now.”

He saluted and trudged into the private healing chamber, shedding weapons like a molting dragon. Axe, sword, rifle, hand cannon. She followed with a loud sigh, scooping up a small bomb he accidentally left on a pillow. “Why do you even have this?”

“Backup smiting,” he said, already shirtless.

The chamber was steamy, fragrant with rose milk and divine aphrodisiacs. Soft cushions lined the floor, and a mural of Bovara loomed over everything—bare, bountiful, and mid-moo.

Diablos tilted his head. “Why does your goddess always look like she’s halfway to climax?”

“Because she is,” Momo said sweetly, pulling off her robes like she was unwrapping a birthday present. Her body—lush, strong, and holy in the most profane ways—was barely contained by a golden bra and matching panties.

She straddled him without hesitation, glass of milk in one hand, glowing fingers already pressing to his side. “Drink.”

Despite the rumors he heard of tit turning people into horny Holstaurs against their will He took it and downed it in one go. Warm. Creamy. Definitely sacred. Maybe cursed. He didn’t care. If it turned him into a rutting bull man, well… Momo would take responsibility.

Probably.

He let out a long sigh as he laid back, his body groaning like an old cathedral. “I think I’m starting to understand the whole joy part of your religion.”

“You’ll feel very joyful soon,” she teased, her hands glowing as they trailed across his skin, lingering here, squeezing there. “Bovara’s blessings come with… side effects.”

“What like having a gorgeous woman massage you?”

“Among other things,” she murmured, tracing a wound with her thumb and leaning over him. “This one’s nasty.”

“So’s my crush on you.”

She snorted—actually snorted—before slapping his chest again. “You are the worst.”

“You say that,” he whispered, “but your eyes say otherwise.”

She flushed again, lips twitching.

“Do you want kiss me better?” he asked.

“I have to,” she said solemnly. “It’s divine doctrine. Holiness by osmosis.”

Their eyes locked. A long beat.

Then she leaned in, pressing her lips softly to his chest. “Blessed be,” she whispered, and watched as the wound mended under the glowing light.

Diablos sighed again, this time much deeper. His breathing slowed, the tension finally bleeding out of him under her touch. Her magic pulsed warm and steady, flowing from her palms into his wounds—and something else, too. Something older. Richer.

She looked up, expecting a sarcastic remark. But his eyes were closed. His breath had evened out.

He was asleep.

Momo blinked. “…Wow. Most people don’t pass out after seeing my boobs.”

She glanced up at the mural of Bovara.

“Don’t you dare do something weird while he’s unconscious.”

The mural’s eyes sparkled.

“Oh, no.”

At first, there was only warmth.

Then came the smell of clover. Sweet grass. Milk warmed by sun. And the slow, sensual tolling of cowbells in the distance.

Diablos blinked.

He was no longer in the temple.

He stood barefoot in a golden field, waist-deep in tall grass that shimmered with pink and silver under an impossible twilight sky. The clouds were shaped like hearts. The moon had udders. Somewhere, a flute played what could only be described as erotically pastoral jazz.

“…oh gods. Not again.”

He turned.

She stood at the edge of a hill, radiant and curvaceous, bathed in sunlight that moved like silk. Her horns curled elegantly above her head, her robes flowed like cream, and her eyes sparkled with divine mischief.

Bovara.

The Cow Goddess of Fertility, Joy, Creation… and, evidently, really weird dreams.

“You’ve been drinking my milk again, haven’t you?” she said, walking toward him, each step jiggling with celestial intention.

“I was bleeding. Momo told me to,” Diablos grunted.

“Oh, I love that little cleric of mine,” Bovara cooed, circling him slowly. “So faithful. So bouncy. And she keeps giving you my gifts without reading the fine print. Tsk.”

“I’m not turning into a cow am I?”

“No, no, well kinda… you have embraced my teachings and knowledge in ways few others have. You handled it beautifully. This is a little different.”

He stiffened. “Define ‘different.’”

