#but there's nothing to be done for it besides keep going. keep moving and time will move with you and it WILL get better

[verstappenverse]

Always Almost Yours

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: He was your best friend. The boy you grew up with. The boy you loved in silence. Now that his relationship is over and he finally sees you, really sees you, you’re already halfway out the door. (Requested)

2.7k words / Masterlist

He never looked at you the way you looked at him.

That was the cruelest part.

Max was your best friend.

Not just in the way people say that when they mean we talk often and like the same music. Max was the scraped-knees-and-late-night-phone-calls kind of best friend. The first person to teach you how to throw a punch and the first to teach you how to lie to your parents without getting caught. The boy who once held your hand under the covers during a thunderstorm when you were both eleven and too proud to admit you were scared.

He was the one who always came back to you, even after the worst races. The one who let you see the parts of him no one else ever would, sharp and soft, boy and man, storm and shelter all at once.

And still, somehow, never yours.

You were the one in the passenger seat. The one who knew when to leave him alone after a bad quali, when to pull him close and whisper “you’ll get ’em tomorrow.” The one who stood in his corner for so long you stopped realising you were still hoping he’d turn around and see you.

You were always there. Until suddenly he didn’t need you anymore. Not when she came along.

Beautiful, confident, glossy-haired and golden-skinned, and you told yourself it was fine. Of course you did. You smiled when he brought her to your birthday party, even when he forgot to tell you he was bringing someone. Even when she kissed his cheek in the middle of your kitchen like it was nothing.

You laughed with everyone else, poured drinks, unwrapped gifts, made small talk with drivers and engineers. But you spent half the night locked in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub, blinking up at the ceiling as your reflection blurred behind tears you refused to let fall.

You didn’t want to hate her. She hadn’t done anything wrong except exist in all the ways you weren’t allowed to, with your hand in his, your head on his shoulder, your future mapped beside his.

Still some part of you couldn’t help but ask: What does she have that I don’t?

What did she say that made him lean in a little closer? What laugh of hers replaced the space you used to fill?

And most of all: What would it feel like to be looked at by him the way he looks at her?

Because he never looked at you like that. Not in all the years you’d known him. Not when you were seventeen and he called you at three in the morning because he couldn't sleep in Bahrain and you talked until sunrise. Not when you showed up at the track the day he won his first Grand Prix, teary-eyed and breathless, and he ran into your arms like he hadn’t seen you in years.

Close enough to know every version of him. Every scar, every secret, every softness he never let the world see.

But never close enough to keep.

Still you loved him, because loving Max wasn’t something you decided.

It had always been that way.

Always almost his.

Never quite.

You didn’t mean to fall out of love with him. And truthfully, you aren’t sure you actually have, not entirely, not in the way people mean when they say they’ve moved on. The feelings are still there, somewhere beneath the surface, lingering in the hollow parts of your chest that still expect him to show up, but the edges of it have dulled. Worn down not by time, but by the slow, painful realisation that loving him wasn’t going to be enough to make him love you back.

Somewhere between the unanswered texts, the forgotten plans, the way he spoke about her, something inside you began to quietly fracture. Not all at once, and not with any grand moment of clarity. A hundred little moments where you chose not to say what you were thinking, not to reach for him the way you used to. Because what was the point?

You started packing your things about two months ago. Not in any physical sense, your life still looked the same on the outside, still orbiting his in all the ways it always had, but emotionally you’d begun the process of leaving, like someone backing out of a room without turning on the lights.

You removed his contact from the pinned position at the top of your phone, so the ache wouldn’t hit so hard when he didn’t reply how you had hoped. You stopped buying his favourite ice cream at the store, the kind he used to steal from your freezer late at night, grinning like a teenager. You stopped screenshotting tweets or saving videos you thought he’d laugh at. And eventually you stopped wondering whether he’d noticed any of it.

You weren’t angry… just tired, in that deep, soul-heavy way that comes from wanting something for so long and slowly realising it was never meant to be yours.

Max knew you were in Barcelona this weekend, still he hadn’t expected to see you tonight.

The party was an afterthought. He hadn’t planned to stay long. He’d barely touched his drink when he walked in, just enough to be polite, to show face.

It had been a couple of weeks since the breakup.

It hadn’t been sudden, not really. The end had been coming for a while slow and quiet, a withering sort of feeling that didn’t crack so much as fade. She’d grown distant and he’d let her. He’d grown restless, and she hadn’t tried to stop him. They’d gone through the motions, races, events, photo ops, dinners where the silence spoke louder than anything either of them said.

The fights when they came were never loud, just flat, low-voiced disagreements that ended with someone walking out and no one following.

She’d asked him, finally, if there was someone else.

And he’d hesitated.

Not because there was. Not in the way she meant. He hadn’t cheated, not physically. But there was a pause in his answer, long enough that they both felt it settle into the space between them like a bruise.

She knew before he did. She knew the name he didn’t say.

He hadn’t spoken to you since. Hadn’t known how to… maybe he still doesn’t.

It isn’t until tonight, standing across the room with a drink in his hand and a weight in his chest, that he feels the full weight of what he’s done. What he’s missed.

You’re laughing, your head tipped back, hand resting on the arm of a chair, body turned toward someone else in a way that makes Max feel like he’s watching a different life you stepped into without him.

You look good. Effortlessly beautiful in that way you never tried to be, eyes warm, smile wide, you just are, and somehow that’s more magnetic than anything he’s ever known.

And fuck, he feels it now. All of it.

The way his eyes search for you in every room. The way his day feels off when he hasn’t heard your voice. The dull ache he carries when he sees something funny and instinctively reaches for his phone, only to stop, unsure if you’d even want to hear from him anymore.

It hits him with a clarity that makes his breath stop, and he misses you in every way a person can be missed.

You glance up. Spot him.

For a second your smile falters. A flicker of something in your eyes before you school your expression into something smooth and indifferent. It’s a tiny crack, so small no one else would notice, but it splits him open.

He starts to move before he can think better of it. Cuts across the floor, his hand tightening around the glass in his palm, trying to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to say after months of silence. After choosing someone else. After pretending like he hadn’t known what he was doing when he left you in the shadows.

But you’re already turning. Already slipping out the side door with your phone pressed to your ear, and your smile stitched back into place.

He stops and stands there, stupidly, watching the door swing closed behind you, knowing that for the first time in all the years he’s known you, he’s the one who missed his moment.

You didn’t expect him to follow you out of the party.

So you went back to your hotel alone, slipped out of your dress, washed off your makeup, and packed the last of your things.

Now you’re sitting on the edge of your hotel bed, suitcase zipped, passport tucked into your carry-on, and your ride to the airport fifteen minutes away when there's a knock at the door.

You don’t have to ask to know it’s him, and despite everything telling you not to you let him in.

“You’re leaving?”

It used to be so easy with him.

Movie nights sprawled on his couch, bickering over snack choices like an old married couple. Late drives with the windows down and music turned up too loud, him tapping the steering wheel and glancing at you when he thought you weren’t looking. The way he’d toss his arm around your shoulder without thinking twice, not noticing how your breath always caught for a second too long. Or how he’d call you liefje by accident sometimes and then pretend it didn’t mean anything.

You let it slide.

You always let it slide.

Because you were scared of the answer if you ever asked what you were to him.

And now he’s the one asking you why you’re leaving?

You don’t look up. Not at first. You focus on the zipper, on the way your hands tremble slightly as you fix the handle of your suitcase into place.

“Yeah,” you say after a moment, voice flat, too carefully even.

He shifts, like the floor’s been pulled slightly off balance beneath him. “Tonight? You didn’t tell me.”

You let out a soft, humourless breath. “We haven’t exactly been updating each other lately have we?”

He flinches, just barely. “Still… I thought I’d see you before you left.”

“I was at the party,” you say. “You saw me

“No, I thought—” He cuts himself off, brows pulling together. “You didn’t say goodbye.”

You finally lift your head to look him properly in the eyes.

He’s standing just inside the doorway, his eyes are tired, his expression cracked open in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” you say quietly.

Maybe that’s the cruelest thing you’ve ever said to him, because it does matter. Of course it does. It shows in the way his shoulders tense and his hands curl into fists at his sides like he’s trying to stop himself from shaking.

“That’s not fair.”

You pick up your bag, ignoring the weight of the silence between you, and step toward the door.

“I didn’t know,” he says, voice low, like he’s ashamed of it now.

You don’t look at him. “Didn’t know what?”

He hesitates, and when you finally glance up, he’s looking at you like the truth is a sharp thing he’s only just worked up the courage to hold.

“That you loved me.”

Your fingers slip slightly from the handle of your bag. “What…?”

“I never said that,” you manage, your voice catching on the edges.

“You didn’t have to.” His eyes are steady now, searching. “It was always there I should’ve seen it,” he says. “Should’ve seen you.”

You shake your head, “I guess you were too busy loving someone else.”

He looks gutted.

You wish, God, you wish that it didn’t still matter. That it didn’t still sting.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he says.

“You didn’t even know you were Max. That’s the whole point.”

The room feels too quiet. Too small. Your heartbeat too loud.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” you continue, voice shaking now, “to love someone for years and never be seen. To be right there always and still not be enough.”

Max stares at you like you’ve told him the world is ending.

“I see you now,” he says, and it’s not slick or smooth, it’s wrecked and raw.

You swallow. “You’re only saying that because I’m walking away.”

“No.” He steps forward, desperate now. “No, I’m saying it because you’re the only thing that’s ever felt like home and I’m an idiot for not realising it sooner.”

Your throat tightens, and you hate how much it still hurts. How much of you still wants to believe him. Still wants to stay.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ve never said them before.”

“Because I didn’t know,” he says, the words sharp and uneven. “I didn’t know what it meant, all those times I looked for you first. Or why I couldn’t sleep unless I heard your voice. I didn’t get it until now, and I know that’s my fault, but please—”

You shake your head, eyes stinging. “You did know. Somewhere in there, you did. You just didn’t want it. Not back then.”

He exhales, broken. “I thought you’d always be there.”

“I was,” you whisper.

You don’t stop him when he reaches for you this time. When his hand brushes yours, and for the first time in what feels like years, you let yourself feel the gravity of him.

He’s looking at you now like the sun has just split through storm clouds. Like he’s seeing you clearly for the very first time.

But it’s not enough anymore.

You step back, voice soft but steady. “I spent years being almost yours Max. I can’t do that again.”

“I broke up with her.”

“I know,” you say, and your heart shatters a little more for it. “But it doesn’t change what it felt like to stand beside you all that time and never be chosen.”

“It changes everything.”

“Not for me.”

He opens his mouth, searching, maybe, for some last piece of you to hold onto, but nothing comes. Just the rise and fall of his chest and the silence that says too much.

So you keep going. You have to.

“You don’t want me. You just don’t want to lose me.”

“That’s not true,” he says quickly.

“Isn’t it?”

He looks at you like you’ve just gutted him with a lie.

“Please,” he says, voice hoarse and breaking.

If he’d said this even just a few months ago…

But now?

Now it just splits you open.

He walks you down to the lobby anyway.

The car pulls up. You reach for the handle, and of course he stops you. Fingers curl around your wrist, and it’s the first time in your entire friendship he looks terrified to let go.

“Stay,” he says, rough and low and entirely unlike him. “Just… stay. Let me prove I mean it.”

You look down at his hand and you want to. More than anything, you want to, but you shake your head.

“So that’s it?” he asks. “You’re just going to walk away?”

“I have to,” you whisper, voice already trembling. “Because if I don’t, I’ll spend the rest of my life being the girl who waited around for you to love her back.”

Max looks at you like his entire world is falling apart.

You lean in, press the softest kiss to his cheek, and then you step into the car and close the door before you can change your mind.

He texts you later that night.

Just one message.

I’m not letting us end like that.

You see it the moment it comes through. The screen lights up on the nightstand beside your bed, a soft glow in the dim room. The kind of light that feels too hopeful. Too late.

You lock the screen and place the phone face-down on the nightstand. The room falls quiet again, heavy with all the words you don’t say.

You read the words again, and again, because it’s not a grand gesture. It’s not an apology wrapped in flowers or fireworks.

It’s simple... but for once he didn’t wait too long.

You place the phone gently back on the nightstand, but something in your chest has started to shift. To warm. To hope

You don’t reply, not right away, because maybe if he really means it…

He’ll come find you.

And he’ll show you you were never just almost.

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @blueskies4everxo @teamnovalak @taylordaughter @taetae-armyyyyy @kitty-m30w

[blank-potato]

A Little Distraction

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x Reader

Summary:

He smells really good, is that a new cologne—? Next thing you know, your feet are off the ground. He flips you over his shoulder and slams you onto your back, before pulling you to a seated position and slipping his arm around your throat in a textbook chokehold. You squirm, trying to regain leverage, but all you can think is fuck, he’s strong. His arms are one of your favourite attributes to gawk at, even if, right now, it was being used to choke you out. A small, humiliating mewl slips from your throat, though you’re not exactly putting your whole heart into escaping. “Tap out,” he murmurs, voice rumbling low against your ear. It almost makes you moan, almost, but you catch yourself just in time. Thank goodness, because you’d never live that down. Or It's been a while since you've gotten laid, and it's starting to affect your concentration. It especially doesn't help when the person you're training is Joaquin Torres.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, p in v sex, sparring (gone sexual), fingering, nipple sucking, choking, semi-public sex, Joaquin being so hot it's distracting, sexual tension

WC: 3.9k

A/N: This idea came to me at 5am, and I started writing, I have no idea what that says about me. Anyways, enjoy the smut :)

***

You were supposed to be training Joaquin. Supposed to be.

But you were off your game, and you knew it. After everything, the late nights, the stress, the endless missions, you hadn’t gotten laid in… a long time. Longer than you cared to admit. Dating apps were a joke, full of people you had nothing in common with and no energy to impress.

Sexual frustration had been building for weeks, a low hum of tension you’d ignored, until today. Until it decided to boil over right in the middle of a combat training session with Joaquin.

Of course, it had to be him: all bright eyes, easy smiles that could rival the damn sun. He was too handsome and so infuriatingly charming, it made you feel like you were going crazy every time he so much as grazed past you.

At the start of the session, you're sitting beside him, finishing up the wraps on his hands.

“I can do my own wraps, you know?” Joaquin teases with that infuriatingly perfect smile.

“I know,” you reply, a little too quickly. “I just want to make sure it’s done properly.”

Sure, you were looking out for his safety, but in reality? You liked this. Feeling his warm hands beneath yours, the way his knuckles flexed as you tightened the wraps. It was oddly intimate, tending to him like this, plus he had nice hands.

His eyes kept flicking between your hands and your face, like he was in on some game of cat and mouse neither of you had the courage to call out.

“Always taking care of me, hm?” he murmured.

“Someone has to,” you shot back, trying to keep it professional, even though your pulse was anything but.

Watching him move to the punching bag, arms swinging with so much power, you couldn’t help but notice how his expression shifted, intense, focused, all raw determination. It was… kinda hot, fuck that, it was really hot.

Maybe if you closed your eyes? But when you did all, you could hear was the sound of his punches hitting the bag and his grunts. Really sexy grunts.

You suddenly find yourself wondering how it might sound if he were pressed right against you, and those moans were right in your ear.

You open your eyes and force yourself to shake off the thought.

He turns to you, chest heaving, sweat rolling down those broad shoulders. “You good?”

“Y-yeah,” you stammer, voice catching before you manage to recover. “Yeah, um, keep going.”

Nice save.

After minutes of staring at him, wiping your palms on your pants and trying not to drool over him, you step forward, signalling it was time to start sparring.

“Now that you got me all tired out, you wanna spar?” he asks, raising an eyebrow with a cocky grin.

You roll your eyes. “You should be able to fight in any circumstance and in any physical condition,” you shot back, adjusting your stance.

He chuckles in a way that makes you want to melt. “You just want a shot at winning.”

“I don’t need to tire you out to win,” you fire off, ignoring how his laugh made your stomach do a stupid little flip.

“I did win some of our sparring matches last time,” he pointed out, pouting a little as he peeled off his gloves.

“But I still won more,” you shoot back, unable to resist smirking.

“Oh yeah? And why’s that?”

“That’s because you’re slow, Torres. At least slower than me.”

He scoffs, playful indignation lighting up his face. “Slow? Me? You’re gonna regret saying that.”

“Prove it,” you challenge, settling into your stance, heart thudding for reasons that had nothing to do with self-defence.

You started off well, winning some sparring matches. The usual, putting Joaquin through his paces, testing his footwork, checking his stance, keeping him sharp. But somewhere along the way, you stopped focusing on his technique and more on how his biceps felt flexing under your grip.

You're about to snap back into instructor mode when he pivots, faster than you’d expected. Instead of attacking back you get woefully distracted.

He smells really good, is that a new cologne—?

Next thing you know, your feet are off the ground. He flips you over his shoulder and slams you onto your back, before pulling you to a seated position and slipping his arm around your throat in a textbook chokehold.

You squirm, trying to regain leverage, but all you can think is fuck, he’s strong. His arms are one of your favourite attributes to gawk at, even if, right now, it was being used to choke you out.

A small, humiliating mewl slips from your throat, though you’re not exactly putting your whole heart into escaping.

“Tap out,” he says, voice rumbling low against your ear. It almost makes you moan, almost, but you catch yourself just in time. Thank goodness, because you’d never live that down.

Realising you were actually getting lightheaded, you begrudgingly tapped against his arm.

He let go immediately, flashing that bright grin as you sucked in air. “Looks like we’re all tied up. Two-two.”

“For now,” you shoot back, trying to sound confident even as your pulse hammered.

“Maybe you’re all talk,” he teases, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ve put you on your ass more times than you can count, hotshot,” you counter, forcing your voice steady.

 “True, but maybe the student has become the master,” he jokes, eyes sparkling with that charm that made you want to climb him like a tree.

Your performance only continued to dwindle, your focus shot to hell. You just couldn’t concentrate, not with him so close and looking so good.

It was no surprise when you ended up flat on the mats, breath knocked out of you, staring up at him and those pretty brown eyes.

You tried to recover, pushing up, only for him to sweep your leg clean out from under you, pinning you hard to the ground.

“That’s five to me,” he grinned, voice smug. “Two to you. You’re making this too easy on me.”

You scowl, cheeks hot. You were making it easy, but not on purpose.

How were you supposed to fight effectively with him practically pressed against your back, his chest warm and solid, his breath skimming over your shoulder? Every time he shifted, you could feel every inch of him, and it scrambled every combat instinct you’d ever had.

You reset positions, determined to get your head back in the game, but it was futile. Every punch, every dodge you tried, he read you like an open book, and before you knew it, you were on the floor again.

This time, his full body weight settled on top of you, caging you in with those strong arms braced on either side of your head. It was impossible to ignore the heat of him, the solid press of muscle, the way his breath mingled with yours. You felt hot all over, pulse pounding so hard you thought he might hear it.

“You win,” you finally concede, voice catching. If you stayed under him any longer, you might've done something you regret.

Joaquin rolls off you and sits next to you, giving you enough room to breathe again, but your heart is still racing, no matter how much space you have.

He pauses, studying you with those warm brown eyes, leaning in closer. “Something’s wrong,” he said, concern filling his face. “Are you sick or something?”

“N-no,” you stammer, looking away, praying you weren’t wearing every damn feeling on your face.

“But something’s up…” Joaquin insists, eyes narrowing, that teasing suspicion creeping in. “C’mon, what is it?”

“It’s nothing,” you shoot back, far too quickly, refusing to meet his gaze. There was no way you were about to tell him the truth. No way in hell.

But Joaquin was sharp and had a knack for reading people. His eyes searched yours, catching the flicker of guilt you couldn’t hide.

“Is it me?” he asks slowly, watching the way you froze. His grin went positively wicked. “It is me.”

Your stomach drops. Shit.

“You’re into me,” he goes on, voice smooth, dangerously close, like he was savouring every word. “That’s it, huh?”

He leans in, close enough that you could feel the heat off his skin. “You like being thrown around by me, don’t you?”

You open your mouth, but ultimately nothing comes out.

“Oh,” he chuckles, seeing right through you.

“That’s not—it would be unprofessional,” you stammer, trying and failing to sound stern.

“I don’t mind,” Joaquin says, completely unbothered, that playful grin still lighting up his face. Of course, he didn't mind.

“Torres, I… look, I’m fine, okay? That’s what dating apps are for,” you insist, even though you didn’t believe it.

“Oh, please,” he groans, shaking his head. “Every time you talk about those apps, it’s about a date that was garbage. You know that, right?”

He leans in even closer.

“You’ve been wasting all your time on dating apps,” he says, each word deliberate, like he was pressing it into your skin, “when you should’ve just come to me.”

This was it. Joaquin Torres was going to be the end of you. He was completely right, and having him right in front of you, offering to ease the relief that’s been eating you up for weeks, was so damn tempting. 

“So… what are we gonna do about it?” you manage, voice barely steady as you swallow hard.

Joaquin’s smile turned softer, more genuine, but no less sure. “I’ll show you,” he murmured, before reaching out and pulling you in.

His mouth met yours in a kiss that was gentle, patient, his lips soft. It stole your breath, stole every coherent thought, drowning you in the heat of it, in the way his hands cradled your jaw with a careful tenderness that made your heart pound.

Joaquin’s movements are careful, like he’s memorising every part of you with his hands. He unravels you so thoroughly, so completely, that by the time he’s done, you don’t know which way is up. Your lips part with an audible smack, your eyes wide, flickering over his face and seeing just how much he needed you. 

He grins, eyes glinting with challenge as he climbs on top of you, trying to pin you beneath him like it’s some kind of wrestling match, only half-serious, all play. You squirm, laughing breathlessly, managing to slip out from under him.

“Told you, Torres. Too slow,” you tease, crawling just out of reach.

But he’s faster than you give him credit for. In one swift move, he spins you around, pulling you into his lap, settling you there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You land with a soft thud, your back flush against his chest, his arms locking around yours, trapping them against your sides.

“Got you,” he smugly murmurs into your ear.

And damn it… You kind of love losing.

He leans in, lips grazing the sensitive skin of your neck before pressing a slow, heated kiss there.

"Fuck, Joaquin..." you whine, your fingers curling into his shoulders as his tongue traces lazy, deliberate patterns against your skin, like he has all the time in the world and wants to savour every second.

You feel almost weightless as he leans in, the world narrowing down to just the space between you, his touch grounding and electric all at once.

His hands find the hem of your shirt, fingers brushing lightly against your skin. He pauses, gaze meeting yours.

“May I?” he asks, voice low and earnest.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah… you may.”

In one fluid movement, he lifts your shirt over your head, leaving you in just your sports bra. He dips down, lips brushing against your shoulder in a soft, lingering kiss. Then another, and another, like he’s trying to drown you in them. 

“So beautiful…” he murmurs against your skin.

His hands move with practised ease, tracing delicate patterns as he rubs against your pussy through your leggings. You’re gasping out, breath shaky, aching for more of his touch.

You start grinding your ass back against him deliberately, you feel the sharp intake of his breath as your hips press into his.

"Playing dirty?" he asks, his voice rough around the edges, hands tightening slightly on your waist.

You glance over your shoulder with a smug smile. "Hm? I'm not allowed to mount an offence?" you reply, your tone all innocent when your actions are anything but. 

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Is that right, Falcon?" you purr, voice dipped in challenge as you shift your hips again, slow and taunting.

He stills for a beat, jaw tightening, tensing just enough to let you know you hit a nerve. “Don’t play that game,” he warns, voice low and rough.

You lean in, lips brushing his ear. “Why? Does it turn you on?”

He exhales sharply, then leans closer, breath warm against your skin, “You have no idea what you’re starting.”

“I think I can handle you.”

He laughs, a deep, satisfied sound, then pulls off your leggings and panties in one smooth, decisive motion. “So the manhandling is gonna be a thing?” you tease.

“You love it,” he replies with a knowing grin. And honestly, from the way you were stumbling and fumbling all over the mat when you were sparring, it was clear he was right.

His fingers slide inside you slowly at first, then thrust with growing intensity, each movement sending sparks through your body, making you arch into him, desperate for more.

He curls inside of you, fingers brushing right against your most sensitive spot, sending jolts of pleasure that steal your breath away.

“Joaquin, you… fucking…,” you gasp, struggling to describe just what he was doing to you. 

“Can’t find your words?” he teases, and you want to complain at him for being right. 

Joaquin was good at many things: flying, of course… fighting, absolutely… and apparently? Fingering. The way his fingers moved inside you, confident, relentless, like he was reading every reaction, left your thoughts scrambled. 

“Joaquin, I swear—” You’re cut off as he leans in, turning your head to the side and kissing you, swallowing any complaint or threat you were about to throw at him.

He’s not just a good kisser, he’s devastating. Slow, consuming, like he wants to leave you breathless. You feel like you’re floating away, every nerve on fire, your grip tightening wherever you can hold onto him.

It’s distracting, in fact, too distracting, because suddenly, that warmth in your core coils fast and tight. You feel yourself starting to get close.

Your inner monologue screams, “Already?!”But your body doesn’t care. It’s already chasing the high.

You moan into the kiss, each sound getting higher and more desperate. He pulls away from your lips, focusing on bringing you the release you deserve.

“Scream for me,” he demands, his voice all breathy and sexy, and you do.  The … as you cum leaning back into him, your hips bucking.

“Still think you can handle me?” Joaquin asks, breath heavy, eyes dark with challenge.

“I’m still up, aren’t I?” you shoot back, but your voice is shaky, your legs even shakier, and the words aren’t convincing anyone, least of all him.

“Then I think I have some work to do, don’t I?”

With that, he flips you onto your back effortlessly. You watch, wide-eyed, as he peels off the rest of his clothes, and you certainly hope you’re not drooling, but it’s very possible you are.

In true Joaquin fashion, he continues to tease you, grinding against you slowly. He knows exactly what he's doing, keeping you right on the edge, not giving you what you so desperately needed, and loving every second of your frustration.

“You’ve proved your point. Now fuck me.”

“What’s the rush?” he murmurs, voice low and teasing. “Maybe I just want to take my time with you.”

Before you can reply, his lips are on your neck, sucking gently, then harder, leaving a trail of marks and blooming bruises that everyone will be able to see. You gasp, feeling the sharp edge of his teeth graze your skin, your body arching from how sensitive you are.

He makes his way down, trailing kisses between your breasts, looking up at you with those deep chocolate-brown eyes as he lingers.

“What are you doing? Making a sign saying ‘Joaquin Torres was here’?” you manage to joke, breath catching.

“Would that be so bad?” He leaves another mark on your collarbone before travelling lower. 

He grins, then takes one breast in his hand and wraps his mouth around your nipple, sucking until you squirm beneath him. But he doesn’t pull back; instead, he doubles down, licking and teasing until you’re moaning his name again.

“Joaquin!” you scream for the millionth time today.

You’re trembling, legs spasming beneath his grip, but he holds you down easily, his body pinning yours in place, giving him unfettered access as he devours you like he’s starving.

But… how can someone look so impossibly cute while completely ruining you? His lashes flutter, cheeks flushed, that boyish grin tugging at the corners of his lips every time you writhe under his tongue.

Eventually, he decides to make sure you have some brain cells left and pulls back a line of saliva connected between your nipple and his mouth. Obscene.

“Ready for me now?” he asks, voice low and thick with heat.

You nod, your head still in the clouds, body humming from everything that came before. Then you feel him pushing inside of you and your breath hitches.

He holds you gently, giving you time to adjust, but it doesn’t take long before his pace begins to pick up. Each thrust sinks deeper, more purposeful, and his voice is right in your ear, praising you between gasps.

“So good for me… always so good for me…” he groans, as you cling to him, every part of you aching for more.

Then he interlaces your fingers tightly as he rocks his hips into yours. It feels intimate. More intimate than you were expecting, but you would be lying if you said you didn’t like it. Feeling his body around you, as he whispers sweet nothings into your ear, it felt… natural.

“So perfect,” he gasps against your neck, like he can’t get enough of you. It should be illegal to sound that good.

“Joa...quin...” you whine, sounding so needy, you’re surprised when it comes out of your mouth. 

With a sudden, powerful motion, he bends you in half, your legs resting on his shoulders, driving deep as he fucks you into the mat.

“Joaquin!” you growl his name, eyes rolling back as he fucks you hard and fast, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the training room like a symphony. You feel like he’s not just touching your body, but getting deep inside, fucking the very soul out of you.

He slows down, breathing heavy and steady. “Hold onto me, I’m gonna lift you, okay?” he says softly, voice full of warmth and care.

Too cock-drunk to do much else, you nod and wrap your arms tightly around his neck. He lifts you up and presses you close, never pulling out, staying deep inside you all the while.

He then presses you against the nearest wall, your back flush with the cool surface as his hands grip your hips firmly. Then he continues his assault on your senses, his breath hot against your skin, the slick friction of his dick moving in and out of you sending waves of pleasure through you. 

He keeps you right there, fucking you like that, with raw urgency and desperate need, he whispers low, “You drive me crazy.”

“Good.”

You’d be offended if you didn’t.

“Joaquin, Joaquin…,” you keep saying his name like it’s the only thing you know how to say, like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. Your mind is completely undone, unravelling with every touch, every breathless moment as he ruins you in the best possible way.

His mouth brushes your ear, voice low and wrecked. “Keep saying my name like that, and I don’t know what I’ll do.”

You do. You know exactly what it does to him.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and kiss him deeply, tongues intertwining as you both try to overpower the other. Joaquin relents, letting you take control, your grip tightening in his hair as you pull him closer, drawing him in completely. He’s moaning and gasping, gripping your hips tightly as you do exactly what he’s been doing to you, driving him wild and turning his brain to mush.

He keeps moving, but while desperately moaning into your kisses, just when you didn’t think you could get more turned on, that happens. 

He pulls you off the wall, your lips parting much to both your displeasure, and brings you back down onto the floor.

