#do you know what if feels like to be loved...

[thalwri]

LOOK AT HER B☆TT!

STARRING: xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus & caleb x reader

synopsis: you decide to be a bit of a tease to your boyfriend(s) and give them a good little peek. but you're freaks. of course it'll be more than just that. they'll always make sure you finish what you start. and if you can't, don't worry, they can take care of it for you!

warnings: porn no plot, backshots, inappropriate use of evol, super hard boners, masturbation, spanking, bathtub sex, public sex, cockwarming, dry humping, cunnilingus, panty fucking, choking, your men are just nasty freaks for you.

wc: 5.4k in total, roughly 1000 per li

an: happy belated birthday, @jadestone2!! here's one of the gifties i have for you <3. hope you all enjoy!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

XAVIER

There’s never a day where Xavier doesn’t believe the moments he wakes up from his naps aren’t blessings hidden as disruptions. 

Last week, he woke up to see you watering his plants looking like a cute bunny in one of his many hoodies. Two days ago he woke up to you halfway through placing a pillow beneath his head because he somehow landed up sleeping on the floor.

Today, he woke up to you cooking lunch for both of you. In nothing but one of his old sweaters.

It’s a particularly short sweater, even for him. The way it rides up your curves each time you reach for the cabinet hypnotises him. It’s like he’s in a trance, the way he hops off the couch —  bedhead and all — and stalks slowly behind you like a predator about to catch his prey.

Though, in this case, he is technically your prey. 

The outfit was a deliberate move from you. You had planned it the moment you realised he was asleep on the couch. You decided that instead of waking him like you usually would to teach him how to cook without burning the apartment down, you’d instead give him a surprise to wake up to. 

You blame ovulation, you just haven’t gotten to spend that much time with him since you’re both so so busy. Your fingers and vibrator definitely weren’t enough to substitute for the immense pleasure he gives you. Why not give him a little treat?

Xavier can feel himself throbbing in his pants by the time he reaches the kitchen. He doesn’t even have to glance down to know that his length is poking hard against his sweatpants forming a large tent. Judging from how the pulsation and heat down there is growing by the second, he’s definitely leaking precum from his slit.

His mouth waters at the sight of you simply humming to yourself while you chop away at the vegetables on the cutting board. Each and everything you do brings his cock to an almost painful throb.

The way your ass looks so soft and plush and barely hidden beneath his sweater— his sweater— boils deep in his core, so deep that all the blood rushing straight to his cock gets him lightheaded. 

His hands start grabbing the air in state of being half-sleepy half-horny for you. If you could just bend over just a little bit—

And you do. Fuck yes, you do.

You drop the your knife to the floor, quickly hopping on the spot to avoid the blade. In your eyes, you dodged a very sharp bullet. In Xavier’s, you just drove him deeper into his insatiable abyss of hunger for you.

The jump alone pushed the sweater up as far as your waist, revealing that delicious curve of your ass, your hip dips that he loves to lick and grip on, and your spine— fuck, he loves staring at your back.

“Oh my fuck,” You cuss under your breath and bend over to pick it up. The remaining blood in his brain is about to shoot out of his nose. He could cum on the spot. Being blessed with such a sight of your cunt openly greeting him makes his knees buckle. Drool is dripping from the corners of his mouth. Fuck.

Xavier has to fight the urge to just moan out loud from the sight alone. The way his cock keeps bouncing inside his sweats rubbing his tip against the fabric doesn’t make the situation any easier for him. He’s glued to the spot, hypnotised, enamoured, pussy drunk before he even gets a taste of you.

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” He mutters under his breath. Not even a blink later Xavier finds himself on his knees right behind you— he teleported because he was mentally stuck to the ground. 

You obviously sense the change in the air, along with the new sense of warmth radiating right behind you.

“Xavier- oh.” You glance over your shoulder to find him nuzzling his head on your thighs, rambling incomprehensible words so fast you can barely catch on. A warm wet slither travels up your thighs and close to your core.

“Let me have a taste.” His whines. It would have been a command if it wasn’t for how high pitched his voice becomes each time he speaks. “Fuck, let me taste— please, let me taste."

Smiling to yourself, you sigh in relief that he finally woke up. “Of course, baby, take what you need.”

His mind snaps, shatters, splits into pieces—your affirmation is everything he needs to hear to plant his face between your cheeks and slither his tongue right into your cunt.

You both moan shamelessly from the contact, Xavier from tasting you and you from feeling you after so, so long. You hand immediately drops to his head to push him closer and closer, his hands fondling and squeezing your ass like a stress toy. It’s the only thing keeping him from stroking himself.

His hips jut up your leg in rhythm, bringing him to rut on you and spread his pre all over you through his soaked sweatpants.

“So good.” His muffled voice praises you. “You taste so good, fuck.” 

Your grip tightens on the soft tufts of his hair, burning hot into his scalp from his fingers reaching your bud of nerves. He circles, pinches, and rubs at your clit like he’s desperately trying to make you cum as quickly as possible.

“Xavier,” You whine, practically grinding on his face making his head bob in tandem with your needy ruts. “Need you inside.”

Literally anything you say can be a buzzword in his ears. Xavier shoots up to his feet, ignoring the dizziness that strikes his body in a flash to push his sweatpants down low enough for his cock to audibly slap his abdomen. 

His cock continuously bounces up and down, smacking his skin with his leaky tip to create a sticky string connecting his cock to his stomach. The lewd imagery is riveting, mind numbing, he can barely think straight. He doesn’t even notice you aligning his cock with your hand, stroking him while his brain goes dumb from desire.

“Snap out of it!” You hiss, practically losing balance from how much your pussy aches for him. “Xavier!”

A switch must have gone off to have him immediately slip inside until he bottomed out fully inside you. His arms wrap tight around your waist and he immediately ruts into you like he’s got a point to prove.

“‘M gonna make you feel real good, baby.” He groans, licking a wet stripe of spit up the length of your neck to your jaw. “Gonna make you feel so good.”

ZAYNE

Zayne can feel himself losing threads of his control. He can feel his cock beginning to strain against the confines of his slacks. 

All because you’re bending over to pick up a fork he dropped. 

It wasn’t on purpose, he swears. It was just that his hand slipped while he was talking to you. One long look at that beautiful face of yours, watching you laugh and his hand slips pushing the fork to the floor. He can’t help himself, he’s just so down bad when it comes to you.

What he hadn’t expected was for you to stand and reach to pick it up, despite him telling you it’s okay. What he really hadn’t seen coming was that you’d turn away from him and bend over, showing that you were barely wearing anything underneath your skirt.

And by barely, there was a very clear opening of the crotch area revealing your pussy to his eyes and his alone.

By the time you stand up straight, ice was creeping up his neck to cool his face down and reduce the blatant blush spreading across his face and ears. 

“You okay?” You ask as you place the fork back down by his plate. You fight the muscles on your face to keep yourself from grinning. Zayne only nods as if the ice has stiffened his neck.

You chuckle to yourself, he’s so cute. If it isn’t the sugar he relishes in consuming whenever he gets the chance, it’s how flustered he gets. Cheeks reddened, struggling to maintain eye contact… it’s all so cute until he starts to get back at you for putting him in that state.

You begin to turn away until his hand catches your wrist, grip cold and needy. Before you can even ask, you find yourself being tugged towards him, hearing the faint ruffle of his pants being unzipped and then the soft schlick of your cunt being stuffed by his cock.

“Not a sound.” His voice is cold as steel yet dripping with desire, holding you down tight by the waist to stop you from moving. You can just feel him twitching inside you. 

“I could’ve held back and waited until we reached the car but seeing you in that lace,” He adjusts, jutting his cock up deeper into you but not giving you the pleasure of fucking you good in the middle of the cafe. “Seeing that delicious pussy… you must be shameless.”

Feeling a slew of moans brimming at the back of your throat, you bite your lip hard enough to make it bleed just to hold yourself back. You wanted this the entire time but you didn’t expect it to happen this early. Not to mention literally sitting in a full cafe while cockwarming your lover.

If anything, the goal you had in mind was to get him riled up enough to humble you in his car. This, however, looks like it’ll be so much better.

“You’re getting so wet, my love.” Zayne whispers, feeling more at ease as his evol relaxes. His lips press hot kisses on the shell of your ear. His breath is hot on your skin and his once ice cold hands tighten their hold on your waist. “Is sitting on my cock in front of all these people turning you on?”

You won’t lie, it is turning on. You’re soaked through and through to the point where your arousal slick is dripping onto his pants. If it isn’t the way he’s teasing you in that hushed sexy voice of his, it’s his girthy length pulsating deep inside you.

Your walls involuntarily clench on him, making squelches loud enough for the couple in the booth behind you to hear. Zayne can feel his control slipping, feeling the plush of your ass so comfy on his lap, the way your pussy is just clamping tight on him— he just has to remind you to behave.

He raises your hips just a bit and slams you back down on his cock with a soft plap. You both have to swallow your noises of pleasure. Zayne can’t help himself but fondle your ass beneath your skirt, feeling that soft flesh that he loves so much.

“Zayne,” You whimper, feeling your core tighten in heat. “I need you.” There’s only so much discipline you have when it comes to cockwarming him— and being in a literal public space doesn’t make the matter any easier.

“Talk to me, darling.” Zayne murmurs, nudging your legs apart with his knee to grant himself access to your throbbing clit. Discreetly under the table, his fingers find your sensitive nub covered by sheer lace and gently rubs and teases you in cruel, rough circles.

“This is what you wanted, no?” He muses, now using two fingers to pinch and pull at your clit while his hips twitch into yours— a clear indicator of him being close. He would never admit it out loud, but the risk was turning him on too.

“After all that teasing, wearing those panties here for me to see, you didn’t think I’d give you just what you need?”

Before you can even muster a response, loud screams erupt around you followed by scrambles of people rushing to leave the cafe. You both snap out of your trance to see wanderers lurking outside the cafe and citizens rushing to escape.

Out of impulse, you move to stand up only to be held back down, deeper into Zayne’s length.

“Zayne, the—“

“Look, hunters have already been dispatched.”

You glance out the window to see a hoard of hunters already in battle against the wanderers, swiftly moving people out of the way. Mind still fuzzy from being stuffed, you ease back into his embrace.

“And since the cafe’s empty…” Zayne grins into your nape and presses a wet kiss on your skin. His hands roughly push your skirt high up your waist, relishing in the sight of your plump ass so close to him. 

He pumps his cock right into your cunt, shamelessly moaning into your ear as you whine from his ministrations. “Let’s take care of this needy pussy.”

RAFAYEL

He probably shouldn’t have asked you to join him in the bath.

Yes, you hadn’t seen him in a week, and yes the only time you could see him without disruption was coincidentally his bathing time. Buuuuuut… a little bath wouldn’t hurt, right?

WRONG! Rafayel can feel his cock rising beneath the water. He’s struggling to think. Look at you, reaching for the shampoo on the little side table next to the bath. Stretching so nice that he can watch droplets of water cascade down your spine and fall into the crack between your plump ass cheeks.

Don’t get him wrong, he’s seen you naked more than enough times to be well accustomed to seeing your posterior— he’s painted you like this more than fifty times. But this particular sight is something that not even paint can accurately capture.

He watches you spread your legs wider, exposing your core right to his hungry eyes.

“Fuck.” Rafayel curses under his breath. He wraps his hand wraps tight around his cock, slowly pumping his shaft beneath the water.

“What’s wrong?” You muse, wriggling your hips just enough to make your ass bounce and smack the water.

Just enough to tease him. Just enough to make him lose his patience, grab you by the hips and fuck you so good that half the water in the tub ends up splattered on the floor— along with a few other fluids.

You know just how much Rafayel loves your ass, plump and soft just for him to fondle and nibble on. You’d found paintings scattered around his studio and even more bound within his sketchbooks, all having a small note of his insatiable thirst for you.

Don’t get him started on the view he gets when he takes you from behind.

He’s shamelessly stroking his cock, feeling the heat of unbearable pleasure surge through his veins. He has a very strong feeling you know what you’re doing, rudely moving like that for him. Precum mixes with water and his breath goes heavy.

“Is it that hard to get shampoo?” He huffs in a huskier tone, one you easily recognise as him getting more aroused. “Can’t be that hard, cutie.”

“Can’t seem to reach it,” You deliberately whine, dramatically arching your back for the water to collide with your skin like a wave crashing with the shore. All that work and Rafayel just doesn’t seem to budge.

“Uh huh.” He’s in a daze. Eyes locked like glue on your ass, watching your sweet nectar start to drip from your core, almost as if your pussy could sense the rise of desire in his cock. You are his bride, after all. It’s only natural to share each other’s desires.

“Just— just keep trying.” His words slur as the sounds of his hand stroking his cock grow louder just enough for you to hear. “You’ll get it.”

The splashing and rhythmic pumps definitely catch your awareness, and that only irritates you more. Why isn’t he doing anything about it? You softly grunt and snatch the shampoo from the counter, ensuring you lean back directly above his crotch. 

“Got it!” You grin and glance over your shoulder. And my, my, my, is he a sight for sore eyes.

His cheeks are flushed redder than a tomato, his hand shamelessly jerks away at his length to pleasure himself while his eyes are locked on your ass.

“You were ignoring me on purpose!” You huff, hitting his face with water to catch his attention.

“Do you even know what you do to me when you act like this?” Rafayel releases his cock from his grip and holds your hips to align your pussy with his throbbing length. “I just had to wait for you to come back.”

You can feel your eyes twitching. “I wanted you to lean over me and fuck me senseless, Raf, why do you think I was taking so long?!” 

“Oh.” There he goes with that faux shock. “I thought you were just struggling. Wasn’t really surprised. But now that I know what you want…”

He swiftly pulls you onto him while raising his hips, filling you to the brim with his cock. He doesn’t waste any time to start snapping his hips to pound his cock as deep as it can possibly go— which isn’t that hard considering you’re soaked like a fucking sponge.

Your eyes roll as soon as he hits that delicious sensitive spot instantly, moans ripping from your throat to echo around his bathroom like a lewd symphony. His leaky cockhead continuously pokes that gummy spot as if it’s target practice. You can barely keep up with how hard he’s going, your balance keeps slipping from being half submerged with water despite the death grip you have on the edges of the tub.

“Rafa—“ Choke on your moans, practically hypnotised by the way the water moves with you, drenching you, him, and the floor completely. His thick length just stretches you out so so good you can barely think straight, your only ambition is to squeeze around him tight enough to memorise each vein— as if you haven’t already.

“Not— fuck— not gonna last long—“ Even better for you. You want to have him fill you up, that’s what you’ve been aching for the entire time.

“Don’t hold back,” You squeeze around his cock tighter forcing your walls to clench as hard as you can, stringing out a noise from his lips that sounds like a mix of a moan and a whimper. “Want you to cum deep inside.”

The water jumps out of the bathtub and up Rafayel’s thighs as your hips roll in tandem with his thrusts, landing a noisy slap of his sacks against your clit— only bringing you closer to unravel on his cock. 

The schlap schlap schlap of soaked skin colliding in an obscene tempo begins to create a symphony in his head that he forces himself to memorise. The pieces he could create from the sounds of your pleasure could make audiences break down into tears.

“Gonna fill you up good,” Rafayel muses right into your ear. “All that teasing… you deserve it, don’t you?”

You can barely speak from how hard you’re going, grinding your hips on his to chase your pleasure while bringing him to his own undoing. All you can do is nod, and that’s all the signal he needs to keep going.

And he won’t stop for a while.

SYLUS

You have no business bending down like that.

Especially not on his bed. In one of his many tailored shirts that barely cover your torso because it keeps slipping off your shoulder. Bending over his bed to reach for your book.

Why were you bending over in such a scandalous position? It’s simple, really. You threw your book off the bed in the midst of your cuddle/reading session because you read an unexpected plot twist. A very erotic plot twist.

Sylus had made a soft yet audible whine when you pried his hands off your waist but his little noises — which only you have the privilege of hearing — fell to silence when you crawled to the edge of the bed and leaned right over the edge, leaving the image of you straddling air for him to consume.

“Need help, sweetie?” Sylus muses as he watches your struggle, both amused and aroused. A very familiar hardening length is starting to push out of his robe’s parted front— and he conveniently decided not to wear anything apart from his robe tonight. 

“Nope.” You huff over your shoulder. The book is more than an arm’s length away— why did you throw it so aggressively? 

You’d been in that position for longer than you intended, fully absorbed on the goal of taking your book. What’s taking you so long was the fact that you are about to fall off the bed. Feeling gravity attempt to pull you to the floor (again), you swiftly wiggle your ass as you move your legs bit by bit to push you further into the bed.

All Sylus can see is the ricochet of your soft cheeks with each movement. It takes so much deep restraint to not crawl to you and bite your ass just for the fun of it. 

 But he’ll have to distract himself even if his eyes refuse to look away. “How’s the search going?”

“Terribly.” You huff— but it sounds more like a suppressed moan from stretching your body to abnormal lengths to reach for that damn book.

That just makes it worse for your poor kindred lover. His hard on reveals itself by pushing his robe out of the way— that’s just how strong his love and desire is for you when you unintentionally tempt him. Now imagine what happens when it’s deliberate. 

He doesn’t even try to touch himself, knowing the eventual slick noises will catch your attention. It’s becoming unbearable to watch you in the midst of your hunt, trying to keep his eyes on you when all he can see is your arched back accentuating the curve of your ass all while his length twitches and leaks in his peripheral. 

Each movement of your reaching forward or rebalancing yourself made your flesh jiggle. Every. Single. Movement. That plush, softness that he’d always grip on tight when you clench on him hard, or that he’d smack soft or hard when he aches to hear you moan so deep in his ear that it’s engraved into his every thought. 

When you move one more time, if you jiggle that ass one more time— and you eventually do— Sylus closes his eyes in blissful resignation. 

Fuck it.

Smack!

It’s been hours. Hours since he pounced on you.

His hand collides with your cheeks to watch that delicious, cock throbbing ricochet that makes him harder and harder than he’d like to admit.

You’re hours deep into him being deep inside you, still bent well over the edge of your bed with the only thing keeping you in place being his powerful grip on your hips.

“I feel like you did that on purpose.” Sylus purrs and pulls your hips flush against his to ensure you can feel the curve of his cock dive into your pussy with each powerful thrust. “You could’ve hopped off the bed— ffuck— and yet-“ smack! “You chose to be a tease instead.”

You can only respond with a giggle that sounded more like a moan. Blood is rushing to your head like a current, your hands grip the bedding to claw at every time he pounds your weeping pussy harder and harder just how you like it.

Was it intentional? Maybe.

In your defence, you did actually throw the book out of shock. You were about to simply hop off the bed to make it quick but you had stopped and came up with the idea to tease your lover. Just a little bit. You did neglect the fact that you weren’t wearing anything under his shirt that you wore and that the book made you wetter than you’d like to admit.

Another thing you underestimated was that Sylus is down horrendously bad for you. So down bad that seeing your pussy glisten in the dimmed lights while you’re bent over the edge of the bed would drive him mad. 

“Took— took you long enough!” You whined as a harder push of his hips almost threw your off the bed, bringing you closer to your edge (for the fifth time tonight). 

The position you are in is just too good. The bed’s already soaked through and through with cum from both of you that somehow managed to leak out of your hole while he’s been plowing you. Your skin is warm and sticky with sweat and slick adding extra deliciously maddening friction for every time your hips collide.

Sylus is grinding— no, rutting on your ass, moaning loud into your ear from how soft and cushy it feels, how your pussy literally swallows his cock and refuses to let him out. 

“Keep squeezing me like this and we’ll end up making a big mess, Kitten.” He seethes, bending over your body to lick the shell of your ear while his cock still ravages you, dragging through your gummy walls until its shape is ingrained in you.

“S-Sy!” You whine. You can feel yourself falling. At an instant, a gust of black and red mist swirls round your body and raises you both to keep you in place. 

“Relax, I got you.” That purr is more than enough to make you cum again. “I’m not done yet. You teased me with this pretty ass of yours.” Another smack! hits your skin— you’re sure it’ll leave a mark of his hand.

“I plan to make the most of it tonight.”

CALEB

He can literally smell your arousal in the air. 

It’s not even like you’re doing anything. He can just smell it. 

That sweet musk that he chases to inhale whenever he does your laundry. That delicious scent the snorts into his brain whenever his face is locked between your legs slurping up your slick to satiate his thirst that only you can provide. 

You aren’t doing anything. Just lying on the couch. Legs spread. Wearing as little as a crop top and one of his favourite panties. One that he’s definitely used for other purposes. 

Lying on the couch with a pillow underneath your abdomen to keep you comfy while you scroll away on your phone. Lying on the couch with your ass up in the air, panties bunching in to accentuate your curvaceous form.

You aren’t doing anything. And that’s the problem.

Your legs hang casually over his lap, directly above his crotch. You can literally feel his boner growing beneath you but you’re playing it off, pretending you don’t even notice. Pretending you don’t even notice the strain in his voice, the need brewing in his core like a pot boiling over onto the stove.

“D-Do you mind, uh—“ Caleb stops himself before a moan slips out from his lips. His knuckles are about to turn white from how hard he’s gripping the couch to stay in place. Anything to stop his hips from acting out of their own accord.

“Huh?” You stretch your legs right over his bulge, making sure you rub just enough to build up friction. You’re such a tease.

Caleb’s rendered speechless. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing heavy through his nostrils to gather some level of control. Jokes on him, that flew out the window the moment he saw your ass.

He can’t seem to stop staring at it. Seeing how you naturally get wet just from being within his proximity, how your slick coats your underwear and exaggerates the puff of your pussy lips especially when you’re horny, how he can literally smell it—

“Caleb?” 

His throat goes dry hearing his name leave your lips. Not even, he’s salivating. Literally dribbling from the mouth like he saw a meal after weeks of not eating. He might as well assume that is the case.

“Yeah?” He chokes out while forcing himself to pull his gaze away from your ass. What was he trying to ask earlier? “Oh— you mind moving your legs a bit? I need to stretch.”

“Stretch?” You innocently ask — but that grinch-like grin slapped on your face only widens. “You just sat down.”

That is just all the confirmation he needs to know you’re doing this intentionally. He sighs and grips your thigh. Tight.

“I’m going to turn over and eat you out through your panties if you don’t let me stand up.” 

You didn’t expect him to fold that quickly. Usually, when either of you play this teasing game, it can take up to hours for either of you to fold— be it literally grinding on each other or using subtle innuendoes. This time, he looks extra needy for you.

You turn to look at him over your shoulder, wondering if he’s joking. He’s not. His eyes are practically turning another colour from all that arousal brimming deep within him, not to mention the his hard length raging in his pants.

“Yeah?” You tilt your head, gracing him with a Cheshire grin. Caleb doesn’t even bother speaking. He plants his face right onto your clothed cunt while the rest of his body follows suit, laying comfortably in a makeshift sniper position to eat your pussy until you soak the couch.

“Fuck yeah.” His breath is hot on your skin, prickling goosebumps all over your body. 

He can hear the squelching gush of your arousal spill out of your pussy like a bursting faucet. His tongue slurps up a taste of your desire through your panties, suckling as much of your taste through the fabric as he can.

He might ruin this pair of panties but he’s more than happy to take you out to buy replacements— just to ruin them later. 

Your taste is divine, heavenly. He could worship you every damn day if you ask him to. He’d do anything to drown in your taste, your scent, in you. It all just feels too good not to rut his cock on the bed like a dog in heat.

“Oh, fuck, Caleb,” You sigh into the cushion trapped between your arms, bucking your hips back for him to ravage you completely. No matter how many times either of you try to tease each other, nothing beats the satisfaction that comes from breaking.

The way his clothed cock just perfectly fit in the junction between the cushion and couch is mouth watering. Eating you out while the stimulation going off in his cock like alarms is more than enough to make him cum, but he’d never waste his seed on something that isn’t you.

Caleb reluctantly pulls his face away from your core and strokes himself while he aligns his cockhead with your sobbing cunt. “I think I’m gonna ruin these panties, baby.”

“No, they’re my favourite!” You whine at the feeling of his cock rubbing up and down your clothed cunt, the stimulation from how wet you are makes your back arch like a cat. “Don’t you dare.”

“Don’t worry,” You can practically hear the smile spread on his face as he leans over you to press his cockhead into your cunt, pushing his panty-covered tip inside. “I’ll just fuck your panties a little bit. Then I’ll give you just what you need.”

The mere heat of his tip throbbing inside you drives you into a lust-dazed frenzy. You hump your hips in tandem with his short, torturous thrust, relishing in his swallowed moans from how your soaked panties rub on him just right. 

“So tight,” He whines into your ear, arm slithering under your head to put you in a gentle headlock, just the way you like it. “Pussy’s so tight— fuck—“

Caleb’s arm slides between you to tug your panties to the side then slides his cock right inside, slow and deep. The tight fill just burns so good that you both make noises loud enough for anyone outside the house to hear. 

“This is so mmmuch better,” You smile into his arm. 

“Yeah?” The muscles of his biceps and triceps bulge as he tightens his headlock on you. You choke on your breath just as his cock starts to pound into your cunt, wet plaps from his hip smacking your ass sounding in the living room. “Good. We’re gonna stay like this. Nice ’n snug. Til neither of us can think."

a/n: this was so fun to write, LET ME BE FREAKY!

[thenanamis]

ASKING JJK MEN, "IS IT IN YET?"

a/n : y'all know what y'all signed up for ʘ⁠‿⁠ʘ

KENTO doesn’t speak at first.

He just stills. Half of his thick cock stretching your cunt, your legs already trembling from how slow he’s been working you open. His jaw clenches. He closes his eyes.

Then—he exhales through his nose. A low, calm breath. The kind that says you’ve made a terrible mistake.

"Not in yet?" he repeats quietly, as if he's genuinely confirming.

And then he slams the rest of his cock in with a brutal snap of his hips.

You cry out, back arching, hands scrabbling for something to hold onto — but he doesn't give you a second. He sets a pace, deep and rhythmic, hips snapping into yours with punishing precision.

"Maybe I need to remind you what it feels like when it is."

His hand finds your throat, not squeezing — just there — anchoring you as he drives into you harder, his composure unraveling with every thrust.

"You’ll know next time. You’ll feel it tomorrow. You’ll be dripping my cum and still sore, and you’ll know it was in."

And he doesn’t stop until you’re gasping, shaking, ruined — and no longer so smug.

SATORU stares at you like you’ve just handed him the key to hell and told him to let loose.

"Is it in yet?"

He repeats it under his breath, a slow grin spreading across his face. It’s not playful. It’s dangerous. His cock throbs inside you, and you swear you can feel his hands tighten on your hips.

"Ohhh. You wanna play that game, huh?"

Then he pulls out — to the tip — and slams back in, hard enough to make the entire bed jolt. You squeal. He laughs.

And then he starts fucking you.

Not making love. Not teasing. Just fucking — rough, fast, unforgiving. Your legs fly open wider, toes curling, eyes rolling back with every brutal thrust.

"Still can’t feel it? Want me to go deeper, baby?"

He flips you like nothing, presses you into the mattress, and drives into you from behind, one hand buried in your hair, the other squeezing your ass hard enough to bruise.

"Gonna fuck that dumb question right outta you."

And he does. You’re a mess in minutes — crying, moaning, your voice breaking — and he still keeps pounding you, grinning like a madman as you scream his name.

SUGURU goes very, very still.

His cock is halfway inside you, thick and pulsing. You’re already clenching, already moaning, but you look up with that little smirk and say it:

"Is it in yet?"

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t laugh. He just looks at you.

"Say that again."

You do. Barely. With a little nervous tremble in your throat.

And then he grabs your wrists, pins them above your head, and thrusts in deep — in one long, brutal motion that steals every breath from your lungs. Your cunt grips him instantly, tight and soaking, and he groans low, deep in his chest.

"Still think I’m not in? Hm?"

His hips move slow — so slow — but punishing. Deep enough to hit that sweet, devastating spot with every roll of his hips.

He watches your face twist with pleasure. Watches your confidence melt into gasping, ruined whimpers.

"You wanna be a brat? Then take it. Take all of me. Feel what happens when you mouth off to a man like me."

And you do. You take it. Crying his name by the time he cums deep inside you.

CHOSO gasps.

You say it half-jokingly, with that sparkle in your eye. He’s just started easing into you, careful, gentle, worried you’ll be too tight for him — and you tease,

"Is it in yet?"

His whole body goes rigid. His hands shake. His eyes go wide.

"You didn’t feel that? I’m in, I—"

And then something shifts. You see it.

He stops worrying.

And he thrusts in hard, deeper than he ever has, his cock slamming into your softest parts as a sharp cry rips from your throat.

"You feel it now?"

You don’t get a chance to respond — he’s already moving, his thrusts messy and frantic, fucking you with something close to desperation. His hair sticks to his cheeks. He’s panting, moaning, his voice cracking every time he pushes in.