Bovara leaned in, her voice like honeyed cream poured over a temple bell. “You see, you’ve got dragon blood. Fiery, ancient, stubborn. Combine that with my blessing, and… well.” She snapped her fingers.

A shock ran through Diablos’s spine. He gasped, stumbling, as his muscles swelled and reshaped, his skin taking on a faint sheen of gold. horns grew, curling outward like a bull’s, thick and heavy. His breathing hitched—hot and ragged—as something primordial woke up in his chest and groin both.

His hands flexed. His back arched. And behind him, a thick tail with a tuft of fur and scales whipped out like it had always been there.

“What… what did you do to me?” he moaned, his voice deeper, rougher, vibrating with heat and hunger.

“I blessed you, Diablos,” Bovara purred, stepping behind him and pressing her hands against his now broadened back. “I made you whole. The bull. The dragon. The stud.”

He staggered forward, falling to his knees as the pressure built in his body—every nerve alight, every muscle burning with desire, need, the sacred urge to mate, claim, breed.

“You’ll be back to normal soon,” she added sweetly. “But for now… you’re going to feel exactly what it means to be mine. To be hers.”

His eyes flared open—red and glowing.

“Hers?” he growled, panting. “You mean—?”

“Oh yes,” Bovara giggled, walking away, the sky rippling behind her with a wink. “Momo. She’s the only other holstaur in reach. You will find her.”

Diablos collapsed onto all fours, his breath heaving. Every part of him ached with strength. With arousal. With purpose.

“Bovara…” he groaned, clawing at the earth. “This feels like cheating.”

“No, darling,” came her fading voice on the wind. “This is courtship.”

Diablos stirred on the cushions, his chest rising with a slow, labored breath.

Then, like thunder cracking in a velvet sky, he jolted upright—eyes snapping open, crimson and molten.

“Momo,” he gasped, voice hoarse like a lover’s prayer.

The cleric flinched, dropping the healing crystal she’d been holding. It clattered to the floor with a sharp ping. “You’re awake? Finally! I swear, if you moo one more weird thing in your slee—”

Her words died on her tongue.

Because he was changing.

Right before her wide, unblinking eyes, the barbarian paladin she’d healed, and secretly longed for—grew.

His muscles bulged with supernatural strength, the curve of his back rippling with both dragon’s heat and something… bovine. Fur bristled across his shoulders and thighs. His feet—hooves now—dug into the soft temple rug with impatient weight. Thick, glinting scales danced across his arms and chest in streaks of gold and ember-red.

And then—

Horns.

Massive. Curved. Crown-like.

His eyes flared, glowing with lust and power. A heavy tail lashed behind him—furred, twitching, insistent.

“Oh my Bovara,” Momo whispered, stunned. “What happened to you?”

Diablos looked at her—and it was like the last thread of restraint in the cosmos snapped.

He stared like a starving man stumbling into paradise. Like every silent wish and fevered fantasy had been answered and placed in front of him in one glorious, curvy, horned package.

Momo stepped back slowly, breath catching. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He opened his mouth to speak.

What came out was a low, guttural moo that vibrated through the air like thunder in a heatwave.

Then, barely intelligible through the need, came a gravel-thick growl:

“You’re… a holstaur.” He panted. “I… need… to—**moo—**to mate!”

Momo blinked. “Is that what we’re calling it now?!”

But her body had already responded. Her breath hitched. Her skin tingled. And her heart—oh, her heart—was galloping.

Because this wasn’t just heat. This wasn’t just a barbarian paladin gone wild.

This was him. Diablos. Overflowing with a divine hunger that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with finally—finally—having permission to love her the way he’d always wanted.

He advanced, slow and reverent, as if closing a sacred distance. His massive hands curled into fists like he was holding himself back with the strength of mountains.

She didn’t run.

She didn’t flinch.

She just watched him approach—eyes locked, lips parted, cheeks flushing with that dangerous blend of fear and desire and something too big to name. Her fingers trembled at her sides.

He stopped inches from her, his chest heaving, his scent warm and electric—grass, smoke, divine milk, and man.

Momo’s voice cracked, trying to tease, failing to hide the thrum in her throat. “Fine.”