“Lie down on your stomach,” he commands softly, and you follow without hesitation.

Lying flat on your stomach, you feel him settle behind you, the anticipation practically biting at your skin. “Don’t make me wait again,” you murmur, hoping he won’t mess around this time. “Don’t worry,” he replies, voice low and confident.

He pushes deep inside with slow, deliberate thrusts, his first stroke hitting your most sensitive spot instantly. You’re dribbling onto the mat, your head resting flat as pleasure washes over you. “Give it to me... never stop...” you gasp, breath catching as he answers your plea.

If you’d known he could fuck you this good, you would’ve done it a long time ago.

His arm wraps around your throat, locking you in a headlock again, and you swear—“Fuck yeah, just like that,” you yell, your voice hoarse and ragged. You don’t care how desperate you sounded, not when he was fucking you this good.

Your eyes roll back as you feel that delicious pressure building, a peak you’ve been desperately chasing. The lack of air makes everything sharper, your senses heightened, your body trembling. Your eyes flutter as you lose yourself in it, trusting him, knowing he’ll only give you what you can take.

The heat, the tightness, the heavy, laboured breaths filling the air make you feel lightheaded. Pushing you further into that wild, ecstatic haze. It was intense, like you could feel the tension rising higher and higher, the pressure ready to break.

You push back to meet his thrusts, breathless but daring. “Want me that bad?” he growls, voice rough with restraint. “You... know I do…," you pant, just getting the words out between mewls.

You feel him press his chest to your back, releasing the headlock to slip his hand under to grip your throat with just enough pressure to make your head spin. “So deep, don’t stop…," you whimper, your fingers clawing at the mat.

You can tell he’s close, his rhythm falters for just a second, you hear a shudder in his breath, and you’re right there with him, teetering on the edge.

A final “Joaquin!” makes both of you finish together, pleasure ripping through you. The aftershocks are intense, especially as he continues to pump his load into you. Maybe it’s because you’re dazed as hell, but it feels never-ending. As he pulls out his cum drips onto the mat, a mess you’d both have to clean up pretty soon, and he collapses next to you. 

Lying there, a complete mess, blissed out and breathless, you barely manage to lift your head. Joaquin is just as wrecked, his fingers lazily tracing circles along your bare shoulder.

“Good workout,” you mumble with a dazed smile.

“Definiely.” He lets out a low chuckle, “Same time tomorrow?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Masterlist || Marvel Masterlist

[ickbite]

R U MINE?

pairing: bodyguard!jake x idol!reader

synopsis: Jake, the bodyguard who swears he’s just doing his job but secretly memorizes everything about you. He’s warm, loyal, and deadly when needed. When danger rises, he’d kill for you. When you smile at him? That’s what breaks him.

note: sooo rushed but its okay, 500 likes and ill drop a part 2 :3 — enha masterlist.

In the practice room, all you can think about is the sweat running down your face and how much your ankle hurts. Your new comeback was a month away and you still were making mistakes on a move that should be considered easy given your caliber. It was hard being a soloist in the idol world, especially now with your sock stuck to the floor where you’d slid wrong—again—and your sports bra pinched where it was soaked through. You throw in a half-hearted peace sign at your reflection. “You’re gonna eat this comeback alive.” Your ankle throbs in response.

You almost forgot his presence behind you. Your new bodyguard aimed to keep you protected after a fan broke into your apartment the week before. His name was Jake and he was big. His muscles shown through the tight compression shirt he wore, his face always in neutrality, and even worse his beautiful six pack that you happened to see once was tucked away for your eyes never to witness it again.

It was kind of impressive, actually.

You sit back on your heels and stretch out your legs, panting, your voice light, “you know, it’s rude to stare.”

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at you. Just shifts his weight and keeps scanning the room like you’re a fragile package waiting to be intercepted.

You throw your head back with a groan. “Seriously? Nothing? I almost died of overexertion, and you’re just back there breathing all quiet and mysterious — you are not Robert Pattinson’s Batman, just so you know.”

Still nothing.

You glance back over your shoulder, grinning despite yourself. “You do talk, right? Or do I need to learn Morse code?”

This time, you catch it.

The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was barely there, gone in an instant. But it happened.

Your grin grows wider, playful and smug, “you’ll talk to me one day.” You turn back around to get ready to practice the routine, going in it from the start.

A fake smile replaces your real one as you stare into your reflection, moving your body the way the choreographer intended. The pain in your ankle was dominant, taking every occupied space in your brain.

“Okay, that kind of hurt,” you said to yourself while dropping down to look at how bad it was.

It was worse than you thought; swollen, purple, and throbbing like it was a real thing, like a slight “screw you” for practicing while it’s obviously sprained.

You stood to dance again, you should start small to get used to it. Before you could start the music, you heard a deep voice behind you.

“Stop.”

You freeze. The music remote still in your hand. Your spine straightens. That voice—Jake’s voice—had weight to it. Like stone. Like the door you just unlocked was one you wouldn’t close again.

You turn slowly to face him, your heartbeat skipping. “Excuse me?”

His eyes are darker than usual. Not angry. Not cold. But serious. Intent. “Sit down. You’re done for the night.”

You blink at him, caught between confusion and offense. “I’m not—Jake, I can’t just stop because—”

“You’re injured,” he cuts in, stepping closer now. His presence is massive up close, a shadow that towers but doesn’t smother. “That ankle’s sprained. Maybe worse.”

You scoff, instinctive defensiveness rising. “It’s fine. I’ve danced through worse.”

“I’ve seen worse turn into permanent damage.”

The room goes quiet. The air shifts. And you suddenly feel so, so small in front of him. Not because he’s bigger than you. Not because he’s a bodyguard. But because you realize—he’s not just here to keep the crazy fans out.

He’s here to protect you. From others. From danger. He kneels beside you, eyes flicking briefly to your ankle before returning to your face. “Let me wrap it. You keep pushing and you’ll be off your feet for longer than a few weeks.”

You hesitate.

He softens. Just barely. But it’s there.

“Please.”

And that is what gets you to sit down.

You mumble, “Fine,” as you lower yourself slowly, carefully, and watch Jake cross the room toward your bag, somehow knowing exactly where your first aid kit is tucked away.

Jake steps forward, the shift of his boots against the floor sharp in the otherwise quiet studio. His eyes flick down to your ankle, then back up to your face. “It’s sprained. If you keep pushing it, you’ll tear something.”

You raise an eyebrow, squinting at him as if he just told you he had a PhD in Dance Injuries. “Oh, so now you’re my doctor too? What’s next, chef? Therapist?”

“I’ll be whatever keeps you from making it worse,” he says flatly. No sarcasm, no smirk. Just that quiet, terrifying calm that somehow makes your pulse spike even higher than a stage performance.

You should be annoyed. You should roll your eyes and brush him off, tell him to get back to standing in the corner like some statue from a really hot security catalog.

But instead, your voice comes out softer than you expect. “I have a comeback. I can’t fall behind.”

Jake doesn’t flinch. He crosses his arms over his broad chest, the way his forearms flex when he does it completely unfair. “You’re not going to make the comeback if you can’t walk.”

You hate that he’s right.

You hate it more that he said it like he cares—not just in a professional ‘I’ll get fired if you break something on my watch’ way. In a real, genuine way. Like he’s watching over you not just because it’s his job, but because he’s already invested in you.

Still, you don’t want to give in that easily.

“You’re kind of bossy for someone who barely speaks,” you mumble, easing yourself back onto the ground, one hand bracing your knee.

Jake doesn’t respond with words, just kneels beside you, pulling a small black pouch from his belt that you hadn’t noticed before. Out comes a cold pack, one of those instant ones that crack and turn icy in seconds.

He doesn’t ask before reaching for your ankle. He just pauses, looking at you for permission, gaze steady.

You hesitate—but then you nod, and his hands are surprisingly gentle.

The cold hits fast, making you hiss through your teeth. Jake’s expression doesn’t change, but you swear there’s the tiniest flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“Better?”

“Only if you promise to carry me out of here when I collapse from shame.”

A pause. And then—finally—he smiles. Just barely, just a little tug at the corner of his lips. But it’s enough to make your heart skip.

“You’d be lighter than most of the weights I lift.”

You blink. “Did you just flirt with me?”

“No,” Jake deadpans, but you catch it again—that little twitch of his mouth, that very faint gleam in his eyes.

This time, you let the silence settle comfortably between you. The cold pack stays pressed to your ankle. His hand stays steady on top of yours. And for the first time all day, the room doesn’t feel so heavy.

The lights are too bright.

You’d already signed thirty posters, taken a hundred photos, and smiled so hard your cheeks hurt. But your fans are here—cheering, bouncing in line, clutching albums and wearing your merch—and if there’s one thing you refuse to be, it’s ungrateful.

You swipe your glossed lips into another practiced grin and rest your elbows gently on the table.

“Hi!” you beam, eyes lighting up as the next fan nervously steps forward. “Oh my god, I love your nails! Did you do them yourself?”

The fan turns bright red. “Y-Yes! I wanted them to match your stage outfit from ‘Venus Hour.’”

You gasp with genuine delight. “That’s so cute. Wait, let me take a pic for my story, okay?”

You lift your phone, fingers steady even though your whole body aches. Your shoulders are stiff from over-practicing. Your neck keeps cracking. And behind you, always just in your peripheral vision, is him.

Your bodyguard. Your shadow. Your personal grim reaper in designer black.

He hasn’t spoken a word all afternoon. Just stood behind you with his arms folded across his broad chest, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, and a subtle frown that never seems to budge.

If the fans notice him, they don’t say anything. They’re all too focused on you. But you notice.

You notice how he shifts slightly every time someone gets too close. How he watches hands. Watches body language. How his stance changes when it’s a teenage girl versus a man in his thirties. How his jaw tenses anytime someone lingers longer than they should.

You notice it all.

Even now, while you’re signing someone’s phone case and pretending your wrist isn’t cramping, you feel him back there. Solid. Still. Like a full stop at the end of every sentence.

A pause. A presence.

“Thank you so much for coming,” you say, voice softer now as the next fan steps up. She’s young, maybe ten, and barely peeks over the table. You smile at her gently and lean forward. “I love your hairbows.”

She giggles. “You’re so pretty in real life!”

“You’re prettier,” you whisper, and she hides behind her hands with a squeal. You hand her the signed photocard, and she runs off to her mom.

And then there’s a lull, a gap in the line.

You take a slow breath, shoulders dropping slightly as you lean back in your seat. Your fingers flex against the Sharpie. You look down and wipe a stray smear of gloss from your lower lip with the back of your hand.

“You okay?” comes a voice behind you.

Low. Quiet. Just for you.

You look up at him.

Your heart stutters just once.

He isn’t smiling, of course. He never smiles. But his gaze is… different. Not cold. Just watchful. His eyes flick to your water bottle, then to the empty chair next to you.

“I’m fine,” you lie, brushing your hair over your shoulder. “You look more exhausted than I do.”

“I’m not the one doing selfies with every person in Korea.”

You huff. “I’m not that famous.”

He doesn’t respond. But you hear it—that faintest exhale, like the start of a laugh. You almost whirl around in your chair.

“You almost laughed just now.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did. I heard it.”

Jake crosses his arms again, lips twitching into something that’s definitely not a smile, but definitely not not a smile either. “You imagined it.”

You turn back around, rolling your eyes but failing to hide the grin tugging at the corners of your mouth.

The next fan walks up. A guy, a little too bold, leaning in too much when he greets you.

Jake moves.

Barely, nut you see it.

One step forward. A shift in his weight. One hand at his hip.

The fan straightens instinctively.

You sign the album quickly, cheeks burning, then move on. You don’t say anything to Jake, but your fingers tap twice on the edge of the table. A quiet thank you.

Jake’s voice is quiet again.

“You didn’t imagine that one.”

And that’s the thing with him. He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t tease. He just is. Heavy and quiet and maddening.

You look over your shoulder again.

He’s already looking away.

But you swear, just for a second, his eyes softened when you smiled.

The door clicks shut behind you with a heavy, final sound that seems to echo louder than it should. You slump into the plush leather seat, spine sagging with the weight of exhaustion you’ve been holding in all day.

Your body is sore in places you didn’t even know could hurt, muscles trembling from the high you forced yourself to ride through the meet and greet. Outside, the fans are still screaming your name, their chants fading as the SUV pulls away from the curb.

You glance out the tinted window, watching the city blur into streaks of neon and glass. The adrenaline is bleeding out of you fast, leaving behind only the ache in your legs and the quiet hum of the engine under your feet.

It’s quiet in the car. Too quiet.

Your manager is gone—rushed into another vehicle with the rest of the staff—and now it’s just you and him. Jake. The bodyguard who never speaks unless he absolutely has to.

You can feel his presence without even looking. He’s all weight and quiet breath, sitting beside you like a human wall made of flesh and tension.

Dragging a hand down your face, you sigh, your palm catching on the last sticky remnants of setting spray and sweat. “I think I smiled so hard my cheeks are gonna crack open,” you mumble, half to yourself, half to him.

No answer.

Of course.

You glance sideways.

Jake sits there with one foot flat, the other ankle crossed over his knee, spine straight like he’s in a military briefing and not babysitting a tired idol. His arms rest on his thighs, fingers splayed, and you can see the veins running down to his wrists—he’s not flexing, but they’re visible anyway, like his body doesn’t know how to relax.

“You ever unwind?” you ask, voice light but threaded with curiosity. “Or do you just recharge standing up in the corner like some brooding vampire?”

Still, he doesn’t speak. But you swear something flickers in the sharp cut of his jaw.

You turn your head fully now, giving him a side-eye and trying to catch his expression. “That was a joke,” you say, “in case your sarcasm chip didn’t get installed.”

There’s a beat of stillness.

Then—just for a second—his lips twitch. Barely. Almost imperceptibly. But it’s there.

Your heart kicks up a little. “Aha,” you breathe, grinning. “Caught you.”

Jake doesn’t respond, but his gaze shifts to the window. The corners of his mouth stay where they are—flattened into something neutral—but you know what you saw.

You stare ahead, letting the moment settle into the silence between you. Your head leans against the window as the city lights streak by in gold and red.

“I used to love this, you know,” you say after a while, voice softer now, more honest. “The fans, the chaos, the makeup artists touching up my lipstick every ten seconds like it mattered.”

Jake turns toward you slightly, not enough to be obvious. But you feel it anyway.

“It used to feel like flying,” you continue, eyes half-closed. “Like I could breathe fire and no one would flinch.”

Another breath leaves your lungs, long and slow. “Now it just feels like I’m patching myself together with duct tape. One photo op away from falling apart.”

There’s a pause.

And then—his voice.

“You still looked like you were flying.”

It’s so quiet that for a second, you think you imagined it. You blink, turning your head toward him with your heart jumping just a little too fast.

Jake is still staring forward, expression unreadable. His tone didn’t change. It wasn’t soft or sweet or dramatic.

But it was real.

Your chest tightens, just a bit, and your throat works as you swallow the emotion creeping up behind your ribs. “You ever say something nice again,” you mumble, blinking fast, “I might start thinking you actually like me.”

Jake turns his eyes to you this time. The look is brief but sharp.

“I don’t dislike you,” he says, even-toned.

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

You turn back to the window, but this time there’s a smile threatening your lips. It’s small. It’s real.

“…I’ll take it,” you whisper.

And somehow, the silence after that feels warmer than it did before.

You drop your bag just past the front door, the thud muffled against the rug. The keys clatter into the bowl by instinct, even though your hands are still trembling.

The apartment is too quiet. No music, no hum of the fridge, just the faint tick of the hallway light and your own uneven breath echoing back at you.

You should feel safe.

It’s your home—your sanctuary, your comfort zone—but ever since that fan got past the security code and stepped into your bedroom like he belonged there, something shifted. Now even your own walls feel like strangers.

You glance toward the front door, even though you know what’s on the other side.

Jake is still out there.

He’s taken up the job like a religion—stationed outside your unit like a statue carved from discipline and bulletproof instinct. He never asked for thanks, never even flinched when you asked if he’d mind staying an extra hour “just in case.”

Padding into the kitchen, you tug open the fridge door and stare at the contents like something’s going to jump out and solve your problems. Leftover rice, a single bottle of vitamin water, and a note from your manager taped to a tupperware container: “EAT or I’ll murder you — love, Rin.”

You smile despite yourself, the laugh catching in your throat before fully forming.

You grab the water, unscrewing the cap as you lean against the counter. The cold plastic burns your palm. The silence is louder here than it was in the car.

After a minute, you wander into the living room, leaving all the lights off. The city stretches beyond your floor-to-ceiling windows—Seoul’s endless heartbeat blinking red and gold across the skyline.

Your fingers twitch against the glass, and for the briefest moment, you wish someone were in here with you. Not to protect you. Not to talk.

Just… someone there.

You don’t mean to, but your eyes flick toward the door again. You picture him out there, leaned against the wall in that same all-black outfit, arms folded, head slightly tilted like he’s always listening for footsteps.

He makes you feel like the world can’t touch you when he’s around. It’s annoying.

It’s comforting.

Your thumb skims over the screen of your phone, hesitation curling in your gut. You shouldn’t. He’s working. You don’t even need anything.

Still, you type.

are you still outside?

The three dots appear almost instantly. It’s both infuriating and a little satisfying.

yeah

want me to leave?

You stare at the words. His messages are always blunt, never more than four or five syllables. Still, somehow they never feel cold.

no

just checking

You toss your phone onto the couch after hitting send, then curse softly when it bounces and nearly falls between the cushions. You sink down after it, curling up in your hoodie, cheek pressed against the armrest like it’s a friend.

There’s another message.

lights off

you okay?

You smile. It’s tiny and mostly hidden in the fabric of your sleeve, but it’s real.

yeah

just tired

you sure?

You bite your lip. The lump in your throat is sudden. Uninvited. It catches you off guard how seen you feel in two words typed by someone who barely speaks.

yeah jake

thank you

No reply.

But you know he’s there.

You don’t need to ask again. You don’t need him to say it out loud. And for the first time in weeks, you close your eyes and actually mean to fall asleep.The room is dark, but not empty. Shadows flicker across the walls like whispers, moving with the rhythm of your breath. You’re somewhere between asleep and awake, caught in the thin space where reality blurs. You see him.

Not in his usual black clothes, not the quiet, watchful bodyguard you know, but standing under a soft light that paints his face warm and gentle. His eyes meet yours, steady and unblinking, like he’s waiting for you to say something you’ve forgotten.

You want to speak, but your voice is trapped behind a wall of fog. Your throat tightens, words refusing to come.

He takes a step forward, slow and sure, the air humming with quiet energy. The room feels too small for both of you, yet the space between you pulses with something unspoken.

Your hand reaches out instinctively, but it passes through him like mist, leaving a cold ache where your fingers should have touched. You blink, frustrated and aching.

He smiles, a rare thing — small, almost shy, like a secret shared between ghosts. The corners of his mouth twitch up, lighting the darkness.

“Why won’t you wake up?” his voice is a soft murmur, barely louder than the breath between you. It’s not a question. It’s a promise.

You shake your head, heart pounding. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

You close your eyes, the shadows folding around you like a cocoon. “Of doing this.”

He steps closer again, and this time, you can feel warmth radiating from him, wrapping around your skin like a shield. “I can protect you.”

The words settle deep in your chest, easing the tightness that’s been there for too long. You want to believe him. You want to reach out again, to feel something solid and real.

But then the shadows shift, and the light flickers.

He’s gone.

You wake with a start, the room silent except for your ragged breath. Your heart races as your fingers curl around the sheets, holding onto the warmth of the dream as it slips away like smoke.

Morning light spills through the curtains, soft and warm, but you don’t feel it. Instead, you stare blankly at the ceiling, your mind tangled in the remnants of the dream — his voice, the warmth, the promise. It’s like a secret thread pulling at the edges of your thoughts, too fragile to hold but impossible to ignore.

You push yourself up slowly, muscles protesting the movement, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. The room feels unusually quiet, almost too quiet, as if the world is waiting for you to decide what comes next. You reach for your phone, thumb hovering over Jake’s name before you pull away, uncertainty knotting your stomach.

At practice, your movements feel off. The usual rhythm you rely on slips through your fingers like water. Your eyes catch your reflection in the mirror, and you barely recognize the tired girl staring back — her smile forced, her shoulders heavy. You try to shake it off, pushing harder, but the lingering warmth from the dream makes your heart ache in a way you don’t quite understand.

Jake is there, as always, standing silently near the door, but today something’s different. His gaze lingers on you longer than usual, dark eyes searching, almost gentle. When your foot falters mid-step, his brow twitches with concern, but he doesn’t move closer — instead, he simply watches, waiting for you to find your footing again.

During a break, you retreat to the corner of the room, wiping the sweat from your brow as your chest rises and falls with uneven breaths. Jake approaches quietly, the soft thud of his footsteps the only sound breaking the stillness. He stands beside you, his presence a steady anchor, but this time, he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he hands you a bottle of water with a glance that says, without words, “I’m here.”

You catch his eyes, and for a brief moment, the walls around you soften. You want to ask him about the dream, about the warmth, about the promise to catch you. But the words stick, tangled in your throat. So instead, you simply nod, taking the water, feeling the unspoken connection pulse between you.

As practice resumes, your steps grow surer. The dream’s echo remains, a quiet warmth in the back of your mind — a hope you’re still too scared to fully embrace. And Jake, ever silent, stays by your side, his watchful gaze a gentle reminder that maybe, just maybe, you won’t have to fall alone.

The music blares through the speakers, loud enough to shake the windows and flood the room with energy. You throw yourself into the choreography, pushing through the lingering ache in your muscles and the dull throb still pulsing in your ankle.

Every move counts, and you know it. But the fatigue is heavier than usual, weighing down your limbs like invisible chains. You miss a beat, your foot slipping on the slick floor just as you spin, and the world tilts alarmingly.

For a heartbeat, you lose your balance.

Your heart leaps with panic as you stumble forward, the familiar terror of falling rushing in. Time seems to slow, the cold sweat prickling down your back as your body fights to right itself.

Before you can hit the ground, a firm hand grips your waist—steady and unyielding.

His strong arms catch you effortlessly, pulling you back upright like a guardian angel in black. His voice, low and calm, whispers just inches from your ear, “Easy, breathe.”

Your breath hitches, and your cheeks flush hot with embarrassment and relief all at once. You try to steady yourself, leaning into his support more than you care to admit.

“I’m fine,” you murmur, voice tight, unwilling to admit how close you came to falling apart—literally.

Jake’s grip doesn’t falter. Instead, he lets out a soft chuckle, rare and almost warm. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You glance up at him, surprised by the gentle edge in his tone. His dark eyes hold something unreadable—something softer than the usual stoic mask.

For a moment, the air between you hums with unspoken understanding.

“You’ve been pushing too hard,” he says quietly, releasing you but staying close enough that you feel the heat of his presence. “Don’t let your pride get the better of you.”

You bite your lip, the tension easing but the vulnerability still raw beneath the surface. “I just don’t want to show weakness,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper.

Jake steps closer, the space between you charged but respectful. “Sometimes strength is knowing when to lean on someone else,” he replies.

Your eyes meet his, and for the first time, you see the hint of something like care flickering in his gaze.

The music swells again, and you pull back just enough to take a shaky breath.

The music fades, the beat slowing as your breathing catches up with the pounding rhythm of your heart. You stand close to Jake, the air between you thick with unspoken words and electric tension.

His dark eyes search yours, hesitant but intense, as if he’s waiting for permission to cross the invisible line that’s held you apart.

You swallow hard, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks, the ache in your chest twisting with something more than exhaustion.

“Jake,” you whisper, voice trembling just enough to betray your calm, “I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

His lips curl into a small, almost shy smile — a rare crack in his usually unreadable expression. “Neither am I,” he admits softly, “but maybe we don’t have to be.”

Before you can think twice, he steps closer, closing the last inches between you. His hand rises slowly, fingertips brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with surprising gentleness

Your breath hitches. Time slows.

His lips press against yours, soft and searching, a tentative promise wrapped in warmth. The kiss isn’t rushed — it lingers, careful and full of quiet longing.

You respond, letting yourself lean into the moment despite every warning bell ringing inside you. His hand cups your cheek, steady and sure, grounding you in a way nothing else has.

When you finally pull back, your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling in the small space between you.

“I’m scared,” you confess, voice barely more than a breath.

“So am I,” Jake replies, voice steady and low. “But maybe scared isn’t a bad place to start.”

Your fingers find his hand, intertwining naturally like they were always meant to.

[redemptive-truth]

A Time to Pretend | Bucky Barnes x Reader (Part 6)

Summary: Four years ago, she survived the impossible—going toe-to-toe with the Winter Soldier and living to tell the tale. Now, Bucky Barnes is on her balcony, broken and bleeding. And her? She’s always had a soft spot for lost causes with blood on their hands.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post-CATWS Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6 AO3 Link Warnings: N/A Word Count: 5.7K

Author's Note:

Back with an update! This was one of my favorite chapters to write :) Hoping we all like this series enough because I'm in the middle of writing the sequel now.

______________________________________________________________

Part 6: Late Summer of 2014, West Virginia

Another month passed in a quiet rhythm.

By now, Bucky hunted with her regularly, always keeping a respectful distance at first, but slowly, he’d begun moving beside her, learning the same terrain, mimicking her stance with the rifle, even gutting and dressing when it needed to be done. He went into town with her without hesitation now, trading curt nods with the butcher, even holding brief conversations with the cashier at the general store. They were rarely apart, and while their routine had become steady – easy, really — the space between them remained charged with something that neither of them dared to touch.

At least, that was how she felt every goddamn day she spent second guessing herself around a man for the first time in her life.

Still, nothing had progressed past what it was — close, but not quite crossing that invisible line.

Until one lazy afternoon, just after she’d come in from the back porch with muddy boots and a half-written report for Maria on an old case, Bucky stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, looking strangely uncertain.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little rougher than usual. “Would you… wanna go into town tonight? Grab dinner? Maybe a drink?”

She froze mid-step, grabbing her computer before it tumbled out of her hands in shock. “Like…like an alcoholic drink?”

His lips twitched at her in amusement. Meanwhile, she was kicking herself internally. “Yeah. Like a normal night out.”

She blinked. “You want to go out?”

“I think I’m ready,” he said, quietly. “If you want.”

She paused, the surprise slowly melting into something warmer. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He looked genuinely relieved, even if he tried not to show it. His eyes flickered, something obviously crossing his mind. He scratched the back of his neck, looking hesitant. “Uh, would you mind helping me clean up a little before we go? I could…probably use a haircut. And a shave.”

Her eyebrows shot up despite herself, surprised. The request sent a flare of surprise through her, and she was sure Bucky could tell based on the way he was staring at her a bit nervously. The request was rather intimate — totally normal and domestic, but for him, a big deal in more ways than one. “You trust me with scissors?”

Bucky smirked, tapping his fingers restlessly against his leg. “You’ve stitched up bullet wounds and resetted my shoulder. I think I can survive a trim from you.” She set him up in the kitchen chair near the window where the natural light spilled across the wood floor. He sat rigidly, back straight, expression serious—but she could tell he was nervous. About the cut? About the night? Maybe both. She was nervous too, though she was still trying her absolute best to mask it.

“You’re acting like I’m about to take a knife to your throat,” she joked, slipping a towel around his shoulders and gently combing through his hair with her fingers. She could have sworn he shivered a little when her fingers ran across his scalp.

“You might,” he deadpanned. “Depends on how the date goes.”

Her hands paused for a second—just a second—before continuing. “So it’s a date now?”

He tensed beneath her hands, and she wished she could see his face. “Doesn’t have to be romantic to be a date. Could just be a practice round.” His voice sounded tight, a bit strained.

She bit back a smile, ignoring the wave of disappointment that flared within her at his words. Good, honestly, that he didn’t consider it a true date. She didn’t need any reason to get attached.

At least, that’s what she had told herself all her life. No reason to stop now.

She started snipping carefully, her fingers brushing the back of his neck every few seconds. He was warm. Solid. His hair was thick and still slightly damp from the quick rinse he’d taken earlier, and she found herself lingering more than necessary as she worked.

Each time her fingers grazed his skin, she felt it — like static. He didn’t flinch, but she could feel the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his breath changed just slightly when her hands paused.

“You’re quiet,” she murmured.

“You’re playing with scissors near my skull,” he muttered back. “Sorry for being cautious.”

She laughed under her breath and moved around to face him. “Hey, you’re just lucky I like you.”

His gaze met hers at that, steady, unreadable, but there. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

She swallowed, then picked up the trimmer she had uncovered from some things her father had left behind, and leaned in to shave the edge of his jaw. He tilted his head slightly, but she noticed that when she grabbed his chin in her hand, he blinked quickly. Like the intimacy of it was catching up to him in real time.

She worked slowly, carefully, barely breathing as she moved the blade along his cheek.

“You smell like that soap I keep getting you,” she said without thinking. Immediately, she cringed internally, but the damage was already done. Why would she just blurt that out? What was wrong with her?

Bucky didn’t seem to mind, just raising his brows slightly in response. “Is that a compliment?”

She shrugged, pushing down her anxiety. “Better than sweat and deer blood.”

He smirked but said nothing. Her hand steadied his jaw again, and for a moment, their faces were just inches apart. She could feel the heat of his breath. See the line of his mouth. Her pulse jumped, fast and traitorous — she swore she could hear every beat of her heart. She always did when she was around him.

He just watched her silently, blue eyes locked on her own, and for a second, it felt like the whole house held its breath.

But then she stepped back, clearing her throat. “Done.”

He blinked, like coming out of a trance. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, grabbing a clean towel to dust off his shoulders. “Wait ‘til you see your reflection.”

“You mean the part where I look respectable?” he asked.

She smiled. “For what it’s worth, I like the long hair. Don’t let it go to your head, Barnes.”