"You feel every inch now, right? You know I’m in—fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight, I can’t—"

He cums hard, burying his cock as deep as it’ll go, then presses his forehead to yours with a breathless little whimper.

"Don’t… don’t say that ever again. I’ll lose it."

TOJI laughs. But it’s not funny.

It’s the kind of laugh that means you just fucked up.

"Is it in yet?" you ask, cocky, smiling — and he’s already deep.

His expression drops. He leans down until his lips are at your ear.

"You wanna feel it? Fine."

Then he grabs your ankles, throws your legs over his shoulders, and starts slamming into you — hard. Brutal. Loud. Your headboard slams the wall. Your back arches clean off the mattress as your moans break into screams.

"Still don’t feel it? I’ll fuck you til it hurts."

And he does. He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t give you room to speak. Just fucks you like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out, until you’re crying, shaking, body twitching with every thrust.

He cums deep, fills you to the brim, and watches your wrecked expression with a low, filthy groan.

"Bet you’ll never ask that again, huh?"

SUKUNA halts. Looks at you.

"What did you just say?"

His cock’s stretching you open, thick and heavy, and you’re already panting — but your eyes glitter with mischief, and you whisper it again:

"Is it in yet?"

You don’t even have time to blink before his hand is around your throat and he’s burying himself to the hilt in one merciless thrust.

You scream. He groans. And then he starts fucking you like he’s furious.

"Not in yet? How about now, woman?"

His cock pistons in and out, brutal and unforgiving, and your body gives under him — all twitching muscles and helpless moans. You try to grab him, to anchor yourself, but he shoves your wrists down and just keeps driving into you, laughing when your voice breaks into sobs.

"Still got jokes, huh? Still wanna be a brat?"

He doesn’t stop until he’s cumming inside, growling like an animal, watching it leak out of you with a dark, satisfied smirk.

"Next time you say that shit, I’ll fuck your mouth instead."

[kukinkrim]

so... demons?

saja boys x manager!fem!reader

part 1.

your fingers drummed against the cool surface of the table.

the five idols—er, demons? demon idols?— occupied the seats around the table, meekly looking at you like lost little puppies.

honestly, after almost losing your soul and witnessing the whole nation teeter on the edge of destruction, you could say you've grown quite numb to such tactics. the horrors you’d seen—what these five could do with just a snap of their fingers… yeah, no. you weren’t going to be swayed by wide eyes, pouty lips, or whatever cheeky charm they tried to conjure.

they weren’t the innocent idols you once knew. the ones who had nothing but talent and a pair of skinny jeans going for them. the ones you saw performing on the street, eyes bright and full of untapped potential. they could be something, you thought. they could be up there. high. above everyone else. you were the one who reached out, the one who said, “you’ve got something.”

and boy, did they.

they had something alright.

something from the depths of hell.

now, half of south korea nearly got turned into an all-you-can-eat buffet for demons, and guess who helped usher in the end of the world with a smile and a snazzy press release?

ding ding! you, their manager.

the onr who saw the fucking demonic seduction and said, "oh! you've got something!"

the untapped potential you saw was probably their thirst for souls.

honestly, the betrayal would’ve stung more if you weren’t so tired and traumatized.

“so,” you said flatly, lacing your fingers together. “anyone want to explain why I had to had to argue with a talking fire yesterday?”

the room went silent.

like, guilty silence. the kind only five demon idols with centuries of mayhem behind them could pull off.

"that... was gwi-ma," jinu mumbled.

you deadpanned. "i know it was gwi-ma, jinu. he introduced himself mid-scream while threatening to turn me into a 'wretched slab of salted flesh because that's all i deserve as a poor excuse of a human.’"

“oh, he loves that phrase,” mystery muttered.

"he cooked with that one, honestly." abby chimed in.

you sighed exasperatedly. who knew manager work for five little shits were going to be this exhausting?

"you're all i could think of, every drop i drink up!" you read the lyrics of a piece of paper, their debut song where it all started. mystery inched closer to the table, eyeing the paper you on your hands. "don't tell me you were pertaining to our souls?"

romance whistled, "you're so perceptive!"

"so smart." added baby, throwing you a bored thumbs-up like you’d just solved a puzzle and not, you know, uncovered a century-long soul-harvesting scheme disguised as bubblegum pop.

"you didn't know?" mystery stares at you, probably—you couldn't really tell behind his long hair.

"how was i supposed to know you're all demons dressed in pretty pastels and shitty hawaiian shirts?!" abby feigns an offended look as he clutched the front of his 2D printed tropical button-up like you’d just accused him of a fashion crime. “this is balenciaga-inspired hellwear, thank you!”

“no, that’s a polyester war crime,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose. “and this lyric—” you waved the page dramatically, “this was your debut song! you performed this on national television! i helped film the music video where you were literally throwing hearts at people and covering the whole city with bubbles. I THOUGHT IT WAS CGI.”

"who do you think storyboarded that scene?” abby added with a smirk. “we all pitched in but,” he pulls jinu im a headlock—though the black-haired idol merely laughs awkwardly. he still doesn't look you in the eye. he seems to be the only ome taking your feelings and concerns seriously among the five. "this one was behind it all though. my boy, jinu!"

you groaned. “i can’t believe i survived a near-apocalypse only to realize i was managing the kpop equivalent of satan’s got talent.”

“that’s a great tour title!” romance beamed.

“no,” you said instantly.

“but imagine the merch—”

“no.”

“a little pitchfork-shaped lightstick—”

“no.”

you sighed, dropping the lyric sheet on the table like it physically pained you. “i need a drink. a nap. a portal to a universe where i’m not legally responsible for any of you.”

"too late,” baby said, leaning against the chair with that stupid little tilt to his lips. “you already sold your soul to us the day you signed that first contract.”

you stared at him.

he laughed.

“kidding! he's kidding!” jinu yelled too quickly.

“…mostly." baby added.

you slowly turned to face the window, muttering under your breath. "oh, i should've pushed them all off the stage when i had the chance."

there was a beat of laughter—soft and awkward, like everyone was still afraid to be loud around you in case you get really angry. the five were afraid. perhaps, they even feared your wrath even more than they did with gwi-ma.

it was left unspoken for a long time. demons were not good with dealing with feelings, but they know they have to talk to you.

you, their kind manager, deserved much more than just little demons hiding behind their cowardice.

silence.

and someone speaks up first.

“y/n,” jinu’s voice cut through it. no teasing lilt. just your name, spoken like a confession.

you turned to see him no longer smiling awkwardly like he was about to piss his pants. just jinu. the first one who held your gaze when you saw them on that street corner. the first one who reached out when you offered your hand. their makeshift leader.

"i'm–we're sorry,” he said, the words hung in the air. “for putting you through all of that.”

his fingers fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, a rare tell for someone as confident and outspoken as him. he seems to be struggling to speak, unsure what correct words to say. “you didn’t deserve to be dragged into that mess."

you blinked. the meeting room had felt like a joke for so long. always half a step away from chaotic laughter and cursed energy drinks.

now, jinu was looking at you with something genuine.

in fact, they all were. gone were the rowdy bunch who always had a quick way with words, replaced by five people who had done you wrong and are making up for it. taking responsibility for the harm they have caused you sincerely—because that's how much you worth to them. you mean something.

“jinu…” you started, hand trailing down to hold his that trembled slightly.

"and i know we caused it,” he continued, eyes darting away. “the whole mess. gwi-ma may have put us all into it, forced us, bound us—but we still started it.”

“we're sorry, y/n,” he said again, softer.

you stared at him, a thousand emotions crawling up your spine; rage, exhaustion, fondness, resentment, some weird trauma-induced affection—but all that came out was a quiet, “thank you.”

because deep down, you understood.

you understood that they were forced to.

that it wasn’t some grand scheme of betrayal, no matter how much it felt like one at the time. that gwi-ma had them all bound; tied to a leash that seared their skin and soul every time they even thought about stepping out of line.

and you saw it. when you woke up during that concert.

you saw jinu holding you close, ignoring the pain on his body as he protects you from the demons that dared to get too close. you saw the four who were out of breath, running everywhere all at once, despite their tattoos burning all over their bodies and the defeaning voices im their heads. the many demons they fought and your life they had protected.

you saw them fall apart while gwi-ma roared in the back, as they were being punished—tortured—because they dared to protect you.

because they dared to choose you.

you clenched your fists at the memory. they could’ve let it happen. could’ve turned away, watched your soul be taken.

instead, they defied the king of hell himself.

they were hurting. controlled. bruised and burned and still, they protected you.

“you saved me. all of you,” you said, looking around at the group. “even if it was your fault, even if you were the reason i needed saving at all... you still did it. so, thank you."

"you're not mad? even after everything?” romance chimed in.

you exhaled. “i didn’t say i forgive you all completely. you still lied. a lot. and nearly had half the population disappear.”

“valid,” baby muttered.

“but i saw what it cost you to stand by me. i saw the pain, and i saw you fight through it anyway. i won’t forget that.”

then abby, the menace, replied with a sniffle. “are we hugging now?”

“no,” you said instantly.

“because i'm so ready to trauma-cuddle—”

“no.”

the room broke into snickers. abby slumps, looking ready to crush you in a bone-breaking hug but he respects you enough to sit it out lest he really makes you angry.

then you clapped your hands once, loud, business-mode sliding back into place. everyone's eyes snapped towards you in question. “now. let’s talk about your new concept for the next comeback.”

five pairs of demon eyes blinked at you.

baby groans, shovimg his head onto his folded arms on the table. "ugh, i thought we'd be on hiatus or something."

“oh?” romance, however, leaned in, grinning. he was excited to be on stage again. more so, eve more excited to still be working with you. “how about demons—you know, lean into the whole ‘true form’ angle? dark wings, red eyes, maybe a full transformation during a dance break?”

mystery adds, "but demons don't look like that-"

“hell no.”

“okay but—literally hell, yes?” romance offered, raising his hand helpfully.

“i will personally drag each of you to church myself.”

mystery hisses at the thought as the four grimaced. you held in a laugh.

“how about monster boyfriends?” abby recovers, flexing his biceps as he seemed to adore the absolute monstrosity of an idea. you start to wonder what the hell is going on in his head.

“absolutely not.”

“siren concept! we already sing souls out of people anyway—”

“STOP BRAGGING ABOUT THAT!” you groaned, a hand massaging your temple. seriously, what did they want? make the people relive their near-deaths or something? it was good enough that the fans had, somehow, forgotten what happened thanks to a certain girl group's help—but now they want to fucking relive it?!

"fine,” jinu said, crossing his arms. “then what do you suggest, o great wise manager of ours?"

the smirk that played on your lips made him regret asking.

“soft boy cottagecore. think: lace, florals, boys running through fields of wheat. redemption arcs. barefoot in the grass. everyone’s petting sheep.”

they all stared at you like you’d just suggested group baptism. they looked at you in horror. what the fuck was wrong with your head?

“i hate it,” baby said, visibly cringing. he shivered as he imagined himself in your little scenario and he swore he could throw up at any moment.

"angels. absolute angels." you announced through gritted teeth.

you were not suggesting.

“...i love it,” jinu said too quickly, catching on. “I will wear a bonnet.”

“i guess that... could work," romance hums, actually giving it a thought. he thinks he could actually make it work.

“you’re not helping,” mystery hissed.

you leaned forward, calm, smiling at them so wide. “you wanna keep performing without alerting a secret demon-hunting girl group? then you’re going to touch some flowers and look repentant. understood?”

“...fine,” they all mumbled.

you sat back with a smug smile. “perfect. gotta get back to work, boys.”

baby groaned into his hands. “i already miss the end of the world.”

[makingsenseofwhathappened]

10 Sexual Harassment Hazards (That People Don’t Always Talk About)

You probably already know a lot of this, like factually and as vibes. Most women do. But sometimes it’s just good to say stuff out loud and make sure we're not memory-holing what should be top of mind.

The short answer for what counts is: a lot more than you’ve been led to believe.

So here’s a by no means exhaustive list of things that tend to fester and creep on you in the dreaded fog of "subtle" harassment at work.

1. The Creepy Client You’re Expected to Smile At It’s not always your boss. It can be a customer, a donor, or a VIP investor who says the gross stuff. And if your job depends on keeping them happy, management often looks the other way.

2. The “Jokes” That Aren’t Jokes They’ll call it “banter.” But if it makes you feel small, singled out, or sexualised, it’s not comedy. It’s cover.

3. The Mentor Who Gets Personal When someone who’s supposed to help you grow starts steering conversations to your dating life, your looks, or their “crush,” that's a classic grooming protocol.

4. The Person Who Touches Everyone - Except They Don’t! Watch for the ones who say “I’m just a hugger” but somehow only hug the cute interns. That’s calculation, not 'friendly' culture.

5. The After-Work Messages That Escalate Starts professional. Gets weird. Maybe it’s “😉” after your presentation. Maybe it’s full-blown flirting on Instagram. Either way, it’s not harmless just because it’s happening after 5 p.m.

6. The Retaliation You Can’t Prove You get left off the next project. Your hours get cut. You’re not sure if it’s connected to the way you handled someone’s advances, but… yeah, it probably is.

7. The Exclusion Because You Didn’t “Play Along” You’re suddenly not invited to team lunches. Or they say you’re “hard to vibe with.” Translation: you didn’t laugh when the jokes got gross.

8. The Comments Disguised As Compliments “You look great in that dress” hits different when it’s from someone evaluating your performance. Especially if it comes with a glance you wish you could unsee.

9. The “Nice Guy” Who Gets Weird When You’re Not Into It He was helpful, until you didn’t flirt back. Now he’s cold, nitpicky, maybe even sabotaging your work. No tantrum, just power games.

10. The Stuff That Happens Off the Clock but Still Counts Work party groping. Drunk conference creeps. Inappropriate texts on your day off. Just because it’s not technically at work doesn’t mean it won’t impact your job.

A lot of times if it’s not explicit, it sadly just doesn’t count to those in power. But guaranteed, you’ll count it, and you'll carry it. And probably learn how to laugh about it without sounding bitter. Until you can't and won't

Just know you’re not imagining it and you’re not wrong for feeling off. And definitely not the first one to think about changing your desk, your shift, or your entire career just to get away from it.

It’s not okay.

Much love 😘

[wintrbears]

Cradle Robbers: The Second Trimester | JJK

Summary: You're too busy attending baby prep classes and shopping for furniture together to focus on the significant changes living together and regularly hooking up has introduced into your relationship with Jungkook, although, it doesn't seem like either of you mind all that much.

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Pregnancy AU, Childhood Friends to FWB to Lovers, Slow-Burn, Smut, Fluff, Crack, Angst (barely, you have to squint to see it)

Word Count: 20.2k+

Warnings: pregnancy, crying, anxiety, panic attack, cursing, blood, swelling, talks of miscarriage, ultrasound, medical tests, doctor's office, mention of childbirth, mention of vaginal tearing, speeding, drinking, bowling, jacuzzi, parental expectations, IKEA, shopping, stealing, lying, jealousy, brief mention of death, video games, cats, dogs, pet names (baby, babygirl, bambi/bams), baby prep classes, Lamaze class, mild skin burn. SMUT: kissing, cuddling, titty sucking, dry humping, big dick jk (you already know), unprotected sex, oral sex (both receiving), titty fucking, coming on boobs/skin, cream pie, coming untouched, missionary, mention of vibrator, ANAL!!, rim job, ass eating, anal plug, face fucking, cum eating, fingering, ok I think that's it!

Author's Note: chapter two is here lovelies! I am so incredibly thankful for all the love and support part one got and I'm so excited for everyone to see how their story continues in this chapter. we've got some wonderful sweet scenes, a couple of my favorites out of the whole fic, and also some filthy smut scenes. the end of this chapter is the angstiest part of the whole fic but it’s also a catalyst for what comes next, so I hope you enjoy the second trimester as much as I do and please lmk your thoughts :)

FOUR

Jungkook must’ve made a deal with the devil, because the way his tongue moves isn’t something a mere mortal should be able to accomplish. The precision with which he alternates between licking your slit and fucking his tongue into your hole is otherworldly, and you worry your best friend may secretly be an incubus. 

At the present moment, his tongue is curling inside you to drink every last drop of essence leaking from your pussy while you struggle to breath on the kitchen counter.

It’s only eight in the morning and you’re certain your day has already reached its peak. It’s unfathomable to believe anything you experience within the next twenty four hours will be better than the feeling of him eating you out like you’re his favorite meal. 

Jungkook moans into your cunt as he swallows your juices before moving upwards to tease your clit with the tip of his tongue. It’s brutal how little friction he gives you while circling the spot you need him most. When he finally sucks the nerve endings into his mouth and hums, it sends the most jaw dropping pleasure through your core. It forces a shuddering moan out of you and your hands reactively tug at his hair. His fingertips have a bruising hold on your thighs and the pressure on his scalp only makes him grip you tighter and shove his face deeper into your pussy. 

“Taste so fucking good,” he grunts between licks. “Never wanna fucking stop.” 

You whine and buck your hips at his praises, causing his nose to catch on your sensitive clit. Jungkook realizes the effect his button nose has on you when you moan enthusiastically and he begins moving his head of his own accord to keep the friction there. The combination of that along with his inhuman tongue makes your head spin like a carousel on the fritz. 

“Koo, I’m gonna come,” you warn him breathlessly.

An affirmative growl comes from below and Jungkook moves away to spit on your hole and fuck his saliva into you. You gasp and yank his hair hard enough for him to grunt against your folds as he moves his tongue in and out of your cunt like a man on a mission.

He’s borderline ravenous when he changes tactics and repeatedly flattens his tongue over your clit to force you into a climax. It works wonders, and soon enough you’re screaming and falling back onto the counter as you come in his mouth. 

Like the demon he clearly is, Jungkook doesn't cease his behavior even as he hears you crying softly above him from the overstimulation. He just continues to abuse your pearl with his mouth, sucking and biting on the sensitive skin as tears roll down the sides of your face and you whimper something that sounds reminiscent of his name. Eventually, his wet muscle leaves your clit to lap up your cum instead, making your hand clutch weakly onto the strands of hair still in their grasp.

“You're fucking delicious, Bambi,” Jungkook whispers on your wet skin. “God fucking damn.”

“Jungkook.”

“One more, please.”

Jungkook is begging you even though he's the one in control, and you both know damn well you're not going to stop him.

He makes out with your cunt like a highschooler at prom, as if his parents are going to catch him any moment and he has to do everything he can before they do. Your pussy is weeping essence into his mouth and you wish you had to strength to lift your head and watch him work.

Your second orgasm ramps up at the speed of light, riding the coattails of your first and making your legs convulse and clamp around Jungkook's head. The man below you doesn't care in the slightest, in fact, it sounds like he enjoys the suffocation when he moans endlessly into your folds.

Jungkook slows down dramatically post orgasm number two, gently slurping the cum along your slit until you finally push him away due to oversensitivity. He whines pathetically when you do so, and it’s so fucking sexy your desire nearly returns with a vengeance. 

Allowing your soul to slowly return to your body, you keep your eyes closed and inhale as deeply as possible. The feeling of Jungkook over you makes you open them, and it’s just in time to see him leaning down to kiss you. You clutch his jaw as you return his kiss and happily allow him to push his tongue into your mouth to taste yourself. 

He helps you upright, holding your lower back and bringing you into his chest. You rest your head on his shoulder while you continue to settle from the high.

“You alright?”

“Mmhmm,” you assure him. 

You feel his lips on your cheek before his presence moves away from you. Hoping off the counter, you take a large swig of the orange juice still on the table from breakfast. 

“I gotta get going, Bams,” Jungkook tells you as he runs his hands through his hair to make it presentable again. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

You briefly hug him goodbye and hand him his phone from the counter. He thanks you with a succinct bow before heading towards the door while Bam follows him eagerly, hoping to join his dad on his adventure. Jungkook bends down and gives him a quick head pat, and repeats the gesture for Usagi who’s asleep on the couch. 

He leaves with a final wave that you happily return as his figure disappears from your field of vision and the door shuts with a soft click. 

Throwing your head back with a groan knowing you need to leave for work, too, you pour yourself some tea and collect your bag by the door. Today should be easier since your insatiable hormones are quelled, but you’re also going to spend the entire day thinking about Jungkook’s mouth on you. 

You’ve been repeatedly hooking up since the night you joined him in bed, but there hasn’t been a single conversation between you about it. 

To be fair, it only occurs if you initiate something or if Jungkook can tell you need sexual relief via your antsy behavior and the drool which collects on your chin when you so much as glance at him. He also never allows you to pleasure him in return, which means he only gets to come if it’s during intercourse and always after he’s successfully gotten you off first.

It isn’t what you want for your relationship. You despise him sending you deep into the throes of pleasure without being able to return the favor, but the whole point of you hooking up is to assist with your pregnancy-induced sex drive. 

You don’t want things to stay the way they are. 

A couple nights ago after he practically fucked you through his mattress, you unilaterally made the decision to become actual friends with benefits rather than whatever you are now. Singular, friend with benefits? 

You’re planning to cook his favorite dishes tonight to celebrate his latest accomplishment at work and present the idea over dinner. You know it doesn’t need to be some grand announcement or proclamation, but it kills two birds with one stone. 

Work serves as nothing more than a distraction from the ever growing to-do list in your head as you dutifully prepare for motherhood. The pregnancy is still under wraps at the office since your bump is concealable and you don’t feel close enough to anyone to share the news. Your belly is definitely bigger, especially upon entering your second trimester, but not enough for strangers or acquaintances like coworkers to notice. Only someone close to you would be able to clock the difference between this and your usual weight. 

When you’re home free from your corporate imprisonment, both Usagi and Bami enthusiastically greet you at the door with meows and strong tail wags. You spend a solid ten minutes giving them all the love and affection they deserve before heading to the kitchen to start dinner. 

Jungkook is an aggravatingly better cook than you, and he sometimes cooks dinner, but he always makes breakfast and lunch on the weekends, and since you normally get home before him on the weekdays, dinner is your forte. 

While video calling your mothers as you cook, you update them on minor details like your morning sickness finally passing and how your cravings are only getting worse. 

Three nights ago Jungkook made you a ham and peanut butter sandwich upon request. The poor thing gagged the entire time as he smeared peanut butter on top of the cold lunch meat. 

They question whether or not your relationship status has changed nearly every time you communicate. Unfortunately, the eager women got their hopes up when you moved in and the pair of frowns which appear every time you answer in the negative are beginning to eat you up inside.

You always feel guilty because although your relationship hasn’t changed, you’re actively sleeping together. So, it tastes like a lie when you swear up and down you’re still just friends. You can’t speak openly to them about it because they wouldn’t understand how having sex changes nothing between you. Aside from the first time, you never sleep in the same bed or cuddle, and you don’t kiss outside of bedroom activities, either. 

Alternatively, your friends are aware, and not a single one of them is surprised. Jimin said, quote, “You’re pregnant, you’re living together, and now you’re sleeping together. Fork found in kitchen.”

Jungkook comes home with impeccable timing, just as you’re plating the food and turning off the stove. His face lights up upon recognition of the familiar scents wafting through the air and your feet end up a couple inches off the ground before you even register it. You screech and brace yourself on his shoulders as he scoops you into his arms and spins you in a semi circle.

“Koo!” You scold him, despite secretly adoring it.

“Ah, I love you so much, Bambi,” he ignores your faux indignation. 

“It's the least I could do.” He sets you down and you ruffle his styled hair as he giggles. “You work so hard, Koo. You deserve it.”

He smiles bashfully and steals the plates from the counter before you have the chance to bring them to the dining table yourself.

Between recapping your respective workdays and discussing upcoming plans, you eat alongside Jungkook’s happy food noises and his endless compliments of your cooking skills. You fail to broach the topic of becoming friends with benefits and instead wait until you’re across from one another on the couch. 

The pair of you are sitting side by side horizontally so Jungkook can massage your feet, a routine he gladly partakes in due to them giving you immense grief from how swollen they are.

They’re not the only body part swelling exponentially, either. Per expectations, your literal mommy milkers have transformed you into a living, breathing anime character. Not only are they bigger, but they’re sore and oversensitive most days. Jungkook has repeatedly offered to add boob massages to his daily routine alongside the foot rubs, but you’re fairly certain that deal is more beneficial for him than you.

Humming gratefully as Jungkook digs his palm into your heel, you look up from your phone to begin the conversation you’re eager to have with him. He notices your attention shift and looks over at you expectantly.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” you state. He nods his head to show he’s listening, “I think we should be friends with benefits, like, officially.”

“Is that not what we are now?”

“No,” you respond. “You don’t get anything out of the current arrangement.”

“I can assure you, Bams, I get something out of it,” he argues. 

“Sure, but I don’t want it to feel like you’re doing me a favor,” you explain. “I want it to be equal and for you to be able to fuck me whenever you want and not just whenever I want.”

The corner of Jungkook’s lip quirks up.

“Bambi, if you let me fuck you whenever I want you’re never leaving the goddamn bedroom.”

“Koo.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, I hear you,” he says. “I think that’s a great idea. Happy to enter into an official friends with benefits arrangement with you.”

You clap excitedly at his approval and Jungkook chuckles before removing your legs from his lap. 

“I actually have something for you, too,” he tells you.

Jungkook stands and your eyes track his movement towards the dresser against the wall. He pulls out a small, recognizable, turquoise bag from one of the drawers and your eyebrows dramatically shoot up your forehead.

“So, do you remember when we talked about why you were upset at your first gyno appointment?” 

You nod at him, still thoroughly confused what that has to do with the gift in his hands.

A few weeks ago, Jungkook asked why you had such a sour expression in the waiting room that day and you explained the jealousy and imposter syndrome you felt in comparison to all the pregnant wives with their pretty wedding rings. Honestly, you never thought about it again after that conversation. 

“Jungkook, what’s in that bag?” 

He scratches his nape with a hesitant smile, a faint pink dusting his cheeks as he hands the bag over. You stare him down momentarily before slowly opening the gift. Once the tissue paper is gone, you see a velvet box nestled at the bottom of the bag. Biting your lip in anticipation, you reach in to pull it out before opening it to reveal what’s inside.

“Holy fuck, Koo!”

“Don’t worry, I’m not proposing!”

The most gorgeous ring you’ve ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on sits between the cream fabric of the jewelry box. It’s got an oval shaped diamond in the middle, with smaller accent stones on the band made up of aquamarine and sapphire gemstones. 

“Jungkook,” you look up at him with tears threatening your waterline. 

His smile is undeniably charming as he approaches and sits beside you, wrapping his hands around yours which are still holding the jewelry box open.

“This isn’t supposed to be some pity gift or to make you blend in with all the other pregnant women around. I just thought that, you know, those spouses gave them a ring because they love each other and they want to spend their lives together. And well, I love you more than anything, and it’s already a given we’ll be together for the rest of our lives, even before the baby. So, why shouldn’t I give you a ring, too?” The tears break past their barrier and Jungkook reaches out to shoo them away. “I figured since the baby’s due date is in April there’s a good chance their birthstone will be a diamond, and then I added the aquamarine for your birthday and the sapphire for mine. If for some reason the baby is born in a different month, I can always get you another one with their actual gemstone.”

“Koo… I don’t know what to say,” you cry.

“You don’t have to say anything, Bams,” he assures you. “Can I put it on you?”

Upon your approval, Jungkook removes the ring from the jewelry box and delicately slides it onto your finger. Once it’s snug against your knuckle, he presses a chaste kiss to the back of your hand.

Your body moves without notifying your brain first, shoving the gift wrapping away from your lap and tugging Jungkook by his shirt until his lips crash into yours. The action produces a noise of surprise, but it only takes him a second to recover before he’s clutching your waist and pulling you into the seat of his lap.

You kiss him feverishly, tilting your head to gain more purchase over his mouth and force his lips apart. His fingertips dig into your sides as he responds in kind, kissing you with fervor and tracing your bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. A hand sinks into your hair and pulls your face down harder against his, making you hum amorously while your tongues dance together in the confines of your mouth.

It’s the first time you’ve kissed outside a sexual encounter, but you’re too busy devouring each other to worry about what that means.

Jungkook can’t seem to get enough, repeatedly pecking your lips even as you’re pulling away. You giggle at his attempts of chasing after your mouth, but soon enough he succeeds in getting you to kiss him again.

“Will you always kiss me like that if I buy you stuff?” He muses.

“Probably, yeah,” you respond.

“Then don’t be mad when I turn you into my sugar baby.”

Your forehead meets his when you laugh and he smiles at the sound.

It’s not certain why you kissed him rather than thanking him like normal friends do, but whether it’s gratitude or hormones or a secret third thing, you don’t care. The only thing that matters is the man in front of you and how much you utterly adore him.

“I love you so much, Jungkook. I’m so, so lucky to know you. You’re the most amazing person, man, friend, baby daddy, I don’t even know what else. I swear, you’re nothing short of a gift to this earth,” you tell him earnestly. 

He pulls you closer for another kiss rather than replying right away. 