She reached up, grabbed his broad, burning shoulders—and pulled him down.

Their mouths met with the fury of crashing waves and the ache of prayers finally answered.

It wasn’t careful.

It wasn’t clean.

It was raw and sacred and overdue.

He kissed her like she was holy. Like her lips were the altar and he was the worshipper too long denied. His hands, trembling, cradled her face like he was terrified she might vanish. His kiss was trembling at first, then deeper, hungrier, more desperate.

Momo melted. Giggled breathlessly against his lips, surprised by the tenderness in so much raw power. Her hands roamed up into his wild hair, fingers tangling and yanking—not to stop him, but to anchor him.

The kiss shifted. Grew hotter. Deeper. Sloppier.

Tongues tangled. Teeth clashed. Moans escaped—needy and involuntary.

And then—

She felt it.

A warm pulse rolled down her spine. Her body arched, the divine power rising in her blood like moonlight through milk. Her breath caught, and her form bloomed—hips rounding, thighs thickening, breasts full and heavy. Her horns lengthened and curled with celestial grace. Her skin flushed with golden warmth.

A soft, feminine moo escaped her lips as she leaned into him.

He didn’t pull away.

He groaned—low and sacred and overwhelmed—and held her tighter, like she was everything.

And then, between deep kisses and holy shivers, he choked out the truth in one broken, sacred breath:

“I love you. Like… so much.”

She froze. Only for a second.

Her eyes searched his—those molten, red-gold orbs burning with not just lust, but adoration. She saw it all there. Every unsaid thing. Every stupid, brave, silent ache.

And then—gently—she kissed him again, slow and soft, her forehead resting against his.

“I know,” she whispered, her horns brushing his. “Me too.”

They held each other like the world had just begun.

And maybe, thanks to Bovara…

It had.

Momo smirked as she pushed Diablos down onto the floor she fully undressed them both as she locked eyes with him. Her gaze was furious wild and unapologetic as she stared at his now massive cock. It stood proud and painfully erect for her.

She smiled and said, “is this all for me?” Before lightly touching his cock and watching precum ooze out. She smiled as it tasted like cream before she mounted him.

Overcome with need she leans over as she fully sinks down onto Diablos’s cock. He moans as she graciously puts her breast into his mouth.

“Drink my blessed milk,” she says and Diablos drinks. He feels his mind become cloudier but freer as his complex thoughts and worries just wash away with each tender sip. They both moo as the rut into each other like animals. Momo’s walls viciously clench around Diablos as he tries and fails to resisting cumming inside her.

He groans as he fills her womb with cum. Momo groans in appreciation and approval at being bred and for a moment she feels Bovara’s divine essence fill her and Diablos as it moves through them as they drink in each other’s presence. Moans and mood fly as they reach their mutual peaks.

The morning sun streamed lazily through the stained-glass windows of the Temple of Bovara, casting kaleidoscopic patterns across the long wooden table. Plates of food were scattered in organized chaos: fresh-baked honey bread, thick slices of fruit glazed in cream, grilled sausage, eggs glowing golden with magic, and—of course—more milk than should be legal.

Diablos sat at one end of the bench, arms crossed behind his head, grinning like he didn’t just “consecrate” half of the private healing chamber ago.

Momo sat across from him, fork in her mouth, cheeks puffed with food like an angry chipmunk. She glared at him as he wiggled his eyebrows at her.

“You’re staring,” she mumbled, chewing.

“You’ve got cream on your lip,” he said, voice low and lazy.

“No, I don’t,” she said, immediately licking at nothing.

Diablos smirked. “Yeah, you do.”

She narrowed her eyes, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and threw a grape at him. It bounced off his cheek and landed in his lap.

“Hit me with one more fruit and I swear I’ll turn this temple into a honeymoon suite.”

“We already did,” she said under her breath.

“Yeah, but with decorations this time.”

Momo rolled her eyes, but her ears were flushed pink. She stabbed another slice of honeyed peach, trying to look disinterested, even though she kept sneaking glances at him—his forearms, the way his shirt clung to his chest, the scar that trailed along his collarbone.