She tossed the towel into the sink, turned on her heel, and made a quick retreat to her room before she did something stupid — like turn around and meet his eyes and forget how to speak. Or worse, show him the flush currently painting her cheeks.

Picking out an outfit for a casual night out took far longer than she’d ever admit. She would rather fight a HYDRA agent than confess to Bucky that she had, at one point, dumped her entire wardrobe onto the bed in a moment of fashion-induced panic.

After an embarrassing amount of internal debate, she finally settled on a clean pair of dark jeans—no rips, no tactical wear-and-tear—and a silk tank top in a deep slate color. It was modest enough, sure, but still flattering. Feminine. Different from her usual utilitarian style. She threw on a light jacket and added some makeup—nothing dramatic, but enough to remind herself she still knew how to try. She pulled her hair into a messy updo that somehow still looked intentional after a few adjustments.

Good enough.

She studied herself in the mirror, then huffed a breath and turned away. This wasn’t a date. It was just dinner. With Bucky Barnes. Who had asked her to cut his hair. And shave his face. And now looked— She stepped out into the hallway before she could finish that thought.

He was already waiting near the door, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark jeans. A white thermal clung to his frame in a way that was extremely unfair, and with his freshly trimmed hair and clean-shaven jaw, he looked years younger. More like the Bucky Barnes from the grainy film reels—the grinning soldier who had danced with girls and cracked jokes beside Steve Rogers. Not the ghost she had first found bleeding out on her balcony. Not the weapon of war from Inessa, silent and dangerous with dead eyes.

This version of him felt… human again.

She stepped out of her room, smoothing her hands over her jeans one last time as she entered the hallway.

Bucky was standing near the door, keys to her truck in one hand, jacket slung over the other, but when he looked up and saw her, he froze.

For a second, he just stared.

His eyes moved over her slowly, almost in uncertainty, like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. She could see the shift in his expression, the slight parting of his lips, the subtle straightening of his spine… the way his fingers flexed once around the keys in his hand.

She paid attention to it all. She always did.

She hesitated, a brief and foreign feeling washing over her. Doubt, second-guessing — a general feeling of questioning herself. “Too much?”

His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. He shook his head, but it took him another moment to find his voice. “No. Not too much,” he said finally, voice low, almost rough. He cleared his throat, offering her a faint smile. “You clean up nice, doll.”

The compliment washed away the nerves, and something warmed flared in her chest. She offered him back a small smile of her own, hoping the flush to her skin wasn’t noticeable. “You’re just lucky I didn’t wear my cargo pants and boots.”

He chuckled, going to open the door for her. “You clean up nice in that too, especially when you have deer guts all over you.”

She rolled her eyes and snickered, leading the way outside with Bucky trailing behind. “You look good too, Barnes,” she added, giving him another once-over at the car. “You look happy.”

Something shifted in his face at that. Not a smile. Not exactly. But something soft.

“Let’s go,” he said. “I can drive.” She quirked an eyebrow at him, somewhat surprised at the chivalry. “I don’t think a hundred year old man is legally allowed behind the wheel.”

He shot her a look, but there was nothing but mirth in his gaze. “Very funny. Come on, hop in before I make you walk.”

—————————————-

The café they ended up at was… decidedly midwestern-hick.

It sat at the edge of town, tucked between a taxidermy shop and an auto repair garage, complete with a faded “Open” sign hanging from the crooked door and a hand-painted menu board on the front stoop boasting the daily specials in red block letters. Inside, the place smelled like wood polish and slightly burnt coffee. The booths were vinyl and cracked, the kind that stuck to your thighs if you sat too long. Antlers and old photographs lined the walls—black-and-white images of hunters standing beside prize bucks and grainy tractors from the 1950s.

The town didn’t have much to offer in the way of fun, but this would get the job done for now. Besides, she didn’t really care where they ended up. She was just happy Bucky wanted to do this.

They sat down at the bar amongst a few other patrons, the place decently crowded for a Saturday night. Bucky took one long look around, eyes scanning each exit, and muttered. “Didn’t think we were time-traveling tonight.”

She grinned, nudging him with her shoulder. “That’s rich coming from you, grandpa”

He gave her a dry look, which she returned with an incredulous grin. She opened her menu, skimming the beer list. “You said you wanted a drink? I thought you couldn’t get drunk with the serum and all.”

He grunted, flipping through the somewhat sticky pages of his own menu with a faint grimace. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like the taste.”

She smirked, nodding slightly. “Fair.”

Bucky ordered a beer on draft, and she followed suit. While they waited, she studied him out of the corner of her eye. He was scanning the room, calculating in that way she’d come to know well. Doors, windows, exit routes, potential threats. She did it herself most of the time. He was just far more meticulous about it.

“You okay?” she asked after a beat, voice soft enough not to interrupt his scan.

His eyes flicked back to her, then settled. “Yeah,” he said. “Just… habit.”

She nodded. She didn’t stop him. She never did. The hyper-vigilance didn’t bother her, not after years in the Army and with S.H.I.E.L.D. To her, it made sense. To Bucky, it must have been a comfort. When the beers arrived and their orders were placed, she let the quiet stretch a little before speaking again.

“You’ve been remembering more lately,” she said, gently. “How’s that feeling?”

Bucky took a long sip of his beer, nodding once as he set the glass down. “It’s… weird. Like pieces of someone else’s life showing up in mine. Some good, some not. And there’s still some gaps. Might always be there.”

She waited.

“Brooklyn comes back clearer now,” he continued. “My sisters. My Ma. Things I thought were gone. But with the good ones come the bad, too.”

She rested her elbows on the table, watching him carefully. “You don’t have to tell me the bad ones. Unless you want to.”

“Nah, it’s alright – I tell you most of it anyways. I remember missions. Names. Sometimes the sound of someone’s voice right before I—” He cut off, jaw tightening.

She didn’t fill the space. Just nodded, quietly letting him know she was listening.

After a moment, she asked, “Do you ever think about talking to Steve?”

That earned her a sharp glance — flat, unreadable. He didn’t even bother responding with words. Just resumed slowly scanning the room again, eyes tracking a couple near the bar and a guy leaving the bathroom.

She didn’t press at first, letting the silence settle while she collected her thoughts. “Can you at least tell me why you don’t want to try? You care about him still — I can tell. He’s your best friend.”

Bucky didn’t respond immediately. His jaw flexed. He took another sip of beer, then said, “He’s better off not knowing.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” she countered.

He didn’t look at her. “You didn’t see his face in D.C. You didn’t see what I did to him.”

“I read what you did. I’ve seen the footage. And I’ve also read every debrief Steve’s written since then,” she said quietly. “He forgave you before you even came back. None of what you did to him matters to him.”

“It’s not about his forgiveness.”

Her brow furrowed. “Then whose?”

He didn’t answer. Just took another drink and looked away.

She let it go for now, taking a sip of her beer. Not because she was done — she never really was when it came to him — but because she could see the storm building behind his eyes. It wasn’t the time to pry. Forcing his hand would go nowhere.

“Do you think they’re still out there?” she asked quietly, setting her glass down. Time for a subject change. “HYDRA, I mean. Watching? Following you?”

His eyes flicked to hers—calm, but with that familiar glint of edge beneath the surface.

“I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “Maybe. Pieces of them, scattered. Cells that haven’t surfaced yet. Safe to assume they won’t die off in less than a year.”

She nodded slowly. “Do you feel safe at the house?”

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers, gloved, traced the rim of his glass, the silence stretching between them, thick and uncertain.

“I feel safer than I’ve felt in years,” he said finally. “But safe? No. I don’t think I’ll ever really feel that again.”

She absorbed that, her throat tight. The question that had been burning in the back of her mind for the last few months was pushed to the forefront now. “So… have you been thinking about leaving?”

She braced herself for a truthful answer — hurtful or not, she had to know. At first, she wanted him to stay not just to keep an eye on him, but truthfully, because she felt obligated to help. Now — it was more about simply wanting him to stay because she cared about him. Even if he didn’t think it, he considered him a friend. She’d been virtually alone since the Army, since her father had died, really. The last few months with Bucky had felt…right. It made her feel whole again.

And secretly, she was terrified to lose that.

The question made him glance at her again, quickly this time. “No,” he said, sharper than she expected. “I haven’t.”

She blinked, taken aback at his lack of hesitation. “Okay.”

He looked down at his hands, exhaled slowly, and tried again, quieter this time. “I’ve thought about what happens if something happens. If HYDRA does find us. If I’m putting you in danger by staying.”

“You’re not,” she said immediately, her voice firmer than before. “You’re not putting me in danger. I’ve handled worse. We’ve both handled worse.”

Bucky didn’t argue, but his expression didn’t ease.

“I chose to help you,” she added, gentler now. “I still do. If you’re staying because you feel guilty, or like you owe me something—”

“I’m not staying out of guilt,” he interrupted.

She looked at him, waiting.

He ran a hand down his face, then let it drop back to the table. His blue eyes met hers, the neon lights of the bartop flickering in his irises.“I’m staying because I want to. That scares the hell out of me, but it’s the truth.”

Something in her chest tightened.

“Oh,” she said. That was all she could manage. It didn’t feel like enough.

He shrugged, a little too casual, like he could undo the weight of what he’d just said. “I can’t explain it. I don’t sleep as bad out there. You don’t flinch when I forget to be normal. You don’t treat me like I’m broken.”

“You’re not,” she said softly.

He looked at her, really looked at her. His expression was gentle, unguarded in a way she rarely saw. It was the same look he’d given her the night they danced barefoot in the living room, swaying to the soft crackle of vinyl and brass. That kind of gaze full of something warm that she couldn’t quite explain.

Nobody had ever looked at her like that before. That, she knew.

“I know,” he said. “I don’t always believe it. But when I’m with you… it’s easier to try.”

Her throat tightened, and for a second, she didn’t know what to say. The bar around them had faded — the clinking glasses, the distant jukebox, the low hum of conversation — all blurred at the edges. For a fleeting second, she thought he might reach across the table. Might touch her hand. Might —

“I’m gonna use the bathroom real quick,” he said, clearing his throat and rising from his seat. It broke the moment. Maybe on purpose.

She nodded, covering the odd little ache in her chest with a half-smile. “Sure.”

As he walked away, she let out a quiet breath and leaned back in the booth. Her fingers traced the condensation on her glass, and she stared through it like she could untangle what the hell she was feeling.

She’d always been good at keeping things compartmentalized. The grief of her parents’ deaths. Losing friends in war. But with Bucky… things didn’t fall into neat categories. He’d slipped into her life so unexpectedly, shaking up everything she thought she knew about control. About connection.

She wasn’t supposed to care this much. But God, she did. And she needed to stop before she got hurt.

Then, in the midst of her thoughts, the seat beside her creaked as someone slid into the booth.

She looked up, startled.

A man—mid-thirties, clean-shaven, rolled sleeves over a tight button-down—grinned at her like they were old friends. Not handsome, not ugly. She really wasn’t paying attention. “You here alone?” he asked, voice smooth and cocky.

She didn’t return the smile, just turned away tiredly. She didn’t have the energy for this type of behavior. “No.”

He ignored her answer, of course. His gaze moved over her face, then her neckline — subtle, but not subtle enough.

“Lemme guess… boyfriend?” he said with a smirk. “Girl as pretty as yourself can’t be left alone for long.”

She forced herself to stay polite. “Just a… friend,” she replied, her tone clipped as she drained the rest of her beer. She’d dealt with men like this before—men who mistook disinterest for a challenge.

But he leaned in anyway, cologne heavy in the air between them. His hand reached out, grazing her arm like he had the right.

“No boyfriend, huh?” he said, his voice low. “That’s surprising.”

She gave him a sharp look, tensing up at his touch. Beneath the bar, she curled her free hand into a fist, getting ready to swing. “Is it?”

“If I were him,” he said, fingers trailing further up her arm toward her shoulder, “I wouldn’t leave you alone for a second.”

That did it.

She moved to pull back, her hand rising to land a hit —but before she could even touch him, another hand shot out and slammed down on the man’s wrist, pinning it flat against the table. The man froze.

Bucky was suddenly there beside her, his expression unreadable—but his eyes? Murderous. Cold and sharp as ice.

“She said no the first time.”

His voice was quietly lethal. She thought, for a moment, that his face looked exactly like the Winter Soldier’s again. Deadly.

The guy let out a nervous laugh, trying to yank his hand back, but Bucky didn’t let go. “Easy, man. I didn’t mean any harm.”

“You touched her. Without permission,” Bucky said, his tone eerily calm. “That’s something.”

The pressure increased. Not enough to break anything, but enough to make the guy wince, his face going pale.

“You should leave,” Bucky said softly, leaning closer, his metal fingers still wrapped around the man’s wrist. She couldn’t see his face fully from this position now, but she could only imagine how he looked. A flash of a memory danced before her eyes — the Winter Soldier pinning her down in a dark alley, his eyes void of emotion. “Now.”

The man swallowed hard, eyes flicking between them as he read the danger, finally registering what kind of man he’d crossed.

He stood, fast and clumsy, yanking his hand free. “Alright. Jesus. Didn’t realize she came with a bodyguard.”

“She doesn’t,” she said coldly, remembering herself. She straightened her shoulders, relaxing a little. “But you’re lucky he’s here anyway.”

He shot her one last glare, muttered something under his breath, and hurried off to disappear out the front door.

For a moment, the space around their table stayed tense—Bucky still standing, fists clenched, jaw flexing like he was holding himself together by sheer will.

Then, slowly, he slid into the seat beside her again, his shoulder brushing hers—closer than before.

“I was handling that,” she said, her voice tight. She didn’t look at him. Her jaw was clenched, the words biting at the edge of her restraint. For some reason, Bucky’s little act of protectiveness, or whatever that territorial, dick-measuring display had been, grated under her skin. Did he think she couldn’t handle herself? That she needed rescuing? She didn’t even think about what would have happened if things had escalated — if Bucky had attacked the man and someone had recognized him, or his metal arm had been exposed. They would have been entirely compromised then, even in a town as small as this.

“I know,” he muttered gruffly, eyes down on the counter. She couldn’t see his expression, but judging by the stiffness in his shoulders, the set of his jaw — he was angry.

“Then what the hell was that, Barnes?” she hissed under her breath, finally turning to face him. Her body was taut with frustration, voice low to try to keep the words just between them. “That wasn’t about the guy. That was about you. I’m not yours to protect. I can handle myself. You don’t get to make decisions for me.”

His head snapped up slightly, eyes narrowing, clearly caught off guard by her reaction. For a brief second, something flickered in his face—guilt, maybe. Then his expression hardened.

“I wasn’t making a decision for you,” he snapped back. “He touched you.”

She stared at him. “Stepping in like that is a decision, Bucky.”

He bristled, his voice rising just a hair. “It wasn’t like you were gonna entertain him. You would rather he have kept touching you?”

“And how the hell would you know what I was going to do?” she said, her voice sharper now, pushing back. “You didn’t even give me the chance to decide. You stepped in like I needed saving, like I couldn’t just put the guy down myself. You know I’m not defenseless..”

“I saw the look on your face,” he shot back, narrowing his eyes at her. “You weren’t interested. I just did what you were already planning on doing.”

“That’s not the point!” she said, exasperated. “You didn’t give me the option. You took it out of my hands and made it your problem.”

He scoffed, not cruel, but defensive. “So what, you wanted that guy’s hands on you?”

She blinked at him, stunned for a beat. “That’s not—Jesus, Bucky, this isn’t about the guy. This is about you assuming I need you to step in.”

His lips pressed together tightly, jaw working. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

She stared at him then, the breath catching in her throat. Not from anger, but from the honesty in his voice. That raw, conflicted admission that slipped out before he could stop it.

And he must’ve realized it too, because his posture shifted again, back into something more defensive. He looked away, down at the table, like he wished he could reel it back in. His face was stuck in the same scowl she recognized from the first month of knowing him — closed off, withdrawn.

She sighed, pressing her fingers to her brow in frustration. Her pulse was still spiking—not from the guy, not even from Bucky’s presence beside her—but from the way this had escalated so fast. She didn’t even know where this side of him had come from. The possessiveness. It was nothing she had seen from him before.

“Look…” she said, lowering her voice in an effort to stay calm, “I get it. You did a good thing, really. But you have to let me protect myself, Barnes. I’m not yours to speak for—”

“Why are you so upset about this?” he snapped, cutting her off.

It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp. His voice vibrated with something under the surface, anger, yes, but something more wounded beneath even that.

She froze, startled by the intensity in his tone.

His eyes were narrowed, jaw locked. Blue eyes darkened. “Me stepping in shouldn’t matter this much to you.”

She gaped at him for a second before forcing herself to breathe in slowly, to stay grounded. People were starting to glance over at them from nearby tables, and she didn’t need the entire bar watching their argument unfold like some small-town soap opera.

“It’s not that he matters,” she said, quieter now, but no less firm. “It’s the principle, Bucky. I don’t need you protecting me, or saving me. I’ve taken care of myself for a long time. And if I want someone, or don’t, that decision is mine to make. Not yours.”

Bucky still wouldn’t look at her. His hands were balled into fists on the table, knuckles pale. She could see the muscles in his jaw ticking, the way his throat worked like he was chewing something down he didn’t want to say.

But then he did say it.

“You have to prove how capable you are,” he muttered. “Like letting someone help you would make you weak.”

Her eyes snapped to his, sharp and fast like a knife. “Excuse me?”

He finally looked at her, and this time there was no softness. Just heat. “You’re so damn used to being alone, you don’t even know how to let someone care about you without turning it into a fight. When was the last time you let someone in? Cared about someone? Before your dad died?” She recoiled a little, pain flashing like a hot iron in her chest. Not because he was wrong, but because he somehow hit the nail on the head. She didn’t know how to let someone take care of her, never had. She didn’t know how to let people in. And frankly, doing just that scared the crap out of her.

Her voice was calm, but deadly. “So, what, this is your version of caring? Deciding what I need without asking? You think that’s healthy, Barnes?”

“I didn’t mean it like—”

“No,” she cut in, rising from the booth. “You said exactly what you meant.”

He stood too, reaching out like he might try to stop her, but she stepped back, eyes flashing.

“You don’t get to do this,” she snapped. “You don’t get to act like this is something it’s not. You don’t get to blow up because another man looked at me.”

“I wasn’t—”

She shook her head. “No. I’m done here.”

She turned and walked out before he could respond again, heart pounding, jaw clenched, not trusting herself to look back. The night air hit her like a slap, cool and heavy, but she didn’t stop moving. Not toward the car. Not anywhere specific. She just needed to be away.

She stepped out into the alley beside the bar, the door swinging shut behind her with a dull thud. The cold night air hit her lungs like a slap—shocking and sharp—but it didn’t help. Her heart was still racing. Her hands were shaking.

She paced a few steps down the gravel-lined alley, raking her hands through her hair and trying to breathe through the heat boiling under her skin.

The nerve. The absolute nerve of him.

She didn’t even hear the door open again, but she felt him before she saw him.

Bucky’s boots crunched softly behind her, his steps slow. Like a man walking headfirst into a storm and not caring if it swallowed him whole.

He said her name, soft but firm.

She didn’t turn around. “Don’t.”

He stopped just at the edge of her shadow. “I didn’t mean what I said back there.”

“You did,” she snapped, whirling on him, fury flashing across her face. “You just didn’t mean for me to hear it.”

His jaw tightened, the muscle twitching. “I was pissed.”

“And that makes it okay?” she hissed, voice rising, arms tight across her chest like she was holding herself together by force. “You think being angry gives you the right to throw my trauma in my face? To twist something I told you in confidence and use it like a weapon?”

He stepped closer. His eyes were locked in on hers. “No. I know it doesn’t. I fucked up.”

She laughed, sharp, brittle. “You don’t say.”

He looked like he wanted to pace, to punch a wall, to do something. But instead he just said, voice rough: “You scare the shit out of me.”

She froze. The world seemed to stop around her too. Bucky was the only thing moving, his eyes blinking down at her, his voice the only thing she could hear.

“You let me in,” he continued, stepping in again, “and then shove me back the second you start to feel something. And the thing is, I want to let you in. I want to get to know you. And I want you to know me — whatever fucked up version of myself this is. ”

Her breath hitched. He was too close now. Far too close. The heat of him was tangible, his energy pulled tight like a spring about to snap.

“I push people away because they leave, Bucky,” she whispered. “Because every time I start to believe they’ll stay, they disappear. It’s survival.”

“I’m not leaving,” he growled, and this time the words came out fierce, like a vow. “You think I haven’t wanted to? That I haven’t told myself to vanish before I ruin what little peace you’ve got left? That staying hasn’t scared the hell out of me every damn day?”

He took another step, and this time she didn’t retreat. She couldn’t. Her back hit the wall behind her, the cool press of brick a jolt against the heat rolling off of him.

“To keep you safe,” he said, breathing harder now. “To keep me safe. Because me being around you? It’s a risk. And I’d rather burn than watch you get hurt by anyone. By me.”

She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her chest was rising fast, breath short and shallow. The air between them buzzed like electricity. He was close enough that she could feel it every time he exhaled, the scent of sandalwood and skin and him wrapping around her, crawling under her skin.

“I’m still here,” he said again, voice quiet now, cracked around the edges. “And I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I know I can’t watch some stranger put his hands on you like he knows you. Because he doesn’t. I do.”

Her eyes locked with his, and he didn’t look away. His pupils were blown wide, jaw clenched, like he was holding himself back with everything he had.

“You’re really close,” she whispered, but the words trembled in her throat, barely there.

“I know,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Say the word and I’ll back off.”

She didn’t say the word. There was no way she could now.

The weight of him in front of her, the way his voice had cracked just moments before, the way he looked at her — like she was the only damn thing keeping him tethered to reality — it tore through the last thread of her restraint. The last brick of the boundary she had set for herself.

“Fuck it.” she muttered, surging forward.

And kissed him.

—————————————-

tag list: @frog-fans-unite @multifandomneeerd @hiraethmae @chocopaintus @eviaandjacks @mawmaster @cokewhoreio @quartzbimd @0cr4b @bridgeoverstrawberryfields @torntaltos @kreishin @iyskgd @miss-chuchu @resting-confused-face @luvyoupxmimi @snhoe @gonnaneedabiggerfloat

[ruebossanova]

you mind doing sabrina x reader saying “i love you” for the first time? you can pick smut or fluff, idm. ps, love ur writing sm <3

say it again - sabrina carpenter

sab x gf!reader

word count: 819

warnings: none tbh

⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅

she’s glowing.

fresh off stage, cheeks flushed, body still buzzing with adrenaline. you’re curled on the couch in her dressing room, watching her kick off her boots with a breathless grin.

“you were so good,” you say softly, voice full of awe.

“you always say that,” she grins, flopping beside you.

“because it’s always true.”

she rests her head on your shoulder, her hand slipping under your hoodie and resting on your stomach, like she’s done it a hundred times.

you kiss the side of her head.

and your heart aches. because you’ve been holding something back.

you’re in her bed, finally. the makeup’s off. lights are low. you’re wearing her oversized tee, and she’s in one of those tiny tank tops that makes it very, very hard to focus.

you’re both quiet, tangled in the sheets. her fingers are tracing slow lines along your hip.

“you okay?” she whispers, brushing hair from your eyes.

you nod. “yeah.”

but your chest is tight. your stomach’s fluttering.

she’s looking at you like she knows something’s coming. like maybe she’s waiting for it.

“you’re staring,” she murmurs, smiling.

“you’re just really pretty,” you say.

and you mean it.

you kiss her. slow. tender. thumb brushing her jaw as your mouth moves with hers.

she exhales against you, curling into your chest.

“you’re soft tonight,” she teases, voice low.

“i’m always soft with you.”

her smile falters, just a little. eyes searching yours.

you know she feels it. whatever’s swirling between you — it’s right there, thick in the air.

“baby?” she says quietly.

you blink. “yeah?”

“what’s going on in that head of yours?”

you hesitate.

then you almost say it.

but it catches in your throat.

“nothing,” you lie gently. “just thinking.”

“about what?”

you shrug. “you. tonight. us.”

she tilts her head. “us?”

you nod.

her fingers trail down your arm. “you’re being weird.”

“am not.”

“you are.”

you sigh, pressing your forehead to hers. “i just really like being here. with you.”

her eyes soften. “me too.”

you kiss her again.

but the words — they’re still right there. at the back of your teeth. aching to be let out.

a few minutes pass in silence. she’s playing with your fingers now, absentmindedly tracing them with hers.

“you’re holding back,” she whispers.

you freeze.

“what?”

“you do this thing when you’re scared,” she says softly. “you get quiet. then you kiss me like you’re trying to say something.”

your breath catches.

“are you scared?”

you nod.

“of me?” she asks, worried now.

“of this,” you admit. “of what i want to say.”

she pulls back just enough to see you fully. “then say it.”

you blink.

and then you do.

“i love you.”

you say it in a whisper. like a secret. like a prayer.

sabrina goes still.

you keep your eyes on hers, vulnerable and open and already bracing for impact.

but she doesn’t laugh. doesn’t freeze.

she just stares at you for a long, breathless second.

then?

“say it again,” she whispers.

you blink. “what?”

“please.”

you swallow.

“i love you.”

her eyes water. her smile trembles.

and then she kisses you — like she’s been waiting forever to.

you pull apart just enough to breathe, and she presses her forehead to yours.

“you have no idea,” she says softly, “how long i’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

you’re already tearing up. “yeah?”

she nods. “yeah.”

then she grabs your face with both hands, heart in her throat, and says:

“i love you too.”

you break.

soft laugh. wet eyes. a grin so wide it hurts.

“say it again,” you whisper.

she kisses you. “i love you.”

and again. “i love you.”

and again. “i’m in love with you.”

it shifts after that. everything.

her hands are suddenly more certain. your touch is more reverent. you’re both undressing slowly now, piece by piece, like unwrapping something sacred.

she kisses down your stomach, whispering “i love you” into your skin like a chant.

you arch into her touch, heart racing.

“you’re shaking,” she murmurs.

“i know.”

“you okay?”

“you just make me feel everything,” you whisper.

she smiles. “that’s the point.”

you fall apart under her mouth, whispering her name like it’s the only word you know.

she doesn’t rush. doesn’t tease. just kisses you through it, hands firm and warm and safe around your thighs.

you tug her up after, kiss her like you need her breath to breathe.

“you’re everything,” you whisper.

“no,” she smiles. “you are.”

you hold each other. chest to chest. hearts in sync.

nothing feels scary anymore.

you wake up hours later, tangled in sheets, her arms around your waist.

she’s asleep. hair messy, lips parted, still glowing somehow.

you whisper it again, just for yourself.

“i love you.”

she stirs, eyes cracking open. “say it again.”

you grin.

“i love you.”

she closes her eyes, smiling like she’s never been happier.

“good.”

⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅

[millers-angel]

joel, come on domestic!joel miller x female reader

summary: you're sitting on joel's lap while he plays his guitar. "his hands, big and calloused and so good at everything they touch—the guitar, his weapons... your body." warnings: dry humping, domestic joel, soft joel, lots of fluff (imo), unprotected sex, creampie.

you were supposed to be getting ready for patrol.

the boots are already on, laced up tight, they were still dusty from yesterday. your thighs bare, you're only wearing joel's shirt — the one you threw on after your shower meanwhile you find clean pants, maybe grab your stuff. long enough to get your shit together.

but then you heard it.

the familiar sound coming from the backyard. you knew that sound—could pick it out from a mile away. joel’s guitar. joel’s hands. joel playing like he always does when the sun is just coming out.

so now you're coming his way. standing barefoot in the doorway for a second before stepping out onto the warm patio stone, just with your boots.

he’s sitting in his chair, guitar cradled in his lap. his shirt rides up a little when he moves, and you watch the muscles in his forearms shift as he plays. relaxed, calmed. there’s a cigarette burning in the ashtray beside him and a mug of coffee gone cold.

he don’t sees you at first.

you watch his fingers. like he’s carving the notes out of the morning just like he does with wood. he’s not playing for anyone. just for himself. and god, you love him like this — when he thinks no one’s looking.

you walk toward him slowly, boots scuffing on the ground. his head tilts a little when he hears you, but he doesn’t stop playing. just looks up with a small smile.

“didn’t think i’d distract you that easy,” he says, eyes trailing down your legs, stopping at the boots. “ain’t even wearin’ pants, darlin’.”

“i was gonna,” you shrug, stepping behind him. “but then i heard you.”

you slip your arms around his chest from behind, palms pressed against the soft fabric. he’s warm and he laughs once he feels you like this, he knows the effect he has on you.

“mm,” he says. “this why i don’t play as much.”

you kiss the edge of his jaw, the place where his beard meets his neck. “you should play more,” you whisper. “for me.”

joel hums, setting the guitar aside so his hands are free to slide over your thighs, fingers slipping under your shirt, as if he was trying to cover you... or just feel you.

“you ain’t makin’ it easy for me to be good.”

“you’re never good,” you grin.

he chuckles, pulling you gently into his lap. “you got ten minutes ‘til you’re late,” he says. “then we better make it count."

he gives you two soft pats on the side of your hip, forcing himself to be serious this time.

“no, baby. you’ve already missed patrol twice this week.”

you groan and hide your face in the warm crook of his neck. “i don’t wanna go… please.” you said in a sweet, innocent voice.

joel chuckles with his hand brushing over your thigh. “you never wanna go.”

“but today i really don’t wanna go.”

he sighs, but it’s not because he's annoyed. it’s from affection. he wraps an arm around your waist, fingers spreading wide across your lower back. “i can’t keep hidin’ you out here forever. someone’s gonna notice.”

you smile against his scruffy jaw, then kiss it gently. “you can,” you whisper. “just sayin’. and anyway… i’ve been feelin’ kinda weird lately. tired. and… i don’t know, i’ve had these weird cravings. might be pregnant.”

joel snorts softly, but his hand moves automatically to your belly, giving you goosebumps. “yeah?” he says, teasing. “that what this is about?”

you laugh, almost not being able to breathe when his palm rests there. it’s probably nothing —just a joke— but the feeling sends shivers through you.

he leans in and presses a kiss to your temple.