“I’d do anything to make you happy, Bambi. I’m so glad you like it.”

“Like it? It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!”

“You should look in the mirror then.”

Jungkook smirks, his head tilting with pride over his flirtatious remark. You smack his arm playfully before pulling him in for a hug, inhaling his scent while you bury your face in his neck.

The next time you visit your childhood home, you hide your left hand and spend at least five minutes explaining that it’s not what they think, so there’s no reason to freak out. Even after your extensive lecture, both your moms jump around as though they won the lottery when you finally reveal your hand to them.

That weekend you show it off to your friends when wine night rolls around again. It’s at Jihyo’s house this time, which is always the best because she has a hot tub. The girls unanimously decide to drink virgin mocktails tonight in solidarity with you and you all find recipes online and spend the first half of the evening concocting and tasting the drinks. 

Once the experimenting is over with, you change into your swimsuits for a dip in the jacuzzi. The girls squeal in delight when they see you in your black bikini with your small bump showing.

Nayeon is infectiously smiling and she places her palm on your abdomen after asking permission.

“I can’t believe your baby’s in here, I could cry!” She says.

“You sound like Jungkook,” you state. “He’s constantly caressing my baby bump so he can say hi to his little sweet potato.”

“Sweet potato?”

“That’s how big they are.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man more ready to be a dad than JK,” Jihyo says.

“No, definitely not. He’s so obsessed,” you concur.

“No shit. He made that plenty clear when he put a freaking ring on your finger,” Tzuyu says as she holds your left hand to admire the ring again.

“Also, can we take a minute to admire how hot you look in this? I mean, look at your tits, babe!” Mina says.

“Isn’t it insane? It’s like I walked out of a freaking hentai,” you reply. 

“And that, is reason number two why you have a ring,” Tzuyu notes. 

Rolling your eyes with a laugh, the five of you travel with drinks in hand to sink into the hot tub and begin your standard routine of catching up. All the girls are doing well, even Mina, who’s slowly getting back on her feet after the break up. When it’s your turn, you mentally prepare yourself for the slew of inquiries you already know are incoming.

“Okay, so explain this to me,” Jihyo starts. “You’re pregnant with his kid, you live in his house, you’re sleeping together, he gave you a diamond ring and told you it’s because he loves you and wants to spend the rest of his life with you, and yet you’re still just friends.”

“Don’t forget they made out afterwards,” Mina notes.

“Oh yeah, and then you made out afterwards!”

“We didn’t make out. We just kissed… a couple times,” you defend.

“Bitch!”

“Listen, I get it, alright? I know it seems bizarre from the outside, and honestly, it’s a little bizarre from the inside, too, but I don’t know, it just works.” You sigh and put your drink down. “I know that our friendship has all the aspects of an actual relationship, but it's like I've said before, I don't want to hold his hand, cuddle him, or go on dates. Maybe that's naive of me, but the things I felt in my past relationships, I don’t feel with Jungkook.”

“Maybe because you feel more?” Nayeon responds. “You've known each other all your lives, it only makes sense you don't feel all that early relationship giddiness. What would be the point of going on a date when you know him better than you know yourself?” 

“Have you asked Jungkook how he feels?” Mina asks.

You shake your head.

“We don’t really need to talk about stuff like that,” you state. 

“Don’t need to? Or don’t want to?” Tzuyu questions.

“What’s gonna happen when you want to date other people once the baby is born? Are you just gonna tell your partner you live with your best friend/baby daddy and when they’re ready, they can move in, too?” Jihyo asks.

“I honestly haven’t thought about that,” you admit.

“Yeah, because you already know deep down you’re never going to want anyone but him,” Nayeon tells you. 

You grab your drink again and take a sip while their comments permeate your mind. 

“You guys are probably right, I can admit that,” you say. “But right now, I have so many more important things to think about than romance. Jungkook and I are happy and that’s all that matters to me.”

“Just don’t put it so far in the back of your mind that you forget about it, okay? Especially because Jungkook might have it at the front of his mind, and I know you would never want to hurt him,” Jihyo responds.

Nodding as you absorb her advice, you offer her a grateful smile before sipping from your glass again. 

When you arrive home afterwards, Jungkook is playing a video game on the couch, Bam lying comfortably on his left and Usagi curled up on the right. It brings a smile to your face as you remove your jacket and hang your keys on the hook by the door. Jungkook merely waves as you enter so he can focus on whatever final boss he’s fighting. Taking a seat in the armchair beside him, you curl your knees to your chest and rest your head in your hand. 

“How was it?” He asks without looking away from the screen.

“It was really nice. I took a picture for you,” you tell him.

“A picture?”

“Yeah, the girls said I looked hot in my bikini and that you would be upset if you didn’t get to see it,” you explain.

“Well, they would be very correct.”

You admire him for a moment, chuckling when his tongue presses on the inside of his cheek as he focuses on his endeavor. 

The conversation earlier tonight rustles around uncomfortably in your mind and eventually eats away at your resolve. There’s truly nothing you fear more than unintentionally hurting Jungkook, and if he does want more, you’ll give him your heart without hesitation, regardless of your own feelings. His happiness is the most important thing in the world to you.

“Koo?”

“Hmm.”

“Are you happy?”

Jungkook’s eyebrows pinch together, and he’s quick to pause his game and put the controller down so he can give you his full attention.

“What do you mean?”

You chew on your lip as you struggle to properly vocalize your feelings.

“Are you happy with our relationship, with what we are to each other?” You ask nervously. 

Jungkook looks at you curiously and with slight concern coloring his features due to your line of questioning.

“Yeah, I am,” he answers. “I don’t know what the future has in store for us, and it would be a lie to say I’m not curious, but I’ve never been happier in my life, Bambi. Why do you ask?”

“We were talking about it tonight and I just… I don’t know. It seems obvious, doesn’t it? We should be a couple by anyone else’s standards, but my brain just doesn’t see it that way,” you explain.

Jungkook hums intuitively and sits back against the cushions, running his hands through his hair as he mulls over your explanation. 

“Sure, maybe it’s obvious to others, but they’re not us. They weren't there while we stood by one another through thick and thin all these years. I don’t think other people can even begin to comprehend our bond.” He reaches his hand out for you and you join him on the couch. “I don’t need a label, Bams. Friends, fuck buddies, lovers, partners, I honestly don’t care. You’re here beside me and that’s all I care about.” 

Your forehead meets his shoulder in relief. It’s precisely what you were expecting him to say, but it’s comforting nonetheless to hear the words from his own mouth.

"What about you?" He asks.

"Hmm, I think fuck buddies is pretty hot."

Jungkook pulls you into his lap before you can register it and attacks your waist with lively fingers. The tickling sensation makes you screech and laugh maniacally, your voice filtering inbetween the sounds as you beg him to cease his torment. It’s the normal, mundane behavior you always partake in and even though you’re genuinely suffering, you wouldn’t trade moments like this for the world.

Maybe one day things will change between you, but for now, you don’t need anything more than this.

The following morning, Jungkook's sitting on the edge of your bed when you remember to show him the photo taken of you last night. When you do, his head snaps back as he groans regretfully. 

“You’re fucking joking, Bambi,” he grits through his teeth.

“What?” You ask innocently.

There's a sly grin on your face as pride swells in your chest because of his reaction.

“This is unfair. This is… cruel and unusual punishment!”

“How?”

“Because you looked like this and I didn’t see it!”

“Jungkook, you could see me naked right now if you wanted to,” you argue. 

Jungkook’s pout disappears and his head twists like a confused puppy, as if that possibility hadn’t even occurred to him. Before you have the chance tease him for forgetting about your little arrangement, he’s pulling you down the bed by your ankles and crawling over you. You giggle as he bends down to kiss along your thighs and hips during his ascent. He pauses over your baby bump, pulling your shirt up and kissing your belly gingerly.

“Sorry, little one, Mommy and I have some important business to attend to,” he whispers against your skin. 

An endeared smile appears on your lips, but Jungkook is kissing it away once he reaches you. You moan into his mouth as he slips his tongue between your teeth. His hands skim along your waist as pulls your shirt over your head before beginning to unbutton your jeans. After he’s successfully stripped you down, he goes to massage your tits and you whine at his touch.

“Sensitive, Bams?” Your only response is a whimper as he continues to fondle you. “Does this help or no?”

“Yes,” you sigh. “Please don’t stop, Koo.”

He obeys and continues to play with your boobs through your bra, pushing them together and squeezing them tactfully with his large hands. He admires your swollen mounds for a while before kissing across the tops of them, letting his tongue drag along your skin until you squirm beneath him.

“God, I’m really gonna miss these after the baby’s born,” he notes. 

As if to prove his point, he gently bites down on the supple flesh. 

“They’ll be bigger than normal afterwards, but not this big,” you tell him. 

His thumb absentmindedly traces over one of your nipples until it pokes against the fabric of your bra as he hums in acknowledgment. 

“Can I fuck them?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Can I fuck your tits, Bambi?”

He’s sporting the most hopeful look imaginable and you already know you’re going to allow it before your brain reaches that conclusion.

“Sure,” you reply, unhooking your bra and removing it from your body. “You gotta take your shirt off though. I need a good view while you do this.”

Jungkook smirks while rising to his knees to pull his shirt over his head with one hand. You genuinely despise how wet you get just from the one motion alone. He stands to remove his pants and boxers and you eye him hungrily when his cock comes into view. Jungkook goes to stroke himself, but you shake your head and beckon him to you with your pointer finger. 

His eyes are alight as he hurries to join you on the bed, settling his knees next to your hips so you can reach him. 

Spitting into your palm, you move your hand languidly along Jungkook’s shaft to get him hard. He moans softly, his head tipping back and giving you an ideal view of his throat. 

“Shit, Bams,” he curses. 

His hand descends to your head, holding himself steady between the strands of your hair. While you jack him off, he hovers over the valley of your breasts and allows drool to drop from his lips. You stare wide-eyed as he removes your hand from his cock before placing himself directly in the middle of your tits. Jungkook coats his searing hot skin in the saliva, slowly running his dick along your cleavage and making your mouth drop open in awe.

You squeeze your boobs together by pushing against them with your upper arms, creating a perfect tunnel just for his pleasure. He groans and kisses you in gratitude, the hand in your hair tugging to make you whimper. 

Jungkook begins leisurely, pulling his hips back and staring with unbound intensity as his cock leaves the warmth of your tits before slowly returning again. The sight of his shaft disappearing into your swollen breasts forces his eyes to roll.

“Oh, fuck, Bams, you have no idea how good this feels,” he tells you. 

His tempo gains speed, but not by much, he's still too mesmerized by the gorgeous vision of you beneath him, his cock stuffed between your plump breasts. The same ones which are only full because he fucked a baby into you. The possessiveness of the act has him growling under his breath. 

"Yeah? If it feels so good, you should fuck 'em like you mean it," you taunt.

Jungkook’s doe eyes blink out of existence, turning him from prey to predator in a split second. He holds the wicked eye contact as his fingers scratch at your scalp and he readjusts his grip before thrusting into your cleavage with a fury. 

You gasp at the change spurred on by your words, but automatically push harder on your flesh to suffocate his cock with your breasts. Jungkook groans at the tightness and you can't peel your eyes away from him as he throws his head back and the veins in his neck pulse.

“God, Jungkook, you’re so fucking sexy.”

Jungkook's moans are melodious as he pumps his cock back and forth and he looks to be experiencing pure bliss, but honestly, so are you. You weren’t prepared for the feeling of his dick sliding along your skin or his balls slapping against the underside of your breasts to feel this euphoric. 

"Me? Fuck, Bambi, you have no fucking clue what you do to me," Jungkook responds breathlessly.

The brat inside in you awakens upon hearing his words, wanting to drive him even crazier in response.

You stick your tongue out while tilting your head down, and a monstrous growl comes from Jungkook’s throat when he realizes what you’re doing. You lick and suckle on his cockhead every time it greets you, and Jungkook makes sure to momentarily hold his position between thrusts to allow your lips to work their magic on him. The more efficient glide caused by the fusion of your combined drool makes everything so much more sensual.

Jungkook must grow restless, or at least hungry for more, because his cock disappears from your chest only for him to shove himself into your open mouth instead. You gladly accept the intrusion, moaning in ecstasy as your lips stretch to accommodate him.

“Fuck, good girl,” Jungkook grunts as his hips continue their pursuit.

His strokes force his cock deep into your throat while you lick the underside of his shaft and make the whole thing debilitatingly sloppy. You’re drooling only a few moments in, the liquid rolling down and soaking his balls which slap against your chin with every thrust. Jungkook is extremely appreciative of your efforts, yanking your hair and incoherently praising you with his head towards the ceiling. 

To be quite frank, you would suck Jungkook off every second of the fucking day if he so allowed. 

The sensation of our lips around his thick cock and his tip abusing your esophagus is hands down one of the best feelings to ever be discovered by the human race. Even as you violently gag and struggle to breathe, you’re borderline obsessed with sending Jungkook to his grave via your sweet mouth.

“Shit, babygirl, don’t fucking stop.”

Jungkook feeds more of his cock to you one thrust at a time until your nose is buried in his pubic hair. Once he’s entirely nestled in the confines of your throat, he halts and holds your head in its position. You force yourself to breathe through your nose and moan as loud as possible so he can feel your throat constrict around his shaft.

His movements reignite after he chokes on air at the feeling of your tight muscles clenching on his cock. You lick along his velvety skin as he fucks your mouth, wanting to provide the most pleasure to him as possible. After a particular loud gag when you deep throat his tip, Jungkook’s hips stutter and his grip on your hair turns deadly.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispers, his eyes watching you like a wild animal. “Can I come on your tits, Bambi?”

You moan affirmatively and nod your head as best you can with his dick stuffed between your lips. He resumes his strokes and you grant him complete control, letting him use your mouth however he pleases.

When his abs clench before your eyes and you feel his balls tighten, you assist his fall from grace by suctioning your lips around him. As soon as you do, Jungkook cries out and removes himself from your warm mouth. You desperately inhale to replace the oxygen you lost while he fists his throbbing cock and aims at your tits. 

The feeling of his warm cum splashing against your breasts brings your attention downward. Your gaze sharpens with hunger when you see Jungkook squeezing his cock to send his seed all over your fatty flesh. He paints the sexiest picture imaginable on your skin, the white liquid landing sporadically across your chest before he rubs the essence in with the head of his dick. 

“Oh, Koo, holy shit,” you moan as your head falls back against the pillows. 

Jungkook switches gears almost instantaneously once his cock is devoid of semen, clutching your boobs in his hands and kissing them so he can lick his cum away.

The vision of him eating his own seed off your shiny tits almost makes you climax yourself. His tongue works in circles to swallow every last drop, the warm muscle tracing over your skin diligently as he makes provocative eye contact with you. 

“Jungkook, you’re gonna make me come, too, if you keep looking at me like that,” you tell him honestly.

“Really? Should we try it?”

The smirk appears in his eyes before ever gracing his lips, and he continues kissing your breasts without restraint as he moan into them. It's only when he rolls his hips and his semi-hard cock grinds against your pussy that you realize he's being serious. You whimper when his actions force your lace underwear to rub your clit and try grabbing his shoulders to cease the torment, but Jungkook just steals your hands and pushes them into the mattress on either side of your hips.

"Koo, please," you whine.

He's still making filthy eye contact with you while sucking on your spit soaked tits, and your cries only spur him on to dry hump you harder.

You want to say the reason you come entirely untouched in under two minutes is because of the pregnancy, but deep down you know he'd be able to pleasure you just as successfully without the baby in your womb.

Jungkook kisses you messily once you've come down from your high and your tongues dance together until you’re sharing in his taste. 

“That was s’fucking hot,” he mumbles against your lips.

You nod in agreement and lace your hands in his hair, tilting your head to create a better angle so you can kiss him with more intensity. His lips mirror your movements while he caresses your outline and pulls you in by your waist.

Jungkook’s idea of an appropriate thank you for surrendering your body to his need is to pull four more orgasms from your battered pussy, the climaxes split equally between his tongue and his cock. Afterwards, when you genuinely believe you’ve become one with the mattress, he happily reminds you his original goal of giving you five orgasms has finally been achieved, and to prepare yourself to enter double digit territory very soon. 

FIVE 

When your pregnancy reaches the halfway point you and Jungkook decide it’s finally time to complete the necessary shopping and subsequent decoration of the nursery. Since the baby’s gender is a mystery, you plan to design their bedroom with gender neutral colors and you choose an animal theme to honor your existing children, Bam and Usagi. 

Before actually heading to the store you lie in bed scrolling across endless websites looking for inspiration. 

Throughout your years, whenever you imagined this moment with your future partner, you never thought they’d be so animated about tasks such as this. You assumed, like many men, they would let you make all the decisions and nod in approval at your choices. Jungkook is nothing of the sort, which you should’ve predicted given what you already know about him, but it still makes you swoon when his face lights up over a hanging mobile that looks identical to Bammie. 

Once you’re physically present amongst the multitude of baby items, the labyrinth of aisles and example nurseries overwhelms you. The baby section of IKEA is like an expecting mother’s version of The Shining maze. It’s impossible to see everything even if you come back religiously to shop. Jungkook’s loose grip on your hand is doing nothing for your nerves, and even he seems to be dazed by the endless display of trinkets.  

“How the fuck are we gonna do this?” He whispers beside you. 

On one hand, he means perusing through the infinite options, but on the other, you know he’s also talking about resisting your unbridled desire to splurge on everything in sight.

There’s a list on your phone which becomes your saving grace so you can stay organized as you enter the labyrinth together and pray you exit unscathed and with money still in Jungkook’s bank account.

Honestly, you can’t take either of you anywhere, because despite the daunting shopping list, you fool around in nearly every section. 

Jungkook decides the best way to choose a diaper table is to lift you onto them while you smack him as quietly as you can to bring you back to earth. He giggles incessantly every single time he does it, and eventually you allow him without retort to grab your waist and drop you on the tables one by one. For rugs, which hang down from the wall and can be flipped through like a book, Jungkook pulls you against him and wraps the thick fabric in a cocoon around you both while you screech about losing oxygen. When you get to the lamp aisle, you join in his antics as you reenact the Pixar intro together. 

There are pillows thrown, blankets smushed into faces, toys juggled until they fall to the floor with a loud crash, and many more childish activities occurring between you. Hopefully, no one is watching you, because if anyone saw your immature behavior they’d probably call for eugenics. 

At some point, you part ways because Jungkook remembers his need for some new kitchen utensils. While he heads towards the home and appliances section, you continue your search for the ideal bookshelf. 

After about ten minutes, you begin meandering through IKEA to collect your best friend so he can help you decide between two pieces of furniture. When you find him, he’s staring with a crease in his brow at the shelves which contain various sizes of mixing bowls. Before you’re able to grab his attention, two women appear behind him, and you recognize the hungry gaze in their eyes immediately. 

You’ve dealt with this behavior around Jungkook all your life, women flock to him as though he possesses some unseen force specifically designed to lure them in. This is different, though, because you’re no longer his wing woman, you’re the person bringing his kid into the world. 

You aren’t scowling at them purposefully, but you’re rightfully possessive of the clueless man still debating on buying a glass or steel bowl while he’s being ogled like a piece of meat.

“Koo,” you call, reaching your left hand towards him. 

You wiggle your fingers as you outstretch your limb, making sure your pretty ring catches the light and sparkles directly in their line of sight. Maybe you also slightly push your jacket away and rest your hand over your protruding womb, just maybe.

Jungkook glances your way and is at your side in a moment, his hand automatically clasping around your digits as he searches your face for the reason you’re beckoning him over.

Satisfaction fills your system when the women frown and roll their eyes as they leave the aisle. Jungkook never took notice of them the entire time, and something about that knowledge makes you feel prideful. 

One by one your list dwindles until there’s only one final item remaining. The crib section is the largest one yet, with row upon row of baby cradles stretching at least a football field wide. There doesn’t seem to be any organization to them, either, with more advanced ones sitting beside basic pieces that have most likely been here since the eighties.

“What’s the difference between all these?” Jungkook asks in exasperation.

“I have no clue,” you respond.

When your eyes meet, there’s a silent agreement made to split up and cover more ground. Jungkook goes left while you go right, and slowly, but surely, you traverse the area with motherly determination. 

Some are super simplistic, while others have built in baby monitors and teething rings. You didn’t realize it was possible to design so many variations of the same thing. 

Approximately halfway through your half of the room, one of the cribs catches your attention. It’s uncertain why, because truthfully, it looks identical to at least twelve others, but something about it calls to you and you pause to analyze the furniture further. 

It has a decent amount of bells and whistles, but not too many that you fear getting lost in its sauce. You can tell your little one is metaphorically nudging you to choose it for their bed and the longer you stare, the more it just screams “baby Jeon” at you. Jungkook notices your stance before a particular crib from across the room and makes his way towards you. His hand on your lower back alerts you he’s there and you look at him expectantly.

“Do you like it?” You nod enthusiastically, hope brimming in your eyes. “Let’s see how much it is.”

Jungkook’s face falls after leaning over to check the tag, and you follow his line of sight to examine it yourself.

You gawk at the obscenely large number. 

“Ok, no, nevermind.”

“Wait.” Jungkook stops you by grabbing your hand. “Do you love this one, Bambi?”

“Not that much!” 

“No, you shouldn’t love anything for this much.” Jungkook sighs and looks around for any fellow shoppers. “But do you love it enough to, ya know, nab it?”

You stare incredulously, because there’s no way your filthy rich baby daddy just suggested stealing from IKEA.

“You want us to steal our baby’s future bed?” 

“It would make for a good story, wouldn’t it?” 

“Koo, no!”

“Oh come on, Bams, it’ll be just like old times,” he argues. 

“Old times? Just because we’ve knicked some stuff from restaurants and department stores over the years doesn’t make us kleptos, Jungkook.”

“It’s not like IKEA’s gonna miss it!”

“You’re a millionaire,” you remind him.

“So? Doesn’t mean I like spending my money,” he retorts.

Scoffing and crossing your arms over your chest, you eye Jungkook from your periphery, and unfortunately for your conscience, he looks adorably eager to get an adrenaline rush while saving loads of money. Your eyes shut and you slowly inhale before reluctantly turning towards him. 

“Alright, how do we do this?” 

Jungkook explains his master plan in a low whisper as he scopes your surroundings for anyone looking to foil it. Since larger purchases are collected at the same time as checkout, Jungkook’s brilliant idea is for you to take the crib and lure someone into loading the box in the car while he pays for the non-stolen items. That way, whoever assists you will believe you’re a paying customer. 

So, now you’re standing with a dolly containing the crib beside your car which you pulled around to the entrance. Waving down an unsuspecting employee, you smile graciously at him and dramatically stick your baby bump out so he knows how helpless and frail you are.

“Hi, could you help me load this in my car? My husband is still at the checkout,” you lie with siren eyes and point to Jungkook where he’s conversing with the woman scanning your items. 

The employee doesn’t even think twice, and agrees with a massive grin as he lifts the heavy box into your trunk. You thank him repeatedly, giving him a full ninety degree bow before hopping into the driver's seat to park the car and wait for your accomplice. 

Your hands anxiously rap against the wheel while you wait for Jungkook to join you in your getaway car. When he finally emerges from behind the large automatic doors, you breathe a sigh of relief and move to the passenger seat while he travels across the parking lot to you. He doesn’t speak at first, but he’s grinning from ear to ear as you buckle your seatbelts and pull away from the store with your stolen treasure stashed beneath the rest of our haul in the trunk. 

Jungkook giggles cheerfully and wiggles in his seat once you’ve successfully pulled off your heist and are driving down the main road again. You roll your eyes, but a small laugh escapes you when you glance at the large box containing the expensive cradle. 

“I can’t believe we did that,” you state.

“Was that not fun? Your little acting gig was so cute,” he says adoringly. “I liked the husband part, too.”

He winks and all you can do to hide the evident blush appearing on your face is shake your head at his antics. 

“I wanted to come off as pure and innocent as possible,” you explain. 

The conversation shifts away from your morally questionable actions until you’re pulling back into the garage and Jungkook turns to you with a proud smirk. 

“Bams, do you know what this makes us?” You shake your head. “Cradle robbers.”

You suffer a horrendous stomach cramp from how hard you laugh.

Jungkook recounts the events of your infamous shopping trip with full animation to your friends the following weekend when you gather at the bowling alley. You’ve reserved a large table and two lanes for the eleven of you, but haven’t started bowling yet since you’re waiting on the pizza and drinks to be delivered to the table. 

The conversation circles around the entire table as everyone provides updates about their current situations. Of course, they’re all eager to hear baby updates, so you and Jungkook go last to keep them on their toes.

You explain how announcing the pregnancy at work went and about the little celebratory lunch your coworkers threw you. Honestly, the sole reason you told people at your office is because your bump is too conspicuous to hide anymore. 

Which is precisely why Jungkook is so ecstatic to come down the stairs each morning. He absolutely adores your baby bump and will leap at any opportunity to caress or kiss your womb. After wishing you a good morning, he always bends down to greet your unborn child, too. On the couch together he’ll absentmindedly massage your skin and if he’s feeling rambunctious he’ll attack your belly with kisses and make you squeal with laughter. While cooking or washing dishes you often feel his hands holding your stomach from behind and then his voice will filter into your ears as he says hello to your little one. 

The various moments of affection make your heart leap from your chest and you worry about your survival upon seeing him actually interact with your child once they’re born. 

Jungkook tells the table about the newest game he’s designing and you watch with a gentle smile as his eyes light up while talking about his hard work.

“How’s Y/N coming along?” Taehyung asks him.

“Um, what?”

“He means the game version of you,” Jin answers you.

You glance at Jungkook expectantly, but he’s chugging his drink to avoid answering. When the beverage is entirely gone, he clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck.

“You guys weren’t supposed to say anything, you know,” he scolds his friends. “They’re talking about a character I’m designing in the game.”

“That you named after me?”

“Yeah.”

“Jungkook, I didn’t even know you knew my name,” you say.

He smiles and messes with your hair affectionately.

“Of course I know it, Bambi!” You shove his hand away with a giggle. “Every single game I’ve ever made has a character named after you, or at least, some variation of your name.” Your eyes turn into saucers. “This is the first time I’m using your actual name, though.”

“He gave you huge tits, Y/N,” Jimin tells you. 

Jungkook slaps Jimin’s arm in retaliation. 

“Clearly, it’s because Jungkook strives for accuracy,” Chaewon comments. 

The pizza arrives and stalls your conversation, but the words remain at the forefront of your mind. The thought of Jungkook weaving you into his work all these years makes you feel infinitely warm and fuzzy, and you find yourself grabbing his hand without realizing. Placing a couple chaste kisses to his fingers, you hum contently before resting your cheek against his knuckles. He responds by leaning over to kiss your forehead, letting his lips linger there as he inhales the scent of your shampoo.

“Can you show me them when we get home?” You whisper so only he can hear. 

“‘Course, Bambi,” he replies, his eyes disappearing from how broad his smile is.

Once the food is essentially demolished, you begin bowling, splitting your group in half per your usual rules. It’s always a five/five split with an even amount of girls and guys. Then, designated team captains play rock, paper, scissors over who gets Jungkook. It’s almost a guarantee the team he’s on will win, and one time he single-handedly beat all ten of you, so it’s paramount to have him as an ally.

Unfortunately, Jimin loses to Yoongi and Jungkook becomes public enemy number one. You, Eunchae, Jimin, Hoseok, and Namjoon bowl on one lane while the other team bowls on the twin lane beside it and you’ll compare the total scores of both teams at the end.

Bowling is already your villain origin story, but your pregnant belly, aching back, and swollen feet don’t aid you in the slightest. It’s a struggle to even hold the bowling ball correctly because your fingers are too swollen to use your regular size and the larger ball is too heavy for you.

After your third gutter ball in a row, Jungkook takes a sip of his drink and jogs across the lane to join you for your turn. 

His entire team hollers in anger, but he’s quick to turn around and scold them.

“Nuh uh, mother of my kid here, I’m helping,” he tells them. 

“You would help me even if I wasn’t pregnant, Koo,” you retort. 

He pushes his pointer finger against his lips and you giggle in secret.

Jungkook grabs the bowling ball from the rack while you get into position. When you indicate you’re good to go, he holds it up so you can place your fingers in the holes. He keeps a loose grip on the ball just under your own hands and guides your movement of stepping back before underhand throwing it down the lane. 

Your team cheers when the ball rolls precisely down the center of the lane and seamlessly knocks over every pin for a perfect strike. The friends on the opposing team all groan, even though they’re still miles ahead of you score wise. Your feet repeatedly leave the floor as you do a victory dance before turning around to thank Jungkook with a hug. 

Even with Jungkook’s assistance, your team still loses by a landslide, but luckily, you don’t have to partake in the punishment fireball shot due to the little ear of corn growing inside you. 

Jungkook was slightly less pleased with the size comparison this time around, arguing through a pout that it isn’t a cute enough shape to describe his little one. 