He caught her looking. Again.

“What?” she asked, mouth half-full.

“I like seeing you eat,” he said casually.

“Why are you always so weirdly turned on by food?” she asked, blushing as she took a bite. “Is this a barbarian thing or a bull thing?”

Diablos leaned forward, eyes lidded, lips curving into a slow grin. “I don’t know, Momo. It’s just that I like watching you feel safe and do all the little things you do when you’re being fed or taken care of. However You’re also the one who moaned over that melon slice last night.”

“That was divine produce,” she said, voice rising defensively. “It had a literal joy enchantment on it!”

“Sure it did.” He winked. “And your little leg shake had nothing to do with it, right?”

She nearly choked on her bread and had to down half a cup of milk just to survive. Big mistake as the Milk rushed through her body filling her with a renewed lust and need.

The air between them buzzed, hotter than the sun outside. Diablos’s smile faded into something heavier, hungrier. His foot brushed hers under the table. Just once. Then again.

Momo froze.

She looked up. Their eyes met.

His fingers curled around his cup slowly. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

She nodded. Just barely.

The tension was ridiculous. Like a thunderstorm waiting to detonate. Her skin buzzed. Her thighs clenched. Even the milk seemed thicker somehow—suspiciously so.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have let Bovara bless the food,” she muttered.

“I didn’t,” Diablos said. “You did.”

“She likes it when people are well-fed and well-loved!”

He leaned forward, voice lower now. “You gonna ‘love’ me on the table or after I clear the dishes?”

Her face turned crimson. “You’re such a menace.”

“You keep feeding me,” he shrugged. “What did you think was gonna happen?”

There was a pause.

A dangerous, delicious pause.

Momo stood suddenly, slamming her hands on the table. “Okay. That’s it. We’re eating outside. With supervision. In full armor.”

Diablos leaned back, laughing. “You sure? I was thinking dessert.”

Momo tossed a napkin at his face and stormed toward the garden, muttering under her breath.

He followed her, still barefoot, still smirking.

And behind them, the milk pitcher trembled slightly—glowing faintly with divine mischief.

When they got to the garden Momo could barely contain herself as she lifted her robes to grant Diablos easy access to her pussy, and without a second thought he plunged his cock into her soft wet tight hole.

“Ah ah moo,” Momo moaned feeling the aura of Bovara consume her Diablos grabbed and massaged her breasts. Kneading them with desperate fervor as he thrust into her. Momo’s eyes rolled back in pleasure as Diablos continued mounting her. Her mind filled with visions of little holustar children running around with scales around their collars and slitted eyes.

Momo turned to Diablos and kissed him. A kiss of claiming of marking. Their bodies heated violently before they reached their peaks.

Momo’s eyes rolled as she was filled again. It left her feeling whole complete. She smiled at Diablos before settling her down.

“You’re dangerous,” Momo teased

“Yeah but you love me,” Diablos shot back. Momo smirked and said,

“Yeah I do,”

“Good now come on. I have to report to the guild hall,” Diablos chortled. Momo sighed but happily took his arm and hand as they walked. The guild hall buzzed with the usual chaos—adventurers swapping stories and scars, contracts being scribbled, coins changing hands fast enough to make the gods blink. The place smelled like steel, ink, and too much ale before noon.

Diablos towered near the front counter, relaxed in his half-unbuttoned tunic, arms crossed and mood entirely too good for someone who’d just fought an elder dragon and temporarily become a divine bull hybrid. Momo stood beside him, a little shorter than usual thanks to being in her “human” form, but her presence just as radiant—robes flaring with every step, cheeks still flushed from their overly affectionate breakfast.

The guild associate, a tired elf with reading glasses and the posture of a tax accountant, slid a leather pouch of coin across the counter.

“All verified. Congratulations, Diablos. Elder dragon slain. Property damage minimal this time. Payment in full.” The elf blinked. “And uh… there’s also a temple tithe on your behalf. From the Order of Bovara. Labeled ‘blessing surcharge’?”