“you’re finishing the duck you promised?” you asked softly.

you’ve asked for a wooden-duck whenever you see him on his workshop upstairs. he’s always making these animals figures.

“yes, babygirl, it’s almost done.”

“you know… if we got a kid, you’re gonna make her toys.” you rubbed your thumb on his beard.

he chuckled. “yeah?”

“make her a little doll house,”

“that’d be cute,” he admitted. “but until that happens—“

“no, i don’t wanna go,” you mumble again, lower this time, like it’s a secret.

he pulls back a little, gives you that look — the one that says he hears you, the one that says he still won’t let you stay curled up in his lap all day. “you have to.”

you pout. really pout this time, big eyes and a tilt of your head, your fingers tracing lightly over his chest.

“what if i go only if you play me a song first?”

joel huffs a laugh and leans his head back a little. “you always say that.”

“because it always works.” you widen your eyes even more. “please?”

he groans, but it’s not serious, he's trying to hide the smile on his face. “you’re evil,” he mutters. “can’t say no to those damn eyes.”

“i know,” you grin.

he shifts the guitar back into his lap without making you move, arms sliding around you, fingers finding the strings like they belong there — like you both do. even with you on him, he plays effortlessly, picking something soft and slow, the kind of tune that sinks into your bones.

you don’t say anything for a minute.

you just watch him.

his hands, big and calloused and so good at everything they touch—the guitar, his weapons... your body. the veins on his hands, the silver on his arms, the salt on his beard. his profile — those soft lines around his eyes, also the wrinkle between his brows.

you love all of it. all of him.

and even though you’re supposed to be out there — all you can think about is this. this moment. this song. this man you’d let ruin you a hundred different ways just to hear the sound of his voice when he calls you baby or angel... love, even.

you swore you could control yourself, but not like this. not when he's practically poking on your slit. you wiggled your hips just a little, but enough for him to feel what you were doing, for him to know what you were doing.

he didn't stop you, though. if anything, joel loved when you grind your hips on him, he loves when you're the one who look for pleasure.

as he played, you kept griding your hips until you started to feel how something gets bricked up beneath you and his voice started to get more raspy. he left the guitar for a moment and moved his hands to your waist.

"you don't get enough, do you?"

"joel, please—" you plea.

his free hand slips to your inner thigh. "this isn't saving you from going to the patrol,"

you nodded. "yes, sir." you put your hand on his. "just touch me, please."

he wouldn't let you go. not alone. not if you don't want to. he would cover all your patrols if he has to, just to make sure you're safe without complaining—he never does.

it's not just about keeping you safe, though that's part of it. it's that he likes coming home and finding you there. barefoot in the kitchen, usually wearing a shirt of him that's way too big on you, while you bake something sweet, like you're playing house and you're the doll. like you're already his. and now that you told him you might be pregnant—he can’t stop thinking about it. he can picture you already... all round with his baby, he can already see you telling him to fix something while you try to reach batter with one hand and rest the other on your belly.

he'd love that... and you too, the softness, the domesticity of it suits you and him. he can already see it—your sleepy smile in the morning, his hand resting in your stomach, feeling the life your body is creating. it doesn't scare him like it used to.

he can see you playing his little housewife and it he loves it, it's not like it's too different than now.

he was already moving your panties to the side, while the other hand was undoing his pants while you kept moving your hips. joel's grip on your hips tightens as you continue to grind against him, his eyes darkened with lust.

he moves one hand down between your legs, his fingers brushing against your slick folds, teasing you even more. you sway your hips, this time, in order for him to touch you properly.

joel chuckles at your eagerness, his fingers trailing along your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him most.

"someone's impatient," he says, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin.

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks again.

"i could do this all day, you know. drive you crazy with just my touch."

"i gotta go on patrol, joel," you make a sound. "please, don't make me beg."

"aw, poor little thing," he knows what he's doing.

"please," you pout.

"oh, don't give me that look," he says, his voice raspy. "you know damn well you don't have to beg. i'll give you what you want."

he slides his fingers between your legs, gently rubbing your clit through the fabric of your panties. you soft moan. he shifts underneath you, positioning himself at your entrance, the tip of his cock brushing against you.

joel watches your face as he slowly pushes into you, his eyes filled with desire and a hint of amusement even more when you whine.

he starts to move, his thrusts slow and deep, each one driving a moan from your lips.

joel's hands move to your hips, his grip firm as he holds you in place. he can feel your body against his, your thighs on either side of him, and he can't help but appreciate the view.

his eyes roam over your body, taking in every inch of you, before they settle on your face again.

"you look so beautiful like this," he says, his voice low and rough. "sitting on me, taking me so well."

"don't stop," you whimpered.

his hands moves to your breasts, his fingers gently pinching and squeezing your nipples. he starts to move his hips in time with his fingers, thrusting up into you at the same time as he teases your nipples, sending shivers all over your body.

joel's fingers move faster, his touch getting more possessive as he continues to pleasure you. he moves one hand down to your thigh, gripping it tightly as he thrusts harder, his pace increasing.

"and these," he says, his thumb circling your nipple. "these are so sensitive. you're right, maybe you are pregnant."

you chuckled, biting your lip. "shut up,"

"you and i both know you want that. you love playing house," he growled. "might as well just give you what you want."

joel's breathing becomes more heavy as he feels you getting closer to your climax. his fingers continue to work your nipples, his thumb circling faster and faster, driving you closer to the edge

he freed your swollen breast to grip your hips with both hands, guiding you up and down his cock. he always manhandles his girl as he pleases. this time was no different, sepcially when he saw you coming, seeing your face full of pleasure was the most precious thing.

joel's control snaps as he feels you reach your peak, his own orgasm hitting him like a wave.

"fuck," he gasps, his hips stuttering as he thrusts up into you one last time. "i—"

his fingers move faster, his grip on you almost bruising as he spills inside you, his body trembling with pleasure.

you’re exhausted, and a little aching, like he always leave you. you don’t say anything. just sit differently and lean forward and rest your face in the crook of his neck, rubbing your cheek lazily against the scruff of his beard.

he doesn’t stop you — never does. you do the same every time, like it’s instinct, like you’re trying to mark him back, or well, maybe just looking comfort.

“mm,” you hum, barely audible, your lips brushing his jaw before you press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. not sweet. not sappy. just… yours.

joel looks down at you. all flushed skin and lazy eyes, hair stuck to your forehead because of the sweat, mouth still parted a little from how good he just made you feel. you look almost innocent like this. tired and too soft... too soft to go on patrol after this.

he don’t say a word. just slips his arms around you again and lift you, your bare legs dangling as he carries you inside the house. holding you like you are something sacred—to him, you are.

you don’t resist. you let your head fall against his shoulder, assuming he’s just trying to help you. getting you to the bedroom quicker so you can pull on your clothes and grab what you need to go on patrol. always thinking ahead, always efficient. it’s what joel does.

but instead of setting you down, he nudges the door open with his foot and walks you straight to the bed, placing you on the mattress carefully, gentle... like he’s afraid you’ll break.

you blink up at him, still sleepy. “just give me five minutes,” you mumble, starting to sit up. “i’ll be ready.”

joel don’t move. just stand there with his arms crossed, looking down at you like he already made up his mind. “you’re not goin’.”

you frown a little, confused. “but you said—”

“i know what i said, love,” he cuts in, voice low but firm. “but i’m not lettin’ you go if you don’t wanna. stay in bed.”

you pause. then your mouth tug what it seems to be a smile... like you just won something. joel rolls his eyes the second he sees it.

“don’t look so proud of yourself,” he mutters, tugging the blanket up over your waist. “this is the last time.”

you hum, already curling into the sheets. “mhm. it always is.”

he huffs a soft laugh and leans down to kiss your temple, scratching his beard against your skin on purpose just to hear you whine. but he still pulls the curtains closed, still makes sure you’re tucked in like you’re something worth protecting.

and you let him. because you know he’ll never really say no to you. not when you look at him like that. not when you ask so sweet.

♡｡ﾟ🐇｡⋆｡ ﾟ🧸⊹ ࣪ ˖♡

[leriexoxo]

Vocal Training

Sunbae! Chan x Reader

Tags: smut 18+, corruption kink, studio sex, desperate begging, sunbae!Chan, subtextual innocence, loss of control, secret relationship, possessive Chan, aftercare, dirty talk, voice kink, praise kink, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, overstimulation, begging kink, recording booth sex, Chan’s studio

Word count: 4.9k

Summary: You were supposed to just get some help with your vocals. That was it. Nothing more. Chan offered to coach you, one-on-one, in the safety of his studio—and you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. He was older. Wiser. Always calm and steady in a way you’d never learned to be. You didn’t expect the compliments, the touches, the subtle tests to see how far you’d let him go. And you definitely didn’t expect the day he finally broke you open in the booth, kissed you like you belonged to him, and made you beg to be ruined.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

A/N: This was requested by @rosequartsz, Enjoy 😉 Happy Birthday!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The first time you sat on his lap, it wasn’t on purpose.

There were only two chairs in the studio that night—one behind the desk, the other pushed into a corner and buried under a pile of hoodies, empty plastic bottles, and an old guitar strap. Chan had offered you the good one, naturally, but you’d been too focused on the demo he was pulling up, the way he always hummed along even when he wasn’t trying. You leaned closer to watch his screen, one knee on the armrest, and somehow—without thinking—you just… perched.

Right there.

Right on his thigh.

He froze beneath you. Only for a second. Just long enough to make you glance down in confusion, your wide eyes meeting his.

“Oh—sorry,” you started to move, but his hand landed on your waist like it belonged there. Firm. Warm.

“It’s fine,” he said. Quiet. Almost strained.

You were too innocent to read the way his throat worked when he swallowed. Too sweet to notice the way his fingers tightened, just slightly, before he released you. You thought it was nothing—just Chan being polite. Chan being dependable. He always was.

You stayed on his lap the whole session.

—

After that, things didn’t change immediately. He still treated you like a kid. Still smiled at you like you were too soft to touch, too pure for his world of brutal hours and burn-out. You were only Jeongin’s age, barely debuted, and always apologizing for your mistakes. It was cute. Almost too cute.

But you kept coming back.

You’d text him after practice with breathless, excited questions about vocal warmups. You’d sit beside him in the cafeteria, wearing those ridiculous oversized sweaters with sleeves that swallowed your hands. You called him “Channie” like it meant something holy.

And maybe it did. Maybe that’s why it drove him fucking insane.

You didn’t notice the shift at first. You were still babbling about key changes and melody lines when he started watching your lips more than your form. Still curling up beside him on the couch when his fingers began curling into fists to keep from touching you. You didn’t see how his jaw flexed when your skirt rose mid-thigh. You didn’t hear the way his breathing changed every time you asked him to “show you how it’s done.”

And you definitely didn’t know what you were doing the night you asked him this:

“Oppa, can I ask you something kinda weird?”

He looked up from his laptop. You were in the corner of the room again, legs tucked under you, wearing a tank top and shorts you definitely didn’t own last month. His gaze dropped before he could stop it. He didn’t answer right away.

“…Go ahead,” he said.

You twirled a pencil between your fingers. Bit your bottom lip. God.

“How do you, like…” You laughed, nervous and sweet. “How do you seduce someone?”

Silence.

The kind that made the air in the room feel thicker. Heavy.

You didn’t know it, but something in him broke the moment you said it.

He closed his laptop slowly, carefully. The hum of the monitors was suddenly loud in the quiet.

“You’re joking,” he said flatly.

You giggled. “Kind of?”

But your eyes were curious. Your lips glossy from that stupid cherry balm. Your knees bare and bent toward him like you didn’t even realize what position you’d put yourself in.

“Why are you asking me that?” he asked, voice lower now. Controlled.

You shrugged. “You just… seem like you’d know.”

There it was again—that innocence, all tangled up with something so casually dangerous.

And you had no idea.

You didn’t know why you asked him that.

The words had just come out—half a joke, half something else. Something sticky and curious and reckless. You hadn’t expected him to react the way he did.

Chan stared at you for a second too long. Not in the way people did when they were thinking. Not even in the way he looked at the screen when he was editing vocals—focused and zoned out and kind of tired. No. This stare was heavy. Charged. Like he was seeing something he shouldn’t.

Like he was trying to decide what to do with it.

He leaned back in his chair and scrubbed a hand over his mouth.

“You shouldn’t ask questions like that,” he said, almost under his breath.

Your stomach flipped. You weren’t sure why.

You tried to laugh it off. “Come on, I’m just curious.”

He didn’t smile.

“I’m not the person you should be asking.”

“Why not?” You tilted your head. You knew you were pushing. Maybe that was the point. Maybe you wanted to know how far you could go. “You’ve probably had, like, tons of experience, right?”

His eyes closed for a moment. Just a blink, but slower. Like he was exhausted all of a sudden.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

You shifted where you sat on the little couch, trying to lighten the mood. “So that’s a yes?”

Chan exhaled—sharp and short, more of a sound than a breath. Then he stood up.

For a second, you thought he was going to leave. That you’d actually annoyed him. But instead, he crossed the room and stopped right in front of you, arms crossed loosely over his chest, head tilted down.

“You think seducing someone is a game?”

The words came out so quiet. So smooth. It made your skin tingle.

You blinked up at him. “N-No?”

“You think it’s just… lip gloss and eye contact and giggling like that?”

“I wasn’t—” You stopped. Realized you were giggling. Shit.

Chan’s mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smirk. Or a growl. You couldn’t tell.

He crouched down, suddenly eye-level, forearms resting on his knees. He looked at you like he was studying something—like he was figuring out whether you were real or some kind of trick.

“You want to learn how to seduce someone?” he asked, lower now. Softer.

You nodded. Barely.

He leaned in a little more. You could feel the heat of him, smell that clean, rosy scent he always carried—like skin and sweat and cologne that cost more than your rent.

“Then here’s your first lesson,” he murmured. “You don’t go asking men like me to teach you.”

You swallowed. Your throat felt dry.

“Why not?”

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips. Then your knees.

Then back up.

“Because,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “I’d stop teaching real fast.”

You stared at him. Words failed you.

He rose to his full height and stepped back, rubbing a hand over his neck like he was trying to shake something off.

“I’m gonna get some water,” he said, almost too casually. “You should go home soon. It’s getting late.”

And just like that, the moment cracked.

But it didn’t vanish.

It lingered—thick in the air, hot in your chest, humming between your thighs.

You watched the studio door close behind him. Your heart was pounding. Your hands trembled as you picked up your phone, pretending to scroll.

You weren’t sure what had just happened.

But you wanted to do it again.

—-

Chan didn’t text you for three days.

Which wouldn’t normally mean anything—he was always busy, running on fumes and three hours of sleep—but this time it felt different. You’d grown used to the casual replies, the quick “want to practice tonight?” or “you eating?” texts that came with no warning but always made you feel strangely warm.

Now, nothing.

No emoji-laced messages. No late-night memes. Not even a reaction to the video you posted of your new vocal practice.

It bothered you more than you wanted to admit.

When you finally saw him at the company building, he looked—fine. Tired, maybe. Sweaty from practice. But when you waved, his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey, you.” He said it softly, but his eyes flicked behind you—checking if anyone else was around.

“Are you mad at me?” you asked.

His brows drew together. “No. Why would I be mad?”

You fidgeted with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. “You’ve been kind of… distant.”

Chan sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not you. I just… think we should cool it with the late-night practices for a bit.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh.”

“Not forever,” he added quickly, voice a little too gentle. “You’ve been doing great. You’re killing it. I just think you don’t need me hovering all the time anymore.”

You stared at him. That wasn’t what this was about, and you both knew it.

“Is this about what I said?” you asked, a little quieter.

He didn’t answer.

You took a breath. “Because I was kidding, Channie. I didn’t mean to make things weird.”

His jaw tensed at that.

“You didn’t make anything weird,” he said. “I did.”

That stung.

He noticed.

“I just think it’s better if we keep some distance. You’re… pure. You’re new to all this. And I don’t want to mess that up for you.”

You didn’t know what to say. There was something in his voice—something tight and controlled, like he was clenching a muscle too hard.

He smiled again. Gentle. Fake.

“I’ll still help with your vocals. Just… not at night, okay?”

You nodded, but your chest felt cold.

And your curiosity?

Burned hotter than ever.

—

It took another week before you went back to the studio.

You told yourself it was innocent. You just wanted his input on your new harmony lines. It wasn’t about that moment. It wasn’t about the way he looked at you, or how your skin still tingled when you remembered the sound of his voice dropping low beside your ear.

You knocked on the studio door anyway, heart racing.

He was sitting at the desk, hoodie loose around his shoulders, hair pushed back with a headband. When he looked up and saw you, something flickered across his face.

You couldn’t tell if it was dread or desire.

“I thought we agreed—”

“I brought coffee,” you cut in quickly, holding up the bag with a small smile. “And I need your help.”

He stared at you for a second. Then sighed.

“Come in.”

You set the drinks down beside him and slid into the chair, pretending not to notice the way his hand twitched when your knees brushed. You opened your notebook, flipping through pages.

“I wrote a new verse,” you said. “I think it could use some warmth. Like that thing you always say about emotional resonance?”

He nodded slowly. Said nothing.

You pressed play on your recording, humming along softly with the playback. He listened in silence.

When it ended, you looked at him.

“Well?”

His eyes were already on you.

“You’re improving.”

“Only improving?”

He hesitated. “You sound… honest. A little more raw. Like you felt it.”

You bit your lip—just enough to get his attention. “Maybe I was thinking about you.”

You meant it as a joke. Almost.

He didn’t take it that way.

“Don’t.”

The word hit the air hard and fast. You blinked.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t flirt with me.”

The room went quiet. Your pulse jumped.

“I’m not,” you said—too soft, too fast.

Chan stood up suddenly, pushing back from the desk. He walked to the corner of the studio, then stopped with his back to you.

“You don’t understand,” he said quietly. “You think you’re playing a game. You think it’s harmless.”

You stood, too. “What if I do understand?”

He turned slowly. His eyes met yours—and they weren’t soft anymore.

“Then you should leave.”

Your heart kicked against your ribs. But you didn’t move.

You stepped forward instead.

“Channie,” you whispered. “What would happen if I didn’t?”

His hands clenched at his sides. His throat bobbed.

Then, finally, voice low and dangerous, he answered:

“Then I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

You didn’t flinch when he said it.

You didn’t back away. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t break the eye contact, even when the air between you got heavy with something thicker than silence.

So when Chan stepped toward you—slow, measured, eyes locked to yours—you didn’t move. Not even when the space between you vanished.

He was so close now you could see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw. The outline of every thought he wasn’t saying etched across his face.

You’d never seen him like this. Not guarded. Not careful.

Just… watching.

He reached out—slowly—and his fingers grazed your cheek. Not a full touch. Just enough to test.

You exhaled—too sharp.

“You want to play grown-up, huh?” he murmured, thumb brushing along your jaw. “Want to act like you know what you’re doing?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. He didn’t wait for an answer.

“Let’s see, then.”

He stepped around you. Close enough that his chest brushed your back as he circled behind you. His voice was still low, soft enough that it felt like it sank straight into your skin.

“If you really understood what you were asking for,” he said, “you’d be nervous right now.”

“I am nervous,” you whispered.

“Not nervous enough.”

His fingers slid down your arms—not quite holding you, just ghosting. Just enough to make your breath catch.

“You’ve got no idea what it means to really seduce someone. You think it’s about looking pretty and biting your lip.” He leaned in, his breath warm on your neck. “But it’s not.”

He let the silence stretch, thick and pulsing.

“You wanna know what seduction is?” he whispered.

You nodded.

“Then let me show you something.”

He moved in front of you again—close enough that you could smell the coffee on his breath and the heat radiating off his body. His eyes searched yours for a long moment.

Then he reached for your hand.

Gently. Carefully. Like you might pull away.

You didn’t.

He brought it up—slowly—and pressed it against his chest, right over his heartbeat. His skin burned through the fabric of his hoodie.

“You feel that?” he said. “That’s what you’re doing to me without even trying.”

You swallowed, lips parting.

His hand stayed over yours, holding it in place. “Now imagine what would happen if I stopped trying, too.”

Your pulse jumped.

“I’m giving you one chance,” he said. “Tell me to stop. Say it, and we go back to normal. You walk out that door, and I forget this ever happened.”

He held your gaze.

“But if you don’t…”

You couldn’t breathe.

“If you don’t say it…” His voice dropped an octave. “Then I’m going to keep showing you. Until you’re not just pretending anymore.”

His hand on yours tightened just enough to ground you. Just enough to make you dizzy.

You didn’t say anything.

And you didn’t move.

The corner of his mouth twitched—just slightly.

“…That’s what I thought.”

His fingers slid from your hand to your wrist—holding you there like a question. Not forcing. Not demanding. Just… waiting.

Waiting to see if you’d flinch.

You didn’t.

Chan’s thumb brushed against your inner wrist, dragging slowly across the pulse point.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

You were.

Not from fear. From anticipation.

He leaned in—closer than before—and tilted his head, speaking softly into your ear.

“I’m not going to forget this, you know.”

His voice. God, his voice. It wasn’t just deep—it was intimate. Thick. Low and smooth like it was meant to curl around your spine and melt into your skin.

“I don’t want you to,” you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. You couldn’t read the expression in his eyes—like he was still deciding whether this was wrong or just dangerous.

Then he cupped your cheek—so gently—and ran his thumb along your bottom lip.

“Open.”

Your lips parted instinctively.

His thumb dragged down, slow and deliberate, wetting itself along the inside of your mouth before he pulled away. He watched you, eyes fixed on the way your lips stayed open just a beat too long.

“Good,” he murmured. “You’re listening.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak. Your whole body buzzed like it had been rewired.

He stepped in closer again, crowding you slightly, like he needed your attention narrowed down to only him.

“Lesson one,” he said, voice low. “Seduction isn’t about what you show. It’s about what you hold back.”

His fingers brushed down your arm again. Slower this time. His palm settled lightly on your waist—just warm contact, nothing filthy yet, and it still made your breath stutter.

“You don’t give it all away at once,” he continued, “You let them wonder. You make them want.”

His hand slid from your waist to your hip.

“And you never…” his fingers dipped just slightly lower, “…ever touch first unless you’re ready to be touched back.”

You froze.

But you didn’t pull away.

Chan’s gaze dragged down your face—lingering on your lips, your neck, the flushed skin rising above your shirt.

“Can I?” he asked.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Yes.”

His hands found your thighs—warm, steady—and he tugged you gently toward the studio couch behind you until the backs of your knees hit the edge. You sat without thinking.

He stayed standing, eyes dragging over you like he was seeing you for the first time. Then, slowly, he dropped to his knees.

Knees.

Chan knelt in front of you.

His hands settled on your knees, thumbs stroking soft circles there. Not pushing them apart. Not yet. Just resting. Just waiting.

“You want me to touch you?” he asked, voice almost too soft to hear. “Tell me.”

You hesitated—but not because you didn’t want it.

Because you’d never said anything like this out loud before.

“I want you to touch me.”

“Where?”

Your face burned.

He leaned in again, whispering against the inside of your thigh. “Use your words.”

You swallowed hard. “Between my legs.”

His hands inched upward, fingertips skimming over your skin, dragging the hem of your shorts with them.

“Say it,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes. “Touch me between my legs, Channie.”

He hummed—a low, satisfied sound that made your core throb.

Then finally—finally—he pressed the heel of his palm right where you needed it.

You gasped. Your thighs twitched under his hands.

He looked up at you, eyes dark. “That’s the reaction I want. Not just pretty words. Not just teasing.”

He started rubbing slow circles, firm and steady, watching your every twitch and moan like he was studying you.

“Lesson two,” he said, voice thick now. “You learn more from pressure than from touch.”

Your breath hitched.

“Feel that?” His fingers pressed just a little harder. “That’s what it feels like when someone really wants you.”

You whimpered, unable to hide it.

“And I haven’t even taken your clothes off yet.”

Chan worked you open slowly—still on his knees, still fully clothed—like he had all the time in the world and wanted to feel every second of your unraveling.

His hand moved in firm, perfect circles, pressing between your legs over the thin fabric of your shorts. You were soaked already, thighs shaking, fingers digging into the edge of the couch.

“I haven’t even gotten under yet,” he murmured, eyes on your flushed face. “That alone making you this wet?”

You nodded helplessly.

He gave a dark chuckle—like he’d known, but needed to hear it.

Then he slid his fingers under the waistband, dipping past your panties.

The first proper touch was a shock—direct, confident, nothing shy about the way he parted you with two fingers and found your clit immediately. You gasped, body jerking, and he grinned against your thigh like he’d been waiting for that sound.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “So warm.”

His fingers kept moving—teasing, exploring, pressing just right—and the tension built so fast it scared you.

“I—Chan—” you gasped. “Wait, I think I—”

“Let it happen.”

You shook your head, breath ragged. “I’ve never—no one’s ever made me—”

His eyes locked on yours, sharp with something wicked.

“You’ve never come before?”

You shook your head, lips trembling.

His whole expression shifted—like something inside him snapped loose.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “No wonder you keep looking at me like that.”

His fingers changed pace—less teasing now, more deliberate. Faster. Filthier. You cried out, hand flying to his wrist, but he didn’t stop.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he ordered.

You tried. God, you tried.

Your legs trembled, muscles seizing, mouth falling open as everything in you tightened to a breaking point—and then—

You shattered.

Silently at first. Then with a choked moan as your first real orgasm hit you like a fucking freight train. It was overwhelming. Too much.

Chan didn’t stop right away. He slowed down, coaxing you through it with soft circles, his free hand bracing your thigh to hold you open while you writhed under his touch.

When you finally slumped forward, trembling and breathless, he kissed the inside of your knee.

You were still dazed when he stood, wiping his fingers with a tissue before reaching down and hooking both hands under your thighs.

“Wait—what—?”

“I’m not done,” he said, lifting you clean off the couch.

He lifted you so easily it felt unreal—like your body didn’t weigh anything in his arms. Your breath caught as he crossed the room with you, eyes dark, mouth set in something determined and dangerous.

The door to the recording booth clicked open. He carried you in and kicked it closed behind him with a heavy thud.

Then he turned, leaned you against the padded wall, and just… looked at you.

You were still shaking.

From the orgasm he’d pulled out of you minutes ago. From the way his hands never stopped roaming. From the look in his eyes now, like he wasn’t sure whether to worship you or break you.

“Do you have any idea how sweet you feel?” he asked, voice rough, lips brushing your ear.

You swallowed hard. “Chan…”

He pulled back to look at you, and the heat in his gaze made your knees weak.

“I’m trying to be patient,” he said. “But watching you fall apart like that…”

He dipped his head to your neck. Kissed it. Bit it, just enough to sting.

“I want to hear you beg for it.”

You blinked up at him—flushed, dazed, aching.

“I—” You bit your lip. “I want you…”

He tilted his head. “Want me how?”

Your face burned.

“I want you to—” You hesitated, thighs pressing together. “To fuck me.”

His mouth twitched into a dark smile. “Say please?”

You flushed deeper. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please, Channie,” you breathed, voice trembling. “Please fuck me. I want you inside me. I want to feel it. I want to feel you.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp, and you felt the shift in him—like the last thread of restraint had finally snapped.

“Good girl.”

He set you down only to spin you around, pressing you face-first against the booth wall. You gasped at the cold surface, hands bracing yourself as he yanked your shorts and panties down your thighs in one smooth motion.

Then he dropped to his knees behind you.

You felt his breath first. Hot against your bare, soaked heat. Then his mouth.

You cried out when his tongue dragged over your folds—wet, eager, messy. He groaned low in his throat, hands gripping your ass, spreading you open wider so he could fuck you with his tongue until your legs buckled.

“Still so fucking tight,” he muttered between licks. “So perfect.”

“Chan—please—” Your voice cracked. “I need it, I need it—”

He stood behind you again, and you heard the rustle of his jeans, the soft slap of skin as he stroked himself.

You turned your head, panting. “I want it. I want you. I can take it, please—”

“You better hold on,” he said, voice dark. “Because I’m not stopping once I start.”

You nodded, desperate.

Then he lined up—and slid in.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t cruel. It was perfect.

Thick, deep, stretching you so full so fast your knees almost gave out. You choked on a gasp, both hands flying to the padded wall, trying to steady yourself as he bottomed out with a low growl.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You feel that?”

You whimpered, back arching. “Yes—fuck, yes—”

He pulled back and slammed into you again—harder this time—and your moan echoed off the walls.

“You’ve been waiting for this,” he said through gritted teeth. “Walking around all innocent. Pretending you don’t know what you do to me.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” you sobbed.

“Bullshit.”

His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he fucked into you—slow, deep thrusts that dragged along every nerve ending you had. He filled you so completely you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could only feel.

“I should’ve made you beg earlier,” he groaned. “The way you sound when you’re desperate? Fucking unreal.”

You clenched around him—tight, pulsing—and he hissed, slamming into you harder.

“Say it again.”

“Please,” you cried. “Please, Chan, don’t stop—don’t ever stop—”

“That’s it,” he grunted. “Let me ruin you.”

And he did.

He fucked you deep and filthy, hips slamming into the backs of your thighs, hands everywhere—your waist, your hair, your throat. His mouth found your shoulder, biting down as you started to come again, your body seizing around him like it couldn’t stand the pleasure anymore.

“Fuck, that’s it, come for me—so fucking tight—shit—”

You screamed into the wall as you shattered around him, sobbing his name, body shaking like it couldn’t hold the heat anymore.

And he followed—hard.

He buried himself to the hilt and groaned deep in your ear as he came inside you, thick and hot, his hips jerking with every pulse.

You collapsed against the booth wall, legs trembling, breath ragged.

Chan stayed there for a moment, forehead resting against the back of your neck, both of you panting.