There’s a second round with the same teams and you embarrassingly get your asses handed to you again. Once your teammates are done with their second fireball shot of the evening, everyone disperses to enjoy the arcade machines nearby. You and the girls head straight for the photobooth, but return to the table immediately following the impromptu photoshoot to talk instead of wasting your money on gotcha games like the men.

You catch up on the more feminine details of life while the guys are gone, covering all the topics you can’t amongst the full friend group. When the girls question you about your newfound sex life with Jungkook, you take a languid sip of your drink before leaning in to divulge all the details.

“It’s honestly been fucking insane, I genuinely think Jungkook is part demon,” you explain. “He can just go for like… hours.”

“God, I’m so jealous. The last guy I dated came in less than two minutes and I had to get myself off in the shower afterwards,” Yunjin complains. 

“At least he let you do it yourself. I went on a date last month with a guy who was determined to make me come from oral and I had to literally beg him to get off me because he was so bad at it,” Eunchae counters.

Everyone grimaces at her story and Chaewon passes her a shot across the table. 

“I’m glad you’re getting your shit rocked, though. You deserve it!” 

“That’s honestly an understatement and oh! I almost forgot to tell you.” You scooch across the seats to whisper your next words to them. “We tried anal last week.”

The gasps from your friends are astonishingly loud and you have to shush the three of them before someone overhears your not-safe-for-the-bowling-alley conversation. 

“Shut up!” Chaewon yells.

“Did you like it?” Yunjin wonders.

Rather than verbally responding, you allow the motion of your eyes rolling back into your head to be your answer.

The memory is still fresh in your mind as if it happened only ten minutes ago. 

Jungkook’s facial expression is one of pure determination as he reads the instructions for assembling the changing table you bought. You watch the way his brow creases in confusion while Usagi purrs aggressively from her spot on your lap. Your best friend refuses to accept assistance because he believes he can build it all by himself, even though you can already see the screws coming loose in his brain. 

After a long while of dissecting the instructions, Jungkook begins putting pieces of the white furniture together and it slowly takes shape. 

In the meantime, you sort through the hand-me-down books from your parents and place them in alphabetical order on the bookshelf Jungkook built the day prior. About an hour later, you hear him sigh dramatically from behind you and look over your shoulder at him. 

“Can we take a break, Bams?” He asks through a huff.

“Sure, what do you wanna do instead?”

An enticing smirk appears before you and you struggle to resist rolling your eyes. Even so, you stand to take his hand and lead him into his bedroom across the hall. 

As soon as the door clicks shut, Jungkook is pressing you against the wood with your hands held hostage on either side of your head. His knee parts your legs as he pushes his muscular thigh against your cunt so you can feel it flexing. You whine for more and Jungkook obliges by grinding into you. 

“You know, sometimes I worry we’re gonna hurt the baby from how often we do this,” he whispers.

You simply chuckle in response.

“We’re not gonna hurt the baby, Koo. They’re all the way up here,” you say while pointing to your womb.

“Yeah, but I am pretty big.” You teasingly slap his chest and he captures your lips with a smooch. “I was just thinking, maybe we should try something else.”

“Something else?” 

You pull back and rest your head against the door. 

“Mmhmm.” He cradles your cheek with one hand and you nuzzle your face in his palm. “Like, letting me hit it from the back.”

Your brow scrunches at his audacity, immediately removing your face from his grasp. 

“Are you talking about you sticking your dick in my ass?” Jungkook nods with a boyish grin. “Jungkook, you just mentioned how big you are, and now you’re saying you want to stick that monster in the tightest hole on my body?” 

“That’s right, yeah.”

“Get off me!”

“No, wait, Bambi.” He snatches your hands as you attempt to pry him away. “Listen, if you really don’t want to, that’s fine, but I have toys to get you ready and everything. I would never hurt you, you know that.”

“Have you ever done it before, do you even know what you’re doing?”

“I have, yeah, a few years ago.”

You theatrically cross your arms over your chest while you ponder the idea. Honestly, it’s something you’ve always wanted to try, but you never imagined doing it with someone as well endowed as Jungkook. Then again, there isn’t anyone you trust more than him.

“We’ll go slow, right?” Jungkook nods enthusiastically as he watches your mental fortitude crack. “Fuck it, let’s go.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Jungkook kisses you briefly before heading to his closet to rummage through his collection of sex toys, which you only found out existed when he pushed a vibrator against your clit while eating you out a couple weeks ago.

You swing your legs back and forth on his bed to distract from the raging anxiety pooling in your stomach. You know your nervousness is completely unfounded, because every intimate moment you’ve shared with Jungkook so far has been the most enjoyable sexual experience of your life.

When he returns to you, there’s a purple anal plug between his fingers which he wiggles to show off to you. Facing your palms up, you watch him drop it into the cradle of your hands for you to examine. It’s unironically cute. The toy is dark purple with a slight shimmer and the base is actually a big, faux diamond. 

“You’ve never used this on anyone else, right?” You ask curiously. 

“Nope,” he answers with a pop.

“Alright, so how does this work?” 

“Get undressed and I’ll show you.”

You follow his instructions and strip naked before his eyes while he mirrors your movements. Once your clothes are strewn together in a pile on the floor, you sit so Jungkook can stand between your legs.

He grips your chin with two fingers and tugs. Your jaw drops open immediately upon his wordless command and you gaze up at him with big, innocent eyes. Jungkook’s stare turns dark and his eyes glaze over with lust while he analyzes the pretty features of your face. He slowly pushes the toy between your lips, letting you soak the material with your drool. You maintain eye contact with him as you suck on the silicone and swirl your tongue around it inside your mouth. 

“Good girl,” Jungkook praises, grabbing your chin again and making you release the toy back into his other hand. “Now turn around.”

Scooting across the bed, you maneuver to all fours once you’re somewhere in the middle. You feel the mattress dip as Jungkook joins you and his warmth slowly closes in on you. 

Without warning, you hear him spit and wetness instantly meets your puckered hole. The unfamiliar sensation causes a strained gasp, but it morphs into a moan when Jungkook presses his thumb against your rim and slowly works you open.

His other hand traces along your folds, making you shutter from the featherlight touch. Your essence begins to collect on his fingers before his hand disappears from your pussy entirely. Initially, you make a noise of confusion, but then you hear slurping from behind you and realize he’s sucking your juices off his digits. You arch your back to silently beg for more of his touch, and he chuckles around his fingers at your neediness, spanking you harshly with his other hand. You’re still moaning from the sting when his fingers return to circle your sensitive nub.

The dual sensations have your mind spinning in tumultuous circles. 

“Fuck, Koo.”

“Feel good?” 

“So fucking good,” you whimper.

“Just you wait,” he brags.

Jungkook pleasures you slowly, mirroring the pace with both hands. Eventually, the tip of his thumb sinks into your tight hole and you mewl, your head falling forward and meeting the mattress below. It takes time, but after a while of Jungkook playing with you like you’re his favorite toy, his thumb goes in past his knuckle and he starts fucking it into you. 

The feeling makes you keen and grip desperately onto the sheets. Soon enough, both his hands leave you and you’re left wanting until you feel his tongue tracing your hole. 

“Holy shit,” you gasp.

His hands spread your asscheeks apart and he squeezes them in his big hands while he eats your ass.

You genuinely believe you’re going to have to be placed in an asylum. It feels like your very soul is on fire and Jungkook’s tongue on your puckered hole is straight gasoline. 

Your eyes roll so deep into your skull you worry they’ll get stuck there. 

Jungkook licks over your hole before fucking his tongue into you and the feeling of his wet muscle inside your ass is mind boggling. He works with expert tact, forcing his tongue inside and using the drool falling from his mouth to wet the area and then kitten licking you.

His tongue is warm and sopping wet on your rim and you never could’ve predicted it would feel this good.

He gives your right asscheek a hard smack only to bring his hand to your pussy so he can finger you, too. His fingertips tease along your slit without ever going where you really want him. You whine disapprovingly, but he pacifies you a moment later by rubbing your clit in tight circles and forcing a cry from your throat. 

His movements on your clit are harsh in comparison to the languid strokes of his tongue. The stark contrast splits your mind in half and your body isn’t able to keep up with all the pleasure it’s receiving. Before you know it, hot tears are rolling down your face and wetting the sheets beneath you.

“Jungkook, oh my God,” you weep desperately.

You’re so overstimulated you can no longer comprehend what he’s doing to you. The combination of him pressing on your pearl and his tongue sinking into your ass is simply too obscene.

When his mouth leaves you with a single, sloppy kiss, you involuntarily whine at the loss of contact and Jungkook shushes you as he massages the flesh of your ass with one hand.

After a moment, you hear Jungkook spit and feel the wet tip of the anal plug pressing against your asshole. You chuckle when the realization hits you that he was always going to need to relubricate the toy, and coating it with your saliva was merely a display for his pleasure.  

You tense as soon as the plug begins to sink further into you.

“Relax, babygirl,” he coos. “Take a deep breath.”

You listen attentively and fill your lungs with air just as he’s finishing pushing the toy into you. Rather than an exhale, it’s a strangled moan that exits your lungs. 

“Holy fuck, Jungkook” you cry.

“You’re okay, Bambi. I’ve got you,” he reassures you. “Does that feel alright?” 

You nod repeatedly, pushing your ass back against his hands in a silent plea for him to do something before you go crazy. The only reply you receive is a melodious, baritone chuckle.

Jungkook tilts your hips to give him better access to you. The movement makes the plug press deeper into your hole and you whine at the novel sensation. You feel his tongue lick all the way up your cunt a couple times before he starts making out with your leaking pussy from behind.

His lips move in sloppy circles while he eats you out and then he’s spitting on you so he can make it even messier. The feeling makes you delirious and if he wasn’t still firmly holding your hips you’d surely fall flat on your face.

As his tongue fucks into you, the muscle presses against the toy in your ass from within your velvet walls and you nearly rip his sheets as the fullness overwhelms you. You’re sobbing hysterically as he switches between kissing your cunt and flattening his tongue over your clit.

He moves his face back and forth on your nub before sucking and letting his teeth scrape the sensitive flesh. You scream bloody murder and cry his name into the linen.

“Jungkook, I can’t —”

“You gotta come, babygirl,” he tells you. 

“Koo,” you sob as your forehead presses into the mattress. 

“You can do it, Bams.” He places a wet kiss on your clit. “Come for me, baby.”

He licks you at an obscene pace, curling his tongue to lap up your essence before baby birding it onto your clit so he can massage your nerve endings with his tongue. Your orgasm is unbelievably powerful, forcing your hips forward as you wail incoherently into the bed. Jungkook continues to drink your cum until your cries settle into soft whimpers. 

Once the high simmers and your body is shaking with aftershocks, Jungkook gently presses on the anal plug. You keen and arch your back as it sinks further inside you. 

“You think you can keep going?” Jungkook moves your hair to one side so he can kiss your shoulder, his lips lingering there while he continues. “It’s alright if you can’t, Bambi.”

“I… I want to, Koo.”

He hums proudly in your ear.

“That’s my girl.”

Jungkook kisses your cheek before rising to his knees again. Your asscheeks are forced apart by his warm hands so he can drip more of his saliva around the toy. Then, he bends down to bite on your fatty flesh and you giggle at the comparably sweet affection.

“I’m gonna take the toy out and slowly push in, alright?”

“Mmhmm, I trust you.”

Just as he said, Jungkook holds onto the base and slowly removes the toy from your hole. The feeling makes your jaw drop as it spreads you open again upon its departure. 

The emptiness only lasts a mere moment before you feel the head of Jungkook’s cock at your entrance as he guides the tip into your tight hole.

“Oh fuck,” you whine. 

You bite on your hand to relieve the pressure building within your body. Even with all the preparation, the movement of Jungkook’s cock entering you inch by inch is heart stopping.

“Tell me if you need me to stop,” Jungkook says.

You shake your head aggressively. No words will be passing through your lips for some time, every motor function in your body is focused solely on the pleasure of being stuffed full by Jungkook. 

Every vein of his cock is pulsing against your impossibly tight walls and the further he travels inside of you, the better it feels. You’ve never felt so full in your life and even though he’s only in your ass, you swear you feel him everywhere. 

There’s a cooling sensation which accompanies the slide of his shaft and the realization that he applied lube before pushing in makes you feel eternally grateful. You’ll have to thank him for being so considerate once you’re no longer non-verbal. When his hips meet your ass, you exhale the air trapped in your lungs from his descent into your tightest hole. He’s fully sheathed inside you and it’s exponentially better than you ever could’ve imagined. 

Jungkook gives you a moment to adjust as he caresses your spine and kisses your shoulder blade a few times. 

“How does it feel, Bams?” 

“So, so fucking good, Koo,” you answer breathlessly. “I feel so fucking full.”

“Yeah?” Jungkook palms your asscheek before spanking you. “You want me to fuck your tight, little hole? Split you apart on my cock?”

“Please.”

Jungkook doesn’t need to be told twice, and within a second he’s pulling back until only his tip is inside before thrusting his entire cock into you all at once.

The scream that rips from your throat isn’t a sound a human should make. 

Hips slamming against your ass and balls slapping against your cunt, Jungkook fucks you like he’s trying to tear you to shreds. Your hole struggles to stretch around him as he continually leaves your warmth and returns again at a debilitating pace. 

The feeling of his cock throbbing inside your ass is so euphoric you see a vision of the entire milky way at once. Jungkook and his insane body are the sole proprietors of your mind as you cry ceaselessly and drool all over yourself from how much you’re whining and panting. There’s an unrelenting blaze lighting up your veins and searing your bones, but you want them to just burn, and burn, until you can’t take the heat anymore. 

“Fuck, Bams, this feels so fucking amazing,” Jungkook moans. “You’re so tight, babygirl.”

You mewl from the effect his praises have on your mind, your back arching automatically so you can meet each of his thrusts. 

Jungkook turns his cadence absolutely deadly, the fierce clapping sounds reverberating off his walls and shaking the bed frame. With his increase in speed, he pushes your shoulder blades down and forces your face into the sheets, keeping his hand there to steady himself. It sends his cock even deeper into you and you mirror each other’s noises of ecstasy at the new angle.

“Jungkook, please don’t stop,” you beg. 

“I wasn’t planning on it, Bambi.” He starts rolling his hips in time with his strokes and it makes his heavy balls smack perfectly against your pussy to bring you even more pleasure. “Gonna fuck you until my cum is leaking out of your hole.”

His words pierce your soul and make you whimper with wanton need. You have an insatiable urge to allow him to ruin you completely. Hold his cock within you long enough that your body can only remember the shape of him. 

Jungkook’s moaning gorgeously from behind you, his hand now holding your hair like reins so he can keep you exactly where he wants you. 

“I’m so close, Bams,” he warns.

You force your hips back against him to push him closer to the edge. He slaps your ass in return before gripping the soft flesh between his fingers. 

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. 

“Fuck, please.” 

He releases your hair so both hands can bruisingly grasp your hips and make his cock penetrate you like it’s his dying wish. 

The pace is so lethal you worry he’s causing permanent damage, but you truly cannot bring yourself to care. His huge cock spearing you repeatedly is so jaw dropping you think he’s soiled you for any other partner. It’s impractical to believe another man’s dick could ever bring you this much pleasure. He stretches you apart like you were made for him and you know he feels it, too, with the way he tirelessly rams into you. 

As Jungkook chases your highs, the moans meeting the fabric of his sheets sound nothing like you. Meanwhile, he’s growling and groaning inhumanly behind you and it only confirms your suspicions that he’s originally from the pits of hell. 

Your climax simmers in your gut and spills over externally with only a few more pistons of Jungkook’s cock into your ass, having his length buried deep within you far too heavenly a sensation to hold back even a second longer. Voice cracking and body shaking in his hold, you scream his name in a prayer-like chant as your orgasm blinds you and shuts down your nervous system.

Jungkook whines and his rhythm falters as the pulsing of your cunt tightens your walls around him. He gasps crudely, his hand dropping to the bed next to your face as he comes, stuffing his seed into your ass and fucking you so full you fear you’ll burst. You feel absolutely filthy as his cum warms the tunnel of your ass and drizzles out around his cock. The essence pours out of you and down his balls as he continues to fuck you through both your orgasms. 

You no longer have the wherewithal to hold onto anything, your energy sufficiently drained, making Jungkook’s movements force you further and further across the bed as though you’re just a lifeless husk wrapped around him. 

“You alright, Bambi?” He asks through shaky breaths.

All you can muster is a nod as your upper body meets the mattress, your arms lying limp in front of you and ass still in the air where he’s holding you up.

There’s a loud squelch when he finally pulls out, his cum excessively dripping out and leaking all over your pussy and thighs. Once his grip is gone, your lower half falls and you groan at the soreness throughout your body. 

“Bambi?”

“I’m alive,” you whisper. “I don’t know for how much longer, though.”

Jungkook chuckles and soothing rubs your back.

“How was it?”

“Fucking amazing. It’s a shame I won’t be able to walk for three days.”

“It’s okay, I’ll carry you,” Jungkook tells you. 

You smile weakly, already halfway to dreamland as you acknowledge his promise. 

Jungkook diligently wipes away the mixture of body fluids coating your skin before rolling you onto your back. When his handsome face enters your vision, your hands reach for him and he welcomes himself into your embrace to give you kisses along your jaw and neck. A hum of satisfaction comes from your throat as your eyes close and you fall asleep to the repetitive feeling of his lips on your skin. 

Your friends’ jaws are practically through the floor by the time you finish reminiscing about your most recent sexual experiment with Jungkook, and you have to refrain from giggling at their expressions of awe. 

The men return from their adventures not long after, with Jungkook notably missing. Just as your lips part to question where he is, the man himself appears in your line of sight.

“Bams, look at the stuffed animals I got for our little one!” He cheers happily as he lugs an entire haul of plushies between his arms. 

“Koo, where are we gonna put all those?” 

“In the nursery, duh.”

He drops the children’s toys unceremoniously onto the seat next to you before running his hands through his hair and scanning the area for an employee so he can ask for a large trash bag to take them home in.

“Jungkookie went a little crazy on the claw machine,” Hoseok informs you.

“Yeah,” you say as you pick up a little bunny plushie. “I can see that.”

Jungkook does, in fact, receive a trash bag from an employee so he can transport the goodies home after saying goodbye to your friends. Upon your arrival, he rushes upstairs to the nursery and meticulously places them around the half decorated room. Luckily, there’s a hanging storage hammock for the wall which will be arriving along with some other decorations in a few weeks. 

After changing into comfier clothes and washing up for the night, you drag Jungkook by the hand to the living room so he can show you all the characters he’s named after you. 

The next couple of hours are spent on the couch, your feet resting comfortably in his lap, while Jungkook plays through the games to present the animated versions of you he’s crafted over the years. They’re all equally adorable, some human and some not, but regardless of their design, every single one makes your heart thump faster in your chest. 

SIX

Usagi is purring like the little engine that could in your lap, her head resting comfortably against your baby bump. You absentmindedly comb through her fur as your other hand holds a book between your fingers. Normally, you’re a fantasy girl, but with motherhood on the horizon you figure it’s about time you dive into the parental advice genre. 

Jungkook descends the stairs in his gym attire, about to head to the garage for a workout because the pouring rain outside makes his trek to the actual gym less than ideal. Bam, who’s sleeping soundly in his bed across the room, feels the familiar rumble of his dad’s footsteps and instantly perks up. The Doberman quickly leaps up to greet Jungkook, who is positively elated to see him and bends down to scratch behind his floppy ears.

When Jungkook glances your way, his head tilts in confusion. He gives Bam a couple more rubs on his head before stealing the seat beside your legs on the couch.

“What are you doing, Bams?” He asks curiously.

“Reading,” you answer while shaking your book to show him.

“Yeah, I see that,” he laughs. “I meant, why are there headphones on your stomach?”

Peering down at your now well-rounded baby bump, your mouth forms an O in recognition of the action in question. You honestly forgot about the old school headphones you placed on your belly when you first laid down. 

“Well, this book says babies can start hearing around this time and it helps their growth by listening to soothing sounds in the womb. They recommend reading to them, too, as the due date approaches,” you explain. 

“What soothing sounds are you playing for our baby, then, huh?” Your teeth clamp around your lower lip as Jungkook brings the headphones to his ears. You watch with nerves pounding as his eyes shift through confusion to recognition before landing on sentiment. “Is this… is this my mixtape from college?” 

You slowly nod your head, still anxious for his reaction.

“If our baby is going to listen to anything, I figure it should be daddy’s voice.”

Jungkook’s smile is utterly breathtaking when he hears your response, his eyes glossy with unspoken emotion. His hand caresses your bump reverently before he lowers his head to kiss all over your swollen skin. You giggle at the sensation and tousle his hair with your fingers.

“I should probably sing live for our little one, don’t you think?” 

His eyes are sparkling beautifully when he asks from his position above your belly. 

“Really?” Jungkook nods wholeheartedly. “But you don’t like singing anymore, besides karaoke.”

“It’s different when it’s for our baby,” he states.

Giggling excitedly, you place the book and headphones on the coffee table and recline into the couch as you wait patiently for the serenade. 

Jungkook’s practically a vocal prodigy, and during your childhood his pretty voice was always surrounding you. In the car, across your backyard, escaping from the shower, anywhere and everywhere was his stage. His process for consoling you was to sing familiar tunes until your cries subsided. On sleepless nights, he would send you voice memos covering your favorite songs. He eventually made the mixtape in question which you stashed away for safekeeping over a decade ago. 

The melodies ceased towards the end of your college careers, the final chapters of your time there being particularly tough on Jungkook and causing him to fall out of love with the craft. You haven’t heard him sing live other than into a karaoke microphone ever since.

You’d never say it outloud for fear of creating unnecessary guilt, but you desperately miss the sound of his voice and the comfort it brings. 

“Alright, but you have to close your eyes, I’ll get too nervous with you looking at me,” he says. 

Accepting his terms, you shut your eyes and place your hands atop his which remain on your belly. Jungkook clears his throat before humming to align his pitch, which is mostly for show given that he has perfect pitch. 

A wondrous smile forms on your lips the very second his tender, buttery voice filters into your brain. 

Jungkook sings as close to where your baby resides within you as possible, his warm breath tickling your skin as he sings an old, Korean lullaby to your little eggplant. Whether it’s hearing him sing acapella again or the gut wrenching display of love for his unborn child, you aren’t sure, but you’re positively beaming as you rest against the cushions.

You automatically frown when his beautiful tone disappears as the song ends, but before your eyes can blink open, Jungkooks is kissing the grimace away and eliciting a noise of surprise from your throat. Your recognition is quick, and within a moment your arms are pulling him on top of you so you can adequately return his affection.

Twin smiles peak through the kiss and cause your teeth to scrape together, but you recover the proper motions and your lips gradually mold together again. You moan happily while combing your fingers through his hair and he wraps you in his arms to caress your waist. 

You lazily make out for some time without it leading anywhere, but neither of you question the act. Besides, you already know precisely what Jungkook is trying to tell you by allowing his tongue to dance endlessly with yours. 

Sometimes you still rest the headphones on your tummy to play the mixtape for your baby, but it slowly becomes routine for Jungkook to sing to them whenever you’re lounging around the house.

Aside from the parenting books, you and Jungkook also register for two classes in preparation for the arrival of your newborn. First up is the infamous Lamaze class, the purpose of which is to practice breathing techniques meant to help ease the strain of childbirth. It’s supposed to be both relaxing and educational, and your two mothers swear it’s mandatory. 

You arrive hand-in-hand ahead of schedule and the instructor introduces herself in a calm, lighthearted tone. She points you to a pair of yoga mats in the back corner and you weave your way around the already situated couples to take your seats.  

Jungkook’s curious eyes survey his surroundings and he nods approvingly at the soothing atmosphere.

The room is filled to the brim with fellow expecting couples, some consisting of men and women and others of two women. Everyone’s bellies differ dramatically in size and some of them make you thankful you’re not carrying that much extra weight on your spine. It’s comforting to be among others in your situation even when they’re strangers, and you can tell Jungkook feels the same as he smiles and makes eye contact with the other future dads in the room. 

The pregnant woman of the pair beside you leans over and grabs your attention.

“Hi, my name’s Suzy, this is Erica,” she introduces herself and her partner. “Is this your first time?” You nod in tandem and she giggles at your synchronization. “How long have you two been together?”

“Um —”

“A long time,” Jungkook saves the day. “I’m Jungkook, this is Bambi.”

“Koo,” you scold him. “My name is Y/N, he just calls me Bambi.”

“That’s so cute!”

“How long have you two been together?” You volley her question.

“10 months,” she replies warmly. 

You refrain from saying yikes out loud. Judgment isn’t usually your forte, and truthfully, the two women look adorable together, but you cannot comprehend having a child with someone you’ve known for less than a singular rotation of the sun. It’s been just short of three decades for you and Jungkook and you still feel unprepared. 

“That ring is gorgeous, by the way.”

“Oh! Thank you,” you say while wiggling your left hand. You receive compliments almost daily, and initially, you were worried about it not being an actual engagement ring, but the true meaning behind the piece of jewelry means exponentially more to you than a proposal ever could. “He’s definitely got great taste.”

Jungkook smiles graciously at the compliment, his hand rubbing along your back before catching around your waist.

“When’s the wedding?” 

Your face pales at the inquiry, which you know is totally valid given the item she’s complimenting and the purpose of the class you’re in. 

“You know, we haven’t really gotten around to planning it yet with the baby on the way and all,” you explain.

“Preach,” she cheers. 

The instructor entering the room effectively cuts off your conversation with Suzy. As she moves towards the front of the room, you and Jungkook steal a glance, eyebrows rising identically in anticipation of how this will go. 

It begins like any standard yoga class, except your legs remain crossed and you focus solely on the breathing aspect of the artform. 

Jungkook makes it fairly difficult to focus on said breathing when he does everything in his willpower to force laughter out of you. Throughout each exercise, your best friend decides to ruin any chance of success by making the most ridiculous faces imaginable, causing you to constantly stifle your mouth with your hand to prevent from disturbing anyone else. Upon his third attempt at thwarting your education, you shove your elbow into his ribs and he acts like you fatally wounded him, falling completely over and dramatically grasping his side. 

The man is astronomically lucky you’re well hidden in the back or you would be beating his ass right here in front of everyone.

After the warm up ends, the instructor goes over labor and delivery. It isn’t the first time you’re hearing the gruesome details, since your doctor explained the overall process to you both during your last appointment. Frankly, the ordeal terrifies you and you find yourself avoiding any and all conversations about it when you’re able. 

“So, for those of you who don’t know, you’ll be pushing along with your contractions. The contractions are your body’s reaction to the dilating of your cervix so the baby can be pushed out. When you push with the contraction, it not only makes birthing easier, but also lessens the risk of tearing,” the instructor explains.

“Tearing?” Jungkook says in horror beside you. “What tearing?”

“My vagina can rip, Koo, and then they have to sew me back up,” you tell him. 

He looks at you in absolute terror, his pupils shaking as his eyes observe your bump.

“I never would’ve put a baby in you if I knew that!”

“Well, you didn’t exactly plan on putting a baby in me, now did you?”

The instructor is continuing before you can speak further on the subject. 

“The Lamaze breathing techniques help with both the pain of contractions and the effort it takes to push,” she states.

The woman stands to accommodate everyone’s viewpoint as she thoroughly explains each movement and posture. 

It’s identical to the motions you’ve seen a million times in film, but when you actually do it yourself, it’s more difficult than you predicted. The technique is unnatural in comparison to your regular cadence of air intake and you only accomplish it after a couple attempts.

The instructor has everyone complete the exercise, even though technically only one of you requires the knowledge. She explains the purpose of both parents learning the technique is because it’s easy for the mother to forget while she’s bringing life into the world and her partner can remind her if they hone the skill as well. 

Practicing the breathing style doesn’t go very well for you, because Jungkook does it so aggressively beside you that your laughter is blocking your airway. You make ample efforts, but everytime you only inhale three small puffs of air before you're bending over and cackling into your palm. 

“Koo!” You angrily whisper as you slap his arm. He beams delightfully at your indignation, far too elated about making you laugh to worry about the consequences. “If my labor is hell because I didn’t get to learn this shit, I’ll kill you.”

“Alright, I’m sorry,” he whispers genuinely. “I’ll stop now.”

He complies immediately and you continue practicing uninterrupted for the remainder of class.

Upon the conclusion of the course, the two of you follow behind the herd of couples as the instructor comes to stand near you.

“You know, I usually don’t like disruptive couples, but you two are so adorable that I didn’t mind. It’s so obvious how much you love each other,” she tells you sincerely. You instantly go bright red and feel Jungkook squeeze your hand a couple times. “I can always tell when a couple is going to last a long time, and I hope to see you back again in a few years.”

The second class you attend is very different, but just as essential for you to learn. It’s meant to cover the basics of caring for a newborn and although you both have plenty of babysitting experience, it never hurts to have a refresher. 