“Yeah, that tracks,” Diablos muttered.

Momo just hummed and nudged his side with her elbow. “You did scream ‘praise be to Bovara’ mid-transformation.”

“That was involuntary and I was full of divine hormones!”

The elf cleared his throat and pointedly looked away.

As they walked out into the sun-warmed plaza, Momo glanced up at him. “So. Why adventuring?”

Diablos slowed, hands in his pockets. His smirk faltered just a little.

“I guess…” he started, then trailed off. “When I was younger, I noticed something. People only told the truth when I hit them hard enough.”

Momo blinked. “That’s… a bit intense.”

He chuckled softly. “I don’t mean just violence. I mean in battle, people are honest. You see their fear. Their courage. What they really want. They can’t hide it. No pretending. No small talk. Just—truth.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then: “So you’ve only ever felt seen when you were in danger?”

He shrugged, then looked over at her, softer now. “Not always. Not since I met you. After my first quest, I came to the temple for healing, thinking you’d be another polite priestess who’d patch me up and send me on my way.”

She smiled, slow and genuine.

“But then you looked at me like I was already whole, even when I was bleeding out on your floor. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t flatter. You just… told me to stop bleeding on the tiles.”

Momo laughed, her eyes crinkling. “To be fair, you were leaking onto the sacred mosaic of Fertility Eternal.”

“And yet,” he said, smirking again, “you’re the only one who made me feel like I didn’t have to fight to be understood.”

Momo slowed her pace, then reached out and took his hand without fanfare. “I’m glad I’m your earnest friend who you don’t have to fight.”

His grip tightened just a little, reverent.

They walked in silence for a while longer, hand in hand, until Momo tilted her head and said, “Wanna know something weird about me?”

“More than usual?”

She grinned, then exhaled. “Bovara chose me when I was twelve. Just… appeared. In a dream. Said I was hers.”

“That young?”

She nodded, her smile fading a little. “Yeah. And… her blessing came with some changes. I, uh… developed faster than the other girls. Fuller. Rounder. More… cow-adjacent.”

He looked over, sensing the tension. “They bullied you?”

“Oh, relentlessly,” she said, faking cheer. “Called me names. Said I looked unnatural. One kid even mooed at me in class.”

He winced. “Want me to find him?”

“I already cursed him with lactose intolerance.”

He blinked. “Remind me never to cross you.”

She smirked but her gaze dropped again. “The temple was the first place that didn’t make me feel like a freak. They called me sacred instead of shameful. But even then… I didn’t feel like I belonged. I still longed for something. For someone who didn’t see the blessing as a burden.”

Diablos’s voice came out low. “You were never a freak. You were always divine.”

She turned to him, surprised.

“I don’t mean just holy. I mean… you. You’re joy. You’re creation. You’re everything Bovara stands for—except with better comedic timing.”

Her face flushed pink.

“And,” he added, “anyone who ever mocked you should thank Bovara that I met you after I got my rage under control.”

She laughed, tearful and warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

He squeezed her hand again. “And you’re miraculous.”

They stood in the middle of the square, the world buzzing around them, but wrapped in a kind of private stillness. A sacred, stolen breath between battles, between blessings.

Then Momo’s stomach rumbled. Loudly.

They both looked down at it.

Diablos raised an eyebrow. “Another divine craving?”

“I swear, if Bovara is trying to make me snack-horny again—”

“…Snack-horny?”

She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I MEANT—”

“Too late, it’s canon now,” Diablos said, grinning. “Guess we’re getting dessert.”

Momo rolled her eyes then said, “I have to go back to the temple for a bit, then we can get all the desert you want,”

Diablos laughed and shot back, “you’re the one with the rumbling tummy,” Momo smiled as Diablos followed her to the temple

The sun was dipping low, turning the sky into a rich swirl of apricot and lavender, when Momo and Diablos crossed the threshold of Bovara’s temple.