Then he pulled out slowly—gently—and turned you around to catch you before you fell.

His arms wrapped around you.

And for a long, quiet second, he just held you. Pressed his lips to your forehead. Let your heart slow against his.

“You’re never gonna look at this booth the same way again,” he whispered.

Your legs were jelly. Your mind was somewhere far away. Every inch of your body throbbed with the echo of what just happened.

Chan held you up effortlessly, arms wrapped around you like he didn’t trust your knees to hold. He kissed your temple, slow and warm, and whispered, “I’ve got you.”

He reached behind you, tugging his shirt off in one fluid motion, then gently helped you step out of your rumpled clothes. When he slid his shirt over your head, you leaned into his chest, still trying to catch your breath, the scent of him wrapping around you like another blanket.

“Too much?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head, cheek pressed against his skin. “No. Just… never felt like that before.”

He hummed, proud and gentle all at once. “Good. You shouldn’t have to settle for anything less than that.”

He helped you sit on the little bench in the corner of the booth, kneeling in front of you like earlier—except now he wasn’t teasing. He was checking. Fixing you.

You watched him silently as he used a soft wipe to clean you between the legs, careful and slow even though you winced from the tenderness. His brows furrowed in concentration, lips slightly parted.

“I didn’t hurt you?”

You shook your head again. “You took care of me.”

He glanced up at that. Smiled softly. “Yeah. I’ll always do that.”

You believed him.

He stood and tugged his pants up, then crouched to help you dress again too—every zipper, every button, like it was part of some sacred ritual.

After you were both dressed again, he pulled you into his lap, back against the booth wall, arms wrapped tight around you. His chin rested on your shoulder.

For a while, you just sat there. Let the silence hold you.

“Are you gonna regret this?” you asked eventually, voice barely above a whisper.

His answer came instantly. “No.”

You turned your head to look at him, heart pounding.

“I should,” he added, brushing his nose against your cheek. “But I don’t. Not even a little.”

You bit your lip. “So what now?”

He gave a crooked little smile. “Now,” he said, “we’re going to pretend nothing happened.”

You blinked.

“In front of the others,” he clarified, brushing a thumb across your lower lip. “In public. Around Jeongin. Especially around Jeongin.”

Your laugh came out small and breathy. “And in private?”

“In private,” he murmured, voice dipping low, “I’ll keep teaching you.”

You shivered.

He kissed your jaw, soft and slow. “You’ll keep begging.”

Another kiss. “And I’ll keep wrecking you.”

You moaned quietly, already aching again.

“But for now,” he said, tightening his arms around you, “you’re gonna let me hold you.”

You let your eyes flutter shut and leaned into his chest.

Outside the booth, the studio lights hummed. Somewhere in the distance, a phone buzzed. But in here—in Chan’s arms—it felt like time had stopped. Like something real had started.

Maybe it was the beginning of a mistake.

Maybe it was the best secret you’d ever keep.

But for now, it was just the two of you.

And neither of you planned to stop.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Hi guys! Sorry I disappeared for a few days, a lot was happening irl but i am back though! I want to expand the “unknown number” fic into an ot8 series (if you haven’t read it yet then check my masterlist under bang chan) please let me know what you think, its gonna be the same concept but random af story lines 🤭

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8

[adelaiderhosynweasley]

Pain. Pain in her back, in her arms, the tightness in her chest as her heart tried to beat its way out of her rib cage in order to escape the absolute horror of whatever was happening inside of her. It was the main thing in Adelaide’s mind as she floated through the darkness of unconsciousness, no longer present, but more of a memory that she couldn’t escape from. It bothered her a great deal, this pain, but not nearly as much as the fear that came with it. There had been a moment, before the pain had become so severe she could no longer process it, that all she could see was sky-blue eyes full of a kind of terror she’d never seen there before. Gully’s eyes. That created another kind of ache, one in her heart that had her wishing she could reach out to help calm him or turn around to fight whatever it was behind her that had him so afraid. And yet, at the same time, Addie knew, that it wasn’t something else that had had her best mate looking at her like that. It had been Addie, herself. Though whether the fear had been of her or for her, she couldn’t tell. She needed to help him… To let him know everything was going to be okay. It was going to be okay, right? It had to be. The pain had subsided as she drifted, lingering more like a gentle annoyance now that she sensed, more than knew, would hurt again if she were to move. But she couldn’t move… Adelaide attempted it. To twitch her toes or her fingers, to crook a leg the way she liked when she was sleeping, but nothing. She was vaguely aware of her body every now and then, but it only lasted long enough for her to determine several things. First, she was lying on her stomach. Secondly, the surface beneath her was soft. And lastly, it smelt like antiseptic.

As time passed, Addie became more aware of what was happening around her. She could hear the rustle of fabric, the whisper of voices nearby so muffled that she couldn’t understand what they were saying. A gentle hand passed over the back of her head, stroking down her hair, the scent of wool and soap easing away the anxiety that was pressing at her. Her Mama was with her. This became even more apparent as Caerwyn’s voice rose, obviously still trying to remain quiet but unable to completely keep to a whisper.

“She’s going to fucking lose her mind without her Papa. I don’t fucking care what you have to fucking do, Harry Potter, but if you don’t get my goddamned fucking husband home before she wakes up, I’m going to shove one of my cocksucking boots so far up your boney ass you’ll wish you-… Fine. Fine. Just fucking… Get. Him. Here.” Caerwyn’s sigh was a heavy one as she hung up her phone, sinking down in the chair beside her daughter’s hospital bed. She hadn’t slept or eaten, just sat, staring down at her poor baby and waiting for Louis to show up. She hadn’t been alone of course. Rose had been her first call after she’d spoken to Vic, asking her to come fetch Rhydian and then get Owena from school when it let out. She didn’t need her younger two children seeing their sister in such a state, it would just frighten them. Fleur had arrived at the hospital right after Caerwyn, before she’d been allowed to see Addie yet. Vic and her co-matron had done what they needed to in order to make the teenager stable enough to travel from school, but there were still things that needed to be done in order to continue keeping her safe. Fleur had held Caerwyn, had let her cry onto her shoulder as the worry for her daughter had finally overcome her, unable to hold it in any longer. It had taken Vic a little longer to arrive. Apparently Gully was extremely upset, as was understandable, and he’d been fighting about being allowed to come once he’d realized that Addie had been taken to St. Mungo’s. Caerwyn, having been left behind when Louis’s Veela had fully shown itself in their sixth year, could understand the sentiment. They were best friends, that was for certain if the way they had played together over the summer was any indication. She knew the boy would be worried, had probably seen more than anyone his age should have to but… It wasn’t up to Caerwyn whether he should be allowed to come visit Addie. For now, there were other things the former Gryffindor had to worry about.

The Healers had asked what she wanted to do about her daughter’s wings.

Caerwyn had stared at them from across the desk in the small office they had taken her, Fleur, and Vic into in order to discuss matters in a more private setting than the waiting area. They had given her three options. Either they could wait for Addie’s wings to retract on their own, in which case, they would closely monitor the situation to make certain she stayed stable during the process but there was no telling how long it would take as everyone was different. They could use magic to remove the feathers that would grow back, force the wings back into Addie and seal the wounds shut or remove them entirely. It was this last one that had Caerwyn reeling. On the one hand, she never, ever, wanted Addie to have to go through the pain of having her wings come out again. On the other… it really wasn’t her choice to make. Bill and Fleur had allowed their own children to decide for themselves on what they wanted to do with their wings, had given them that option because, despite removing them solving so many future problems, they were still a part of their bodies. Adelaide was still young, but those wings still belonged to her. They could discuss it, weigh the pros and cons, but at the end of the day, it would have to be her choice. Louis… She needed Louis. He would have a better idea of what to do here, but he was in the field.

At the end of it, Caerwyn had chosen what felt like the least terrifying option of just allowing Addie’s wings to retract on their own for now. At least until she could talk to Louis and see what he thought about the second option. She wasn’t fully opposed to it, but it felt kind of.. violent. Taking off the feathers and forcing the wings back in. No, it was better to wait. So she did. She waited with Fleur and Vic in the waiting room and then, in the room where Addie had been placed. Her daughter was so pale, but she had been cleaned up. They had placed a hospital gown on her and laid her safely on her stomach, head turned so she could keep breathing. Caerwyn had stared down at her, at the gorgeous white wings spotted with bronze spread out on top of blanket that had been placed over Addie’s lower half, at the matching layer of feathers decorating her daughter’s arms. She had cried again, had stroked her baby’s hair and tried to ignore the bandages taking up the majority of Addie’s back. At some point, Nugget had been delivered, the chicken clucking with absolute indignation at having been left behind. The Healers had a small fit but it had quickly been resolved with the explanation of her being the girl’s familiar. Chickens were definitely not the standard. Nugget was quick to curl up between Addie’s knees, watching with a steely gaze any time someone so much as touched her girl but remaining calm otherwise.

It was in the wee hours of the morning that the Hufflepuff began to stir, her face grimacing. Caerwyn reached for her quickly, tightening her grip on the hand she was already holding and using the other to stroke at the side of Addie’s face.

“Shhh, it’s alright, babi. You’re alright, my little fucking Shit Nugget.” Caerwyn kissed at her temple and Addie calmed momentarily, her eyes opening. They spun with silver as she looked around, taking in the dim surrounding of the too-white room, her mother in the chair beside her. Addie grimaced as she shifted ever so slightly, her back burning. “Stay fucking still, love. Papa’s on his way.”

“G-gully…” Addie croaked out, her eyes searching around the room even further. She released her mother’s hand and tried to push upwards, but the pain in her back had her quickly deciding against it. Her head flopped back down onto the pillow. Gulliver…. He’d been so afraid. What had happened? She had been… She’d been so upset, sick in her chest. She’d found Gully in the Great Hall and he’d taken her someplace quiet, away from other people. It was blurry after that. Addie remembered the itching and burning in her arms and back, and then the fear in Gully’s eyes as he’d stared at her… then nothing. “Mama… Gully… where?”

“Shhh, babi. Gully’s at school. He’s fine.” Caerwyn promised, staring at her daughter with a bit of surprise. She’d been fully expecting her to ask for Louis the moment she woke up, as she always had. Whether it was nightmares or injuries, anxiety or excitement, it had always been Louis that Addie went to first or asked for.

“My phone…” Addie blinked, head turning again. Where had she left her phone? It had been in the back pocket of her jeans, but where had her jeans gone? She could tell by the sensation of the sheets against her legs that she wasn’t wearing them. She needed to find her phone. Needed to call Gully and make sure he was alright for herself. “Mama, my phone.”

“I don’t know where the fuck it is. It’s the middle of the fucking night, love.”

“No. No. Gully… I need to…” Addie squirmed slightly, wincing. Had her phone fallen out of her pocket? Had it ended up wherever her jeans had gone? “Mama, he was so scared… I have-” The Hufflepuff paused, finally noticing the feathers on her arms and the added weight on her back that hadn’t ever been there before. “Mama… What happened?”

That ‘Veela’ Shit

The summer had been probably one of the absolute best ones Adelaide had experienced in her life. After that first sleepover with Gulliver, it was like some kind of barrier had been broken down when it came to her parents and they had allowed the pair to hang out more. Most of the time, it was Gully who was coming over, where Louis and Caerwyn could keep a close eye on the pair to make sure there were no shenanigans going on that they wanted to avoid. Gulliver though, proved to be just as behind in his development as Addie and the more the Weasleys got to know him, the more comfortable they became with his presence. Well, Caerwyn and the kids had at least, but Louis was still wary, still overprotective. Sleeping bags were always stuck down to the floor in the living room, musicals were watched, instruments were shared, and sand was tracked into the house stuck in bathing suits. Beside the salted caramel jar in the cupboard, a similarily shaped one of hot fudge had become a kind of staple, Gully’s favorite snack the same way cheetos were Addie’s. It had gotten to the point where Adelaide was asking nearly every day if he could come over or if she could possibly go to his. That had only been allowed the once, Addie spending the night at the Stonefyres home among a multitude of other children who had all piled onto the living room floor in piles of blankets, pillows, and sleeping bags. Gully’s older sister had baked them all snacks, they had gone swimming down in the lake, had a large bonfire where the boy’s many assorted uncles had gladly helped the Ravenclaw learn some new tricks on her violin that had really improved her ability to play it. Adelaide had been sad to leave the next day, even if she was happy to see her own family again. All in all, the pair of young Ravenclaws had ended up having maybe two or three sleepovers a week by the time the summer was over. By the fifth one, Louis had given in and opted for allowing their fireplace to connect directly to the Stonefyres’ over the Floo Network, something he didn’t do lightly, but it was better than constantly taking the Knight Bus to retrieve the annoying little redhead. Obviously, the kids still had to ask permission, but it made it easier for them to see eachother. Addie had written to Sunny to see if she wanted to come over for a night, but the blonde had already been at Willow’s grandmother’s by that point, but they would see eachother when school started back up again. Their reunion had been a bit… awkward. The pair hadn’t spent the entire summer apart after first or second year, but the gap that had been there at the end of the school year had remained. Addie still loved Sunny dearly, still considered her one of her best friends, but there was no pretending that their interests had changed as the blonde embraced puberty and Addie remained behind.

Getting on the train on the first had been a tearful event, but not for the usual reason of Addie being anxious. Rather, she was excited for school to start back up, for the club to get going on their next play and maybe, if she had the balls enough, to perhaps try out for the Quidditch team . She had debated it the year before but decided against it, figuring she wouldn’t be good enough. After playing a pick up game with Gully’s sisters and cousins though, she was feeling more confidant about her abilities and thought, maybe, just maybe… Her Dad had been on the team in school and Quidditch was something Adelaide enjoyed even if she didn’t talk about it nearly as much as she did chickens or music. The tears that had really been shed that day had come from her two younger cousins, Briar and Thistle, who were off for their very first year. They would be twelve soon enough, late fall babies, but being slightly older didn’t exactly fully prepare them for being away from their parents and sisters for the first time ever. Addie had understood, fully, what they were going through and had kept them close throughout the journey, introducing them to other friends, watching them calm even further as Zander joined them in their compartment. Another familiar face. It had been a tight squeeze with all of them actually. Addie, the twins, Sunny, Willow, Zander, Gully, and then M’n’M who had tripped over her robes and ended up in Addie’s lap when she’d finally located them. There had been a lot of joking, pranks, snacks, and games to cheer the two younger girls up and by the time they were arriving, Briar and Thistle were looking a good deal more relaxed. Enough to be smiling, if nervous, during their sorting where they, thankfully, had been placed in the same house. Addie knew it would be a similar situation next year, when her own siblings would both be eleven. Owena would be absolutely fine, but Rhydian was… well, he was already begging to continue to be homeschooled.

The first few weeks of school passed in a blur. Adelaide had not been anticipating their work getting even harder than it had been the previous year when they’d added more classes to their schedules, but now that they had hit fourth year… Well, the professors were already talking about their O.W.Ls that they wouldn’t even be taking until the end of their fifth year! Even so, getting back into the groove of things, of seeing all of her friends, and being in the club room again after being gone for the summer was just as fun as Addie had been anticipating. Professor Mendes had greeted them all with a gentle smile when they had traipsed into the room for their first meeting of the year, though the poor man had been giggled at and informed, point blank by Gully that ‘Auntie Freya got lipstick on you again, Uncle Max.” The professor had turned pink and found a mirror to try and get the bright cherry red lip print off of his cheek while the club had settled into trying to decide what they were going to be doing for a play this winter. They would have three and a halfish months to prepare the cast, the scenery, the music, the props and costumes. There was a great smattering of agreement about doing the pirate show they all liked a good deal, but there was also a suggestion of putting on one of the classic Beedle stories. Before the brunette knew it, they were nearly a month into the school year and the postings for Quidditch try-outs had gone up. She had brought her broomstick along, a hand-me-down from her dad that was still in good condition, and signed up before she could psych herself out of it. Thus, it was on the pitch that Adelaide found herself on a slightly foggy Saturday morning, nerves and coffee coursing through her system due to a lack of sleep caused by anxiety. Her eyes shifted to the stands were she could see the familiar shock of Gulliver’s red hair. Sunny waved to her, a bright grin on her face while Zander locked Gully under one arm, trying to fight him for the piece of toast he’d brought along. Willow appeared, running up the steps, her arms containing snacks to keep them all refreshed while they watched the try-outs. Gully had been the only one not surprised when she’d mentioned she’d signed up, having already mentioned it to him over the summer, but all of her mates had pressed her with encouragement and now, they were here, ready to cheer her on.

Addie gulped, clutching her broom tightly as the Ravenclaw captain marched across the pitch in front of them, indicating where each of them should group up depending on which position they were aiming for. Adelaide joined the other potential Chasers, having the most practice with that particular position, and looked up at the stands again, brow furrowed with a nervousness she couldn’t hide completely behind a cool exterior like her parents might have been able to. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she glanced down at it.

‘You got this, Feathers.’

Addie smiled and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Yes, she had this. The worst thing that could happen would be she wouldn’t make the team and as disappointing as that would be, it wouldn’t kill her.

[meinii]

“lads boys with a clingy partner”

hi bunnies sorry for not posting🥹 happy easter to all the ones who celebrate!

content: fluff, mentions of nightmares

୨୧･｡｡･♡･∴･♡･｡｡･୨୧

Sylus

the morning air in onychinus is cold, but not cold enough to keep you from crawling onto Sylus’ lap while he’s trying to go through files. he sits on the velvet couch, his black blazer draped over his shoulders, one hand holding a holopad and the other gripping a steaming mug. you’re practically glued to him, arms around his waist, cheek against his chest

he exhales sharply, but it’s not annoyance—it’s more like the sound of someone trying very hard not to indulge you too fast

“i can’t feel my legs,” he mutters, not even looking down “you’ve been clinging to me for the past forty minutes”

“you love it,” you murmur into his shirt, fingers playing with the fabric “i’m your favorite parasite”

he finally looks down, crimson eyes glinting in amusement “if i had a favorite parasite, you’d be it, yes”

his hand moves from the mug to your back, fingers tracing lazy circles against your spine. he doesn’t push you away. of course he doesn’t. Sylus complains, but he never actually means it. you’ve figured that out by now

“you could’ve kicked me off,” you tease

“i could’ve,” he says dryly “but i’m indulging your clinginess. it’s charming. pathetic, but charming”

you pout up at him “mean.”

“accurate.”

but he softens, just a little, when you don’t move. when your breathing evens out against him, and your fingers curl slightly like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go

his voice drops to a murmur “what’s gotten into you?”

“nothing,” you say “just wanna stay close”

he hums “you’ve been like this all week”

you don’t respond right away. instead, you tug his blazer tighter around the both of you and nuzzle in

after a beat, Sylus speaks again, quieter this time

“did you have another nightmare?”

you hesitate, then nod

he sets the holopad aside with a sigh and cups your face, guiding your head up until you meet his gaze

“you need to tell me these things,” he says “i can’t drag them out of you while you cling to me like an octopus”

“i’m not an octopus”

“you’re worse. you’re cute. and you know i can’t say no when you’re like this”

you blink up at him “so you do like it.”

he narrows his eyes “i didn’t say that.”

you smirk “you implied it.”

he kisses you before you can get cocky. just once, light and brief, but enough to silence your teasing

“you can cling to me all you want,” he murmurs, his voice low “just don’t keep things from me”

“i wasn’t trying to hide it,” you say softly “just didn’t wanna make you worry”

he lets out a soft chuckle, barely audible “i worry when you don’t cling to me”

you blink “you do?”

“mmh” he leans back, tugging you closer, settling you against him like you’re meant to be there “you’re always holding onto me like you’re afraid i’ll vanish. if you stop… i’ll know something’s wrong”

you bite your lip, warmth blooming in your chest

“besides,” he adds, lips brushing your hair, “i’ve grown fond of being your emotional support villain”

you snort “you’re more like an emotional support dragon”

“same thing”

you shift slightly, enough to peek up at him through your lashes “so you won’t get tired of me being clingy?”

he smirks, brushing your hair back “not unless you start following me into the shower”

“i’ve done that before”

“and i had to bribe you out with chocolate”

you grin, smug “you bought my favorite kind”

he rolls his eyes “you’re impossible.”

but then he presses a long, quiet kiss to your temple, and when you melt into him again, he doesn’t complain. doesn’t even pretend to

because the truth is—Sylus likes it. likes you. every stubborn, clingy, affectionate part

and if holding you close is the price for your peace of mind, he’ll let you stay right there for as long as you need

Zayne

Zayne doesn’t look up right away when you wrap your arms around him from behind. he’s seated at his desk, posture perfect, pen gliding across a patient chart with that same practiced precision. his hair falls slightly over his glasses, and the gentle ticking of his desk clock fills the silence of the office

you rest your cheek between his shoulder blades, eyes closed, arms locked snugly around his torso like you might float away if you let go

“you know this is the third time you’ve interrupted me in the last hour,” he says, not turning around “you’ve brought me tea, asked if i liked the scent of your shampoo, and now… this.”

you hum softly “you didn’t answer about the shampoo”

“lavender,” he mutters “i took note the second you walked in”

a small smile curves your lips. he did notice

Zayne sets the pen down at last and exhales, head tilting slightly toward you “i take it you’re feeling clingy again”

“is that a problem?”

he doesn’t respond right away. instead, he reaches for your hand and gently tugs you around to his side. you let him guide you, limbs loose and obedient as he pulls you onto his lap. one of his arms wraps around your waist, the other settles over your hand where it rests on his chest

“if it were a problem,” he says softly “i wouldn’t be holding you right now”

you sigh contentedly and tuck your face into his neck “i missed you”

“i saw you this morning”

“still missed you”

Zayne’s lips curve into the faintest smile “you’ve been unusually attached lately”

you shift slightly “do you want me to stop?”

he’s quiet for a second, then murmurs

“no. not really.”

you lift your head, surprised “really?”

he sighs again, but this time it’s the fond kind—the tired, helpless kind that only comes out when he’s too in love to argue “i’ve been waking up with your arm draped across my chest every night for the past week. i can’t reach for my alarm without peeling you off me. and somehow, i don’t mind”

you look at him with wide eyes “so you like it?”

“i didn’t say that” he adjusts his glasses with one hand “but if you stopped, i’d probably assume you were hiding something”

you frown slightly “i’m not hiding anything”

“then why the sudden surge in affection?”

you hesitate, then quietly say “you’ve been working more hours lately. i just… i don’t want to feel like i’m losing time with you”

his expression softens instantly

“i’m sorry,” he says “i should’ve noticed sooner”

you shake your head “i get it. your patients need you”

“and so do you.”

Zayne leans forward and presses his forehead to yours. his eyes, usually sharp and unreadable, are soft now. tired, yes—but open in a way only you ever get to see

“tell me when you feel like this,” he says gently “don’t just cling. i can handle honesty better than surprise cuddles in the middle of surgery prep”

you laugh under your breath “you did scold me that time”

“because you nearly knocked over an IV stand”

you nuzzle closer “worth it”

he shakes his head but doesn’t push you away. instead, he shifts the chair slightly, pulling a blanket from the side cabinet and draping it over both of you

“i have three more files to go through,” he says “but if you promise not to fall asleep and drool on my tie again, you can stay right here.”

you blink “again?!”

“you think i keep spare ties in my desk for fashion?”

you grin “you secretly love it.”

“i am a man of science,” Zayne replies, deadpan “i don’t love being drooled on”

but he kisses your cheek anyway. warm. soft. and when you rest your head against his chest again, his arms tighten just a little

he lets you stay for the rest of the evening, finishing his files one by one while you curl in his lap like a content cat. and every so often, he pauses—just to run his fingers through your hair, or to press a kiss to your temple, like he needs the reminder too

Caleb

Caleb’s halfway through refueling his aircraft when he hears rapid footsteps behind him—light, familiar ones that don’t belong to any mechanic on the tarmac. he doesn’t need to turn around to know it’s you

“don’t say anything,” you huff, wrapping your arms tight around his waist from behind “just… stand there”

he chuckles under his breath, lowering the nozzle and tilting his head back slightly “that bad of a day, huh?”

“no,��� you mumble against his back “i just missed you”

he grins, lips twitching at the corners as he sets the nozzle down and lets his hands rest over yours “you saw me this morning”

“doesn’t count. you left before i was awake”

“technically, i kissed your forehead before i left,” he says, voice playful “that counts for something”

you hug him tighter “i want a do-over”

Caleb turns slowly in your arms, the scent of jet fuel clinging faintly to his jacket. his eyes, that soft violet hue you’ve always loved, lock on yours with warmth and just a hint of mischief

“you’re clingy today” he says with a knowing smile

“is that a problem?”

he leans in a little, brows raised “have i ever said no to you clinging?”

you look up at him, teasing “you get smug about it”

“because i like it,” he says, pulling you in without hesitation “i like that you want to be close. that you run straight to me when you’re feeling needy”

you bury your face in his jacket “i’m not needy”

“you literally followed me to the plane, mid-shift, and clung to me like a baby koala”

you pout “are you calling me a koala now?”

he laughs and lifts you slightly off the ground in a warm, secure hug, spinning you in a slow circle despite the busy hangar

“a very cute koala,” he murmurs “with a death grip”

you hum contentedly, resting your chin on his shoulder “i just didn’t feel like being alone today”

he immediately softens at that, arms wrapping tighter around you

“you never have to be.”

“but you’re always working”

“so are you,” he says, brushing your hair back gently “and yet, here you are, glued to me in the middle of a military-grade launch pad. not exactly subtle”

“you love it”

“of course i do”

his voice lowers a little, quieter against the sound of nearby aircraft and voices

“i think about you all the time when i’m flying,” he confesses “when i hit turbulence, when the sky goes quiet, when the alarms go off in my headset… you’re the one i think of. and then when i land, i hope you’re here”

you blink, caught off guard by how soft he’s being “you do?”

he nods, gaze never leaving yours “every time”

you smile into his chest “then maybe i should start hiding in your cockpit”

he snorts “you’d get arrested”

“you’d bail me out”

“yeah,” he says without hesitation “i would.”

you stay there for a while, wrapped in him, ignoring the curious glances of nearby engineers. Caleb doesn’t care. he never does. even when his superiors are around, even when he’s supposed to be the strict Colonel on duty—when it comes to you, his arms are always open

“how long until you take off?” you ask, voice small

“forty minutes”

you tug on his jacket sleeve “stay with me ‘til then?”

he doesn’t even hesitate “you got it.”

he guides you over to the edge of the hangar, where the sun hits the floor in golden beams. you sit together, shoulder to shoulder, legs stretched out, your head resting against his. the world keeps moving—pilots shouting, aircraft humming—but in that little moment, everything feels still

Caleb intertwines your fingers with his

“you can be clingy all you want,” he murmurs “i signed up for that the moment i fell in love with you”

you squeeze his hand “what if i’m clingy forever?”

he grins “then i guess you’re stuck with me forever too.”

Rafayel

Rafayel’s house is bathed in warm light, the windows cracked open just enough to let in the city breeze. classical music plays softly from hidden speakers, the scent of white tea and citrus lingering in the air. he’s lounging on his favorite cream-colored couch, wearing a silk robe loosely tied over a half-buttoned shirt, swirling a glass of wine in one hand while reading something on his holo-tablet

and you? you’re practically draped over him like a second robe

“you’re heavy,” he drawls, though there’s absolutely zero heat in his voice “are you attempting to fuse with me?”

you bury your face into his chest “maybe”

he sighs—dramatically, as always—and sets his tablet aside “is this how it’s going to be now? i can’t even sip my wine without being used as a human mattress?”

you peek up at him, pouting “don’t act like you don’t love it”

he raises a perfectly shaped brow, eyes flicking down to where your legs are tangled with his

“i love many things. vintage wines, rare artifacts, silk pillows… and, unfortunately for me, you”

you grin, not the least bit offended “so i can stay here?”

he exhales, then tilts your chin up with one finger “i would sooner burn this apartment to the ground than move you”

you blink “…romantic”

“i try”

you stay quiet for a moment, tracing absent shapes on his chest through his shirt. he watches you for a beat, then softly asks “what’s this about, dove?”

you glance away “i just missed you.”

he hums “you saw me two hours ago.”

“i still missed you.”

his hand finds your hair, long fingers combing through it gently “you’ve been a bit… clingier than usual”

you wince “too much?”

he snorts “please. if i didn’t enjoy it, do you think you’d still be breathing right now?”

you laugh, muffled against him

he brushes a kiss to the top of your head “i’m not complaining, darling. i’m simply curious. your usual clinginess is adorable—this level borders on concerning”

you don’t answer right away, just sink further into his embrace like the answer’s hidden somewhere in his heartbeat

he softens, all teasing gone from his voice “talk to me”

“i had a dream,” you finally say “that you left”

he frowns “left how?”

“just… disappeared. no note, no goodbye. i woke up and you weren’t there, and it felt so real”

Rafayel is silent for a moment. then, he slides his glass onto the side table and pulls you into his lap properly, wrapping his arms around you with rare, unguarded tenderness

“i’m not going anywhere,” he says “you’d have to banish me yourself. even then, i’d find my way back”

“what if you got bored of me?”

he scoffs “impossible. you’re chaos in a pretty package. and you cling to me like ivy. how could i ever get bored?”

“some people don’t like clingy”

“those people have no taste”

you laugh again, and Rafayel leans in to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your forehead. his lips linger there, his breath warm and steady

“do you know how many people want my attention?” he murmurs “and how few actually have it?”

you nod slowly “a lot. and almost none.”

he smiles “exactly. you’re not just the exception. you’re the rule-breaker. you cling, and i let you. you pout, and i cave. you crawl into my lap during my very important wine therapy session, and instead of throwing you off—I hold you tighter”

you blink “…that might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said”

“don’t get used to it”

“too late”

he chuckles and lets his head fall back against the couch, arms still snug around you. you curl up there, completely content, as the music shifts to something slower, more intimate

“stay here tonight,” he says softly “cling all you want. hell, cling in your sleep. drool on my robe. claim me like a pillow. i’ll allow it.”