You're currently sitting side by side at a long table surrounded by other expecting couples. There’s two fake babies, diapers, bottles, and a couple other miscellaneous items lying haphazardly between you. Jungkook, whose very existence prevents him from staying still, is fiddling with the various trinkets and examining them as though he’s an alien encountering them for the very first time. When the instructor starts the lesson, you smack his arm to force the pacifier he’s holding out of his grasp. 

The class begins with an overall introduction of the precise care required for newborns and infants. From there, it divulges into the appropriate expectations to have for the first few months of parenthood. After the overview, you’re told to pick up the baby dolls so the instructor can walk the class through each lesson. 

Jungkook hands the fake baby to you by its leg, and you have to hold your breath to keep the giggle in your chest from escaping. You surely hope he doesn’t carry your actual child like a used rag.

The art of changing diapers is up first and the instructor begins by informing the class about the differences between changing a boy and girl’s diaper. Jungkook nods along as though he’s listening intently, but when you catch his eyes from your periphery, they’re completely blank. Not a single thought in that pretty head of his. 

Nudging him with your elbow, you gesture towards the diaper with your eyes as a silent order for him to practice. Jungkook rolls his eyes, but proceeds to follow the written instructions on the board without verbal complaints.

When he finishes the process with utmost accuracy, resulting in a near perfect diaper, he leans back into his chair with a confident smirk, looking stupidly attractive as his tongue presses to the inside of his cheek. You have to stop yourself from wringing his neck. 

The instructor continues with bottle feeding and explains the importance of milk temperature, the right bottle size, etc. Upon instruction, everyone rises to practice heating a bottle of milk so you understand the feeling of the proper temperature.

You and Jungkook stand in line behind all the other couples, which is convenient because he ends up tickling you while you wait and it would probably disturb your classmates to watch you elbow him in the stomach. He merely giggles in response to your irritation before squishing your cheeks with his fingers and mockingly cooing at you. 

When you’re finally up to bat, Jungkook goes first and you immediately click your tongue as you watch him. 

“That’s gonna be too hot, Koo,” you tell him.

“Nuh uh,” he argues. 

He yelps only a second later when the milk squirts onto his forearm and it's scorching hot. Rolling your eyes, you move past him to heat some yourself. After completing the task, you squirt the liquid on your own arm before gently grabbing Jungkook’s uninjured limb to show him the example of the ideal temperature. 

“You’re already such an amazing mother, Bams,” he sighs.

You fight against the smile threatening your lips, but it’s useless, and you end up showing your gratitude with a squeeze of his hand.

As you’re leaving, one of your heels is already outside the door frame when the sound of Jungkook’s name makes you both turn over your shoulder. 

When you locate the source, you see a familiar redhead, although she looks vastly different from the last time you saw her, especially with the massive baby bump she’s sporting. 

“Lisa?” Jungkook asks to clarify.

“Hi!” Lisa, one of Jungkook’s exes from the time immediately following college, steps forward and pulls him into a hug. When she sees you beside him, her eyes light up. “Oh my god! Y/N!”

“Hi, Lisa,” you greet her as you embrace. 

You honestly loved Lisa, and was extremely sad to see her go. She treated Jungkook exactly how you always hoped he would be treated by a partner and he was never without a smile when she was near. Unfortunately, she accepted a job across the country and they inevitably decided to forgo long distance. 

“I can’t believe I’m seeing you both here. I mean, I can believe it, but it’s just such a small world,” she states.

“What do you mean?” Jungkook asks, his hand finding your lower back and pulling you into his side.

“Well, this was always bound to happen, right? You two are like a match made in heaven,” she answers honestly. 

Jungkook’s ears go red while you hold your lower lip hostage to prevent a bashful smile from creeping in. 

“Thanks, Lisa. I’m sure you’re excited,” Jungkook says as he gestures to her stomach.

She wears a huge toothy grin and nods ostentatiously. 

“I’m so freaking happy, you have no idea,” she responds. “I’m so glad you two are finally together. I always had my suspicions, and it’s really nice to see. You both look so happy.”

“Thank you, it means a lot.” you say to her. “I hope the rest of your pregnancy and everything goes well!”

“Thanks, you too!” 

She hugs you both again before waving and returning to her partner’s side. 

It must be divine intervention that causes every interaction you have, stranger or otherwise, to somehow end in compliments of you and Jungkook as a couple. Just the other day, a woman at the store watched Jungkook grab an item for you from the top shelf and kiss your hair as he dropped it into the basket and she hollered from across the aisle that you’ll be together forever. 

All you can do is hope they’re correct, because you have an underlying fear you refuse to discuss with anyone that somehow being parents will ruin your friendship beyond the point of recognition. People who’ve been together for far longer than you divorce over issues involving their children everyday, and even without romance on the table, you worry what parenthood will do to your bond. 

That worry will have to dwell in your mind for another day, because at the moment, Jungkook is doing everything within the realm of possibility to make your pregnancy easier and bring a smile to your face. 

Kicking the door open with your foot, you place the groceries in your arms onto the floor so you can remove your jacket and shoes. When you stand to your full height, you spot Jungkook behind the couch, his hands pressing on his lower back. Your eyebrows shoot up as you examine the scene, most notably, the foreign object on his body.

“Uh, Jungkook, if you got me pregnant, then who got you pregnant?”

There’s currently a skin colored, faux baby bump strapped to Jungkook’s chest, making him look like a mirror to your present state. 

“Psst, I did this all by myself. Step it up, Bambi.” Eyes rolling on instinct, you walk further into the home and greet your fur babies on the way to Jungkook. “I got it from the animation department. I guess they’ve used it when doing stop motion before.”

“Right, but why?”

“Well, I read the more you can understand what your partner is going through, the easier it is to be helpful to them.”

“You’re pretending to be pregnant to learn empathy?” Jungkook scowls when his efforts go unappreciated by you. “You know what, you’re right. Thank you so much, Jungkook. It must be so eye opening to endure the weight of pregnancy for a minimal amount of time while I’m carrying your kid around day and night for the better part of a year.”

He sighs defeatedly and unstraps the fake bump, sending it to the ground with a heavy splat. 

“I thought that would make you laugh, but it didn’t and now I’m sad,” he explains.

You frown and step forward to caress his jaw.

“I’m sorry, Koo, that was too harsh. It was funny, you look utterly ridiculous while wearing that,” you assure him. “I‘ve just had a long day, is all.”

“Can I do anything to make it better?”

“Well, I can think of one thing…”

Jungkook is lifting you onto the kitchen counter and using his body to spread your legs apart within an instant. He kisses the air right out of your lungs, grabbing your face with both hands and smashing his mouth on yours.

Your conflicting, hectic schedules have made it impossible to spend any real time together lately, and this is the first chance you’ve had to be intimate in days. 

The kiss acts as a lighting rod down your spine awakening every single one of your nerve endings. Gripping his shirt to press his heart to yours, you hum blissfully when your sensitive nipples meet his hard chest. His lips force yours open so he can push his tongue into your mouth and it only serves to make you infinitely more needy for him. You capture his hips with your legs and lure him in until his hardening cock is throbbing against your cunt. 

Jungkook groans at the contact and pushes his hands into your hair, taking control of the kiss so he can worship your mouth. His hips subtly buck against your crotch and the friction makes you whimper for more. He appeases you by repeating the motion with more force, and before you know it you’re dry humping each other in your freaking kitchen. 

You whine when Jungkook’s lips depart from you to kiss your neck instead, but you forgo your disappointment a minute later when he unbuttons your jeans and tugs them off. His hand sneaks into your panties and you moan exuberantly as he starts playing with your pussy, his fingers traversing your folds and swirling around your clit. 

“So wet, Bams,” he whimpers.

Jungkook works his tongue along your throat as he fucks his digits into your pussy. Your head falls back in ecstasy until you’re making eye contact with the ceiling fan, forcing Jungkook to kiss along your collarbones and shoulder. He sucks a pretty bruise into your skin and you gasp, your fingers twisting the fabric of his shirt as an anchor to keep you above water.  

His lips finally return to where they belong, but he only kisses you for another moment before descending to his knees and pulling your soaked underwear down to join your pants on the floor. 

You wait patiently for the feeling of his lips, but they never come. Instead, his fingers retreat from your core and his other hand sharply squeezes your thigh.

“Koo?”

“Bambi, you’re bleeding,” he states through shaky vocal chords.

“What?”

Looking down from your spot on the counter, you see Jungkook’s eyes blown wide while his pupils shake with fear. He holds his hand up so you can see his two middle fingers are covered in dark red blood.

The sight utterly paralyzes you, shutting down every system in your body like a sinking ship, your nerves, veins, and organs all screaming “mayday! mayday!”

Your panic manifests in the form of tears rolling down your face, your lungs struggling to intake air, and your mind racing at the speed of light. Jungkook’s terror spikes when he sees your eyes lose their luster from his place on the kitchen floor. 

“Bams?” He stands up while wiping his fingers on a nearby towel. When you don’t respond, he delicately cradles your face. “Bams, look at me.”

Jungkook’s gentle command rights the ship, pulling your consciousness from the dark water and bringing you safely back to land.

His eyes survey you to interpret your mental state, but you feel his own hands shaking where they reside on your cheeks. You desperately clutch his wrists, both as a signal that you’re alright and because you know you both need something to ground you. 

“Jungkook,” you whimper.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, I’m here,” he assures you as he pulls you in.

You start sobbing the very second his arms wrap around you, shoving your face into his shoulder and muffling your shrill cries in his shirt. Jungkook holds you to him with a hand on your head, shushing you and attempting to comfort you as best he can when his own emotions are nearly getting the better of him.

“I’m so scared, Koo,” you whisper.

Jungkook lifts your head again, wiping away your tears with his thumbs as he caresses your cheekbones. He kisses you softly, granting you a momentary reprieve from your racing heartbeat and constricted airway.

“I’m right here, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Your mind is propelled into the past, to all the times Jungkook’s uttered nearly identical words as a steadfast assurance. He said them when you first told him about the pregnancy, and there are countless times prior to that, whether on the playground, in your basement, the university library, or your old apartment. He’s always there for you, always holding you whenever you need him without a second thought or regard for his own wellbeing. 

There aren’t any words left, and time is of the essence, so Jungkook lifts you from the counter and lets you get dressed while he grabs his keys and jacket. You meet him at the door where he’s holding your own coat open for you to slip into. You make momentary eye contact once you're both ready, an unspoken promise passing between you. Afterwards, the two of you run down the stairs holding hands to reach the garage.

Jungkook never once stops talking the entire car ride to your doctor’s office, already knowing exactly what you need to remain calm. He tells you about his day at work and the mods he’s building from scratch for an older game. That leads him into a monologue about the first game he designed and how long it took him to figure out some of the most simple elements. 

You regretfully hear none of it, only the sound of his voice filtering in through your senses and not the actual content of his phrases. 

When you arrive in record time because Jungkook nearly reaches maximum speed in his Mercedes, you bolt from the car and run into the building together. Jungkook called during the drive to alert them of the situation, and he’s the one speaking to the receptionist at the moment because you can’t bring yourself to produce sound. 

The world feels as though it’s spinning in the wrong direction. If it wasn’t for Jungkook’s hand on your thigh as he drove, you wouldn’t even be aware of your surroundings enough to comprehend reality. 

Everything is veiled by a thick fog of despair, and you can no longer tell which way is up and which is down. 

You’re taken to an observation room almost immediately, where they draw your blood, take both the baby and your vitals, and give you an ultrasound. Jungkook holds one of your hands between his palms the entire time. 

During the ultrasound, your nerves go haywire and you finally break, stray tears rolling down your cheeks as you weep into your free hand. The examination of your womb is silent this time because they don’t want to worry you, and not being able to hear the heartbeat you adore is unbearable. 

It’s the only time Jungkook releases your hand, so he can brush the tears away before kissing your forehead and whispering sweet nothings into your hairline.

The doctor visits you after the most grueling fifteen minutes in existence. She’s smiling at you when she enters, which you pray is a positive sign, but you don’t allow yourself to relax just yet. 

“Hi, you guys. Your baby is doing just fine.”

When the relief born exhale leaves your lungs, it’s accompanied by a harsh cry as the crippling weight of your emotions bears down on you. Jungkook brings your hand to his lips while rubbing his thumb along your knuckles to soothe you. 

“I know this was really stressful for you both, and I’m so sorry you had to go through it.” She takes a seat before continuing. “Unfortunately, spotting like this can be totally normal. It’s why some women don’t realize they’re pregnant at first. I’m glad you came in, though. If for whatever reason this happens again, just keep an eye on it and if the bleeding doesn’t stop or is abnormally heavy, then come on in and we’ll make sure you’re all good.”

“So everything’s fine? Me and the baby?”

“You’re both perfect,” she declares. 

Your eyes flit to Jungkook, who nods affirmatively and kisses your hand again as tears well up in his eyes. 

“Thank you so much, Doctor,” Jungkook says quietly. 

“Of course, is there anything else I can do for you two?”

You shake your heads in perfect sync and your doctor smiles warmly upon her exit.

There’s a moment of silence once the door closes, but then the sound of Jungkook gasping over a sob meets your ears.

“Fuck,” he cries, his head dropping to his hands. “Is this what being a parent is? Just constantly being terrified something is going to happen to them?”

You comb through his black hair as he releases all the emotions he was holding in so he could stay strong for you. You gently shush him and reaffirm that everything’s alright, and when he lifts his head you return his earlier favor by wiping his remaining tears away.

“I think the love we receive from them makes the fear worth it,” you state. “But fuck, if that wasn’t the worst hour and a half of my life.” You count your inhales and exhales to bring yourself back to earth. “I don’t even know what we would’ve done.”

Jungkook ponders for a moment before licking his lips.

“If something does happen, if we…” He shakes his head, not wanting to say the words aloud. “We’ll be alright, because no matter what we have each other. I’m always going to be here, Bambi, until the day I die.”

“Until the day I die. I’m going first, remember?” 

“No,” Jungkook chuckles darkly. “God will not want me here on earth the day I lose you, Bams. It would be too dangerous for everyone inhabiting it.”

You smile and reach out to hold his face, running your thumb along his cheekbone.

“Together, then?”

“Together,” he affirms.

A beat passes, and then your lips meet like magnets, as if they themselves came together without either of your knowledge.

Jungkook holds your face with ardor, kissing you so tenderly it steals your breath away, and you return his affection with an equal amount of devotion, moving your lips in slow circles as you appreciate every push and pull of his mouth. As you passionately kiss, you place your hands over his and squeeze his fingers.

“I love you, Bambi,” Jungkook whispers to your lips.

You brush your nose against his with a smile.

“I love you,” you reply ardently.

Jungkook is kissing you again the very millisecond he hears the final syllable of your phrase, neither of you wanting to be apart for even a single moment more. 

You let your mouths talk where words can’t express the severe emotional rollercoaster you just went through. 

Eventually, you part with swollen lips and leave the medical building hand-in-hand. Jungkook drives slower with the ordeal behind you, but his hand returns to your thigh, his knuckles absentmindedly running up and down your leg throughout the trip home.

As soon as you cross the threshold, Jungkook is lifting you into his arms and carrying you to his bedroom. You don’t question him because you already know the reason, and if he hadn’t done so himself, you would’ve lept into his embrace. 

Your world was crumbling into ashes less than an hour ago and the sole antidote is each other. 

You bury your face in his neck as he carries you through the house, his hands gripping you inexplicably tight as if he’s worried you’ll vanish.

Jungkook kicks the door shut with his heel once you make it to his room before kneeling on his bed and gently resting you both on the mattress. His body is completely covering yours as he nuzzles his face in your neck, and his weight on you provides blissful comfort to your soul. In return, you trace nonsensical shapes along his spine and he hums into your skin appreciatively.

His lips brush your neck tentatively, but after you moan in approval he cradles your face in one hand and exposes more of your throat so he can venerate you. You moan softly again, your nails reactively digging into the fabric concealing his body from you.

“I need to feel you close, Bambi,” he whispers. “I just… fucking need you.”

The feeling is mutual, and you’re immediately turning your head to capture his lips. You both mewl as your tongues begin a well rehearsed routine, the room quickly filling up with the sounds of your pleasure. 

Jungkook’s hips roll into you and your legs wrap around his waist so your crotches are perfectly in sync. 

“You have me,” you speak directly to his lips. “I’m yours, Jungkook.”

You don’t know what you mean exactly, you could be referring purely to your body or maybe you just gave your heart away, but perhaps it doesn’t matter. The lines have been crossed so many times now you’re unsure they even exist anymore. 

Jungkook seems to get a kickstart from your words, his hands suddenly working overtime to undress you as fast as he can. You match his intensity, skimming your knuckles along his waist as you rush to pull his shirt over his head. Your lips meet again on the other side of the process, kissing fiercely as you unbuckle Jungkook’s belt and he undoes the buttons of your jeans. 

You swap tasks when your pants reach your thighs, finding it more efficient to shimmy both your own garments off in one go. When your naked bodies meet, you grab Jungkook’s cock to stroke him fervently. He groans into your neck and bites at the skin of your shoulder while his fingers sink between your folds. His hand begins coaxing essence out of your hole with its ministrations so you’re wet enough to take him. 

He leaves searing hot, open mouth kisses all along your shoulder and collarbones as you jack each other off. It makes you keen and squirm as his mouth and hand work together to bring you unfathomable pleasure. 

“Shit,” Jungkook whines. “Could come just from this.”

You acknowledge his words by tightening your grip and moving your hand faster along his shaft, making him whine even louder. 

His free hand is massaging one of your breasts, and he descends to take your neglected nipple into his mouth. He coats the nub in drool and tugs on it with his teeth to make you gasp. Once it’s pebbled and hard, he licks over your swollen mound and gingerly bites into the flesh. His pursuit continues downwards as he kisses over the entire expanse of your torso, making sure to pause at your baby bump to kiss your unborn child for a lingering moment. 

His lips hypnotize you completely as they dance across your skin. The simplicity of them mapping you forcing all the worries from earlier right out of your head. 

You tug on his hair to communicate you need him, and he languidly kisses up your body so he can return to your lips. As his tongue messily licks into your mouth, it’s perfectly in time with him pulling his hand away from your pussy to rub his cock along your slit and lubricate himself.

“I fucking love this pussy, Bams. Never gonna get enough of it, of you,” he tells you.

It feels like there’s an electrical current linking you together and lighting you both up like fireworks. All of your senses are sizzling as though they’re about to blow a fuse.

Your pussy squelches when Jungkook thrusts inside its warm walls, the otherwise silent room overflowing with the erotic sound. The moans you exude are high and unrecognizable as he rolls his hips to pull his cock out before completing the motion to push himself back inside. The initial glide of his cock into your hole makes you gasp from sheer ecstasy and dig into his shoulder muscles with your fingertips.

Jungkook’s elbows rest beside your ears, his body hovering so close above you that your peaked nipples brush against his chest with each movement. 

“You feel so fucking amazing,” he moans. “You’re just fucking amazing, baby.”

His deep, honey voice sends your mind entirely out of orbit.

In response, you take your time kissing his neck, licking over the large vein pulsing beneath his hot skin. He moans and you feel his biceps flex beside your head as he firmly clutches the sheets.

“You make me feel so fucking full, Koo, it drives me fucking crazy.”

He chuckles above you in response.

“Good, love driving you crazy.”

“Well, you’ve been doing it since day one, so I suppose so.”

He giggles at your comment and it makes your heart beat out of time. 

His pace is uncharacteristically slow tonight, but he’s pushing his cock in so deep it’s hitting your g-spot with every stroke and you swear you feel him in your guts. He’s not technically even thrusting, just dutifully rolling his hips over you to bring himself in and out of your cunt.

The sensation of him fucking you so reverently is heart stopping and you would do just about anything to ensure it never ends. You truly can’t imagine any amount of time with him will ever satisfy you completely. 

Needing to feel more of him, you grab his sharp jaw and pull his face down to your lips for a searing kiss, the feeling of his tongue inside you mouth downright addicting.

“I want you all the time, Jungkook. Everything about you… you have me hooked.”

He smiles against your lips.

“Yeah, like you haven’t had me wrapped around your finger since the second you were born,” he retorts.

You responsively smirk and continue kissing him until your oxygen is depleted. Your bodies greedily connect over and over and eventually your own hips grind upwards to match his andante rhythm.

The distortion of your emotional landscape only serves to make the sex feel phenomenal. Every nerve within you is oversensitive after forcing yourself through all five stages of grief earlier, only for your heightened emotions to come crashing back down.

It feels as though you’re the only two people in existence. Although you’re alone, the pure intensity of your intercourse leads you to believe the bedroom is the only place left standing after a flood washed everything else away. 

The combination of your lips chasing each other while you fuck and your pussy clenching around his cock causes Jungkook to moan into your mouth, and just the same, the feeling of him repeatedly splitting you open makes you parrot the sensual noise.

“Feel s’good, baby,” Jungkook groans. His lips take a couple slow laps around your visage before finally coming home to your mouth. “Take my cock so fucking well, like you were fucking made for it.”

You mewl at his praises, the words making you even needier for him.

An orgasmic high has been looming since the very moment Jungkook’s thick cock sunk into your walls and spread you apart, and you're borderline desperate to feel his warm seed inside of you.

“Cream my cunt, Jungkook. Make it yours, baby.”

Jungkook takes your demand to heart, his hands grasping yours and shoving them up beside your head so he can grind into you unhindered. The feeling of his dick’s thick, pulsing veins and the ideal curve sending him straight into your cervix have you seeing stars.

Even with the tempo change, the way Jungkook is fucking you is still undeniably more passionate than your past encounters. He’s chasing his high and yet it feels as though he’s trying to pour his soul into you along with his semen.

You can tell he’s close from the delicious throbbing sensation within your cunt, and you fuck yourself on his cock at the beat of his strokes to make him come.

He grunts repeatedly, his fingers trapping yours to the bed as his pace grows erratic with his end nearing. The sound of him groaning earnestly in your ear sends your eyes to the back of your head as his cum shoots into you and paints your cunt white. 

“Fuck, Bams,” he gasps, continuing to push into you as he comes in waves of hot fluid. “Fuck, it’s so good.”

His orgasm triggers your own, the feeling of his cum spreading through you and dripping down your thighs sending you right over the edge. You whimper like a wounded animal, holding onto his hands for dear life as your hips gyrate through the come down.

“Oh, Koo,” you mewl.

Jungkook never stops fucking you vehemently even as your orgasms come and go, his cock diligently stuffing his cum deep into your womb with a sloppy, wet sound. 

He remains buried deep within you while your bodies return to their normal state, both of you needing a moment to settle your nerves before relinquishing the feeling of being connected.

“That was… so fucking needed,” you pant. 

“Tell me about it,” Jungkook concurs.

He kisses you gently once more, his tongue ever so slightly entering your mouth to pull a sweet moan from you. 

His warmth leaves you to hunt for something to clean up with, and although the sun has barely gone down, you’re exhausted from the mental wave pool today threw you into.

Jungkook wipes you down before bringing your body into his embrace. You cuddle closer to his bare chest, inhaling his scent and humming contently. Legs tangling together beneath the comforter, neither of you question the actions which don’t normally occur after you’re intimate.

There’s a kiss placed between your hair strands while Jungkook massages your back in large, soothing circles. The repetitive motion forces your eyes shut and within moments, you’re falling asleep in his arms. 

Taglist: @lovingkoalaface @starcandybby @junniesoleilkth @keylime4eva @kissyfacekoo @rpwprpwprpwprw @spideyjimin @jjeonjjk7 @joonlover1207 @annpeachy @rexana19 @heartwith0uthe @kosmos1307 @minyoongi7016 @magicalnachocreator @misschelliejeon @bubblyi3 @bhonbhon @polnaraffsrack @amarawayne @majesticjung-97 @kmpj9 @upo1313 @songbyeonkim @kikikaaa @glowjuli @avawants2havefun @hyeinwluv85s @someonegoood @kyljjk @lalaren @dna2723 @tteokbokibyjk @tatyhend @kookienooki @ana-marais98 @gimeow @importantflowersblog43 @minghaosimp @belleilichil @neurospicynugget @missdumpling190811 @jungkooksnerniemilk @imhereonlytoreadxoxo @kayswatanabe @fancypeacepersona @jeonsgf-97 @star-my @neg-l3ct @kelsyx33

The Third Trimester coming on 7/4/25 at 7:00 pm EST

[em1i2a3]

My Favourite Game

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Inexperienced!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You haven’t had much luck when it comes to dating and sex which has inadvertently placed you in a position of being wholly inexperienced with the whole scene in general. But when your long time friend Rhett Abbott offers you a way to experiment safely to figure out what to do, you immediately jump at the opportunity–desperate to learn and get more experience.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Friends to Lovers? Hell yeah! Reader is inexperienced and actually has a safe space to actually experiment. The dynamics between Rhett and Reader are extremely comfortable (they talk about a lot of personal things), They’ve been friends for a while (high school acquaintances turned adult friends), Mentions of Violence (kind of vague as well), Rhett is Mentioned to be Protective

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all…), Oral Sex (fem! And male! Receiving), Fingering, Biting (leaving marks), Dirty Talk, Hickeys and Love Bites, Cum Play, Swallowing, Hair Pulling, Choking, Overstimulation, Semi–Public Sex (Truck Sex y’all wahoooo lol), Handjobs, Riding, Making Out, Thigh Riding, Praising/WorshippingTeasing (physically), Begging, Reader is described as being inexperienced they have had sex though, just really bad sex, Very Soft Dom and Sub dynamics that switches, Finger Sucking, Gagging (very brief moment, nothing extreme), Good Girl is used.

Author’s Note: Jesus Christ, that’s a lot of smut warnings lol. I loved writing this, I buy into the friends to lovers trope so much, but I also enjoy the ‘I’m teaching you new things about yourself and we’re slowly falling for each other’ trope lol. Did I go off on this and have to change my keyboard midway through because the A, D, F and G keys break? Yep. But holy hell did I enjoy writing this new segment of RAF and I’m so excited to keep writing for this man!

Word Count: 13,962

It was painfully evident that you didn’t have much luck with men. You used to think maybe the first one was just a fluke–that one high school boyfriend who didn’t know the first thing about tenderness and treated you like a friend more than a lover. But as the years went on and the faces changed–first dates, flings, those awkward two-month situationships that ended with unread messages or cold shoulders–it became harder and harder to ignore a simple, infuriating truth:

You attracted a certain type of guy, and unfortunately, that type of guy brought on heaps of trouble to you.

Rhett had told you as much–in different ways, tones, and situations.

”I can tell just by lookin’ at ‘em,” He’d mutter over his beer, eyes narrowed at whoever was looking at you, or whoever had come to pick you up from his ranch when you would hang out, “Ain’t no way that one’s gonna treat you right.” But you never listened to him. You had told him–and yourself–multiple times that he was just being overprotective, and looking too deeply into things.

But the truth was, he was right, you weren’t being treated right. Not even close.

In bed, it was glaringly worse. You didn’t come first–literally or metaphorically. The guys you saw acted like just showing up was enough, like their presence alone should’ve sent you spiraling into pure ecstasy–like you were supposed to be grateful that they were blessing you with the experience of having them between your legs.

You definitely weren’t. Not even once.

You could actually count on one hand how many times you’d almost felt an orgasm building. And the only time someone even offered to go down on you–and even then, he was half-assing the job, and made it feel like a formality rather than something he actually wanted to do. You barely felt his mouth. But you pretended it was good, just so it wouldn’t be another disappointment.

For a long time, you thought maybe something was wrong with you, that maybe your body was broken or maybe you were just one of those people who didn’t get much pleasure from these types of things and needed simpler acts to truly experience something even close to sexual pleasure. So. You stopped trying, stopped dating, and stopped chasing what felt more like punishment than passion.

And within the quiet that followed your dating celibacy, you had found yourself spending more time with Rhett.

Neither of you were truly close with each other before that.

Sure, you’d gone to the same high school, crossed paths in hallways, shared the occasional class where you’d borrow a pencil or flash him a smirk when he got caught nodding off mid-lecture. But he ran with the rodeo kids, and you–well, you drifted between circles, kept mostly to yourself, caught up in extracurriculars and jobs and the kind of boys Rhett always ended up warning you about years later.

It wasn’t until a spur-of-the-moment decision–one boring Friday and a reckless text to your old classmate–that you ended up at one of his circuits. You hadn’t seen him ride since high school, and you figured, why not?

You didn’t expect much.

But then you saw him in the dirt and the dust, bronzed under the stadium lights, laughing with his hat tipped back and his knuckles split open. And something shifted.

You stayed longer than you meant to that night. Helped him limp back to his truck. Got late-night fries together. Talked about everything and nothing, just like people who didn’t know yet that they were about to become each other’s person.

After that, it became a routine. A quiet, natural rhythm. The two of you set aside one day a week for bar hopping–usually Tuesdays, when the crowds were thin and the drinks were cheap. But when you gave up on dating for a while, something in that rhythm expanded.