The golden doors swung open with their usual soft mooo, and the familiar warmth washed over them: rose milk incense, polished marble floors warm from the sun, and the faint scent of wildflowers and cream. The air shimmered faintly with divine energy—as always—but today, something felt… thicker. Tighter. Like the temple itself was holding its breath.

Momo paused, sensing it first.

“…She’s here,” she murmured.

Diablos raised a brow. “Bovara? She doesn’t usually make house calls, does she?”

“Only when something’s about to get interesting.”

As they entered the central hall, the temple’s light shifted—glowing warmer, deeper, and impossibly radiant. The offerings on the altar glowed. The air hummed. And then—

She arrived.

Bovara didn’t walk into the room. She existed into it.

A towering holstaur goddess with skin like sun-warmed cream, golden eyes, and curves carved from divinity itself stepped down from a shaft of light, her hooves clacking gently on the marble as her long tail swished. Her white and gold silks flowed like water around her, and her horns glimmered with pearlescent charm.

Her voice rang out, playful and loud, like laughter at a midsummer feast.

“Well, well… what do we have here?”

Momo immediately dropped to a respectful bow—half formal, half sheepish.

Diablos stared for a second too long. “…You weren’t kidding about the suggestive harvest murals.”

Bovara’s gaze slid toward him, and her lips curled into a smile so knowing it should’ve come with a warning label.

“And you must be the sacred stud who broke my cleric’s curse of celibate longing,” Bovara purred, eyes raking over Diablos with both divine amusement and appraisal. “My my. You’re even handsomer without fur. Mostly.”

Momo turned a scandalized shade of red. “Goddess—!”

“Shush, little milkdrop,” Bovara said fondly, waving her off. “I’m doing divine work.”

Diablos cleared his throat, somewhere between flattered and terrified. “Uh. I hope you’re not here to smite me.”

Bovara laughed—a rich, musical sound that made the floor vibrate and the walls sway with joy. “Smite you? Please. I ought to canonize you.”

She twirled a strand of her long golden hair and stepped closer, her gaze softening as she looked at Momo.

“I’ve been taking inventory,” she said, voice suddenly velvet. “Checking on all my little beloveds. And what do I find when I come home?”

She gestured between them, beaming.

“One of my brightest clerics… has found her soulmate.”

Momo’s breath caught.

Diablos’s eyes widened. “Soulmate?”

Bovara winked. “You think that kind of spiritual-moo-transformation happens with just anyone? Please. Divine bonds don’t just manifest because someone drinks temple milk and gets horny. You two were written into each other’s story before either of you knew what a blessing was.”

Momo looked up at Diablos, stunned, her hands nervously twisting the fabric of her robes.

He met her gaze, and for once, words escaped him.

Bovara tilted her head, knowingly. “You’ve felt it, haven’t you? That tension between you—not just lust, but that unbearable, beautiful ache. That’s mine. That’s soul-thread. It doesn’t unravel. It tightens.”

Momo swallowed hard. “So… this wasn’t just divine heat?”

“Oh, it was,” Bovara said, winking. “But divine heat, when matched with true devotion, burns forever. You’re not just lovers. You’re bound.”

Diablos exhaled sharply, then turned toward Momo fully. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet but certain.

“Then I’m glad it’s you.”

Momo smiled, shy and glowing, like she was thirteen again and hearing the goddess call her for the first time.

“I always hoped it would be you,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Bovara let out a proud little moo-sigh. “Oh, you two are going to make the most fertile chaos.”

Then she clapped her hands and the entire temple rang like a bell.

“Now. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go bless a goat mid-labor. Try not to immediately rip each other’s clothes off in the vestibule.”

She disappeared in a puff of glittery mist and faint erotic laughter, leaving Momo and Diablos alone in the golden light of the temple.

The silence stretched.

Momo turned to him, dazed. “So… soulmate, huh?”

Diablos shrugged. “I mean… I did say I love you mid-moo. That counts for something.”

She laughed, giddy and warm, and leaned in to bump her horns gently against his.

“Guess we better start planning our next offering.”

Diablos smirked. “Marriage, or… another ‘blessing’?”

Her eyes twinkled. “Why not both?”

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