“you’re spoiling me”

“no,” he says, kissing your temple again “i’m keeping you.”

Xavier

Xavier’s apartment is dim and quiet, lit mostly by the flicker of neon lights outside the window. the soft hum of rain hits the glass, steady and calming. he’s stretched out on the couch in an oversized hoodie, one arm draped behind his head, the other flipping lazily through a book he’s already read twice. every few pages, his eyes flick down to the weight pressed against his side

you.

curled up against him like a second blanket, arms wrapped around his torso, cheek smushed into his chest. you haven’t said much, just let out a satisfied sigh every now and then like you’re recharging on physical contact alone

“you’ve been stuck to me all night” he murmurs, voice quiet but amused

“i know,” you mumble “i’m comfy”

he glances down at you “clingy today, huh?”

“a little.”

he closes the book with one hand and sets it aside “you were clingy this morning. and this afternoon. and when i tried to go take a shower”

you lift your head slightly “you still went”

“yeah. with you sitting on the sink counter like some judgmental little gremlin watching my every move”

“someone had to make sure you didn’t slip”

he huffs a laugh, but it’s warm. he reaches over and brushes your hair out of your face with the tips of his fingers, his touch careful—almost hesitant, like he still can’t believe you let him do this. like he still feels lucky every time

“you gonna tell me what’s going on?” he asks softly

you blink “what do you mean?”

“this level of clinginess usually has a reason. not that i mind,” he adds quickly “just… you’re usually a little more subtle”

you hesitate, then bury your face back into his hoodie. it smells like clean laundry and something distinctly him—cold metal, warm skin, and comfort

“i just missed you” you say into the fabric

“you saw me yesterday.”

“i know. i still missed you.”

Xavier is quiet for a moment. you can feel the way his chest rises and falls under your cheek, steady and calm

“okay” he says

you blink “okay?”

“yeah” his arm wraps around you, pulling you a little closer “if you missed me, then this is where you belong.”

you tilt your head up to look at him “you’re really letting me get away with this?”

he smirks “getting away with it implies i’d ever stop you”

“you’ve definitely tried before”

“yeah, and every time you look at me like i just kicked a puppy”

“you hate it when i do that”

“obviously,” he mutters “you weaponize your pretty face”

“you love my face”

he rolls his eyes, but there’s a soft flush on his cheeks “unfortunately.”

you smile and cuddle back into him. the rain continues tapping against the window, and the sound of his heartbeat fills your ears, steady and grounding. he runs his fingers gently up and down your spine, over the fabric of your hoodie, the rhythm almost hypnotic

“you can be clingy whenever you want,” he murmurs “just give me a heads-up if you plan to fuse with my ribcage”

you snort “no promises”

“figured”

you both go quiet again for a while. he shifts a little to reach for the remote, flipping the TV on low—just soft background noise, some slow documentary you’re not really watching. the screen casts a gentle glow over both of you, and his thumb traces little circles on your arm

“you know,” he says after a moment “i used to think i needed a lot of space”

“you still do”

“yeah. but… i don’t mind when it’s you taking it”

your heart stutters “you mean that?”

“i wouldn’t say it if i didn’t” he pauses “you make it easier. being around you doesn’t feel like noise. it feels like… quiet. the kind of quiet i don’t want to end”

you stay silent, overwhelmed for a second. then you shift up just enough to press a kiss to his jaw. his skin is warm, and you feel him freeze, then relax under the touch

“i love you, Xavier”

he doesn’t say it back right away—but you’ve learned not to expect it from him every time. not because he doesn’t feel it, but because he shows it more than he says it. and right now, he’s holding you like the world could fall apart and he wouldn’t notice as long as you were still in his arms

“…i know,” he murmurs eventually “and i love you, too. now stop moving. you’re warm”

you smile, eyes closing “fine. i’ll stay. forever.”

“good,” he whispers “i was hoping you would.”

[moonlightdreamzz]

“Let’s make a movie, baby.” — ENHYPEN

SUMMARY. Remember that time—the night before he had to leave for tour, when you grabbed your boyfriend’s phone while he was in it, and started recording? For memories sake?

GENRE. Nothing short of whorish $mut.

THEMES. Established!Relationship, You’re a naughty, naughty girl :). Cuss words per usual

AUTHOR’S NOTE. As you guys know, the parasite in me wrote this, not me. Enjoy.

HEESEUNG

He was too lost in you—eyes squeezed tighter than your pussy around him, thrusts sloppier than the head you just gave him—to even notice you reaching for his phone at first.

How could you two go two whole months without this? The comforting weight of his stomach pressed against your back, the delicious stretch of him inside you, the way he barely grazed your spot—just enough to make you needy for more.

“Hee…” you whimper, voice breaking to match the rhythm of his thrusts. You press record, your half-lidded eyes flickering open just enough to capture what you’ve never been able to see before.

And so does he.

His eyes, already heavy with lust, darken the moment he realizes what you’re doing—what you’ve done. You’re filming him. On his phone. And just like that, something clicks.

His gaze locks onto his own reflection—low, pussy drunk, and seductive—as if to say, it’s showtime.

His right hand catches your jaw, tilting your face toward the camera, and suddenly, he’s fucking you like he has something to prove.

“You wanna leave me with a memory, hm?” He grunts, each word punctuated with a sharp thrust. “Then I’m gonna leave you with my cum in your pussy, baby.”

The smirk you had falters immediately. Your body betrays you—your mouth gasps at the first deep stroke, your fingers clutching the phone desperately as he hits your spot over and over and over again.

He presses his lips against yours, swallowing every broken moan, tasting the mess he’s turning you into. The kiss is sloppy, tongues sliding against each other, but it doesn’t matter—you’re both too far gone.

Your arms are shaking. The phone feels heavier with every thrust, but you refuse to let go.

And Heeseung notices.

He pulls away from your lips, smirking into the camera before glancing down at you. Your head falls limp in his grip just as he decides he’s done teasing—no more grazing your spot, no more holding back.

Now, he’s fucking you like he means it.

Your moans cut off into choked gasps as your body jerks, waves of pleasure building fast, and he’s laughing.

Yes, laughing.

You thought he was fucking you as hard as he could. He wasn’t.

And now, as you struggle to form a single coherent thought, as your mouth hangs open, drool pooling onto his forearm, and your legs shake violently around him—he knows it.

Heeseung looks straight into the camera like the cocky bastard he is, watching with deep satisfaction as you finally break—cumming all over his cock.

Jay

The two of you haven’t broken eye contact once since he pressed himself inside you.

His rhythm is steady, each slow, deliberate thrust sending heat crawling up your spine. His hands move over your skin gently, as if he’s savoring every second of you beneath him. There’s no rush—just the deep, quiet intimacy of him wrapped around you, inside you, owning you in every way.

“I’m going to miss you so much, baby.”

The words slip from his lips before he can stop them, his breath coming out shaky. He’s trying to keep it together—trying not to fall apart inside you right now—but you’re so wet, so fucking perfect around him, that every time he pulls out, your arousal drips onto his cock, making everything even messier.

“Mhm,” he groans at the feeling, his eyes fluttering briefly, his resolve crumbling.

You nod, but your attention shifts—you reach for his phone resting on the desk beside the bed.

For the first time tonight, his focus breaks from yours. His thrusts slow to a halt, brows furrowing as he watches you navigate to the camera.

“What are you doing?” he whispers, cheek brushing against yours as his eyes lock onto the screen.

And fuck—seeing himself on top of you, his body covering yours so perfectly, your legs tangled together, the way you look beneath him, utterly wrecked—it knocks the air from his lungs.

This is where you belong.

“Keep fucking me,” you purr, hitting record before turning back to him, running your tongue slowly up his jaw.

You feel it immediately. The way his heart starts pounding against your chest, the way his breath catches. For a moment, he’s frozen.

You know him.

He’s debating. Too caught off guard to think straight, too turned on to deny how fucking hot this is.

But when you buck your hips up at him—impatient, needy, determined—it’s over.

He lets out a low, shaky exhale.

“Keep fucking you?” he murmurs, voice dangerous, his eyes flickering from the screen back to you. “That’s what you want, baby? You wanna make a movie with me?”

“Mhm,” you whimper, melting into him, arms wrapping around his broad shoulders.

That’s all he needs to hear.

Jay repositions, gripping your waist firmly before rolling his hips deep into you, his slow, calculated strokes picking up right where they left off—except now, there’s something different.

Something carnal.

Something desperate.

Every movement feels like he’s drowning in you, like he’s trying to memorize you, burn this moment into his brain before the night is over.

His forehead presses against yours, sweat beading at his temple, his breath heavy, and then—his lips find yours.

But it’s not just a kiss.

It’s hungry, messy, so deep and intoxicating that your grip on the phone nearly slips. His tongue slides past your lips, exploring your mouth with a possessiveness that sends shivers down your spine. You can taste the heat between you—the need, the addiction, the way his desire for you is threatening to swallow him whole.

And when your moans start spilling out, mixing with his, when your bodies move in sync, when the air between you becomes so thick with tension it’s unbearable—he loses himself completely.

Jay’s grip on your hips tightens, his thrusts turning harder, faster, as if he’s holding onto you for dear life. The desperation in his movements, in the way he’s clinging to you, in the way he presses himself closer, deeper, stronger—it all tells you exactly what he can’t say out loud.

This isn’t just about sex.

This is him worshipping you.

And judging by the way your body is already unraveling beneath him, how your fingers claw into his back, how you gasp his name, he knows you feel it too.

Jake

The two of you were always so in sync, and right now, it’s no different. You reach for his phone, fingers brushing the screen, but before you can even get a grip on it, Jake’s hand is already there. His movements are fluid, controlled—his thumb already swiping across the screen, unlocking it like he’s done it a hundred times before, with the same quiet confidence that always radiates from him.

“You want to record this, huh?” he murmurs, voice steady, with that teasing edge you love. There’s no question in his tone, only the kind of quiet understanding that makes your pulse quicken. He doesn’t even need to ask if you’re sure. His gaze is dark, expectant, as he angles the phone, positioning it with a practiced hand. The smirk on his lips tells you this wasn’t something you had to suggest—he had already thought of it before you did.

You open your mouth to say something, but the words die in your throat as he leans in, just close enough for you to feel his breath against your ear. “Don’t worry, baby. I got us covered,” he whispers, his voice rich and low, sending a shiver down your spine. There’s something about the way he’s in control, about how he already knows what you want before you even have to ask, that makes everything feel even more intimate, more thrilling.

He presses a soft kiss to the curve of your jaw, his lips moving slowly down your neck, tracing a path of warmth that lingers long after he’s pulled away. Meanwhile, his hand slips to your waist, pulling you in closer, just like he knows you want him to. You can’t help but melt against him, your breath hitching as you feel him respond to the subtle shift in your body. His touch becomes deliberate, as if he’s savoring every second of this, every inch of skin he’s allowed to claim.

You don’t wait for him to take control completely. Instead, you lean back slightly, giving him a mockingly innocent look before you tease, “You know, this is all for you, right?”

He meets your eyes then, his expression soft yet burning with intensity. The phone is positioned just right, the screen capturing both your faces, but there’s something in the way he looks at you now—something deeper than desire. It’s a look that says he’s not just giving you a memory for later. He’s creating a moment between you two, one that’s real and raw and completely consumed with the heat of the now.

Without breaking eye contact, he moves again, his lips capturing yours in a kiss so slow, it feels like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. His body presses against yours, slow, controlled—yet there’s an undeniable urgency, the rhythm of your connection building like a steady tide. He’s savoring the way you respond to him, the way you press back into him, and the way his own pulse quickens, matching yours.

His fingers slip beneath your shirt, tracing the outline of your spine, each touch deliberate and slow. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs between kisses, voice thick with desire. “So fucking beautiful.” The phone captures everything—your flushed face, his darkened gaze, the quiet sounds of your breaths filling the space around you. The knowledge that this moment is being preserved only makes everything feel even more intense, more intimate.

“It’s all mine? Hm?” He questions, his keeping your legs open and sturdy.

“Every inch.” You chuckle seductively.

Sunghoon

Sunghoon’s rhythm is steady, his pace slow, deep, and controlled.

He’s taking his time with you—dragging it out, making every thrust count, savoring the way you squeeze around him like you never want to let him go.

And fuck, you don’t.

Not when this is the last time you’ll have him like this for weeks—maybe months.

His grip on your waist tightens, his movements fluid, effortless, like he knows exactly how to pull you apart. The way his jaw clenches, his brows furrow—he’s focused, determined, but there’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he’s just as caught up in this as you are.

And that’s when you do it.

You reach for his phone.

Not sneaky. Not hesitant. Just bold as hell.

Sunghoon barely has time to process what’s happening before he feels the shift—your fingers wrapping around the device, unlocking it like you’ve done it a thousand times before.

His thrusts slow, his eyes flicking down to where you hold the phone, the screen lighting up against the dim room.

His gaze snaps back to yours.

“What are you doing?” he breathes, voice rough, his forehead nearly touching yours.

You smirk, lifting the phone just enough to angle the camera, your expression playful but knowing.

“Leaving you a present.”

The second the words leave your mouth, something in him snaps.

His grip on your hips tightens, his pace picking up instantly, his cock slamming into you with a sharp, deliberate force that knocks the air from your lungs.

“Oh, you wanna leave me a present, hm?” he taunts, voice dark, amused. His hand wraps around your throat, his thumb pressing just enough to make your pulse spike. “You want me to have something to watch while I’m gone?”

You nod, biting your lip, eyes fluttering at the way his dominance overtakes you completely.

He grabs the phone from your hands—angles it perfectly, just enough to capture your wrecked expression, the way your body bounces with every sharp thrust.

“Look at you,” he breathes, dragging his tongue along his bottom lip. “You want me to watch this when I’m gone? Want me to jerk off to the way I fuck you?”

Your fingers claw at his back, your mouth opening to respond, but the words come out broken—nothing but desperate moans spilling past your lips.

And he loves it.

His smirk widens, his thrusts turning brutal, each stroke hitting deeper, sharper—like he’s making sure you won’t forget this either.

“Mmm, yeah,” he groans, staring into the camera like the cocky bastard he is. “You’re not gonna last, baby. Look at you—already falling apart on me.”

His grip tightens on your jaw, tilting your face so you’re forced to look at the screen.

Forced to watch how good he’s fucking you.

Your breath stutters, body trembling, and the second he lowers the phone, capturing the way he disappears into you with every stroke, you feel yourself snap.

He grins, watching you fall apart, his own restraint slipping as he chases his high, his movements growing erratic, desperate, possessive.

And when he finally buries himself deep, spilling inside you with a shuddered groan, he tilts the camera back up—catching the way your lips part, the way your body still twitches from the aftershocks.

The way you’re still his.

Sunghoon smirks into the camera, lifting a brow as he murmurs—

“Yeah… this’ll do.”

Sunoo

It’s soft at first.

Sunoo moves slowly, rolling his hips into you with lazy, teasing strokes, his lips brushing against yours, his breath warm, sweet, intoxicating.

His fingertips trace nonsense shapes against your waist, his touch light, playful—like he’s taking his time, like he’s enjoying just being here, feeling you wrapped around him.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he hums, voice dripping with affection, amusement.

He’s smiling against your lips, his tone saccharine, but you can feel the heat behind it—the way his movements are just a little too calculated, the way he’s holding back.

You can tell he’s waiting.

Waiting for you to lose patience.

And of course, you do.

Your fingers curl around his phone, grabbing it from where it rests on the pillow beside you.

Not sneaky. Not shy.

Just bold.

Sunoo feels it immediately—the slight shift in balance, the way your grip tightens, the way the dim glow of the screen illuminates your face.

His rhythm falters.

For the first time tonight, his movements pause.

And when he finally pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes—

The look on his face?

Deadly.

His lips curl into a slow, wicked smirk, his expression shifting from sweet to something far more dangerous.

“What’s this?” he purrs, his tone still light, teasing, but you can hear the mischief lurking underneath.

You bite your lip, angling the camera just right, making sure it captures everything—the way he’s hovering over you, the way his hair is sticking to his forehead, the way his bare shoulders glow under the dim lighting.

“Leaving you a present,” you murmur, voice dripping with seduction.

His brows raise, his smirk widening.

“Oh?”

Then—

He snatches the phone from your grip.

And suddenly, you’re no longer the one in control.

He lights up, his playfulness turning deadly, consuming.

He flips the camera, making sure it’s on you.

Making sure you see what he sees.

“Oh, you like watching yourself get ruined?” he breathes, tilting his head, his fingers gripping your jaw as he angles the phone perfectly.

You barely have time to process the shift before his hips snap forward, driving into you with a force that has your eyes rolling back.

You gasp, your body jolting, but all you hear is him laughing.

Laughing.

Like he loves seeing you like this.

“Mm, baby, look at you,” he coos, pressing his lips to your cheek before pulling back just enough to let you see yourself on the screen.

The way your body shakes, the way your mouth hangs open, the way your fingers are digging into his back—it’s a sight.

And Sunoo?

He’s fucking living for it.

“This is cute,” he murmurs, smirking as he presses a soft, almost mocking kiss to your lips. “I’ll make sure to save it.”

His pace doesn’t falter once.

If anything, he deepens it, making sure you feel every inch of him, every stroke, making sure you know that even when he’s teasing you, he’s still in full control.

And when you finally fall apart, body shaking, back arching, his eyes gleam with pure satisfaction.

He presses one last kiss to your jaw before looking straight into the camera—

And winking.

Jungwon

Your legs are spread over his lap, body flush against his, his strong arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

Jungwon never rushes.

His pace is calculated, his movements fluid—each slow, deep thrust sending waves of pleasure through your body, making your head spin.

He’s watching you.

Observing every little reaction—the way your fingers twitch against his chest, the way your breath stutters when he shifts his hips just right, the way your thighs start to tremble, like you’re already on the verge of breaking.

And he loves it.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost teasing. “Haven’t even done anything yet.”

You let out a breathless laugh, your arms tightening around his shoulders.

“You think so?” you challenge, a playful lilt to your voice.

And then—without hesitation—you reach for his phone, snatching it from where it rests on the bed beside him.

His eyes darken immediately.

His movements stop.

The playful smirk on your lips falters slightly as you look up at him, finding his expression unreadable—his jaw tight, gaze sharp.

For a second, he doesn’t say anything.

He just watches.

Then—his lips curl into a slow, knowing smirk.

“You wanna test me, baby?”

Your breath catches.

Before you can respond, he moves.

With effortless strength, he shifts, his grip on your waist tightening as he flips you onto your back in one smooth motion.

You barely have time to react before he’s on you, his body caging you in, his knee pressing between your legs, keeping them wide open.

“Go ahead.”

His voice is low, commanding.

He nudges the phone toward you, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

“If you’re gonna record, do it right.”

Your lips part, a shiver running down your spine at the sudden shift in power.

Jungwon leans in, pressing his mouth to the corner of your jaw, his breath hot against your skin.

“Make sure you get all of it.”

You barely manage to hit record before he snaps his hips forward, the force of it making your back arch off the bed, a choked gasp escaping your lips.

He laughs, low and satisfied.

“What’s wrong?” he taunts, his hand gripping your throat lightly, tilting your head up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. “You started this, baby. You can take it, right?”

The camera is still rolling, capturing everything—the way your body jolts with every precise, unrelenting thrust, the way his expression remains so calm, collected, like he’s barely even trying.

And then—he looks straight into the camera.

“This is what you wanted, huh?”

His pace doesn’t falter, his grip on your throat keeping you in place as he watches you come undone beneath him.

And just when you think he’s going to let you go, just when you think you’ve reached your limit—

His fingers slide between your thighs, pressing against your swollen clit with dangerous precision.

Your body jerks, a broken sob slipping from your lips, your vision blurring.

Jungwon smirks.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your temple as your body trembles in his hold. “Now, let’s make sure you remember this, too.”

[iloveacaibowls111]

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

thinking about giving bf!gojo the silent treatment.

you haven’t said a word since he showed up an hour late to dinner — no explanation, no apology, just that casual grin and a shrug like he hadn’t left you waiting with your hair done and your heart sinking. now you’re curled up on one side of the bed, facing the wall, arms crossed tight.

he sits down behind you. quiet at first.

“you’re mad at me,” he says eventually. like he’s stating a fact, not asking a question.

you don’t answer. don’t move.

he shifts, leans forward, elbows on his knees. the bed dips. “i deserve that,” he admits. “i know i do.”

still nothing from you.

“i should’ve called. i wasn’t thinking. and i hate that i made you feel like you weren’t worth showing up for.”

his voice cracks, just a little. enough to make you hesitate.

“i know how lucky i am,” he murmurs, softer now. “and i swear i’m not gonna take you for granted.”

you hear him shift again—closer this time. until he’s kneeling beside the bed, one hand braced near your hip, his other brushing gently down your arm.

“look at me, baby.”

you turn, slow. his eyes are already waiting for yours—clear and open, and aching in the way that only satoru gojo can.

“i’m sorry,” he says again, voice low. “and if you need space, i’ll give it to you. if you want to yell at me, i’ll take it. if you want to ignore me all night, fine. but don’t think for a second i don’t want to be better for you.”

he rests his cheek on your thigh. lets out a breath like being near you makes it easier to breathe.

your fingers twitch at your side before finding his hair, threading through it absently.

“you’re not off the hook,” you say quietly.

he grins against your leg, voice muffled. “wouldn’t dream of it.”

you roll your eyes, but your lips are twitching. “you’re exhausting.”

“and yet,” he lifts his gaze to meet yours, something wicked and warm flickering behind the blue, “you still let me touch you.”

you pause. “barely.”

“but you are.” his hand slides slowly up your thigh, stopping at the hem of your shorts. “and i’d be very, very grateful if you let me keep going.”

you raise an eyebrow. “gojo.”

“yes?”

“you’re on thin ice.”

he leans in, kisses the inside of your knee. “then i better warm you up.”

and you try to look annoyed. really, you do.

but your fingers curl in his hair, and your breath hitches, and your silence finally, finally breaks.

[lubdubology]

Take My Love and Wear It

SYNOPSIS: Taking care of Charles has its own special challenges, but you didn’t expect the hardest one to be the man who hired you. Distant, gruff and rough around the edges, Logan still manages to worm his way under your skin. But you’ve worked your way under his, too. 

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader

WC: 10.8k 

WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, blood and use of stitches; extreme physical pain; Charles is a lovable, meddling little shit; fluff sprinkled in for good measure; Logan in a tub (if I had a nickel for every time I bathed him, I’d have two nickels—which isn’t a lot, but its weird it happened twice, right); touch-starved Logan; handjobs; shower sex; fingering; dirty talk; oral (f receiving); sex with feelings; unprotected p in v; creampie

A/N: There’s something special about Old Man Logan, isn’t there? Old and grumpy and desperately in need of some love and affection. I know the Charles caregiver story has been done before, but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. And then Charles starting talking in my head and well...it blossomed into this. As always, thank you to @joelsgoldrush for allowing me to send her snippets of this as I went along and offering her love, support and suggestions. I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

You stare down at the remnants of yesterday’s cold and congealed dinner and sigh. Scraping the food into the trash, you resist the urge to pack everything you have and leave. 

One month. 

One month of helping Charles—making his meals, washing his clothes, giving him his meds, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself (or others), assisting with daily tasks—and Logan still regards you as a nuisance, like a gnat needing to be swatted away. 

At best, he ignores you, moving around the house as if you don’t exist. 

And at worst, he treats you with barely concealed contempt, his scowl deepening the lines of his face whenever he’s around you. As if you’re invading his space uninvited even though he’s the one that sought out help. 

You grip the edge of the sink, staring down into the porcelain basin as if it holds some hidden answers. Every day you’ve tried to break through walls Logan’s built around himself, held onto Charles’ promise that eventually he’ll soften, just give him time, but he only seems to have grown more hostile. And you’ve done nothing to incur his ire besides watching him come home every day battered and bruised, his very bones weary with exhaustion, and offering your assistance.

Part of you is angry—angry that you care so much when your main focus is supposed to be Charles. Angry that despite all his efforts to come across unapproachable and cold, Logan’s worked himself under your skin and takes a little piece of you with him whenever he leaves. 

Angry that somehow he’s stolen a piece of your heart. 

You hear shuffling behind you and turn to find Logan entering the kitchen, fingers fastening the last buttons on his dress shirt. “What?” he asks gruffly and for a moment you wonder if he can read your thoughts.

You straighten and meet his gaze head on, swallowing down your nervousness. “How much longer are we going to keep doing this, Logan?”

“Doing what?”

“This,” you say, gesturing between you. “You walking around here like I’m some stain upon your life, acting like I’m a problem when all I’ve ever done is try and help.” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “You asked for me to be here, Logan. It’s not like I barged in here without permission.”

Logan holds your gaze, his jaw tight, and for a moment you think he’s going to grab his keys and leave, head off into the night and drive until sunrise. His eyes soften for just a moment, something like regret crossing his features. 

“I know why you’re here. And I do…appreciate it,” he says, his words coming out low and rough. As if the words taste foreign in his mouth. 

“Wouldn’t kill you to show it,” you challenge.

You’re waiting for him to lash out and instead he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not good at this.”

“I’m not asking you to bow at my feet,” you say, hoping to ease some of the tension in the air. “Although, I wouldn’t be mad about it.” You think you see the briefest hint of a smile flicker across his face. “I just want us to be able to live in the same space. I’m here to help, Logan. Let me.”

“You have no idea how hard this life is.”

A rueful smile tugs at your lips. “I understand more than you think I do.”

Logan’s gaze sharpens, inquisitive as he searches your face, as if he’s trying to decipher the meaning behind your words. He rubs a hand across his face, scratching lightly as his beard. “I’ve gotta couple jobs tonight. Maybe more,” he finally says, changing the conversation. “Should be back before sunrise.”

You nod, his switch in topic not lost on you, but you don’t push him. “Alright,” you say softly. “Just—just take it easy, okay?”

He glances down at you, relief softening his gaze and you know a part of him is grateful you didn’t push further. 

Grabbing his keys, Logan heads towards the door but pauses just before he’s about to leave. He turns to look back over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he murmurs, the word awkward on his lips. 

You give him a small nod of encouragement as he slips out the door. He may not be ready to full open up, but you feel as if he extended a tiny olive branch tonight, cracked open the door just enough to let you peek in.

+++

Over the following weeks, Logan’s a little less avoidant. He doesn’t go out of his way to make conversation—you didn’t expect him to—but he at least as acknowledges your presence. Small nods and murmured goodbyes when he leaves and sleepy hellos when he returns. It’s not much, but you’ll take it. 

You’re cleaning the last of the dishes from dinner, Charles safely settled in front of the TV watching an old movie when Logan comes home. He’s earlier than you anticipated, but exhaustion lines his face nonetheless. You expect him to slip away quietly, but he pauses instead, lingering in the doorway. 

“Smells good,” he says softly, nodding towards the pan of half eaten lasagna still sitting on the counter. 

Surprised, you turn around to face him. You brush the hair from your face and say, “Sit. I’ll make you up some.” 

Logan hesitates and for a moment you think he’s about to decline, but then he nods, his shoulders dropping slightly as he sits down at the table. You fix him up a plate, setting it down in front of him with a bottle of beer as you slide into the chair across from him.  

He tucks quietly into the food, his fork scraping against his plate as he eats, pausing only to wash it down with a few swigs of beer. You watch him, a strange satisfaction tugging at you at the sight of him actually sitting down, enjoying a meal with you, even if it is in silence. 

“Long day?” you ask quietly, gesturing towards his bruised knuckles.

He flexes the fingers on his free hand before tucking them under the table. “Nothin’ I can’t handle,” he mutters, taking another bite of lasagna. “They’ll be gone in a day or two.”

You know not that long ago an injury like that wouldn’t have even marred his skin. Now, the simplest of wounds can take days to heal and it’s not the appearance of his skin that bothers you, but the newfound ache he experiences, the heaviness of constant pain.

You want to help him, ease his discomfort, like you know you could. But you know he’s not ready for that. Not yet.

“You’re good with Charles,” Logan says then, his gaze steady on his plate. “He seems calmer around you.”

Logan’s admission is so unexpected, you find yourself staring at him in disbelief. At your silence, his eyes flicker up to yours and you see more than simple acknowledgement in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a current of something more, something you’re not quite sure how to address.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice softer than you intended. “Charles—he means a lot to me.” You pause briefly, but something compels you to continue. “You both do.”

His gaze is focused on you and you don’t miss the flicker of surprise that breaks through his usual stoic expression. Clearing his throat, he looks down, pushing around the last bit of lasagna on his plate and then after a moment, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. “You mean a lot to him, too,” Logan finally says and you wonder if he’s talking about more than just Charles.

From the living room you hear Charles call for you, his voice soft but insistent. The moment between you still crackles as you stand from the table and as you begin to walk away, Logan reaches for your hand. His fingers are warm and rough against your skin and you’re barely able to suppress your shiver. 

“Thank you,” Logan says, his voice surprisingly soft. 

His grip against your skin is gentle, a stark contrast to all his roughness and you can feel the weight of his unspoken words curling around you. Charles calls again, his voice breaking through the moment, but Logan’s hand lingers just a beat longer before he lets go, fingers trailing along your skin. 

+++

“He likes you, you know.”

You glance up from shaving Charles’ face and find him staring at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. You give a soft hum. “Did he tell you that or did you read his mind?”

Charles scoffs and waves his hand dismissively. “What’s the difference, dear?” 

You chuckle, shaking your head as you rinse the razor. “With Logan I’m pretty sure there’s a big difference.”

“Bah, if Logan wanted to keep me out of his head, he would. Stubborn man.” He tsks softly to himself and shakes his head. “But, no my dear, he can be quite loud if you know how to listen.”

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. “Loud, huh? And what exactly is that brain of his telling you?”