You weren’t just hanging out once a week anymore. You were showing up at circuits again, slapping the rusted fence rails as he rode past, grinning like you were seventeen again and seeing him for the first time. You started meeting his friends. Familiarized yourself with his family again–Amy’s quiet greetings, Perry’s tired but kind nods, Cecilia’s slightly surprised but not unwelcome smiles when you appeared in their kitchen one Sunday morning, still rubbing sleep from your eyes in Rhett’s oversized hoodie, and Royal’s glares that he shot at Rhett.

You became a fixture in his life. A known presence.

Especially after long nights of drinking, where you’d inevitably end up back at his place, curled up on his bed groaning because a headache was already brewing.

And with that bond that grew came something that bloomed slowly but powerfully: his protectiveness.

It had always been there–coiled beneath the surface, stitched into the way he watched you, waited for you, walked you to your door even when he was half-asleep himself. But when he started to piece together the kind of experiences you’d had–the disappointments, the lack of care, the way men made you feel like an afterthought–it shifted.

It changed the way he looked at you. Like you were fragile, but not weak. Like he wanted to wrap his hands around every bad memory and crush it.

He never said much when you opened up about it. Didn’t need to. The silence was heavy enough.

”You don’t deserve that,” He said once, soft as gravel, not looking at you. It had hit you harder than you expected. Not because of the words–but because of how he said them.

When you broke it to him that you were taking a break from dating, he didn’t even hesitate before saying “Me too.” You hadn’t expected that. You had laughed, asked him why– saying you’re Rhett Abbott, don’t you have girls throwing themselves at you every other week?–but he just shrugged, scratched the back of his neck, and muttered something about solidarity.

What you didn’t know though was that Rhett Abbott was relieved by this news.

It meant peace. No more stepping in between you and men who didn’t deserve to speak your name. No more black eyes or busted knuckles or security dragging him out of bars with the same tired “Abbott, we warned you.” No more cold rage coiled in his chest when you came to him with a new dating story.

But more than all of that–it meant he had more of your time again, and that you were his once more.

Not in the traditional sense. But in the quiet, easy way where he got to have you beside him. In his truck. At his kitchen table. Laughing on his porch. Falling asleep in his living room. Talking to him about things you didn’t tell anyone else.

He got to watch you laugh with his family. Got to listen to you hum in the passenger seat. Got to see you when you weren’t trying anymore–when you were just being you.

And lately, Rhett had been thinking about things. Dangerous things.

About what it would feel like to be the one to show you what good could be. About how his hands would never treat you like an obligation. About how he’d never rush you, never expect anything, never make you fake a damn thing.

He’d been thinking about you in ways he shouldn’t. Imagining things he wasn’t proud of. But he never said it. Never crossed that line.

Not until you did.

——————————

The bar was louder than usual, the kind of noise that sank into your bones, all thudding boots and clinking glasses and low country twang pouring from speakers that surrounded the walls of the drinking areas. You and Rhett were squished together in a booth that barely had enough space for one of his thighs, let alone two. He was pressed against your side, the warmth of his arm brushing yours every time either of you reached for the second pitcher of beer you’d ordered.

You’d been sipping slowly at first–well, pretending to–but somewhere between your third and fourth shared laugh, the drinks started going down faster. Something about being shoulder-to-shoulder with Rhett always loosened you up. Maybe it was the way he leaned in when he talked. Or the way his voice dropped just slightly in the middle of a crowd, like everything else was just noise unless you were listening.

By the time the second pitcher was empty, your head was spinning, your cheeks hot, and Rhett was nudging you with his knee.

“Guessin’ it’s time we call Perry?”He suggested, raising an eyebrow and pushing his light brown hair out of his face. You groaned.

”Can’t we just sleep in your truck?” And he let out a small laugh, shaking his head slowly.

”You’re too pretty to get eaten by coyotes, sweetheart. C’mon, I’m sure my place is more comfy than the leather seats of the truck.” He teased, as he pulled out his phone.

You both slurred your way through the call–Rhett taking the lead while you giggled beside him, repeating his name like a chant until Perry muttered, “Jesus Christ, I’m on my way.”

The drive back to the ranch was a blur. You’d nodded off on Rhett’s shoulder. He smelled like leather and dust and whatever cologne he always swiped across his throat before circuits. He didn’t say much on the way home, but his hand never left your thigh–more because in his drunken stupor, all he wanted to do was feel your skin against his, even if it was seen as an accident.

When Perry’s truck pulled up to the house, it was as if your bodies had already memorized the path inside.

You and Rhett stumbled up the steps, bumping into one another in the narrow hallway, muffling your laughter behind lazy hands and hushed voices. His hand settled low on your back, fingertips resting just under the hem of your top, warm and heavy with quiet intention–though he played it off like it was nothing. Like he always did.

His legs bumped into the frame of the hallway table and he cursed softly, grabbing onto your arm to steady himself.

“Shh,” You whispered, glancing behind you, “You’re gonna wake your parents.” He waved his hand.

”It’s okay,” He murmured, his breath brushing your hair slightly, “I’m sure they’re used to it by now.” You reached his room like it was second nature–your bodies moving together in a practiced rhythm, like you’d done this dance before. And you had, in bits and pieces. Just not like this. Not with this kind of tension buzzing just beneath your skin.

You practically fell through the doorway first, catching yourself on the edge of his bed with a half-giggled groan. Rhett followed close behind, his shoulder knocking lightly into the doorframe before he caught himself and dragged it shut behind him with a soft click.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the pale moonlight bleeding in through the slatted blinds. Familiar shadows painted across the floorboards and the messy sprawl of his clothes on the chair. The scent of him clung to the room–warm skin, worn flannel, the faint tang of sawdust and leather.

You kicked off your boots, one thudding softly against the wall, the other tumbling onto its side. He mirrored your movements, stepping out of his own boots with less precision, letting out a groan of relief as he did so. You tossed your clutch onto the side table–just beside the lamp he never used–and sank onto the edge of his bed with a quiet sigh.

“Here,” Rhett said, reaching for the top drawer of his dresser, “Take these.” He tossed a soft, well-worn T-shirt your way–gray with faded black lettering you didn’t bother reading–and a pair of boxer shorts that still held the shape of his body in their fabric. You caught them against your chest, fingers curling over the cotton, the residual warmth of his drawer somehow sinking into your skin.

”I’m gonna go grab some water,” He added, rubbing the back of his neck, his voice low, but clearer now–more focused, or sobered up, “You get changed.”

Then he disappeared down the hall, the sound of his footsteps padding softly away as the door swung gently shut behind him.

You sat in the quiet for a moment, the distant hum of the house settling around you. Your pulse felt louder than it should’ve. Your fingers trembled slightly as you peeled off your tank top, the material catching on your shoulder before slipping free. You dropped it beside your clutch, then shimmied out of your jean shorts–tight and damp from the heat of the night, catching slightly on your thighs before falling to the floor.

The air kissed your bare skin, cool in contrast to the heat that had begun to build in your chest.

You tugged Rhett’s shirt over your head. It was too big, the hem falling just below your hips, the neckline gaping enough that the slope of your collarbone peeked out. You ran your fingers down the faded cotton, breathing in the faint scent of him lingering in the fabric–clean, woodsy, unmistakably him.

The boxers came next, soft and worn from a thousand washes. You slid them up your legs, the waistband resting low on your hips, baggy and comfortable in a way that made you feel small and safe all at once. You folded your other clothes neatly into a pile beside the bed, then sat back on the mattress just as the door creaked open again.

Rhett stepped in with two glasses of water, his knuckles curled tightly around the rims to keep them steady.

He paused when he saw you.

There was nothing particularly sexy about it, nothing overt or posed. Just you sitting on the edge of his bed in his boxers and his old shirt, legs bare, hair a little messy, your lips parted slightly as you took in a few deep breaths from the buzzing that tingled over your skin, and the shift in energy that floated through the room.

But something in his expression changed. His jaw flexed, and his eyes softened–the tension in his brow melting away the more he looked at you.

”Got you some water,” His voice was quieter now, more rough. You reached for one of the glasses, your fingers brushing his as you took it, lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

”Thanks.” You took a sip of the water, the coolness of it sliding down your throat and settling somewhere just above your ribs. You sighed through the swallow, then leaned back slightly on one hand, blinking slowly at the ceiling as your head gave the first warning pulses of what would no doubt be a brutal morning.

“Jesus,” You muttered, placing the glass on the floor beside the bed, “I can tell I’m gonna have such a bad hangover in the morning…My head is already pounding.” Rhett hummed in agreement, moving toward his dresser again.

”Wouldn’t doubt it,” He mumbled, “I feel it too.” You watched him open the top drawer, his back partially turned to you. He didn’t say anything else–just reached in for another t-shirt. Then, without warning or hesitation, he grabbed the collar of the one he was wearing and tugged it off in one smooth motion.

And just like that, your breath caught.

You’d seen Rhett shirtless before. Once, maybe twice–at the lake, when his whole family had piled into trucks and driven down with coolers and towels and floating chairs. But those times had been quick, and you’d always looked away out of caution. Too many watchful eyes, too much risk of your gaze being caught. Too much danger in what you might feel if you stared too long.

But now?

Now there was no one watching.

No one except him.

And he wasn’t looking at you.

He stood a few feet from the bed, half in shadow, and your eyes swept over the length of his bare back, over the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, the slight arch of his spine as he leaned forward into the drawer. You barely breathed.

His skin was pale where the sun hadn’t kissed it, but scattered across his chest and along his ribs were bruises–real ones. Deep and blooming like brushstrokes of ink and wine. Purple that melted into faded yellow. Green along the edges. Some were new, still fresh and angry. Others had already begun to fade, ghosting into the gentle gold of healing. They streaked across his ribs in uneven patterns, coiling beneath the planes of lean muscle, dipping into the shadows of his collarbones and clinging to his hips like the remnants of a war.

It was violent. And somehow, beautiful.

Because it was him.

It was the proof of everything he did, everything he gave. The risk. The pain. The stubborn pride that kept him getting back on the bull even after it had thrown him into the dirt. You’d heard the groans he swallowed, watched him limp back to the chute with blood on his jeans and dirt on his teeth, but you hadn’t seen this. Not up close.

Not in the quiet.

Your eyes traced the line of one particularly stark bruise that stretched from the edge of his left pectoral down to his ribs. The skin there was darker, tight. Raw. And still, your gaze followed it like your fingers wanted to.

And God the urge to touch him was burning through you.

You wanted to trace every edge, every mark, every scrape and wound. You wanted to know if his skin was as warm as it looked. If his chest would rise faster beneath your palm. If he’d shiver when you pressed your lips to that bruise just below his ribs.

Your thighs pressed together slightly, feeling your stomach tighten as you began to flush under the confines of your own thoughts.

Rhett tugged the fresh shirt over his head and ran a hand through his light brown hair, slicking it back out of his face before finally turning back to you. His eyes flicked up–just for a second–and he caught your transfixed gaze.

“You okay?” He asked softly, voice thick. You cleared your throat, heat climbing up your neck as you dropped your gaze for a moment, pretending you hadn’t just been caught practically devouring him with your eyes.

“Yeah…Totally fine,” You muttered, fingers fumbling for the glass on the floor, bringing it back up to your lips. You took a long sip–longer than necessary–as if the coolness of it might extinguish the warmth that was flooding your chest. Or the way your thighs were still shifting together beneath his boxer shorts like they had a mind of their own.

Rhett didn’t move, and didn’t say anything for a second, his blue irises scanning over you for a moment, seeing the little movement that your thighs were making, a little tell that he had seen before from other women. He licked his lips slowly, like he could still taste your gaze on him. His voice dropped just a little as he said it–casual on the surface, but thick beneath. Heavy with the kind of tension that had been building between the two of you for months.

“You were starin’.” Your breath caught in your throat, and you looked down instinctively, the corner of your lip twitching with something between embarrassment and defense. Still, you shrugged like you could play it off.

“Well…It’s kind of hard not to when you’re all bruised up from the bull,” You murmured, trying to keep your tone light. “Didn’t know they were that bad.” He hummed at that–low and dry, like he didn’t quite believe your answer.

“You’ve seen ’em before,” He said, voice gravel-thick, head tipping slightly. “Shouldn’t be a surprise to you at this point.” You lifted your glass again to stall, sipped slower this time, letting the water cool the heat that was quickly rushing to your cheeks. Then you glanced at him again and gave a one-shouldered shrug.

“I think you’re making it a bigger deal than it actually is, Rhett. I think the beer is getting to you.” That made something shift behind his eyes. He tilted his head a fraction, just enough to cast a slanted shadow along his cheekbone.

“Really now?” He murmured as he stepped closer, the floor creaking faintly beneath his weight. “You’re gonna tell me that I’m not seein’ straight?” He asked, pointing at himself. You nodded, your laugh shaky but still defiant.

”That’s exactly what I’m saying, Rhett.” He didn’t reply right away. He just stared down at you, long and quiet. Then, wordlessly, he stepped the rest of the way to the bed and placed his fist down–slowly, deliberately–on the mattress beside your thigh.

He didn’t touch you.

But the air between you shifted.

His knuckles were close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the tension in his arm. Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes followed the shape of his forearm, the way the muscles tensed beneath the skin, until they traced up to meet his face again.

You tilted your head up to look at him, and he was already there–already watching you.

His gaze locked with yours, blue eyes shadowed and steady, but flickering with something sharp, something knowing. Your stare skimmed over the details of his face–so close now, you could count the flecks of gold in his irises. The stubble along his jaw. The faint creases near the corners of his eyes that deepened when he laughed. The way his bottom lip jutted out just a little more than the top one, wet from where he’d just licked it.

“You’re a little liar,” he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching into a slow, crooked smirk. “I can see it in your eyes.”

The words hit low in your stomach.

You wanted to deny it–wanted to scoff, roll your eyes, tell him he was being ridiculous–but all you could do was hold his gaze and feel the heat crawling higher in your cheeks.

Still, you stayed composed. Barely.

“I think you need to sleep off your drunken stupor, Rhett,” You commented, chin tilting upward in subtle challenge. “You’ve got beer goggles on, and you really are seeing things now.”

He didn’t back off.

Instead, he leaned in closer. Slowly. Deliberately.

His face hovered just inches from yours, his breath warm and smelling faintly of beer and mint as it fanned over your lips. Your lashes fluttered, but you didn’t look away. You didn’t move. Not even when your breath caught slightly in your throat.

You just kept your eyes on him.

“…Guess I really do need some sleep,” He murmured after a beat, his voice quieter now. Rougher. But when he pulled back, he was grinning.

Cocky.

Like he knew you weren’t as unaffected as you were pretending to be.

Then he straightened, turned slightly toward the dresser again, and asked casually, “You stayin’ in the bed with me? Or you movin’ to the spare room?”

Your lashes fluttered quickly, and you swallowed hard before clearing your throat.

“I’ll stay here,” You said, trying to sound nonchalant, even though your entire body was still tense from how close he’d just been. “Probably won’t make it to the spare if I get up.” He nodded once, like that was the answer he expected, then reached for his belt buckle

“Alright,” He replied. You quickly looked away as his fingers moved to undo his belt, the subtle clink of the buckle sending another unwanted jolt of heat through your chest. Before your mind could wander any further–before you could accidentally lock eyes with the line of his hips or the way his thumb hooked into the waistband of his jeans–you padded toward the head of the bed.

You placed your water glass beside your clutch on the nightstand with a soft clink, keeping your movements slow, and controlled. Like that would help rein in the sudden buzz running beneath your skin.

The sheets were cool as you slipped under them, the scent of his laundry soap mingling with the lingering smell of him on the pillow. You shimmied slightly to get comfortable, dragging the duvet up to your waist and tucking one arm beneath your head, the other laid loosely across your stomach. You stared up at the ceiling.

Behind you, the sounds of him undressing were harder to ignore than you’d hoped.

A soft rustle of denim. The unmistakable swish of fabric sliding down over skin. A low breath–just a little ragged, like maybe even he was feeling the same pressure you were. You swallowed.

Then the mattress shifted.

He moved carefully, like he didn’t want to jostle you, but you felt him all the same. The bed dipped slightly with his weight, and the warmth of his body immediately spread beneath the covers, replacing the cold air you’d just tucked yourself into.

He settled on his side–close, but not touching. Or at least, not exactly. His arm stayed to himself, his shoulders turned slightly away, but your legs…Your legs brushed.

Bare skin to bare skin. Just barely.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

The silence between you was thick, but not uncomfortable. Not anymore. It was full of tension, sure–but there was something else in it too. Something gentle. Something known.

“G’night,” He murmured, voice low and sleepy, already starting to sink into the mattress.

You turned your head a little, just enough to look at the back of his shoulder, then whispered, “Night.”

Your eyes lingered there for a moment. On the curve of his neck, and the slow rise and fall of his breath.

And maybe you were imagining it–but his leg seemed to press a little firmer into yours.

A quiet, tentative contact.

And neither of you pulled away.

——————————

You woke up to your alarm going off like a goddamn air raid siren, the high-pitched chime echoing through the quiet room like it had been waiting to give you a heart attack.

Your eyes shot open.

A groan ripped from your throat as you reached blindly for your clutch, limbs still tangled in the sheets and your brain pulsing with a headache that had already staked its claim behind your eyes. The light from the phone screen stung, but you silenced the alarm with a few taps, your movements sluggish and mechanical.

From behind you, Rhett let out a muffled groan of his own.

“Who the hell sets an alarm on a Saturday?” He mumbled, voice gravelled and sleep-heavy.

You ignored the ache in your skull long enough to fish out the familiar blister pack from the depths of your clutch, thumb already popping the next pill loose. You brought it to your lips and dropped it onto your tongue, reaching lazily for the lukewarm water glass on the nightstand.

“It wasn’t to wake us up,” You muttered, taking a small sip and swallowing. “It’s my birth control reminder.” The bed shifted behind you. A soft rustle. A new weight.

“Birth control?” Rhett’s voice had sobered slightly, still low, but laced with something else now. Confusion, maybe.

You placed the glass back on the table and rolled onto your side, glancing over your shoulder–and promptly noted two things: one, he’d taken his shirt off during the night, and two, he was looking right at you.

His eyes were a little narrowed. Brow furrowed. His hair was a mess, and his voice hoarse.

“Yeah…Birth control,” You replied slowly, letting the words hang in the air as you watched his expression closely. “You know…The thing that women take to help their periods and prevent pregnancy?” He rolled his eyes, though the motion lacked bite.

You raised a brow. “So what’s with the third-degree, Abbott?”

He shrugged lazily and turned onto his back, his arm behind his head, jaw tight. “Didn’t think you were on it, that’s all. Never seen you take it before.”

You smirked. “Well, I’m usually out of your house by this time. Or I’m in the bathroom and take it there.”

And that was all it took.

That one sentence cracked something open in his chest and sent his thoughts freefalling.

You were on birth control.

The implications settled into him like wildfire. No condom. No consequences. Just skin to skin, you wrapped around him, begging, whispering–he could come inside you and not think twice, could bury himself so deep you’d feel it for hours. He could grab your hips and pull you down hard against him, his hands splayed over your stomach as he fucked you slow and steady until you were begging him to finish. No pulling out. No holding back. No guilt.

He wanted to kiss your thighs open, drag his tongue along your folds, taste every part of you while you whimpered into his pillow. He wanted to hear your breath hitch when he whispered let me do it right this time, to watch your expression when he sank in–slow and thick and deep–and told you how tight you were, how good you felt, how he’d dreamt of this.

He wanted to mark you up. Leave bruises on your neck, your hips, your thighs. Paint you with proof that someone finally gave a damn.

He’d be quiet about it, though. You’d both have to be quiet.

His parents were probably still in their room. Hell, Perry might be awake. So you’d press your mouth to his shoulder, muffle your moans against his skin, and Rhett would whisper filth in your ear with every lazy roll of his hips, voice ragged and barely restrained, telling you not to stop squeezing him like that. Not unless you wanted him to come right then and there.

His cock twitched against his thigh–sudden and sharp under the weight of his boxers.

Shit.

He shifted slightly under the blanket, adjusting himself, trying not to groan at how sensitive he suddenly felt. But the mattress wasn’t forgiving, and the movement wasn’t subtle.

“You alright?” Your voice cut through the haze of his thoughts. Curious. Careful. “You’re all red.”

He cleared his throat. A little too quickly.

“Mhm. I’m okay.”

You turned toward him more fully, propping yourself up slightly on one elbow, your hair flattened on one side from where you had slept on it. Your eyes narrowed, playful. Familiar.

And then–your voice softened to a whisper, full of teasing promise. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were staring at me.”

He blinked.

You were close. Too close. Your face inches from his, lips parted slightly, breath warm against his cheek. It mirrored what he’d done to you last night, except now the tables were turned–and he didn’t know what the hell to do with himself.

“I’m not,” He said quickly, voice cracking.

But you didn’t back off.

You just tilted your head slightly, and then–without meaning to–your thigh brushed his, and you felt something.

You stilled.

Your breath caught.

And your eyes went wide.

“…Oh,” You breathed, heat crawling up your neck.

“Sorry,” You whispered a second later, but your voice was breathy and full of implication.

Rhett swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he stared at the ceiling. “It’s alright,” He said, quietly. Voice a little higher now. Tight.

The tension between you thickened like syrup, slow and sticky and impossible to ignore.

Neither of you looked at each other at first. It was safer that way. Eyes stayed on the ceiling, the far wall, anywhere but the quiet place in the middle of the bed where everything had shifted. Where your thighs had brushed, where your breath had caught, where Rhett was still hard and trying to will himself down with a silent prayer and clenched jaw.

But then you shifted again.

Not a lot. Just enough that the blankets rustled and your voice came out–low, almost shy.

“Do…Do you want some help with that?”

His eyes snapped to you like a whip. His entire body went rigid.

“W-What?” The word cracked in the middle, like it hit the back of his throat too fast to smooth out. His brows pinched together, mouth parted, lips dry as hell.

You sighed–soft and nervous–and pushed yourself up a little more, bracing your weight on your elbow so you could look him in the eye.

“I said,” You repeated, quieter now, more deliberate, “Do you want some help with that?” Rhett sat up a little too–mirroring you without realizing it, like his body needed to be closer. His face hovered just inches from yours now, the tension rolling off him like heat off pavement.

“Are you bein’ serious?” He asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded slowly, searching his face. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

His gaze darted away for the briefest second, scanning the room like it might offer him a better answer than the one sitting right in front of him. But when he looked back, his expression was tight. Unreadable. Barely holding something back.

“Well, I mean…We’re friends…”

You raised your brows, your face still close, voice low but firm. “And we haven’t really been going out with other people. And sexual frustration is a thing, Rhett.”

He squinted slightly, more in thought than judgment. “You’re the one that said you wanted to take a hiatus from dating and stuff. I thought that meant physical things too.”

You shrugged, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “That was more meant for me because I really don’t feel much when…Y’know…Things are happening.”

Rhett stilled.

His lips parted just slightly, his breath hitching. Then his jaw flexed and he leaned in even closer, until the space between your mouths was damn near nonexistent.

“You what?” He asked, barely above a whisper. His voice sounded gutted–like it hurt him to even imagine it.

You swallowed thickly, heart rattling inside your chest. “I…I don’t feel much when I’m being intimate with someone.” There. It was out. A truth you rarely admitted out loud, even more rarely to a man.

Rhett’s jaw tensed. His throat bobbed. Something wild flickered in his eyes–something that looked a lot like heartbreak, but deeper. Protective. Personal.

“…How about I make you a deal,” He said suddenly, his voice husky and serious.

You tilted your head slightly, cautious. “What kind of deal?”

“Let me try somethin’,” He murmured, watching your expression with unshakable intensity. “And then you can do whatever you want to me after. Or nothin’ at all. You don’t owe me a thing.”

Your lips parted. “W-What do you want to do?” He reached up slowly–like he was afraid to spook you–and let his fingertips brush beneath your chin, giving you the softest touch he could with the calloused pads of his fingers.

”Lay back,” He whispered, “And I’ll show you.” You stared at him for one long, charged heartbeat–your skin prickling, your thighs already pressing closer, the ache in your core blooming slow and warm at the tone in his voice.

Your face burned as soon as the word left your lips.

“Okay.”

It was soft, nearly swallowed by the quiet tension in the room–but Rhett heard it. His eyes didn’t leave yours. Not for a second. His hand drifted from your chin to your shoulder, then eased you gently back onto the pillow. The mattress dipped beneath the shift of your weight, the sheets cool against your skin–but Rhett’s hand never stopped touching you. He moved with patience. With care.

And then he did something unexpected.

He slipped his arm under your neck–not in a way that caged you in, but cradled you. Like he wanted to hold your head up, protect it. His fingers curled gently into your hair, and his thumb brushed over your cheek. Slowly.

His voice came next, low and laced with something close to a smile.

“Remember that time…In high school, when we ended up kissing in Marley’s closet during seven minutes in heaven?”

Your stomach flipped violently, a swarm of butterflies bursting awake.

You narrowed your eyes. “You said you’d never bring that up.”

He chuckled, soft and rough. “It’s been long enough that I think I’m allowed to bring it up.” His thumb grazed your cheek again, and you swore it soothed something in you you hadn’t known was wound tight. “But anyways…Remember when you said you were nervous? Because you didn’t know what to do?”

You nodded slowly, your voice nearly a whisper. “Yeah…”

“And I told you to just breathe. Don’t even think about what was happenin’. Just breathe.” Your lips parted a little, your heart thudding louder.

“Yeah,” You whispered again.

His gaze held yours, warm and steady. “Well… Just do that again, alright? Just breathe. Think about something else. Got it?”

You hesitated. Swallowed.

“Rhett…Are you sure you want to do this? It’s going to be a waste of your time.” Your voice cracked near the end, thick with embarrassment and doubt you’d carried for too long.

His expression shifted. Not angry. Just…Struck.

He leaned down slowly, and before you could say anything else–before you could panic or second-guess–he kissed you.

It was soft. Just lips brushing lips. But it stunned you all the same.

You gasped faintly into the contact, breath hitching, body going still under the gentle pressure of his mouth on yours. He lingered for only a second before pulling back, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours again.

“I’m positive,” He murmured, voice low and resolute. “Now just relax, okay?” You nodded, even though your heart was pounding. You let your hands rest by your sides, fists curled lightly in the sheets as Rhett shifted closer, keeping his arm under your neck, still holding you, still touching your cheek.

His other hand drifted down. Slow.

He didn’t go for the obvious. Didn’t grab. Didn’t grope. Instead, his fingertips brushed along the hem of the shirt you wore–his shirt–lifting it just a few inches before slipping beneath. You shivered instantly, the cool air meeting your heated skin, and then–

His fingertips touched your stomach.

Barely there. Like the ghost of a thought.

They dragged gently across your skin, dipping just beneath your ribs, pausing, then continuing downward. Featherlight. Reverent. You sucked in a breath as goosebumps erupted along your arms and legs, your thighs pressing closer together as he traced the soft curve of your waist with maddening patience.

“Still alright?” He asked, his voice low, lips brushing your temple now. You nodded quickly, breath stuttering. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

His hand moved again–back up first, over the flat of your stomach, the pads of his fingers gliding like silk. He circled your navel once, slow and hypnotic, then dropped lower again.

And lower.

Until he reached the waistband of the boxer shorts.

His fingertips paused there, resting lightly on the elastic band.

He kissed your temple. Then murmured against your skin: “Can you lift your hips for me?”

You did–slowly, your legs tensing slightly as you pushed up just enough. Your breath hitched as the cool air rushed between the fabric and your skin when Rhett tugged them down, slow and smooth, watching your face the entire time. Your body sank back down onto the mattress as he pulled the boxers down your thighs, past your knees, until they slipped off entirely.

Rhett paused for just a second, the boxer shorts now discarded somewhere at the foot of the bed, the room still and warm as his gaze settled on you—completely bare in the soft hush of the early morning light.

His eyes traveled up your legs, over the subtle dip of your hips, and down again to the place between your thighs–and the air left his lungs like he’d taken a punch to the gut.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of it. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

You swallowed hard, your eyes still locked with his, every inch of you humming beneath the heat of his gaze. The sincerity in his tone–thick, reverent, gutted–made your breath catch.

Then, slowly, Rhett reached out. One of his hands cradled your knee, coaxing your leg outward, and he shifted down the bed as he gently murmured, “Spread your legs for me, Y/N.”

Your heart thudded. You hesitated—but only for a beat. Then, you nodded, slowly letting your legs fall open, nerves twisting in your stomach like warm thread as cool air hit you, followed almost immediately by the heat of his body slotting between your thighs.

His skin was warm against the inside of your legs—his shoulders wide and strong, his bare chest brushing the backs of your thighs as he settled in. You saw his eyes trail up your body again—slow, careful, like he was trying to memorize you. Then he looked up.

You’d closed your eyes.

Breathing slowly. Deeply.

Trying not to shake.

“Hey,” Rhett said softly, and you felt the mattress shift as he reached for you. His hand found yours where it lay clenched beside your hip. He interlaced his fingers with yours carefully and held on tight.

Your eyes fluttered open just as he leaned forward–and kissed the inside of your thigh.

A soft press. Then another. And another. Working slowly upward, like every inch of your skin deserved a proper hello. His breath was warm, his mouth even warmer, and every brush of his lips sent a new wave of heat coiling through your stomach.

By the time his mouth reached the top of your thigh, you were barely breathing.

Then–he tilted his head.

And he kissed you right against your core, and your whole body jerked.

Your hips twitched against the bed, your hand tightening in his, a quiet gasp slipping out of your mouth. His tongue traced a slow, deliberate line through your folds–like he was savoring you already. Like he was trying to learn what made you shake.

He kissed you again. Then again. Languid, like he wasn’t in any hurry. Like this wasn’t something to get over with–it was something to cherish.

His tongue moved with devastating patience, lapping and sucking gently, drawing shapes that made your thighs clench around his head. His hand gripped yours tighter.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, the words barely audible. Your back arched slightly, and you felt Rhett moan into you—actually moan—like your pleasure was feeding his. The vibration of it sent another jolt of electricity straight through your spine.

Then—his mouth didn’t leave—but you felt his fingers press gently against your entrance. He didn’t push in right away. Just teased. Traced. His tongue circled your clit once more—slow and wet—and then his finger slipped inside.

Your breath hitched, a sharp little gasp escaping you as your hips rocked upward without thinking.

Rhett stopped instantly, lifting his head slightly. His mouth was shining.

“You alright?” he asked gently, his voice low and rough and just a little breathless.

You looked down at him with wide, wild eyes and nodded quickly. “Yes,” you breathed, your voice cracking with need. “Oh my god, Rhett…yes.”

His mouth pulled into a crooked smile, his eyes still locked on yours. “Feel somethin’ now?” he murmured, teasing, affectionate.

You reached out and threaded your free hand through his hair–fisting it lightly at the crown, your hips rising up just slightly. “It’s witchcraft,” You whispered shakily, overwhelmed and already trembling.

Rhett laughed quietly, the sound sending shivers across your skin. “Nah,” He said, leaning in again, voice warm and sinful against your core. “It’s actually just me wantin’ to feel you come on my tongue, sweetheart.”

And then he dove back in.

This time, with more pressure. More hunger.

His tongue flattened against your clit, slow and firm. His finger curled inside you—and then he added another, stretching you just enough to make your breath come in shallow, frantic bursts. His pace increased, mouth and fingers working in tandem—sensual, focused, a little rough now.

Your thighs began to shake.

Your hips lifted and he pressed his arm across your waist to pin you gently down, grounding you while he devoured you like a man starved.

The noises he made—low, greedy groans—only made the tension build faster. Like your pleasure was his. Like getting you to break apart in his mouth was the only thing he cared about.

“Rhett,” You whimpered, barely able to breathe.

And then–he curled his fingers just right.

Your whole body seized. You let out a strangled moan, your mouth falling open against the pillow, your hand clutching his hair, the other tightening in his grip so hard you felt the tremor run down his arm.

Your orgasm hit like a freight train. Sudden, shaking, relentless. Your thighs clamped around his head and your hips bucked up into his mouth–and he didn’t stop. Not for a second.

He kept licking, groaning against you, working you through every last second until your legs twitched and your body slumped, utterly spent.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were swollen, his chin slick. He looked completely wrecked–and proud of it.

His hand slipped out from between your legs, fingers soaked with your arousal as he licked them clean, before brushing his wet fingers against your trembling thigh. You were still panting, still half-blind with aftershocks. And he leaned over you again, eyes wild but soft.

”You alright, darlin’?” He asked, bringing his mouth to your cheek. You laughed–half a breath, half a sob–and nodded.

”Fuck, Rhett…Let me try and return the favour please…That was so fucking good.” He blinked down at you like he hadn’t expected it, like your voice alone could unravel him all over again. Then he let out a slow, ragged breath and leaned down, kissing you–soft, slow, indulgent. A thank you, a yes, a prayer.

“Okay,” He murmured against your lips, voice husky, “Yeah…okay.”

He eased onto his back beside you. The sheets shifted around you both as you rolled onto your side and slid your hand across his stomach, your fingertips brushing the light trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers.

He watched you carefully, gaze gentle but burning. “You don’t have to, you know,” he said softly. “You already gave me enough just by lettin’ me–”

“I want to,” You cut in, voice quiet but certain. That stopped him. His jaw flexed slightly, his breath caught, and his hand reached up to cup the side of your face for just a second–his thumb brushing your cheek in a quiet, gentle pass. You kissed him again before shifting down the bed, your heart pounding as your thighs pressed together beneath the oversized shirt. You settled between his legs, your hands sliding up the tops of his thighs as he let out a low, shaky exhale. His skin was warm and soft beneath your palms, his muscles tense beneath the surface.

You hesitated just a little, fingers toying with the waistband of his boxers.

Rhett’s hand came down gently, resting over yours. His voice was low, coaxing.

“Go ahead, sweetheart. You’re doin’ fine.”

You pulled the fabric down slowly, watching as his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already hard from the weight of everything he’d just felt and everything you were about to do. You swallowed nervously, staring for a second too long.

Rhett noticed.

“Here,” he said softly, sitting up just slightly. He wrapped his hand around himself first, guiding yours over his. “Just like this. Nice and slow.” His fingers slid away, letting yours take over, his breath catching the second you squeezed him.

You started slow, pumping gently from the base to the tip. The skin was hot under your palm, smooth and taut, and you watched in fascination as he twitched beneath your touch. His head dropped back onto the pillow with a thud, a low groan tumbling from his throat.

“Yeah,” he breathed, “That’s it. Just like that.”

You tightened your grip a little, experimenting, and Rhett’s hips lifted off the bed slightly. He let out a quiet, broken moan. “Fuck, darlin’–you’re already drivin’ me crazy.”

Emboldened by his reaction, you leaned forward, licking a slow, uncertain stripe up the underside of his shaft. He hissed between his teeth, his hand flying to your hair, not pushing–just holding. Anchoring.

“You sure?” He asked, voice tight.

You nodded, lips brushing the tip. “I’m sure.”

Then you took him into your mouth.

Just the head at first–soft and careful. The taste was salty and clean, a little musky, faintly bitter, but not bad. Just…Him.

You swirled your tongue around the tip, feeling his thighs tense under your hands, and then took him a little deeper, bobbing your head slowly, finding a rhythm.

Rhett cursed under his breath, his grip tightening in your hair.

“Jesus, Y/N,” He rasped. “You feel so good…So fuckin’ good.”

You kept going, learning by the way he moaned, by how his legs twitched, by the way he tugged at the sheets. You tried to take him deeper–and gagged, just slightly, your throat tightening around him. You pulled off, coughing softly, lips slick and eyes watering.

Rhett sat up a little too fast.

“Hey, hey–Y/N, you don’t have to do that,” He murmured, pushing your hair back, “Take it easy on yourself, alright? You ain’t gotta prove anythin’.”

You nodded, catching your breath. “I’m okay,” You whispered, voice breathy but determined.

And then you went back down.

This time slower. More confident. You pumped with one hand and sucked gently, hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around the sensitive head. Rhett’s breath went ragged again, his voice wrecked.

“Fuck, you’re–goddamn, you’re so good at this,” He groaned, hips twitching against your hand.

It didn’t take long after that.

You felt his thighs start to tremble, the hand in your hair tightening as he gasped, “Shit–I’m gonna come–“ It was more of a warning than anything, but you didn’t pull away. You just kept going.

His climax hit with a low, drawn-out moan. His hips stuttered and you felt his warmth spill over your tongue–salty, thick, slightly bitter with a sharp edge that made your throat clench. You swallowed instinctively, slow, letting it slide down, feeling him shudder beneath you.

When you pulled off, your lips were slick, your eyes glassy.

You licked your lips once and blinked up at him.

“…Did I do good?” You asked softly.

Rhett stared at you like he was about to lose his goddamn mind.

Then he sat up, grabbed your face with both hands–his touch tender but firm–and kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue massaging yours, tasting himself on you and you on him. He pulled back breathless.

”You were fucking perfect…So fucking perfect.” You collapsed back onto the mattress with a soft, stunned laugh, breath still coming in shaky waves as you wiped at your lips with the back of your hand. Rhett was beside you in a heartbeat, his strong arms already tugging you toward him like he couldn’t stand to have even an inch of space between you anymore.

You let him pull you into his chest–his skin still warm, heartbeat steady but strong beneath your cheek. His arm draped low over your waist, the other curling behind your shoulders like he was trying to wrap around as much of you as he could.

There was no tension now. No nerves. Just the quiet intimacy of skin on skin and breath against breath.

Rhett sighed softly into your hair, his mouth grazing your forehead before murmuring, lazy and fond, “We should do this more often…”

You let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle against his collarbone, your voice soft. “Yeah… I completely agree.”

There was a pause. The kind that felt full–not empty. Like something was waiting behind it.

You lifted your hand slowly, tracing a fingertip along his chest without looking at him. Then, voice smaller, more vulnerable:”You’re so…Safe.” Rhett went still beneath you.

Not tense. Just…Quiet. Like your words had caught him off guard and gone somewhere deep.

Then he smirked–soft and slow, the kind of smile you’d only seen a handful of times before. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, barely more than a brush of lips against skin, but it made you shiver.

“We can do whatever you want together,” He murmured, his voice like warm honey. “I’ll help in any way I can.”

That–his reassurance, his promise–settled something in your chest. Something that had been unsettled for a long, long time.

You turned your head just enough to look at him. Your nose nudged his jaw, and your lips were still curved when you whispered “You really mean it?”

“Of course I do.” He said simply. You couldn’t help the smile that rose up then, soft and wide and honest. It spread slowly, uncontainable, tugging at your cheeks as your hand splayed over his chest and you cuddled in closer.

Rhett exhaled against your hair, one hand trailing up and down your back in soothing strokes.

“You know what?” You whispered, voice thick with something more than just affection now–something raw and real and aching to be spoken aloud. “I think this is the first time I’ve felt like…Maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe I’m not the broken one.”

His fingers stilled. Then tightened gently at your waist.

“It was never you,” He said, quiet but firm. “They just didn’t know how to do things.” Your eyes welled unexpectedly. But you didn’t look away.

And Rhett didn’t look away from you either–not even when you whispered, “Thank you.”

“For what?” He asked.

“For…For showing me what it’s supposed to feel like.”

Rhett’s brow creased slightly, and he leaned forward, brushing his lips against your forehead again, like he was sealing the moment there.

Then, against your skin, he murmured, “Ain’t even gotten started yet, darlin’.”

————————

You and Rhett made an effort to see each other every other day after that morning.

It wasn’t always planned. Sometimes it was just a lazy drive that ended in a shared milkshake and quiet conversation. Other times it was louder–pool hall banter, bar games, him showing up at your place just to fix the damn sink he swore wasn’t level. But no matter what it started as, it always ended the same:

With your bodies pressed together. With your hands on his chest. With his lips parting against yours like he’d been starving all day.

The first time it happened again was at the drive-in.

You wore cutoff shorts and one of his flannels tied loose at your waist, and you didn’t even make it halfway through the previews before your legs found his lap. The movie faded behind you like static. His palm settled low on your back, and your mouth found his in the kind of kiss that made your teeth knock and your fingers curl in his shirt.

You didn’t even remember what was playing. All you remembered was the sound of your breathing turning into gasps when his hand slid between your thighs, his voice rough against your ear.

“You gonna let me feel how worked up you are already?”

You reached down, grabbed his wrist, and guided him to the apex of your thighs–slow, sure. His fingertips pressed against the damp heat soaking through your thin cotton panties, and Rhett exhaled like he’d been punched.

“Jesus,” He murmured, his forehead tipping against yours as his fingers flexed, just barely moving. “You’re soaked.”

You nodded, breath already hitching as you shifted slightly in his lap, grinding your hips forward just a touch. The thick muscle of his denim-clad thigh was already pressing against your core in the most devastating way.

“I wanna try something,” You whispered.

His eyes flicked up. Searching. Heated. Still trying to catch up with this version of you—bold, direct, knowing what you wanted and how you wanted it.

“I’ve always wanted to do it,” You admitted, your voice breathy but firm. “Especially with you.”

His lips parted. His chest rose.

And then he smirked.

“Okay,” He said simply. “You can do whatever you want with me.”

That’s all it took.

You adjusted your knees on either side of his lap, straddling him completely, your hands pressed to his shoulders for balance as you positioned yourself just right. His thigh was firm beneath you–years of riding and wrangling muscle. And you sank down onto it slowly, the seam of his jeans dragging perfectly against your soaked panties.

A quiet gasp escaped your throat.

Rhett groaned, hands rising to grip your hips–gentle, grounding, but not controlling. His thumbs rubbed soothing circles over your waist as he watched your eyes flutter, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

“You good, sweetheart?” He murmured.

You nodded, barely able to breathe. “So good.”

You started slow. Grinding gently against him in small, slow circles–testing pressure, building friction. The thick denim created just enough resistance to drive you mad, the fabric catching on your clit with every pass.

You rolled your hips again. And again. Shakier each time.

Rhett’s grip tightened, guiding you just slightly–his hands molding to your curves like he was born to hold them. “That’s it,” He breathed, voice almost reverent. “Just like that… Goddamn, you’re beautiful.”

You whimpered, burying your face in his neck for a moment as the sensations built, wave after wave, hot and pulsing and slow. Your hands curled into the flannel on his chest, and you swore you could feel his heart hammering.

Then you pulled back just enough to kiss him.

Hard.

He groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, encouraging your movements, letting you use him–letting you take your pleasure from him like he wanted nothing more. Your hips began to rock faster, your thighs trembling, the damp patch growing darker on his jeans with every pass of your soaked panties.

“Fuck, darlin’,” He gasped, his forehead pressed to yours. “You’re gonna come just like this?”

You nodded, dizzy, breathless. “I can’t stop…Rhett–I’m gonna–”

He kissed you again–slow this time, anchoring you as your hips faltered and your whole body seized up.

You came on his thigh with a broken sob of his name, shaking hard against him, every nerve burning, clenching around nothing as your hips twitched one last time and stilled.

Rhett held you through it, murmuring sweet things against your temple as you slumped forward, boneless and buzzing.

“That was…” You panted, barely able to form a sentence.

“Yeah,” Rhett said, his own breath shaky as he kissed the side of your head. “It was fuckin’ perfect.”

From that moment on, it was like you couldn’t stop.

The next week, he was driving you home, windows cracked, your hand resting on his thigh like it was second nature now. And somewhere between a curve in the road and a long silence, you leaned over, unzipped his jeans, and slipped your hand inside.

He choked on a breath. “Jesus, Y/N–what are you doin’?”

“Helping,” You said, voice teasing and low as your fingers wrapped around him.

You stroked him slow, lazy, while he tried to keep his eyes on the road, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. When he came–hot and fast–you licked it off your hand and the skin of his stomach without hesitation.

Rhett nearly crashed the damn truck.

Another time, you just climbed into his lap without warning. No teasing. No warm-up. You just needed him–needed the weight of him, the heat of his mouth, the security of his hands cupping the back of your neck like if he let go, you’d vanish.

You kissed him like you were going to disappear if he didn’t hold you tighter.

And he did.

Every time, he did.

He was addicted to you.

And you were addicted to him.

Yet somehow, you still hadn’t had sex.

Not because you didn’t want to. But because you kept finishing each other off before either of you could think straight.

It was chaotic. It was messy. It was you and Rhett–tangled in passion, steeped in something deeper neither of you had put into words yet.

Until one quiet evening when the summer air hung low and warm, and you turned to him and said:

“Wanna look at the stars with me?”

He blinked. Smirked. “Like, right now?”

“Right now,” You said, already sliding your shoes on. “Bring pillows and a blanket for the truck bed.” Rhett raised a brow, slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth curving into something crooked and full of knowing.

“Oh,” He drawled, slinging an arm around your waist as he pressed a kiss to your cheek, “You’re plannin’ somethin’.”

You only grinned as you wiggled out of his arms, walking out ahead of him before calling over your shoulder:

“Damn right I am.”

———————————

You and Rhett had a specific place you would go to when you wanted to look at the stars.

It was a lookout you had both found randomly one night, years ago, when you’d gotten lost coming back from a circuit. The GPS cut out somewhere along a winding dirt road, and the two of you had been bickering about turns when the trees finally gave way to a clearing so wide and open it looked like the sky had cracked open just for you. The ridge overlooked a valley, endless and quiet, the stars so close it felt like you could pluck them from the sky if you reached high enough.

That was the place he drove to tonight.

His hand was on your bare thigh, squeezing gently, fingers skimming just beneath the hem of your shorts. The low hum of the truck’s engine mingled with an old country song playing through the speakers–something slow and warm, full of steel guitar and dusty longing. The cool summer air flowed through the open windows, tousling your hair, raising goosebumps on your arms. But Rhett’s palm was warm and steady against your skin, his thumb tracing little circles lazily.

You shifted slightly in your seat, thighs parting just a little more, and he immediately took notice.

His fingers drifted inward–just a little. Just enough to make your stomach clench.

Then he started tracing letters.

Soft. Slow. One at a time, with the very tip of his finger, like he was spelling a secret across your skin.

“What’s that one?” He murmured, not taking his eyes off the road.

You blinked. Swallowed. “Uh… An S?”

“Wrong,” He smirked, squeezing your thigh.

“An E?”

“Nope.”

You glanced at him, raising a brow. “Then what was it?”

“Not tellin’,” He said, dragging another letter right after it, slower this time. “Guess again.”

You stared down at his hand, heat blooming low in your belly. “D?”

“That one was,” He said, a low chuckle caught in his throat. “But not the one before it.”

Your cheeks burned. You knew what he was spelling now.

He leaned closer, his voice thick. “Want me to keep goin’?”

You nodded, breath hitching. “Yeah…Keep going.”

He traced another letter.

And another.

You were just about to reach for him–just about to say screw the stargazing and climb into his lap right there in the cab–when the headlights hit the edge of the clearing, and the trees broke apart.

You both went still.

The lookout was exactly how you remembered it: tall grass, wildflowers curling in the moonlight, and the stars above glowing like soft embers in an old fireplace. The valley stretched below, dark and quiet, and the only sound was the breeze rustling through the open windows and the soft creak of the truck tires crunching over gravel.

Rhett cut the engine.

The music died.

Silence swelled between you, not heavy–just full. Like both of you were thinking the same thing and neither of you wanted to ruin it by saying it out loud.

Then Rhett opened his door and climbed out. You followed, your legs shaky as you stepped onto the grass, the air cool against your thighs. The tension was still simmering in your veins, but now it had space to breathe.

You grabbed the first blanket from the backseat while Rhett grabbed the pillows and the top blanket.

The two of you worked in an unspoken rhythm.

You laid the first blanket down flat across the truck bed, smoothing the edges with your palms. The metal beneath was still faintly warm from the earlier sun. Rhett climbed in beside you, placing the pillows near the cab, his knee brushing yours as he tossed the second blanket over your shoulders.

You didn’t speak as you climbed under it together.

You didn’t have to.

His body curved naturally around yours as you settled onto your sides, facing each other, the warmth of the blanket sealed around your bodies like a cocoon. Your foreheads almost touched. Your breath did.

Rhett’s hand found your waist under the blanket. His palm spread slow and deliberate, thumb grazing your hip, before lazily dragging across your stomach, the pads of his fingers skimming your skin like he was reading a prayer written in braille. You reached up and brushed his hair back gently, smoothing the strands that always stuck up in crooked directions. He sighed—low, content, eyes fluttering shut like your touch alone could unravel him.

His fingers slipped higher beneath the hem of your shirt, slowly, carefully. He tugged it up until you sat up and peeled it over your head. The night air kissed your bare chest, nipples tightening instantly under the sudden exposure—but you weren’t cold. Not with the way Rhett looked at you.

He stared like he was witnessing something sacred.

Then he leaned forward, lips parting just enough to drag across your collarbone before his teeth sank in—not too hard, just enough to make you gasp.

“Painful?” he murmured against your skin.

You shook your head, your breath shaky. “Stings a bit, but nothing I can’t handle.”

He smirked—something soft and sinful—and lowered his mouth again, kissing just beneath the mark he’d left behind. His tongue laved the spot slowly, like an apology and a promise all at once.

Then, his voice was velvet-wrapped gravel against your skin.

“Is there anything else you want to do with me? Any ideas you’ve got in mind?”

You shook your head slowly, eyes locking with his in the low, starlit dark. “I just want you to fuck me.”

He stilled. Just for a beat. Then smiled against your chest—slow and deep and pleased.

“Yeah?” he rasped, lifting his head to look you in the eye. “You want me to fuck you?”

You nodded, your heart pounding.

He leaned toward your jaw, kissing a soft trail until his lips brushed your ear, his breath hot as he whispered, “Beg for it.”

You bit your bottom lip, breath catching, heart stuttering at the sheer weight of the way he said it. There was no mocking in it. No arrogance. Just pure, overwhelming need–controlled only by the thin thread of his patience.

His eyes shimmered in the moonlight, pale blue burning like lightning behind clouds. You leaned in and kissed him–soft, needy–and whispered against his lips, “Please��Fuck me…”

He shook his head, grinning with that maddening, slow confidence. “Gonna have to do better than that, sweetheart.” You kissed him again–more desperate now–and as you pulled back, his hand came up to your face. He cradled your cheek like you were breakable, his thumb tracing the soft curve of your bottom lip.

“Open up,” He murmured.

You obeyed.

Your lips parted, and he slid his thumb into your mouth, pressing the pad against the back of your tongue. Instantly, your mouth watered, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked him gently. His eyes darkened, watching you like he could come undone just from this.

He pulled his thumb out slowly, a glistening trail connecting your lips to the pad of his finger, then dragged it down–past your chin, your chest–until it disappeared beneath the waistband of your shorts.

His soaked thumb found your clit in one perfect stroke.

You gasped. Bucked.

“C’mon, Y/N…” He coaxed, voice a rasp as he rubbed slow, tight circles. “You want it, right?”

“Yes,” You whimpered, your hips grinding helplessly into his hand. “God, Rhett–yes–please–I need you–”

He groaned at the sound of your voice, fucked-out and pleading, and pressed his thumb harder.

“Keep talkin’,” He muttered, eyes flicking down to where his hand moved beneath your waistband. “Want to hear you beg while I’ve got you all worked up like this.”

“I want you to fuck me,” You gasped, your palm reaching for his lap now, squeezing his cock through his jeans. He was already hard–thick and burning hot under your touch. “I want you inside me–I want to feel it, Rhett. All of you. I want you to ruin me slow.”

He swore under his breath. “Jesus Christ.”

You kept rubbing, palming him harder now, feeling him twitch and grow impossibly harder.

“I want you to come inside me,” You whispered, eyes glassy. “I want to feel you finish deep. I want you to fill me up until I’m sore. Until I’m dripping with it.”

Rhett’s jaw clenched, his breath shuddered–and his thumb didn’t stop moving. Every nerve in your body was locked on the delicious, unrelenting drag of his thumb over your clit–your underwear now utterly ruined, soaked straight through, clinging to your folds in the most humiliating, erotic way.

Rhett kissed you again–hotter this time. Sloppier. The kind of kiss that made your teeth knock and your breath catch. His tongue slid past your lips, curling against yours with growing desperation, and when he finally pulled back, he did so only far enough to breathe against your mouth:

“Take off your shorts,” He rasped, voice wrecked. “And get on top.”

You nodded so fast it almost hurt, fumbling to shimmy them down. Your panties peeled off with them, sticky and wet between your thighs. You didn’t even try to hide the way they dropped to the side of the bed. Not with the way Rhett was watching you. Not with how he was already ripping open his jeans and pushing them down with his boxers in one rough, desperate tug.

His cock sprang free, flushed and hard and leaking at the tip, the moonlight catching on the slick sheen of it.

Your whole body ached as you climbed into his lap and straddled his waist, your knees bracing against the warm metal bed of the truck, the soft blanket bunched beneath them. You sank down slightly–not to take him in just yet, but to rub your soaked core along the full length of him.

The heat of him–thick and pulsing against you–dragged across your folds, every ridge and vein grinding right where you needed it. You tilted your head back with a breathless moan, your hips moving in slow, teasing circles, coating him in your arousal.

“Fuck,” Rhett groaned, his hands flying to your hips, holding you there, letting you grind against him like he was made for it. His eyes trailed up your body, pupils blown wide, chest heaving. Then he reached up and cupped your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples.

“You look so fuckin’ beautiful up there,” He rasped, voice trembling with restraint. “You like that? Like rubbin’ yourself on me like a good girl?”

You nodded frantically, your fingers tightening on his shoulders. “Fuck, Rhett…You already feel so good. I can’t wait any longer.”

He gave your nipples a teasing pinch, and you nearly came undone right there.

“You don’t have to wait anymore,” He murmured, voice thick with care and gentleness. “Take what you need from me, Y/N.” You reached between your bodies, wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, and guided him through your folds once more–wet and slow–coating him thoroughly before lifting your hips.

Then you aligned him with your entrance, and with one long, shaky breath…You sank down.

The head of his cock stretched you open, dragging against your walls in a way that made your whole body lock up. Your gasp cracked through the night air as you grabbed onto his wrist with both hands, using it as leverage while your head tilted back and your mouth dropped open.

“Shit,” You whimpered, your voice trembling. “So big…”

“Fuck,” Rhett gritted out beneath you, his jaw tight, his knuckles white where he gripped your hips. “You’re tight, sweetheart…Jesus Christ, I can feel every part of you.” You kept lowering yourself slowly, inch by inch, your inner walls gripping him like a vice as you took him in deeper, stretching around his girth with a burn that made your eyes flutter.

“Rhett–” Your voice cracked, pleasure blooming slow and low in your belly, “–Feels so full… So deep…”

He looked absolutely wrecked beneath you. His head tipped back for a second, the cords of his neck flexing, jaw clenched as he tried not to buck up into you too soon. His hands left your hips only to return to your chest, massaging your breasts again with wide, reverent palms, his thumbs brushing your nipples in slow circles.

“God, you’re perfect,” He rasped, his voice shaking now. You whimpered again as you bottomed out, the base of him pressed flush against you, the stretch relentless. Your thighs were trembling already.

Then his hand came up–slow, gentle–and wrapped lightly around your neck.

Not choking. Not restraining.

Just holding you there, grounding you, letting his thumb graze your jawline.

“You okay?” He whispered.

You nodded, lips parted, barely able to get the words out. “So okay,” You breathed. “You feel so fucking good inside me, Rhett.”

He groaned again, like your words alone could push him over the edge. His fingers curled slightly around your neck, just enough pressure to make your walls flutter around him.

“That’s it,” He whispered, eyes burning into yours. “Take me. Use me. Fuckin’ ride me Y/N. I’m yours.” He watched you with something close to awe–his pupils wide, breath ragged as your hips rolled in that uneven, desperate rhythm, your thighs quivering from how much you were feeling, from the stretch and heat and weight of him pulsing deep inside you.

“Fuck, Y/N…” Rhett groaned, his voice strained and reverent, one of his hands gripping your hip as you moved. “You’re so fuckin’ tight like this…Every time you come back down, I feel your pussy clutch me like it doesn’t wanna let go.”

Your breath hitched.

You whimpered again, high and shaky, your hands splayed on his chest for balance as you tried to keep going, but your rhythm faltered, hips stuttering with every twitch of your muscles. Every drag of his cock against your inner walls made you cry out a little louder.

That’s when his hands slid lower.

“Let me show you somethin’,” Rhett murmured, voice gravel-smooth as he sat up slightly and wrapped both hands around your waist. His grip was firm but gentle, like he was grounding you–like he was giving you something to fall apart against.

He pulled your hips forward, grinding you down slow, dragging your clit along the thick patch of hair above his cock.

You gasped, your eyes flying wide, hands bracing hard against his shoulders.

“Jesus fucking Christ–Rhett,” You gasped, your head falling back as your thighs quaked around him. “Oh my fucking god–”

“That’s it,” he breathed, dragging you again, slower now, more deliberate. “Feel that? Right there? That’s where I want you. Grind on me, sweetheart. Just like that.”

Your whimpers melted into full-bodied moans as he kept your hips moving in that rhythm–circling and dragging until you were damn near sobbing against his mouth, your clit raw and throbbing with every glide across the coarse hair and the thick base of his cock.

He didn’t stop until he felt your hips start moving in sync on their own. He let his hands slip back up to your breasts, thumbs rubbing over your nipples again as you rocked into him like you were losing your mind.

“Good girl,” He groaned, voice deeper now. “Look at you. Fuckin’ perfect. Soaked for me…Riding me just the way I like.”