Charles gives you a knowing smile. “Oh, just little things,” he says casually with a wave of his hand, but you can tell by the look on his face that he’s holding back. “He notices you—what you do for me, this place, for him. He may not realize it himself, but his thoughts linger on you more often than he’d like.”

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest and despite yourself, you feel a blush creeping into your cheeks. “Logan doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type.”

“Logan has spent so much of his life running,” Charles continues, his tone and expression growing more thoughtful. “The loss he’s experienced has led him to believe it’s better to be alone than form meaningful connections with people. But you’ve somehow become something of a home for him. And he doesn’t quite know what to make of that.”

Your heart skips a beat as you take in his words. The idea of being a home for Logan, a comfort, feels surreal, and yet...there’s a part of you that dares to hope what Charles is saying is true. That this isn’t some fictional truth his brain has concocted, a product of his disease riddled mind. 

“Home.” You repeat the word softly to yourself, testing the word on your own tongue as if it might shatter into pieces.

Charles nods, his hand reaching for yours, his gaze warm and knowing. “Yes, home. He feels it, deep down, in a way that’s unfamiliar and frightening for him.”

You glance down at your hand in Charles’ grasp, his touch grounding you as his words settle over you. 

“Logan’s spent so long hiding from himself,” Charles continues. “I think he’s convinced himself he doesn’t deserve that kind of peace.”

“And you think I can give him that peace?” you ask quietly, your eyes flicking back up to Charles’ face.

He smiles knowingly and gives your hand a squeeze. “You already have, dear.”

+++

“Want some help?”

You turn to find Logan standing in the entrance of the kitchen, hands tucked into his pockets.

It’s a rare night—one where Logan’s chosen to stay home, taking a night off from the almost endless driving he does. He’s dressed down, well worn jeans and a button-up flannel, and for once you actually think he looks comfortable.

You smile, surprised, but happy to see him there. “Sure, the company would be nice,” you reply as he comes to stand next to you. “Want to wash and dice the potatoes?”

Logan nods and rolls up his sleeves before reaching for the bowl of potatoes you had set aside earlier. You watch him for a moment as he settles into the task with a quiet focus. 

“Smells good,” he comments, gesturing towards the oven. “What’re we having?”

“Charles has been asking for beef tenderloin for weeks now, so I’m finally indulging him.” You finish trimming the last of the green beans and toss them into the bowl beside you. “You know, if you have any favorite meals you’d like me to make, you can tell me.”

Logan pauses and glances at you as he shuts off the tap. He clears his throat and says, “You already are.”

You blink in surprise as Logan’s words sink in and then the realization dawns on you. A soft smile spreads across your face as you piece together the extent of Charles’ meddling. You can’t find it in you to be annoyed and only feel a mix of amusement and fondness towards the old man as you chuckle softly to yourself.

“What’s so funny?” Logan asks, raising his eyebrow as he catches your expression.

“Oh, nothing,” you say, waving him off with a smile. 

Logan doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t pry as he picks up the knife and begins to deftly dice the potatoes. You watch him for a moment, captivated by the simple domesticity of the task. It’s in direct contrast to the man you’ve seen numerous times before, brooding and gruff, brimming with an almost untamed violence. 

It suits him, you think, this quieter version of himself.

You both finish the prep with relative ease. He helps you set the table as the rest of the food cooks, plates clinking softly as he sets them down. You busy yourself with finishing the green beans in a garlic butter as you wait for for the tenderloin to rest enough to carve into. 

“Ah, my dear, this smells wonderful,” Charles announces as he rolls into the kitchen, a warm smile on his face. “And you managed to pull Logan out of his room. What a treat.”

Logan snorts in response, giving Charles a pointed glare.

“I dare say it’s because the company has improved much as of late,” Charles says, his eyes twinkling in amusement as he glances between the both of you. “We all know he’s not out here for my benefit.”

You laugh as you bring the dishes to the table, noting the faintest of blushes creeping along Logan’s cheeks. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Charles.”

“As you should, dear. Your personality is quite sparkling.” He looks over towards Logan. “Isn’t it, Logan?”

Logan’s eyes land on you as he answers, “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Dinner begins quietly, the three of you settling into easy conversation as the first few bites are consumed. Both Charles and Logan hum in delight and a warmth blooms within you watching them both. This—this is the simplicity you’ve been craving with Logan.

As the meal continues, Charles launches into his usual repertoire of stories, those of the school and his students, his words brimming with nostalgia and pride as he talks. Logan sits back in his chair, arms crossed as he listens to him speak, shaking his head fondly at some of the memories.

“You know,” Charles begins, setting his fork down with an air of mischief, “I don’t think I ever told you how I met Logan, have I?”

Logan’s head snaps up. “Don’t, Chuck.”

But Charles is already smiling at you, ignoring Logan’s warning. “It’s a good story, dear. See, Logan had quite the career as an underground cage fighter.”

You lift your brows in surprise and you glance over at Logan, who’s thoroughly unamused by Charles’ choice of topic. “Cage fighting, huh?” you ask, unable to suppress your curiosity. 

Logan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, stabbing at his potatoes with a little more force than necessary. “It wasn’t a career,” he mutters. “Just a distraction. Way to get by.”

“Mmm, yes, perhaps,” Charles chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “Regardless of the reason, it lead you to this exact moment. Didn’t it, Logan?”

Logan narrows his eyes at Charles, though the glare is only half-hearted. “You make it sound like all it all had some grand purpose.”

“Did it not?” Charles says gently, his tone shifting into something more serious. “Kept you alive, for one. But more than that, it brought you to us. To me.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes darting towards you. “To her.”

The words hang in the air and you glance over at Logan, whose expression softens just slightly. Without thinking, you reach across the table and give his forearm a gentle squeeze. His eyes meet yours, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.

Charles watches the exchange with quiet satisfaction before clearing his throat. “Well, I believe my work here is done,” he announces, wheeling himself back from he table. “Logan, fancy a game of chess? I haven’t made a player out of her yet.”

You laugh to yourself as Logan follows Charles into the living room. After clearing the kitchen from dinner and loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, you join them both in the living room. Tucking yourself into the couch, you read while the two of them play, the clinking of wooden chess pieces and the occasional dry quip from Charles filling the room.

From your spot on the couch, you glance up from your book every now and then to watch them. Logan’s brow furrows in concentration, while Charles’ face is more relaxed as they play. You smile to yourself, wondering how often they played like this in the past, when times were simpler.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep or how long you’ve been out, but you’re jostled awake as two large, warm arms wrap around you, holding you close as you’re lifted off the couch. Logan’s familiar scent—cigar smoke and pine—fill your nose and you blink up to find him walking you down the hall towards your room.

“Logan?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “D’you really cage fight?”

Logan chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I really did.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

You blink slowly, your sleep-laden mind struggling to process his answer. “Not even a little?” Your voice is barely audible as you nestle closer into the warmth of his chest.

“Not in the way you think,” he answers, nudging open the door to your room with his foot.

You’re too drowsy to ask what he means and instead you hum softly, a noncommittal sound that Logan feels more than hears. Lowering you onto the bed, he moves with a gentleness you’ve never felt from him before. He brushes a strand of hair from your face and pulls the blanket over you before he turns to leave.

Your limbs are heavy, eyes barely open, but you call out softly—“Logan?”

He looks back towards you. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad Charles found you,” you murmur, closing your eyes.

Logan doesn’t answer, but you swear you feel the lightest of kisses against the top of your head before he leaves.

+++

It’s deep into the night when you hear the front door finally open. Your heart flutters against your ribs as you swing out of bed, unsure of what condition you’ll find him in. He was expected back two days ago, those extra hours away feeling like an unfathomable eternity. 

You find him sitting at the kitchen table, dress shirt hanging off one shoulder, the rest of his clothes rumpled and bloodied. A large gash oozes from his shoulder and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips. 

Logan looks up at you, eyes narrowed and lined with exhaustion. “Don’t look at me like that,” he grunts, tugging off the rest of his shirt. 

“How else am I supposed to look at you?” you ask, taking a tentative step forward. “No phone call or text letting me know you’re not coming home and then you waltz in after midnight soaked in blood and covered in wounds.” Unshed tears burn in your eyes but you will yourself not to cry. 

“Didn’t ask you to care about me,” he bites back, but his tone is more weary than argumentative. 

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you snip, but your tone lacks venom.

He ignores you, pushing up from the chair with a heavy groan and limps over towards the cabinets. He shuffles through one of them, pulling out the makeshift sewing kit before sitting back down. You watch as he attempts to thread the needle, growing increasingly frustrated when he keeps missing. 

Shoving down your own frustration, you pull up a chair next to him and reach for the needle and thread. He pulls his hands away from you, turning in the chair to keep you away. You chase after his movements, finally grabbing his wrists and removing the supplies from his grasp.

“I don’t need your help,” he growls. 

You sigh, tired of this same argument, this same endless loop every time he comes home injured. “Goddamit, Logan, just let me help you.”

He drags his gaze up to yours, eyes tracing the lines of your face. His chest still heaves with heavy breaths, but you can see the anger bleed from him. He nods once, turning just enough so that you have access to his wound. Threading the needle, you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, ignoring the flinch he gives at your touch. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you whisper. 

Logan huffs. “It’s a needle, darlin’. It’s not gonna feel nice.”

You try to ignore the flip your heart does at his use of the word darling. Despite his earlier gruffness and proclivity to push you away, Logan has softened to you over the last couple of months. Since that first dinner you shared, he’s joined you and Charles more often. Or if he comes home late, sought out the leftovers you’ve kept for him. He’s engaged in conversation, offering small pieces of himself, pieces that you’ve cradled close and nurtured. 

But there’s a tension between you, thick and heavy in the air, and you wonder if he feels it too. Feels that same undeniable pull you’ve always felt in his presence. You’d like to think so, otherwise you were doomed to love him silently, your feelings for him bound in the quiet of your mind.

“Just trust me,” you say. 

Slowly, you release your power, warmth spreading from your fingertips, easing his pain and discomfort as you begin to stitch him up. You try to ignore the heavy press of his gaze on your face and you can almost hear his unspoken thoughts, his words still stuck on his tongue.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his shoulder relaxing as you continue to work.

You glance up at him then, finding his expression softer than you’ve seen it. “A mutant is a dangerous thing to be, Logan,” you answer, your voice soft. “Few people know what I can do. Those I trust.”

For a long moment, Logan just looks at you, his eyes unreadable. Then, a rough, tired sigh falls from his lips. “You coulda told me.”

You take a steadying breath, his words lingering in the space between you. “Maybe,” you say, your fingers brushing against his skin as you continue to stitch. “But you don’t make it easy to talk to you.”

Logan lets out a low huff. “No. I guess I don’t, do I?”

You finish the last stitch, securing the knot. Your fingers linger a touch long than necessary, the warmth of his skin a comfort you’re loathe to lose just yet. Slowly, you lift your gaze to his and you feel your heart beat solidly against your ribs as he looks back at you like he’s seeing something there he hadn’t allowed himself to before. 

Logan’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “Why you keep stickin’ around? Watchin’ me come home time after time covered in blood?”

“Because you deserve it.” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. “Even if you don’t see that.”

He doesn’t respond, not right away, as he continues to watch you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face. Then he reaches up for you, fingers curling around your wrist, his skin warm and rough against yours. He holds you there as if grounding himself in your presence, his thumb drawing random patterns against your skin. The gesture is simple, but vulnerable and open in a way he rarely shows.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs, glancing down at where he’s touching you. “For anybody.”

“How ‘bout you let me be the judge of that?” you answer, your voice steady. “You’re more than you think you are.”

Logan clenches his jaw, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features, and you know deep below the surface he’s waging a war against himself, one he’s been fighting for far too long. His thumb stills on your wrist, his grip loosening slightly, but not letting go. 

Placing your hand over his, you give him a soft smile. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

+++

You’re surprised that he doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to brush you off or push you away as you gently nudge him towards the bathroom. He still gives you a dubious glance as he looks down at the tub, but you just ignore it, moving past him to run the tap.

You give him privacy to undress and get settled before you reenter the bathroom. The sight of him, as large as he his with his knees pulled up to his chest, makes you laugh, garnishing a terse look from him.

“You find this amusing?”

“Big man in a little tub? Yeah, I do,” you reply with a smile. “Just relax, Logan. This’ll be our secret.”

He huffs, but does seem to visibly relax, resting his arms over his knees. You kneel down in front of him, resting one hand gently against his forearm as your other reaches for the washcloth. You can feel the tension release from his muscles as your power floods through him and he breathes out a soft, “Oh,” as all the pain and discomfort is eased from his body.

You wonder how long it’s truly been since he’s felt like this, unburdened by the pain and suffering of his own body. Your heart aches for him as you slowly begin to wash him, rubbing soft circles over the scarred flesh of his back, rinsing away the blood dried to his skin. 

Even battered and marred as he is, you still find him beautiful—you always have. When you first started working with him all those months ago, you felt that pang of attraction when you met him, you’d have been blind not to. Ruggedly handsome, so strong and sure of himself. But you know that wasn’t all that drew you to him. Deep down, below all the tough, seemingly impenetrable exterior, you saw the man he truly was. Someone born of scars and rough edges, yet gentle. Someone who would selflessly put himself before others, even at his own expense. 

You let the cloth linger a moment longer against his skin before dipping it back into the water, watching as his blood rinses from the fabric. Squeezing the excess water out, you press it back against his collarbone, tracing the warm cloth along his neck and over his shoulders. Logan doesn’t move, his eyes half-closed, his expression relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before.

Something deep tugs at you as you realize how vulnerable he is right now, how trusting. He hides behind a gruff exterior, his true self guarded so carefully so that he doesn’t let people in, doesn’t open himself up to the hurt that trusting another person can bring. But maybe you’ve finally cracked through, broken down a little bit of that wall he surrounds himself with.

The warm water drips from his skin as you continue to wash him, letting your fingers trail gently along the newly cleaned lines of his arms. Logan shivers at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he seems to lean into it, his breathing deepening, muscles falling even more slack. 

“Feel nice?” you ask in a murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, finally glancing up at you through his half-lidded gaze. “’S very nice,” he replies, his voice rough.

“Good. You deserve it,” you say, repeating your sentiment from earlier.

You feel a flicker of warmth as his eyes meet yours and he simply nods. It takes everything in you to not smile too widely, to keep the moment gentle, but you take his acceptance to heart. 

Running the cloth down his ribs, you pause when you feel the misshapen knot of a bruise beneath your fingers and glancing down, you find a deep purple hue coloring his skin. Your eyes dart to his with worry, knowing that an injury like that will take him at least a week to heal, if not longer, in his weakened state. That with every breath he’ll feel the pain of his muscles pulling and the bruise spreading if you’re not touching him.

Dropping the washcloth in the water, you press your palm against his side and take in a deep breath to steady yourself. Then, a warmth spreads from your skin into his as you pull his injury from him, feeling his skin knit back together, feeling his abused muscles realign themselves under his skin. A dull, yet sharp ache, blooms along your ribs as you continue to pull his pain into yourself, erasing the injury from his body. With a final gasp, you draw back, your fingers now running along unmarred flesh knitted whole. 

Logan tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze as the back of his knuckles brush against your cheek. His eyes flicker to yours, holding your gaze, and for a moment, the room falls into a deep quiet.

That pull between you, the magnetic force that you’ve felt since the beginning, feels amplified now. You’re acutely aware of every inch of space between you—how small it is, how easy it would be to close it. How badly you want to close it. You swallow, feeling the tension coil in your belly as he continues to hold your gaze, unblinking, but more open and raw than he’s ever been before.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks.

Your breath catches in your throat at his question, voice rough and laced with something between wonder and disbelief. As if he can’t quite fathom what you’ve done for him—what you’ve given him so freely.

Logan’s eyes search yours, his fingers drifting from your cheek to trace along your jaw, lingering with a tenderness that belies the man he presents to the outside world. His gaze is steady and intimate, as if he’s trying to understand you in a way that goes beyond words. But you say nothing, your heart pounding too loudly in your ears to form a reply.

“You took it on yourself, my pain?”

You simply nod, distracted by the way Logan’s fingers continue to brush along the edge of your ear, tracing the lines of your face as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. 

“Why?”

“Because I want to,” you whisper, unable to resist the pull of his hand against your skin, the warmth of his touch that you feel with every fiber of your being. “Because it’s the one thing I can do to help you.”

A beat of silence passes, the air thick and heavy with unspoken words. He exhales, shaky and deep, letting his hand slide to the back of your neck. The calloused pads of his fingers press gently against your skin, anchoring you in place and you can feel him pull you closer, his gaze dropping to your lips, his breath mingling with yours in the small, intimate space between you.

“I shouldn’t want this, want you,” he says, voice so low it’s almost a rumble. “But, fuck, I do.” 

His confession is raw, leaving him unguarded for the first time in a long time and before he can pull back, before he can throw those walls back up around himself, you close the gap, resting your forehead against his. You bring your hand up to touch his face, thumb brushing over his cheek as you breath him in, feeling the heat radiate between you. 

Logan’s hand slides further along your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he finally, gently, presses his lips to yours. His kiss isn’t demanding or rushed or filled with passion, but a lingering connection, the promise of something more. His lips are softer than you imagined, his touch more careful than you expected, as if he’s afraid he’ll break you. Slowly, his thumb traces circles against your cheek, steadying and soothing, pulling you closer. 

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. His breath is warm against your skin. “I don’t wanna push you away anymore,” he murmurs.

“Good because I don’t want you to.”

Logan lets out a breath, a hint of a smile finally softening his features. 

Reluctantly, you pull away and pick the washcloth up again, intent on finishing what you started. The water turns to rust as you wash him of blood and grime, making sure you reach each cut, each bruise, each scar on his body that makes up the map of who he is. 

You turn off the tap and hand him a towel, averting your eyes as he stands, wrapping the towel low across his hips. Logan reaches for you, tugging on the collar of your shirt to pull you closer. You stumble a bit as he pulls you in, surprised by the insistence in his grip. Logan’s eyes meet yours, an intensity behind his gaze that makes your breath catch.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, hand slipping along your jaw, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip. 

You’re drawn forward as Logan’s lips find yours again, but this time there’s an urgency behind the kiss, a desperation and need he’s no longer trying to hide. He holds your face gently in his hands as he deepens the kiss, his nose pressing against yours, his beard scraping against your skin and you find yourself melting against him.

This is what you’ve been craving since you met him. Despite it all—the rage simmering just below his surface, the sharpness of his exterior, the sometimes shocking callousness of his words—you always knew there was a tenderness underneath, a softness that even his tortured past couldn’t erase. 

Logan’s hands drift from your face, trailing down your neck and tracing along the curve of your spine as he presses you closer until there’s no space between you. The dampness of his skin bleeds into your shirt and you gasp into his mouth when he shifts his hips just enough and you feel heat of his erection against your thigh.

He pulls away from your mouth long enough to husk against your lips, “I’m old, not dead.” His teeth nip lightly at your bottom lip. “I’ve gotta beautiful woman lettin’ me kiss her, what did you expect?”

Your fingers trail along the edge of the towel slung low across this hips and a thrill runs through you as you feel his abdominal muscles flutter beneath your touch. You peer up at him, noting the flush of his skin, the black of his eyes as you tug the fabric just enough to loosen it. “How long has it been since someone has touched you, Logan?” you ask, your breath warm in the space between you.

Logan’s hands urge your hips closer, seeking friction as he starts to slowly rut against your thigh. You hear him swallow as your fingers dip below the fabric, brushing along the damp hair at the base of his cock. 

“F—fuck,” he groans, guttural and low, his head dropping down to your shoulder. “Since before you.”

The weight of Logan’s confession presses into you and in that moment you want to give him everything. Wrap him in all the love you can muster, show him something other than pain and suffering. 

You move your hand from the towel, allowing the fabric to fall from his waist and pool forgotten on the floor. Logan’s breath catches as your fingers wrap around him fully, the heat and weight of his cock pressing against your palm. 

A ragged groan escapes his throat. “Christ,” he mutters, voice thick and vibrating against your skin. “You don’t gotta—”

“I want to,” you interrupt, slowly and deliberately dragging your hand along his length, tracing the vein along the underside of his cock with your fingertips.

Logan’s hips jerk involuntarily, seeking friction, chasing your hand, and you oblige, tightening your grip just enough to elicit another groan from him. 

“What do you like?” The question lands in the sliver of space between you, your strokes still light, teasing.

“Firmer, more ah—” He breaks off as you tighten your grip on the upstroke. “Fuck, yes, like that, sweetheart.”

A shiver runs down your spine as his hands find your waist, fingers clutching at you almost hard enough to bruise. His breaths are growing uneven, each exhale warm against your neck as he fights to maintain some semblance of control.

“You keep that up,” he rasps, lips grazing your ear, “and I’m not gonna last long.”

His admission sends a rush of pride through you and you tilt your head back to look at him, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. Logan’s eyes meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded, his expression raw and unguarded. You like him like this, such a large, imposing man boiled down to pure wanton need. 

“I don’t mind,” you reply, keeping your movements steady, your strokes firm yet gentle. You focus on the subtle shifts in his breathing, the way his fingers grip you tighter each time you find the right rhythm. “Just wanna make you feel good, Logan.”

He leans forward, capturing your lips into a kiss that’s both rough and messy, teeth nipping at your lip as his tongue licks into your mouth. He groans are muffled against your mouth as his hips begin to thrust in time with your strokes, his movements growing more erratic as he chases after his release. 

“Can’t believe—ah, fuck—can’t believe how good you’re makin’ me feel,” he growls against your lips.

You smile into his mouth, your free hand brushing along his hipbone as your strokes quicken. His whole body tenses, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing, his abdominal muscles taut as he teeters on the edge.

“Let go, Logan,” you say. “I’ve got you.”

With a strangled groan, he comes, his release spilling over your hand, hot and thick. His body shudders against yours as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him close as he continues to thrust lazily into your grip, your own movements slowing as you guide him through the aftershocks. 

For a moment, neither of you speaks, then Logan lifts his head, his hazel eyes soft as they meet yours. “You walked into my life and I knew—I knew—you would ruin me.”

You smile to yourself, unable to stop the thought that floats into your head—he’s ruined you as well. 

+++

The text comes in at a little over one AM—hurt.

You jump out of bed, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you slip into one of his discarded flannels and head out into the night. Pacing the driveway, your heart jumps into your throat at every passing headlight, your thumbnail almost bitten down to the quick as you wait for him.

The minutes bleed into eternity until you finally see the limo turn down the long drive and it takes all your willpower to not run and meet him halfway. You’re bouncing on your heels as he finally comes to a stop, the driver’s side door opening with a faint groan of steel. 

Your heart stutters in your chest as he emerges from the car, blood soaking through his shirt, dark and spreading, as he steps towards you on shaky legs. Logan’s face is pale in the moonlight, his breathing uneven and shallow and white-hot dread shoots up your spine as you see his arm hanging limp, two of his claws unsheathed and dripping blood.

“Oh, fuck, fuck!” you gasp, rushing to his side.

Logan tries to wave you off, gritting his teeth as he grips the doorframe. “”M fine,” he grits, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. 

You reach for him, hands already attempting to steady him as his knees buckle and he collapses to the ground beneath him. “Careful. Claws,” he rasps as his left hand seeks purchase against your shoulder.

“I don’t fucking care about your claws, Logan,” you snap, although you both know your anger isn’t at him. You glance up at him and for once you think you actually see fear in his eyes. “What happened?”

“Gas. Robbery.” Each word punches out of his chest, the effort to speak sending tremors down his limbs. “Got ‘em.” He nods down towards his limp arm, claws still unsheathed, but slowly, so slowly starting to retract.

He winces as you help him peel off his coat to get to the shirt underneath. Your fingers shake as they trace the holes the bullets made—one in his shoulder, dangerously close to his lungs and the other just below his ribs. Hooking your fingers through the fabric, you rip it from his chest—the wounds are deep and his skin is hot and slick with sweat.

Panic claws at you and unshed tears burn in your eyes. You’ve seen Logan hurt before, but this—this was different. His breathing is painfully shallow, his usual gruffness and resilience absent. 

“Logan, you’re not healing,” you whisper, your voice shaking as your fingers stain with blood. Logan simply grunts, trying to wave you off, but lacking the strength. “I can’t…I can’t lose you. I can help.”

Logan’s eyes widen as he grabs for your wrist. “No. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I don’t care!” you shout. “I love you, dammit, and I’m not just going to sit here and watch you die!”

Before he can protest, you press your palms over his wounds, the familiar warmth of your power surging through you as it spreads from your palms into his torn flesh.

The pain hits you like a freight train.

It’s sharp and relentless, searing through your shoulder and into the softness of your belly like molten fire. You gasp, biting back a scream as your body jerks instinctively away from the intensity, every cell in your body demanding you withdraw from the torture. 

But you don’t stop. You cling to him, tears streaming down your face as you channel your power into him, knitting his flesh back together. You can feel it, the way his muscles, bones and tissue rearrange themselves, months of healing taking place in mere moments. Every second feels like an eternity, but you refuse to let go.

You’re dimly aware of Logan yelling at you to stop, his own pain momentarily forgotten as he watches you endure his agony. 

Black dots dance in your vision as the last of his wounds come together, the spent bullets clinking to the gravel and you finally collapse against him, trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The fire in your body begins to dull, fading to a cold, hollow ache as Logan wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest.

“Hey,” you mumble against him, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay now.”

“Me?” Logan’s voice is low, disbelieving as his hand cradles the back of your head as if you might shatter. “You’re the one—why the fuck would you do that? You could’ve—dammit, you—”

His words break off, his forehead dropping to yours as his breath shudders against your cheek. You can feel the tension radiating through him, warring with himself between his gratitude and anger, between his guilt and the love he’s too afraid to speak out loud.

“I told you why,” you answer, lifting your head to look up at him. 

Logan’s jaw clenches, his words caught in his throat, but his eyes say everything is voice won’t. You don’t need him to say it, not yet, but you can feel it, pressing just below the surface.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

+++

There’s a reverence in which Logan washes you. 

Steam swirls around you as he works the thickly lathered loofah over your shoulders, down across your collarbones and down along the soft planes of your stomach. The water rinses away the faint metallic tang of blood, leaving behind the fresh scent of soap. He continues with a silent determination, as if the act of washing you can erase all the pain you’ve taken from him.

You know better than to convince him you’re fine, that the pain is always temporary, that it only lasts for a few minutes, sometimes just a bit longer. That the pain is something you’d endure for him again and again if he’d let you. 

His thumb brushes along the underside of your ribs, searching for a wound you know he won’t find. You reach for him, lacing your fingers together with his. He blinks up at you, hazel eyes holding far too much worry for such a stoic man.

“I’m not going to break, Logan,” you say softly.

A wordless noice escapes his throat as he removes himself from your grasp and continues to work, ditching the loofah in favor of his hands. His fingers are warm and calloused against your skin as they glide lower, down over the swell of your hips, over your thighs, down towards your knees. 

His touch morphs from one of care and comfort to one more sensual, simmering with unspoken tension as his fingers rest in the hollow behind your knee. You glance down at him, water droplets catching in his hair, running off the slope of his nose. 

Though you’ve seen him bare before, you can help but trace the lines of his body—the broadness of his shoulders, the well defined muscles of his chest, the sturdiness of his thighs, the scars that mar his skin. The sight of him stirs something deep within you and you feel your pulse thrum beneath your skin.

“Logan,” you murmur, your voice almost lost in the sound of the water.

He looks up at you then, eyes locking with yours. A storm swirls within them, a mix of guilt, affection and an intensity that takes your breath away. Leaning in, he presses the barest of kisses to the inside of your knee before he rises to his full height, pressing you close.

“D’you mean what you said before?” he asks, voice low.

I love you, dammit!

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

Logan exhales sharply, the tension he’s been holding coiled in his muscles loosening as he loops his arms around your waist. “I’m not very good with words,” he admits, his breath fanning across your damp skin. “Can I show you?”

There’s no mistaking the meaning behind his words and you can only nod, your voice catching in your throat. 

His lips find yours, mouth moving over yours slow and deliberate as if he’s savoring the taste of you. The first touch is a spark, the second a fire, and by the third, it’s an inferno that engulfs you both and leaves you breathless. Logan kisses you like you’re his anchor, his salvation, his touch desperate and full of everything he can’t yet put into words.

Your fingers slide into his hair, gripping the strands at the nape of his neck as you pull him closer, deepening the kiss. He groans against your mouth, the sound swallowed in the space between you. His tongue brushes against yours, teasing and exploring and you respond in kind, your nails scraping along his scalp.

Logan’s control is fraying. You can feel it in the way his teeth nip at your bottom lip, the way his hands press along the curve of your spine, the way he can’t seem to find enough of your skin to touch, to caress. A low growl rumbles through his chest as you slip a hand between your slick bodies, finding his cock, thick and heavy against your belly.

You give one slow drag of your palm along his length before he’s gripping your thighs and forcing your legs around his waist. His mouth leaves yours, trailing down to the curve of your jaw as he presses you against the wall, the coolness of the tile a direct contrast to the heat of your skin and you can’t stop the gasp that escapes your lips. 

Despite his age, the metal bones inside him slowly poisoning him and causing him human aches and pains, he’s still able to hold you up solidly with one arm as the other trails along your hip bone and dips down to where you’re warm and wet. 

“This all for me?” he asks in a murmur, sliding a finger along the seam of your cunt, just barely brushing against your clit. 

Your breath hitches and you grip his shoulders, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you nod. Logan’s eyes darken at your reaction, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” you finally manage to whisper. “Always for you.”

“Good,” he growls, leaning in to nip at the skin just below your ear. The deep rumble of his voice vibrates through you, his touch deliberate and almost torturously slow as he slides his fingers through your folds, spreading your slickness with a focused and unrelenting precision. 

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your head tilting back against the wall as he finally presses his thumb to your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to have your thighs trembling around his waist. 

“I got you,” he coos against your skin, his lips trailing from the pulse point in your neck to your collarbone. His teeth scrape along the curve of your shoulder, his free hand gripping your hip tighter to steady you as his fingers continue to tease and coax. “Lemme make you feel good.”

Every nerve ending is afire beneath him, every motion, every stroke of his fingers against your cunt leaving your mind reeling with pleasure. Your nails dig further into corded muscles of his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself to. You pull back when you see the tiny, crescent shaped cuts marring his skin.

His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and molten. “No, do it,” he urges, fingers still moving. “Mark me with somethin’ pretty.”

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp. 

“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. There’s a quiet desperation in his tone, as if hearing it grounds him. Grounds him to this moment. To you. 

You can’t help but obey, whispering his name like a prayer, and he rewards you by slipping one long finger inside you, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure along your spine. Logan watches your face intently as if memorizing the way you react to his touch. When he adds a second finger and slowly begins to thrust his hand, you cling further to him, the heat inside you building to an almost unbearable intensity.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “You’re so beautiful like this. So wet and warm and tight around me.”

His words barely register in your mind, too focused on the way his fingers curl and thrust inside you, finding that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back. He’s relentless now, his thumb pressing hard against your clit as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

“Logan, I’m so close,” you whine, your hips beginning to roll against his hand, seeking just a bit more friction, forcing his fingers deeper inside of you.

The tension coiling low in your belly finally snaps, your orgasm washing over you in waves that make your whole body shudder as you cry out his name. Logan holds you through it, his hand continuing to thrust against you as he draws out every ounce of pleasure from you, his own breathing ragged against your skin.

When you finally come down, Logan presses a kiss to your temple as he helps you unwrap your legs from his waist and carefully sets you down, keeping you close. 

You tilt your head to meet his gaze, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I didn’t think you’d be into shower sex, old man,” you tease with a smile.

His laugh is low. “I can make exceptions. I need a bed to fuck you properly, though.” 

“Prove it,” you challenge.

+++

The heat and intensity between you doesn’t diminish as Logan helps you out of the shower and guides you down the hallway towards his bedroom. A shiver of anticipation crawls up your spine as you get closer, knowing that once you cross this line, there’s no going back, that he will have claimed you fully.

You scoot back onto the bed, watching as he approaches you with a fire in his gaze that doesn’t waver. He climbs onto the mattress, knee pressing down between yours as he cages you in from above, gently pinning you beneath him. 

Leaning down, his lips brush against yours, teasing. “Still wanna challenge me, sweetheart?” His voice is a low gravelly growl that sends a prickling rush of arousal down your limbs.

“Always,” you reply breathlessly, arching into his touch as his hands slide down your thighs, parting them with ease. 

His grin is sharp as he leans back to take you in fully and you acutely feel the weight of his gaze against your skin. He traces his calloused fingers over your damp skin, along the dips of your collarbones, under the swell of each breast, mapping the curve of your hips as if committing you to memory. Dipping his head, he leans down between your legs, his beard grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and you can’t help but shudder at the sensation.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he says, almost to himself, his voice dripping with desire. He drags his lips higher, brushing along your damp cunt, his breath hot and tantalizing. “And all mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone has you clenching around nothing, heat pooling low in your belly and your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him closer. But he ignores your silent plea, almost deliberately testing your patience as he kisses you everywhere except where you want him most.

“Logan, please,” you gasp, the ache between your thighs almost painful.

“Patience,” he chides with a smirk, though his own resolve seems to be thinning. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer before he flattens his palms against your thighs, opening you fully to him. Then, his tongue is on you, lapping at you with flat, broad strokes in a rhythm that quickly has you teetering on the edge.

Logan’s focus is unrelenting, his low growls of approval vibrating through you as he works you over with an enthusiasm that proves to you this is about more than just pleasure—he’s claiming you, showing you just how much you mean to him. Making you his. 

Your thighs tremble around him and his warm, rough hands hold you steady as he slips one, then two fingers deep inside of you. It’s embarrassing how quickly you come as he thrusts his fingers against that spot inside you, your second orgasm of the night crashing over you as his name falls from his lips in a breathless moan. 

Before you can properly catch your breath, Logan is moving from between your thighs, making his way back up your body, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. His lips finally find yours in a kiss that’s messy and desperate and you can taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and bright, and the intimacy of it sends a thrill through you. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against your lips, his voice wrecked as he grinds his hips against yours, his cock hard and insistent against your hip. “Could spend the rest of my life between between those thighs.”

“Why stop there?” you tease, your lips tugging into a smirk. “I thought you said you’d fuck me properly.”

Logan’s eyes darken, your challenge seeming to light something dark and primal in him. His grin is all teeth as he sits back on his heels, hands curling around your hips and pulling you down the bed like you weigh nothing until your hips are flush with his. “You gotta mouth on you, sweetheart. Should we see if you can still talk stuffed full of my cock?”

The weight of his cock brushes against your slick folds and you gasp at the sensation, your nerve endings exquisitely sensitive. Logan grips himself at the base, giving himself one languid stroke before running the thick head along your cunt, teasing you with shallow thrusts. Each slow, deliberate stroke of him sliding against you leaves you desperate and aching and you lift your hips in search of more.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So needy. Bet you’ll take me so well, huh?”

“Yes,” you breathe, nails digging into the muscles of his forearms. “Please.”

He presses into you then, the stretch of his cock making your jaw drop as he takes his time, sinking in inch by inch, filling you completely. Logan’s gaze is locked on yours, heavy and possessive as he watches every flicker of pleasure cross your face. 

“Fuck” he groans when he’s fully seated against your hips, his body trembling with the effort to stay still. “You feel…so fuckin’ tight. So damn perfect.”

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him as he starts to move, pulling out torturously slow before thrusting back in harder, setting a rhythm that’s relentless and consuming. Each stroke of his hips has you crying out, your body arching into his as you meet him thrust for thrust.

“Takin’ me so well, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers gripping the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise as he continues to pound into you. “Like you were made for me.”

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing in with your whimpered moans and Logans own ragged groans. He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, the wiry hair on his chest teasing your nipples as his lips find your neck, biting and sucking marks into your skin that feel like promises.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in deeper, your heels digging into his back as the coil inside you begins to tighten once more. He feels it too, the way you body clenches around him, and his pace falters slightly, his breaths coming faster.

“C’mon,” he rasps against the pulse point on your neck. “Wanna feel you come. Wanna make you fall apart.”

It doesn’t take much more—just a few more well-angled thrusts that hit that spot inside you and the tension finally snaps, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that leaves you trembling. Logan’s finesse is slipping, thrusts growing erratic as chases his own release.

“Come Logan,” you manage in a whisper. “Come for me.”

His hips stutter as he groans your name, spilling into you as his body tenses, lazily thrusting against you as he wrings out the last of his pleasure. He stays deep inside you, still for several moments before he shifts just enough to collapse against your side.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the only sounds in the room being your heavy breathes and the pounding of your heart. Logan rests his head against your chest, heavy and sweat slick between your breasts. You brush at the strands of hair against his forehead before running your finger along the old scar on his cheek.

He lifts his head to look up at you, his gaze soft yet still simmering with hunger. “I do, you know,” he murmurs. His fingers brush idly against your skin. “Love you.”

A smile spreads across your face, warming blooming in your chest.

“I know.”

+++

You wake before he does, rolling over to find him prone, face buried in the pillow he hugs close to his chest. Sunlight filters in through the half slatted blinds, catching on the silver in his hair and beard and you can’t help but admire how handsome he looks, how at peace he is beside you. He’s relaxed in sleep for the first time since you came here. You’ve heard his growls and yelps of terror that echo in the night, seen the claw marks that pierce his sheets.

Your mind filters back to last night and how he looked as he came apart inside you, how desperate and needy he was for your touch upon his skin. The memory of his gasps and groans send a rush of warmth over your skin, making you dimly aware of the ache between your legs. Logan, so guarded, so unyielding and seemingly unbreakable, trembled as he came, his voice rough and wrecked as he called out your name. You shiver thinking about it.

You want to hear it again. But not now.

Resisting the urge to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead, you leave him undisturbed and slide out of bed. Padding into the kitchen, you find Charles sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He looks up at you with a warm smile as you start a pot of coffee, the machine humming to life. 

“Ah, I see,” he comments, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You glance over at Charles, his eyes back on the paper in front of him, but his smile still paints his face, sly and knowing. Heat creeps up your neck as you busy yourself with the coffee. “Are you reading my mind?” you ask, trying to force nonchalance into your tone.

Charles chuckles softly and taps at his temple. “I don’t have to. You’re projecting. And quite loudly, at that.”

You bite your lip as you fill your mug, leaning against the counter as the coffee warms your hands. You attempt to clear your mind, trying to think of anything mundane—the weather, baseball, laundry. Charles just shakes his head. “Relax, my dear. What the two of you do together as consenting adults is none of my business.”

“Oh, God,” you groan, your cheeks aflame. “That’s what I’m projecting?”

“Not that explicitly, no. You think more in feelings, rather than words. But they’re quite powerful emotions and rather hard to ignore when they’re radiating as strongly as yours are this morning.”

You bury your face in your hand, peeking at Charles through your fingers, which only seems to amuse him further. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” you mutter. 

“Perhaps,” Charles says with a laugh. “But you’re helping him. Healing him. And that, my dear, is worth everything.” 

Before you can respond, you hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Logan rounds the corner, hair tousled from sleep, his body still bare except for the pair of low slung sweatpants clinging to his hips. His eyes find yours first, softening in a way they rarely do for anyone else as he scratches at the back of his head and mumbles, “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” you reply with a smile, thankful for the distraction. You pour a second cup of coffee and offer it up to him. “Coffee?”

Logan grunts in affirmation, moving towards you, but instead of reaching for the mug, he loops an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. He buries his face in your neck, beard scraping against your skin as he sighs. “Didn’t like wakin’ up with you not there,” he breathes into your hair, his voice so low you almost don’t hear him.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“S’okay,” he says softly, pressing the lightest of kisses just under your ear. “Next time, wake me.”

Your heart stutters against your ribs at his open display of affection, the softness and warmth in which he holds you, and the promise behind his words. From over his shoulder you see Charles give you a slight nod, a bright smile on his face before he turns his attention back to the newspaper in front of him.

You think back to what Charles told you all those months ago, about how you were a home for Logan. Those words echo in your mind as you feel Logan’s steady weight against you. He’s so different now, soft and unguarded and in that moment you know.

You’re home, too.

[rafesyangel]

What happens when rafe accidentally yells at reader?

The sun was starting to hide behind the trees, casting a warm golden light over the driveway Rafe had been working under his truck for the past two hours, covered in sweat, grease staining his forearms and the front of his shirt. He was on his back beneath the chassis, grumbling under his breath every time a wrench slipped or something clanked against metal

You stood a few feet away, arms crossed, shifting from one foot to the other like a restless child. You’d been watching him forever—first from the porch, then closer and now, completely ignored, you were growing bratty.

“Raaaaafe,” you sang out, dragging his name like a child teasing a tired parent
He didn’t answer

You walked over and squatted beside the truck
“Come ooon. You said we’d go out ” you pouted. “You’ve been under there forever”

Still no response. Just the sound of a tool clicking into place

Your fingers twitched, and in your irritation, you picked up a small pebble and tossed it” lightly” so it tapped against the side of the truck
Clink

Then his hand froze

Rafe slid out from under the truck slowly, his face streaked with grease, sweat dripping from his temple.
He sat up, tossed the wrench down, and looked at you with barely restrained fury

“What did I say earlier? Huh? I said I needed to get this done,” he snapped. His voice was louder now, sharp like the crack of thunder


“And you just keep pushing. Keep nagging. You never just listen.”

“Do you EVER stop?Do you EVER just—LISTEN for once He bellowed, voice cracking like a whip through the room

The sudden explosion in his voice made you shrink back

Your mouth opened but nothing came out. Your face twisted, and the tears came fast

faster than you expected, hot and painful
“I—I wasn’t trying to bother you,” you whimpered, backing up a step. “I just wanted to spend time with you…”

Your voice cracked at the end
And that broke him

And then your face crumpled.
Your shoulders trembled and tears spilled, fast and hot, your hands balling into little fists at your sides.
“I just wanted you to notice me…” you hiccuped

Rafe's rage dissolved in a blink
He stared at you, the guilt hitting him like a truck his features softened instantly, as if the anger had been sucked out of him by your first tear

“ baby—no, no no…”

He stepped in front of you, gently catching your wrist before you could turn away

“C’mere. Come here, little one,” he muttered, pushing himself up and dusting off his hands, voice ragged, full of regret


You didn’t even have to move as he came to you, wrapping those strong, calloused arms around your shoulders and pulling you into his chest

“‘M sorry, baby,” he whispered into your hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “That wasn’t okay. I shouldn’t have raised my voice like that.”

You clung to him, silent sobs shaking through your small frame
He picked you up gently like you weighed nothing and carried you to the old porch swing, settling down with you curled up in his lap your body curled in his like you belonged there like you always had

Rafe rocked you slowly, the chains of the swing creaking rhythmically.
One arm held you close, the other ran up and down your back in soothing strokes.

“You know you’re my girl, right?” he murmured, voice low and full of guilt. “Even when I’m mad, even when I’m tired, I don’t ever stop loving you. You hear me?”

You gave a tiny nod against his chest
He kept rocking.
Back and forth, back and forth, the creak of the swing and the steady thump of his heartbeat lulling you toward sleep.

“I got you now,” he whispered again, more to himself than to you. “I’ll always got you.”

You fell asleep tucked into his chest, your cheeks tearstained, his shirt still smelling like motor oil and sweat but it didn’t matter. You were safe

And Rafe? He didn’t move an inch with you in his hands

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

Task force member reader! who has genuinely no idea that Ghost has a crush on her, and the other members know it and to annoy Ghost they just like to make him jealous like, getting closer to reader, hugging her, taking her away when she’s talking with him and she just doesn’t realize(just like me fr) until he explodes and nsfw

Reader is oblivious but sweet. Tough on the field but pretty blind when it comes to romance—especially subtle stuff. She just thinks Ghost is stoic and weird, not secretly pining.

Ghost, the poor man, is at his absolute limit. Gruff and brooding, but every time someone else gets too close to you, his jaw tightens and he starts radiating murderous energy. He tries to play it cool… until he can’t.

Soap is the ringleader of the teasing. Every chance he gets, he’ll casually throw an arm around you, drag you away mid-conversation with Ghost like, “C’mon, love, I need your help over here,” just to watch Ghost seethe. Soap knows exactly what he's doing and he enjoys every second of it.

Gaz is more subtle, but still in on it. He’s the one who’ll step in all friendly like, offer to "show you something cool" just as Ghost is about to say something to you. He'll also give Ghost these sly looks like, "Say something, man," while still keeping up the act.

Price just tries to stay out of the childishness, but can’t help but smirk every time Ghost clenches his fists. Price has definitely muttered under his breath once or twice, "For fuck’s sake, just tell her, Ghost."

You had no idea what was going on. Not at first.

Ghost had always been intense, but lately? Lately it was like he was about to explode every time you so much as stood next to someone else. And the others—Soap, Gaz, even Price sometimes—they’d been acting weird, too. Touchier, clingier, always pulling you away mid-conversation with Ghost.

Like right now.

You were standing beside Ghost, going over the next infiltration plan. His voice was low, that deep Manchester rumble that was kind of nice when you weren’t straining to hear over gunfire.

He was saying something about vantage points when—

"Oi! There’s my favorite girl!" Soap's thick Scottish brogue cut through the air as his arm landed heavy across your shoulders.

You blinked. "Hi, Johnny."

Ghost's jaw tightened so hard you could almost hear his teeth grind.

"I need you for somethin’, love. C’mere, help me sort this scope out, yeah?" Soap didn't even wait for your answer, steering you away like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Behind you, you missed the way Ghost's fists curled tight at his sides. Missed the way his entire body went rigid, like a bomb primed to go off.

Gaz passed him with a snort, clapping him on the arm. "You’re gonna pop a vessel if you keep bottling it up, mate."

Ghost said nothing. He just stared as Soap led you over to the table and leaned in closer than necessary, pretending to adjust something on the rifle laid out there.

"So I was thinkin'," Soap went on, voice dropping just enough to be smug. "After this mission, maybe we could hit the pub—"

"Johnny."

Ghost's voice cracked through the room like a thunderclap.

Everything stilled. Even Price, who’d been nursing his tea in the corner, lifted a brow.

Soap grinned but didn’t move. "Yeah, Lieutenant?"

Ghost took one step forward. Slow. Deliberate. Like a predator who’d finally decided he was done playing.

"Back. Off."

His voice was a snarl now, low and dangerous.

Soap raised his hands, still smiling like this was the funniest shit he'd seen all week. "Easy now, big guy. Just borrowin’ her for a minute."

"Now."

Your eyes went wide. "Ghost—what—"

He rounded on you next, and you swore for a second he looked… wild. Barely holding it together.

"For fuck’s sake, do you really not get it?"

The room was dead quiet. Even Soap had the sense to step back now.

Your mouth opened. Closed. "Get… what?"

Ghost’s chest was heaving under his plate carrier. His hand twitched at his side like he wanted to grab you, but didn’t trust himself to.

"Every time they touch you—every time they drag you away—I want to rip their fuckin’ heads off. And they know it. They’ve known for weeks. They’re doin’ it on purpose."

Your brain stuttered. "Wait—"

"I like you, alright? I want you. And they think it’s fuckin’ hilarious to get in my way."

It hit you all at once like a freight train. The weird tension. The way Soap and Gaz kept hovering. Ghost’s clenched fists and dead-eyed stares every time you so much as laughed at one of their jokes.

"Oh," you breathed.

Soap coughed into his fist to hide his grin. "Finally."

Price muttered from the corner, "Bout bloody time."

You just stood there, blinking at Ghost like you’d never seen him before. Your face burned. "Oh."

Ghost’s eyes softened just a fraction at your realization. His voice, still rough, dropped lower.

"Yeah. Oh."

You found him outside. Back behind the barracks where the floodlights didn’t quite reach, shadows swallowing him up like he belonged to them.

"Ghost."

His head turned slightly at your voice, but he didn’t move. His posture was stiff, hands flexing at his sides like he was still wound too tight. Like he didn’t trust himself to turn around and face you.

You swallowed, heart hammering. "You can’t just say shit like that and then disappear."

His laugh was low and bitter. "Didn’t think you wanted me around after that little scene. Figured I embarrassed myself enough for one day."

You stepped closer. Close enough now that you could see the tension in his shoulders, the faint glow of his eyes behind the mask in the dark.

"You didn’t embarrass yourself." Your voice was quieter now. "You scared the shit out of me, yeah. But…"

You hesitated. The air between you practically crackled.

He finally turned, squaring up with you. "But what?" His voice was rough, strained like he was clinging to the last shreds of control. "Say it, love. Don’t fuckin’ dance around it."

Your stomach flipped. You were close enough now that you could feel the heat rolling off his body, see the way his chest rose and fell just a little too fast.

"How long?" you asked, voice barely a whisper. "How long have you felt like this?"

His jaw clenched. "Too fuckin’ long."

Silence. Heavy. Charged.

And then he stepped in—so close his chest nearly brushed yours, looming over you like he was daring you to push him back.

"Every time they touched you… every time you smiled at them… felt like it was tearing me apart. Because it should’ve been me."

Your breath hitched. "Ghost—"

"Say my name."

His voice dipped, dark and dangerous.

Your lips parted, and for once, you said it without hesitation. "Simon."

His control snapped.

One rough, gloved hand grabbed your arm, yanking you flush against him, while the other tangled in the back of your hair—gentle and brutal all at once.

Your gasp was swallowed by his mouth crashing against yours, messy and desperate. Teeth clashing, breath ragged, all that pent-up frustration and jealousy spilling over at once.

You fisted your hands in the front of his shirt, dragging him impossibly closer like you wanted to climb inside his skin.

"Fuck—" he groaned against your lips, voice wrecked. "You’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted this."

"Show me then," you breathed, tugging at his mask until he growled and shoved it up just enough to kiss you again—deeper this time, filthier.

His hands were everywhere now—gripping your hips like he wanted to leave bruises, mouth hot and insistent as he backed you against the wall of the barracks.

Your head spun. All that tension, all those stolen glances and clenched fists, finally boiling over into something raw and electric.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were panting. His forehead pressed to yours, his grip still bruising on your waist.

"Mine," he rasped. "No more games. No more letting them touch you like that. You’re fuckin’ mine now."

Your pulse thundered in your ears. "Yeah. Yours."

He kissed you again like he was sealing the promise.

[harrysfolklore]

lando norris being down bad for his girlfriend: a compilation

summary: lando norris can’t help but talk about his girlfriend whenever he cans, fans make compilation videos about it

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

Lando Norris could be described as someone who's not scared of saying whatever crossed his mind.

And that's why he never, ever, missed the opportunity to talk about his girlfriend whenever he had the chance.

He mentioned her during interviews, press conferences, social media post and even fan interactions. To the point where fans started making compilation videos with all the moments he publicly obsessed over his girlfriend.

The most popular one gathered millions of views on YouTube, showing multiple occasions Lando couldn't help but be down bad for her.

The video started with a clip from Q&A with fans, someone asked him about his favorite way to relax after a race. Without missing a beat, Lando replied, "Cuddling up with my girlfriend, of course. Nothing beats that."

"You're really whipped man, It's embarrassing," Oscar, his teammate, teased beside him, making the audience laugh.

"It's not, really." Lando shrugged proudly.

The next clip was taken from McLaren's Tiktok account, their content creator tried to do the "Can you watch my ___ for a second" prank on Lando.

"Oh my girlfriend already did this prank to me," Lando said, laughing at the camera, "Baby, If you're watching this, I miss you. Your pranks are way better than McLaren's"

The video moved to show Lando during a post-qualifying interview, his suit hanging by his waist and his fireproofs showing, when asked about his strategy for the race, he cheekily replied, "Well, first I'm going to call my girlfriend for some good luck wishes. Then, I'll focus on getting to the front."

"Zak Brown should hire your girlfriend as your strategist then," the interviewer joked.

"That would be great but I don't think we would be getting any job done. You know what they say about mixing business with pleasure."

The next clip showed Lando with his friend and fellow driver Max Fewtrell, playing a trivia game about how well did they knew each other. Max had to answer what was Lando's worst habit.

"I'm going to say leaving dirty plates around the house," he said, showing his board, "You do mate, admit it."

"My girlfriend would agree on that," he admitted, "She's always complaining about it."

"I don't know how she's still living with you."

"Because she loves me, and I would die if she leaves me."

On the same note, a video of Oscar teasing Lando followed right after.

"Who's most likely to snore?" Lando read the question, and Oscar quickly put ut the cutout with Lando's face, "How are you so sure? You didn't even hesitate."

"Mate, I've heard you, plus your girlfriend literally complained about not being able to sleep properly last night because you kept snoring."

"I did keep her up last night, but it wasn't just because of the snoring," Lando said, a cheeky grin on his face.

"Put the not safe for work disclaimer at the beginning of this video please."

The next segment was from Lando's own Youtube channel, he was doing a little vlog in Miami before the race weekend.

"Hi everyone," he said, filming himself in the mirror with his camera, "Today I'm back with another LandoLog, I'm going to be filming some behind the scenes of this Miami weekend, so without further ado, let's go," he moved the camera around, focusing on his girlfriend who was putting some mascara on her eyelashes, "Here's my beautiful girl, who takes ages to get ready. Say hi baby."

"Hi everyone," his girlfriend waved, laughing, "I'm not taking ages, I'm just making sure I look good."

"You always look good for me," Lando said, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek before turning the camera back to himself, "See, I told you she's the best."

The next clip showed Lando and Oscar together once again, this time they were giving a tour around the McLaren hub.

"This is my driver's room," Lando said as he opened the door, "It's cleaner than Oscar's, clearly, and looks like I have a bed."

Lando moved to put together the small bed that was behind the door, "This is an upgrade from last year, we didn't have this. I'll be definitely giving it some good use, to nap or with my girlfriend."

"Can we have a video where you're not a horndog please?" Oscar said, putting his hands on his hips.

"You're the horndog, I never said what we were going to use it for, we're just going to cuddle."

The video moved to show one of Lando's post race interviews after winning the Miami GP, he had been asked ho would be the most excited person about this win besides him.

"My girlfriend, definitely. I couldn't have done it without her," Lando said, his voice filled with emotion, "She's been my biggest supporter, my inspiration, and my motivation. This win is as much hers as it is mine."

The video then cut to a scene from Lando's gaming stream with Max Verstappen. The two drivers were deep into a game of Call of Duty, their banter and laughter filling the screen. Lando was focused, his eyes glued to the monitor as he coordinated with Max.

Just then, Lando's phone buzzed on the table beside him. He glanced at the screen and his expression softened, the comment section noticing, "Hey, mate, I need to go. My girl needs me for something," he said, setting down his controller.

"Lando! Are you serious right now?" Max said, his eyes still glued to the screen.

"I am, see ya," he turned to the camera, smiling not so apologetically "Sorry, guys, duty calls. See you next time."

The last scene was a snippet from an interview, Lando had been asked what he saw in his future.

He paused, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Honestly? I see a lot of racing, hopefully some championships," he laughed, "but most importantly, I see her. I can't imagine my life without her."

The screen faded to black, showing a text that read: Get you a man who is as down for you as Lando Norris is for his girlfriend.

[beloveds-embrace]

(More of designationless reader based on this idea)

You had always been less.

Less noticeable, less intrusive, less of a presence that mattered, and you learned early on that your family didn’t want you too close. Their scents were for each other, their touches were reserved for those who belonged. You were something other, something they tolerated rather than accepted.

It started small- your mother shifting away when you tried to curl up beside her, your father keeping his voice clipped, distant, like warmth was something you hadn’t earned. Then it became something more. You weren’t allowed in the nest, weren’t allowed to linger where they laid together in a comforting tangle of limbs and scents. You could watch from the doorway, but never enter. Could exist near, but never within.

And so, your body adapted to your family- and now it it was adapting to your pack.

Once more, it started with small things.

The way Ghost would stand a little closer than usual, his hulking body looming just within reach. The way Gaz would brush his fingers over your wrist whenever he passed by, lingering like he was trying to confirm something, brows furrowed. The way Soap had developed the sudden habit of hooking his chin over your shoulder, inhaling deeply before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.

You thought nothing of it at first. They were tactile- it wasn’t unusual for them to be close, to press up against you like you had a scent they could bury themselves in. You had never complained about it before, so you assumed it was just… normal.

But then Price had done it.

He wasn’t the type to be overly affectionate- comforting, yes, steady and there,, but not one for unnecessary touches even if sometimes he’d hold you tight and close. And yet, when you had handed him a cup of coffee that morning, he had taken it and your wrist, holding you still for just a moment too long. His fingers had tightened, just slightly, like he was resisting the urge to pull you closer. His nose flared subtly, lips parting before he let you go with a slow exhale.

You frowned at him, but he only took a sip of his coffee and looked away like nothing had happened.

It started escalating after that- after you joined their nest and arms regularly of your own will.

Ghost wasn’t just standing close anymore- he was standing behind you, his chin nearly brushing the crown of your head as if debating whether to bury his nose there. Soap had stopped using pillows entirely, opting instead to just tuck himself against your side, his face pressed somewhere against your shoulder, your throat, your hair. Gaz had taken to curling around you when you were sitting together, nuzzling shamelessly, inhaling against the skin of your neck like he was trying to memorize something.

And the worst part?

You could feel it.

There had always been something missing, something hollow where others had instincts- some part of you that had never quite woken up. You had learned to live without it, learned to ignore the way packs moved around you instead of with you, the way scent markers never quite stuck no matter how much time you spent pressed into someone’s arms. You had long since accepted that whatever part of you was supposed to respond to this kind of attention had simply been burned out of you long ago.

But now-

Now there was something stirring, something faint and new and wrong.

A deep itch beneath your skin, something that made your stomach curl and your head swim every time one of them leaned in close. Something that made the back of your throat tickle whenever you rested with them, calm and content.

It wasn’t a scent, not really- more like the promise of one, something so faint and elusive that even you couldn’t quite catch it.

But they could, because they had noticed before you did.

That much became painfully clear when Ghost backed you into the corner of the common room one evening, pressing close, his head tilting as he breathed deep, slow, deliberate.

“…The hell are you doing?” Your voice came out unsteady, but he didn’t move, only leaned in closer, eyes dark and fixated like he was trying to map something beneath your skin.

“You smell different.” He murmured.

Your heart lurched.

“No, I don’t. I don’t have any smell.”

Ghost just huffed, a sound that was almost a growl, but not quite. Behind him, Soap shifted where he sat, his nose scrunching, his brow furrowed like something was bothering him.

“I noticed it too,” Gaz muttered. “It’s… new. But it’s there.”

Price had been silent up until that point, but when he finally spoke, his voice was careful.

“…It’s not strong.” His gaze pinned you, assessing, like he was searching for something just out of reach. “But it’s there, love.”

Your stomach twisted.

You had lived your whole life thinking you were empty, thinking you had simply been born wrong. And now-

Now they were telling you it had been there the whole time?

You- you couldn’t believe it. You refused to believe it, refused to accept it after everything, but-

That night, you barely got a moment to yourself.

Ghost wasn’t just standing close anymore- he was practically wrapped around you, his face pressed against your throat, his breath hot and deep as he inhaled in his sleep, mouthing at your neck. Soap was sprawled over your stomach, arms locked around your waist, while Gaz had curled up at your side, face tucked into your shoulder. Even John, John, who had never been one for unnecessary indulgence, had you caged, his body curled around the entire mess of you, nose buried in your hair, lips pressed against your temple.

It was suffocating. It was overwhelming.

It was the safest you had ever felt in your life.

Omegaverse Masterlist