Your breath hitched, your hands tangling in his hair as he leaned in, kissing up your throat–sloppy, hungry, and hot.

Then–suddenly–he sat up fully, his hands grabbing your ass and pulling you closer, forcing you to stay pressed tight against him as his mouth found your neck.

He gripped your hair and yanked it gently, exposing the smooth column of your throat.

And he started kissing. Licking. Biting.

Not enough to hurt–just enough to make you whine.

“Bet none of those assholes ever touched you like this,” He growled into your neck, rutting up into you now–slow at first, but deep. “Bet none of ‘em knew how to fuck you right.”

You gasped as he hit that spot again, your nails digging into his shoulders. “They didn’t,” You whimpered. “Fuck, Rhett–they didn’t. You’re the only one who’s ever–”

“Damn right I am,” He snapped, his teeth grazing your throat. “You hear that? That’s what you sound like when someone actually gives a shit about makin’ you feel good.”

He slammed into you again, this time rougher–deep and hard and relentless–and your whole body jolted forward, your nails dragging down his back through the thin fabric of his shirt.

He groaned at the sting. “Mark me up, Y/N. Let me feel it.” You were crying out now, your rhythm breaking down into messy, frantic movements, grinding and bouncing as best you could with how hard he was gripping your waist, how deep he was rutting up into you.

“Gonna come, Rhett–fuck–I’m gonna–”

“Come for me,” He rasped, slamming into you harder. “Soak me. Make a goddamn mess, sweetheart.”

Your vision blurred.

Your body locked up.

And then everything broke open.

You screamed his name as your orgasm ripped through you–wet and loud and overwhelming. You trembled violently, your whole body twitching as you felt yourself gush around him, soaking his lap and thighs, your slick coating every inch of him.

“Goddamn,” Rhett growled, his breath breaking into ragged pants. “Fuck–Y/N, you’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight–shit, I’m gonna–”

Then his hands flew to your hips.

He slammed you down against him one final time, holding you there with a bruising grip, his voice guttural and feral as he cried out:

“Fuck, I’m gonna come inside you–fill you up–gonna stuff you full of it, darlin’, so you’ll still feel me dripping out of you tomorrow–Jesus Christ–”

You gasped as you felt it.

The twitch. The pulse. Every thick, hot rope of cum flooding you so deep it made you clench again. He buried himself as far as he could go, his hips bucking wildly against you as he spilled every last drop.

You scratched your nails down his back again–hard.

He didn’t stop you. If anything, he moaned louder.

“Fuck yes, baby. Just like that.”

You collapsed forward, breath shaking, your chest pressed to his, your bodies fused together–hot and slick and shaking.

And he held you.

Tight.

Like you were the only thing tethering him to this goddamn earth.

Neither of you spoke at first.

Just heavy breathing. Soft trembling. The sound of your heart pounding where it pressed against his.

Then–barely audible–Rhett whispered against your ear:

“Guess what I’m writing?” Your breath was still ragged. Shallow. The tremors hadn’t stopped yet, and your chest was still rising and falling in uneven waves as you lay sprawled over him, your body warm and slick against his, your heart pounding so hard you swore it was echoing in his chest too.

“…Okay,” You whispered hoarsely, your voice barely carrying above the rasp in your throat.

Rhett didn’t say anything at first. He just smiled. One of those slow, crooked, half-cocky ones he couldn’t control when he was too soft to be smug and too smitten to pretend he wasn’t.

Then you felt it.

The gentle press of his fingertip against your outer thigh–bare, slick with sweat and still trembling slightly from aftershocks.

He dragged a slow line into your skin.

“I,” You breathed, voice soft and cautious.

He nodded, the tip of his nose brushing your jaw as he traced another.

“L,” You murmured, and he smirked faintly.

“Yeah,” He whispered against your cheek, his lips grazing your skin.

You didn’t breathe as he drew the next one–round and smooth.

“O.”

Another nod. His smile grew, quiet and reverent, the kind he only ever gave you when you were laughing in his passenger seat or half-asleep in his flannel.

And then he traced the last letter. Angled. Sharp. Deliberate.

“V,” you whispered. And this time, you stilled.

You pulled back just enough to look down at him, your hands sliding up to cradle his face. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t hide. Just met your gaze with those wide, ocean-blue eyes–like he was terrified and relieved and stunned that he’d said it at all.

Your thumbs brushed the corners of his mouth, your fingers curling gently along his jaw.

And your smile–God, your smile–was soft and sure and finally at peace as you leaned in just close enough for him to hear you when you said:

“I love you too, Rhett.”

The air shifted.

He exhaled like he’d been holding it forever, his brows twitching with something emotional and overwhelmed, and then he leaned up, kissing you–soft and slow and messy with gratitude.

When he pulled back, his voice cracked.

“You’re so good, Y/N…”

You smiled again, barely able to speak as your hands continued to caress his cheeks, your fingertips memorizing every inch of him like a prayer.

“You’re perfect, Rhett,” You whispered. “I couldn’t have asked for a better person to be in my life.”

And this time–neither of you said anything after.

Because everything that needed to be said had already been written across your skin.

[p1girlfriend]

protective!f1 grid x reader

lando norris a guy touches your waist at an event and Lando sees red you blink and suddenly he’s between you two, arm firm around you

“did you not see her face? she was uncomfortable.” his tone is calm. too calm. you swear his hand doesn’t leave your lower back all night “stay close, yeah? just so I don’t have to commit a crime.”

oscar piastri someone makes a slick comment about you on social media he quotes it with a “say it again and I’ll have your name on legal paperwork :)” in real life? he holds your hand tighter in crowded places, body always angled toward you he doesn’t get loud — he gets scary quiet and later whispers,

“no one touches you. no one talks about you like that.”

charles leclerc you’re flustered during a chaotic media event he steps in front of the cameras like a shield, takes your hand and mutters in French,

“breathe. i’ve got you.” he never raises his voice, but the look in his eyes shuts everyone up if someone’s rude? he stares them down like “say it again. i dare you.” and then walks you away, brushing your hair back like “they don’t matter. you do.”

carlos sainz he hears someone say “you’re just dating him for clout” he stops in his tracks. turns.

“care to repeat that?” one hand around your waist, the other not shaking because he’s holding it together he’s got “don’t mess with what’s mine” energy and later tells you, “you never have to defend yourself. not when I’m here.”

lewis hamilton he sees you uncomfortable across the room and is by your side in three seconds flat

“you okay, love?” says it sweet — but his eyes scan the situation like a bodyguard if someone pushes a boundary, he steps in calm. firm. deadly “respect her, or leave.” and then soft again, thumb on your cheek “you come before everything.”

daniel ricciardo someone makes a crude joke about you he laughs at first — then stops the room goes quiet

“nah, mate. not her. not ever.” later he cups your face and murmurs, “no one talks about my girl like that. i’d burn the room down first.” protective but still smiling still unhinged enough to scare someone into wetting their pants

max verstappen says nothing when someone steps too close just walks up behind you, grabs your hand, and glares at the guy until he backs off deadass pulls you into his lap in front of the entire paddock if needed

“no one gets near you. not without my eyes on them.” he doesn't even realize how territorial he sounds you: “...you good?” him: “i’m perfect. you’re safe. that’s what matters.”

gabriel bortoleto soft but FIRM a man stares too long and Gabi immediately shifts in front of you

“can I help you?” he doesn’t like to cause scenes — but he will if it means protecting your comfort he holds you for a long time after “i saw your face. i know what that felt like. i’m sorry.” kisses your knuckles and mutters in Portuguese about how lucky he is you’re his

franco colapinto protective in a quiet fury kind of way someone bumps you at a party and doesn’t apologize he’s immediately grabbing your hand and pulling you away

“i’ll make sure you don’t have to deal with that again.” later: “i don’t want anyone near you who doesn’t treat you like you’re gold.” and he means it.

lance stroll he doesn’t say much he just appears, silently loops his arm around your shoulders and glares at whoever’s making you feel uncomfortable when you’re safe again, he presses a soft kiss to your temple

“if you ever feel off, you tell me. even if it’s small. especially if it’s small.” would literally throw hands in a designer suit if someone crossed a line

©p1girlfriend | requested | requests open!

[makeitworse]

enjoy the silence

raising the baby w junho ! ⠀⚠︎ SPOILERS BELOW

after years of tunnel vision on tracking his brother down, untangling the rotten truth that’s left him sleepless— junho expected anything but this to be inho’s final statement. a baby girl, left with nothing but a player number and the bloodstained prize money.

was this inho’s child, trusted to her uncle to raise far away from her father’s true life? or perhaps this was a stranger’s child, saved by any surviving humanity left in the pits of his older brother’s heart? this poor girl, brought into the world amidst the circles of hell itself, and junho didn’t even know how to hold her properly.

he’d called his mother in a panic, stammering with the baby wailing in the background as if the building was on fire. though it was decades ago, his mother went through this twice, so it was muscle memory helping him out.

there wasn’t an explanation he could offer her though, since he hadn’t even wrapped his head around it himself. all he could say was that she wasn’t his, and she needed to be in the care of someone who knew what they were doing— even if the weight of her cradled in his arms had his heart beating like there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

you met junho in a grocery store: poking your head around the aisle when you heard panicked whispers and a baby blabbering. junho was cradling her awkwardly, squinting at the shelves like the baby formula was written in hieroglyphics— looking like he was two seconds from bursting into tears himself. you approached him with an amused smile and soft voice, offering a helping hand that he’s been forever grateful for since.

you lulled her with gentle rocks, demonstrating it to junho and then explaining how to pick out the right food. all the while, he can’t stop gazing at you in awe like you’ve got a golden halo above your head. he could not stop thanking you for your help— and one thing after another, you’re sat at a café after he insisted on treating you to a coffee (and his girl to a babyccino, per your suggestion).

junho’s extremely transparent with you, also to his own surprise. you figured as much that he was a single father who’d been raising the baby by google searches— but you’re taken aback when he admits that the child was bestowed upon him by his brother (“long story” he’d said) and not his own.

you can tell he’s been absolutely lost, dark circles under his eyes and unkempt hair. so when you offer yourself up to helping him navigate parenthood, he looks at you like he’s fallen in love on the spot. maybe he did.

and it’s not out of pity for him. it’s because you can see the exhaustion in his eyes— how he’s putting in all the effort to something he doesn’t even understand. and how he looks at the baby, like he’s terrified to fail her.

you become a regular at his apartment complex. at first, visits were just practical— feeding tips, changing diapers, practical how-to-parent tutorials. but the rhythm becomes something more natural, something without the need for a schedule.

you don’t pry: you don’t ask where she came from or why he has her when he needs this much guidance. but junho opens up anyways— slowly, one story at a time, like each one sheds a burden off his shoulders.

he doesn’t intend to fall for you, but it’s hard not to. you make things feel normal again. you don’t press about the past. you care for this baby like she may as well be yours. and he adores that about you.

the love sneaks up on him: during quiet dinners after you helped him rock her to sleep. through the way his stare lingers at your hands when you caress her. without realising he’s suddenly saying our girl in conversation with his mother. when she asked what you are to him, that’s when his mind had a blank.

somewhere between late-night movies after putting her to bed, that’s when it happens. a kiss on the couch. junho’s hand trembling slightly against your cheek. guilt’s written across his eyes, but so is relief. and you don’t pull away from him. you leaned in. (mindful not to wake her in the other room, of course)

junho is so painfully clueless, but he's all heart. he watches youtube essays on parenting like he’s preparing for a police exam. he keeps a list of her favourite foods in the notes app. neatly folds her laundry like it’s pure silk. you tease him, but it makes your heart ache how deeply he cares.

he always insists on being the one to rock her to sleep, even when it takes an hour. claims it “helps her trust him.” but you know it’s just as much for him, too. the first time she gets a fever, he doesn’t sleep. just sits beside her crib and watches her breathe, one of her little palms wrapped around a calloused finger.

he still carries the weight of everything he’s done. still wakes up some nights soaked in sweat, heart racing. but now he’s got you next to him. you don’t ask question, just hold him. massage his scalp while he shudders in your arms.

when his girl first blabbered an “appa”, he froze. stares at her like she split the sky open. then he excused himself to cry in the bathroom. with the life he was living before he met you both, he didn’t have the time to dream of starting a family. and now that he’s got one, he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

🧸 mlist · taglist 〃 note. drinking for junhee tn

@lightinbug @sherrayyyyy @namsgyu @riddlerloveb0t @ttturnitup @rafesbunniebby @nicaeno @ferrarifinnick @loveesiren @madebybec @avsarchivez @frontwomann @szonyix6277 @namgyooner @thanosspills

[buckysleftbicep]

bent and bruised (1) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avengers!bucky barnes x fem!ex-hydra!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, dark themes, winter soldier!bucky, coercion, dub-con/non-con themes (flashback), HYDRA abuse, unprotected sex, creampie, ptsd, a whole, whole lot of angst (tw: sexual violence)

summary: you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears. inspired by this request

word count: 4.4k

author's note: hi my loves! i am finally back with another series! it took me a whole day to get this up and i hope you guys will love it as much as i do! i am so excited to do up this series and i would love to hear your thoughts! i love ya guys and please stay safe out there! ❤️

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The room hummed with stale tension and recycled air, the kind that clung to your skin no matter how long you’d been inside.

It was too clean, too sterile—like the whole place had been scrubbed raw of personality. No windows. Just steel, flickering monitors, and the faint tang of ozone bleeding from exposed wires somewhere in the walls.

Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed in that maddening, uneven way, stuttering against the matte black of the long conference table. Weapons were laid out in clinical precision—pistols, serrated knives, a few modified explosives lined up like surgical instruments. 

The projection screen threw ghostly glows across their polished surfaces, and somewhere in the corner, a feed flickered with static before cutting back to drone footage of the mission site.

Unnerving silence settled between Valentina’s clipped sentences, the kind of silence that had weight behind it. Anticipation. Or maybe dread.

The compound was quieter than usual, Yelena wasn’t talking. Ava wasn’t pacing. Walker hadn’t cracked a joke in at least five minutes, which was practically a record. Even the air felt heavy, like it knew something the rest of them didn’t.

Bucky sat at the far end of the table, half-shadowed, arms folded tight across his chest.

He looked relaxed. He wasn’t.

The leather of his jacket creaked faintly every time the fingers of his vibranium hand twitched—just enough to betray the restlessness he didn’t bother to show.

He hadn’t spoken yet. Didn’t need to. He could feel it—like static crawling beneath his skin. Whatever Val was leading up to, it wasn’t just about the mission. 

It was something else. He never liked waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Infiltration’s scheduled for 0400,” Val said finally, breaking the silence with a sharp tap of her pointer against the digital display. A red dot blinked, pulsing like a heartbeat on the map.

“You’ll drop half a click from the perimeter, make entry through the north access shaft here. It’s still mostly underground—remnants of an old HYDRA stronghold, retrofitted for black market manufacturing. Radiation cloaking, signal dampeners, camo tech. Nothing simple about it, but manageable.”

The map shifted, highlighting the tunnel system in pale blue.

“You go in quiet, plant charges along the assembly line, tag the shipments, get out clean before the buyers show up.”

“And what exactly are they shipping?” Ava asked, her tone clipped. Her fingers tapped against the armrest, but not out of nerves—calculated.

Val lifted a brow, pleased by the question. With a click of her remote, the schematic changed. A plasma rifle rotated slowly in high-definition detail—sleek, brutal, and unmistakably advanced.

“Reverse-engineered Stark tech,” she said, voice razor-edged. “Plasma rifles, miniaturized arc pulse grenades, destabilizers. It’s genius work, honestly. Someone in there knows what they’re doing. These prototypes could down a jet with a single discharge. They’re selling to buyers who make AIM look like a fucking Etsy page.”

Yelena let out a low whistle. “And here I thought tuesdays were boring.”

John leaned back, tossing a small knife between his hands with lazy disinterest. “So we blow it to hell. Make it loud.”

Val shot him a pointed look, all warning and no warmth. “Clean,” she said again. “Surgical. No mess, no headlines. We’re not making a scene.”

That was when it happened.

Her mouth curled, just slightly. A new edge slipped into her voice.

“And,” Val continued, drawing the word out just enough to shift the air in the room, “you’ll be joined by a new agent.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Yelena arched a brow and leaned forward on her elbows. “Oh god, Don’t tell me it’s Walker’s twin.”

Walker snorted. Didn’t even glance at her. Just flipped her off mid-spin of the blade.

Val chuckled. “No. She’s one of mine. Freelance up till now. Ex-mercenary. Former ghost. One of the best I’ve ever worked with, she's efficient, lethal, tactical as hell. I’d say she rivals even you, Barnes.”

The room tilted—just a little.

Bucky didn’t move at first. Barely a reaction. Just a subtle shift in the line of his shoulders. His jaw ticked. Nothing more. But his eyes locked on Val’s, a flicker of something unreadable burning deep beneath the surface.

“Okay, now I curious,” Alexei said, reaching for a protein bar from his jacket pocket like the team wasn’t just a fucking step from a horror movie.

Val didn’t say anything.

The screen changed. And time fractured.

Name: (Y/N) (L/N) Gender: F Born: 1941 Recruited: 1963 (HYDRA OPERATIVE) Status: Cryo Recovery — Completed Subjected to: Experimental Super Soldier Serum (1963, Switzerland, Geneva Facility) Current Role: Active Operative 

Your file blinked across the screen in clean, bureaucratic lines. But it was the photo that struck like a bullet to the ribs.

You. Alive.

Not the way Bucky remembered you—not exactly. You looked older now, as you should’ve. But it wasn’t the years that aged you. It was something else. Something far worse. Your expression was empty—neutral, professional, cold.

But your eyes… Fuck. Your eyes.

They were still the same shape, glassy, still the same damn colour, still framed by lashes he remembered fluttering closed against his jaw, his throat, the cold table beneath you as you had locked your legs around him.

But they were different too.

Sharper now. Harder.

Like glass that had been shattered, then put back together without the intention of being whole. A reconstruction, a warning.

You’d seen the worst of humanity. He knew you had.

Because you’d seen him. You had seen the soldier.

Bucky’s throat dried, his pulse thudded loud in his ears. For a second, the rest of the room faded. No Val. No briefing. No mission.

Just your face, twenty feet tall on a screen that didn’t understand the weight of what it displayed.

His vibranium fingers clenched into a fist against his thigh.

Because before the blood, before the years, before everything—

He remembered you being shoved into his cell. He remembered what they made you for. Him.

Geneva, 1963

The restraints clicked loose with a mechanical hiss.

The sound echoed like a countdown, bouncing off the concrete walls of the cell—sterile and dim, soaked in shadow and the sharp tang of metal. The air in the room was cold, almost painfully so. It reeked of antiseptic, dried blood, rusted bolts, and fear.

It was always cold, always humming, always watching.

He sat motionless in the center of the room, body lit by the faint glow of overhead lights buried in steel mesh. His breathing was even. Controlled. Programmed. Like the rest of him.

There were voices still murmuring in the back of his mind—Russian syllables sharp and precise like scalpel cuts. Orders etched into the bone.

The Soldier didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Not until the door opened.

It wasn’t loud—just a low, hydraulic groan—but it might as well have been an earthquake. The room shifted with it. Tensed. And then you stumbled in.

Barefoot.

A paper-thin robe hung off your shoulders, barely tied, the cheap fabric fluttering like the wings of something dying. Your skin was pale beneath the harsh light. Translucent and cold.

You had been trembling—not dramatically, not childishly, but with a quiet, contained sort of fear. The kind that sat behind your eyes like a scream you weren��t allowed to voice.

Your breathing was shallow. Your arms wrapped tight around your middle like maybe you could still keep something for yourself. Dignity, perhaps. Sanity.

He could hear your heart skipping.

Thud. Thud. Skip. Thud.

The Soldier's head tilted slightly.

You didn’t speak. You weren’t supposed to. He of all people knew that.

Another set of footsteps followed behind you. Louder. Confident. Casual in that way only men who enjoyed this part could be.

Your handler stepped in, gloved hands tucked behind his back, expression amused—like this was just another thursday night for him. He smelled of aftershave and smoke and arrogance.

“She’s new Soldier,” he said, like he was introducing a piece of meat. “Fresh out of the chair. ты полюбишь ее (you'll love her)."

The Soldier’s eyes tracked him, no reaction. Just coiled stillness. The quiet before a storm—or before something breaks.

The man stepped behind you, took a fistful of your hair, tilted your head back with casual cruelty. His other hand held a gun. Not raised yet—just dangling. Just there.

He pressed the barrel to your chin.

“You were modified, my dear,” he said, voice slick, smiling like this was a joke between old friends. “Tailored just for him”

You blinked back a tear and Bucky remembered how you tried not to move, tried to not let the tears slip.

But he saw it, god, he always saw it.

“Our Soldier here,” the handler continued, “is very effective when he’s satisfied. But lately—” he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, “—he’s been a little… what do you say? wound up.”

He dragged the pistol slowly down the column of your throat.

“Don’t worry. You’ll do just fine,” he whispered, then slapped your cheek—not hard, but just enough to make your teeth clack. Just enough to remind you that your body didn’t belong to you anymore.

It belonged to him.

Your lip trembled. You flinched. But you didn’t cry out.

The handler smirked, pleased with himself. Then he shoved you forward. Hard. You stumbled toward the metal table in the center of the room, hands catching on the edge. It was freezing beneath your fingertips.

“Strip,” he said.

You froze.

There was a pause—barely two seconds—before he raised the gun again, pressing the muzzle to your throat.

“Я сказал, черт возьми, разденься.” (i said fucking strip)

Your hands moved without your permission. Wooden. Shaking.

The knot on the robe came loose in one tug. The fabric slipped from your shoulders like it had been waiting to betray you. It crumpled around your feet.

The cold hit instantly. Like knives.

You stood there—naked, spine taut as a wire—while the handler looked you over like you were nothing. Just skin. Just parts. A means to an end.

Behind you, the Soldier stood.

The restraints had fallen from his wrists minutes ago. He hadn’t moved until now.

But he did now.

Silently. Predatory. Like a tiger stalking its prey—measured, patient, deadly in its grace. There was no urgency in the way he moved. No rush. Just inevitability.

Each step echoed, booted and deliberate, closing the space between you until the scent of steel and gun oil and winter settled over your skin like a second prison.

You turned, barely.

Your eyes met his—wide, glistening, pleading. A silent cry for mercy, for recognition, for something human. But what stared back at you wasn’t mercy.

His eyes were cerulean—stunning, almost unnaturally bright. A shade of blue that might have once held the sky, the sea. But now, they were stripped bare. Cold and hollow. Like frost on glass, beautiful only because of how dead they looked beneath the surface.

There was no spark behind them. No flicker of recognition. No trace of the man he’d once been almost twenty years ago before HYDRA wiped him clean.

As if the color remained only to mock you—brilliant, vivid, human—in a face that had long since forgotten how to be.

You made a sound. Soft. Fractured.

“I-I… please—”

The door behind you slammed shut.

The locks engaged. One by one. Click. Click. Click.

You were alone.

No—worse. You were with him.

The Soldier said nothing. Not a grunt, not a breath—just a slow, deliberate advance. Each step was measured, silent, lethal. Until his chest hovered a hair’s breadth from yours, the heat of him a violent contrast to the chill in the room.

Up close, you could see it—the constellation of scars across his chest, old and precise, carved into him like tally marks. Not injuries. Not history. Inventory.

His metal hand rose, unhurried, as if pre-programmed, the plates catching the light in glinting, surgical flashes. It wasn’t a caress—it was an assessment. He gripped your jaw with cold, steady fingers, tilting your face as if cataloguing you.

Not a woman. A directive.

Then, without a word, he shoved you back.

Your spine struck the edge of the table with a dull, metallic thud. The bite of cold steel sank into the soft flesh of your thighs, shocking enough to draw a gasp from your lips.

His hands were on you in the next breath—both of them now. Flesh and metal. One rough, the other unfeeling. They clamped around your hips, dragging you into place with bruising force.

His hand moved with the cold precision of routine—sliding down your waist, between your thighs, parting you like it was nothing more than protocol. A function, a command.

There was no softness in the touch, no pretence of seduction. Just the calloused drag of flesh and steel against trembling skin, searching for an opening, finding it.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t kiss. Didn’t whisper.

He just pushed inside.

No warning, no mercy.

You gasped—loud, broken—your back arching sharply as the brutal stretch hit you all at once. He was thick, unforgiving, too deep in a single thrust that tore a cry from your throat before you could swallow it down.

It had hurt, not in the way pain was supposed to make you feel alive. In the way it emptied you. In the way it made your eyes burn.

The air left your lungs in a ragged choke as your hands scrambled along the table, trying to hold onto something, anything solid.

But there was nothing to brace against. Just cold steel and the shuddering rhythm of your body being rocked by a man who wasn’t a man anymore.

He groaned low, a sound scraped from the chest of something feral. Not passion. Not need. Just release. His hips snapped forward, brutal and mechanical, burying himself deeper with every thrust—hard, fast, relentless.

The table beneath you scraped against the concrete floor, metal screaming in protest, matching the ache building between your legs where he kept driving into you without care.

You clenched around him without meaning to—instinct, panic, maybe some misplaced hope that it would ease the burn.

It didn’t. If anything, it made him move faster, more ragged, like your body’s reaction was fuel. His pace stayed wild, uncalibrated. There was no rhythm, no escalation. Just motion, just violence, just function.

Your nails dug into his back. Deep. You clawed without thinking, dragging jagged lines down skin that didn’t bruise, didn’t bleed. You needed to feel something. Needed him to feel something. But he didn’t even flinch.

Still, he didn’t look at you, he didn’t speak, he didn’t stop.

He took you like he was built to, like this was your only purpose. His grip bruised your thighs. His hips slammed into yours over and over, until your sobs bled into the sound of flesh hitting flesh, too soft to echo, too raw to ignore.

Your body had given up on resisting—it simply endured. And the worst part was that he never lost control. Not once. Every movement was calculated. Efficient.

When he came, it was with a final, forceful thrust, burying himself as deep as you could take him, hips stuttering with brutal impact.

His breath flared hot against your neck—shallow, sharp—but he didn’t make a sound beyond that low, choked groan. His release filled you in waves, thick and unforgiving, and he stayed there, seated inside you, unmoving.

You expected him to pull out.

He didn’t. Instead, he just stayed.

You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, your body aching in too many places to name. And then, something shifted.

He moved—barely.

The fingers of his metal hand rose, brushing your hair back from your damp, tear-streaked face. It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t deliberate. It felt… automatic. Like some trace echo of the man he’d been, long before all of this, had flinched to the surface. A reflex. A ghost of care where none should have existed.

You didn’t think. You just leaned forward, lips trembling, and kissed him.

Soft. Desperate. Human.

It wasn’t about affection. It wasn’t about desire. It was survival. The kind of kiss you gave a weapon in the hopes it might remember it once had a heart.

He didn’t kiss you back. But he didn’t pull away, either.

Bucky jerked back to the present like he’d been shocked.

A breath caught in his throat, too late, too loud. His fists were clenched beneath the table—metal fingers biting into flesh, the cool of vibranium digging into his palm.

For a second, he couldn’t remember where he was. Not really. Everything around him had gone flat. Colourless. The voices around the room blurred into a low, warbling hum, like sound underwater. Just static and noise. White walls and ghosts.

His jaw was locked so tight it ached. Sweat beaded along the nape of his neck, cold against the collar of his shirt. He could feel it rolling down his spine in thin, uncomfortable rivulets. His skin itched like memory.

No one had noticed. Not yet.

Val’s voice kept going, sharp and indifferent. She was pacing in front of the screen now, still debriefing. Her heels clicked against the floor, a rhythmic metronome against the pulse pounding in Bucky’s ears.

“She went off-grid for years,” Val was saying, her tone too casual, like she wasn’t talking about someone’s stolen life. “Cryo-freeze probably scrambled most of her memory—hell, we barely know what happened to her during that period. The files are a fucking jigsaw puzzle. But she’s clean. She’s loyal.”

Loyal.

He nearly laughed. Bit down on it so hard his tongue pressed into his molars.

She didn’t know. None of them knew.

Val tapped her remote again. The screen dimmed, your face fading into black. The mission map reappeared. But he could still see you—burned into the back of his eyes like an afterimage.

Every line of your face. That expression. The way your mouth had been pressed flat, neutral, like you hadn’t been torn from time. Like you weren’t a bleeding wound in his memory.

Val turned back toward the table.

“And she’ll be joining your team,” she said smoothly, “starting tonight.”

Silence.

Then her gaze found him—pinning, expectant.

“You okay, Barnes?”

He forced himself to move.

Just a blink. A breath. He straightened his spine with mechanical precision, muscles flexing against the weight in his chest. His lips parted, but the words didn’t come right away. They stalled. Caught. Died somewhere in the back of his throat like smoke.

He swallowed it down.

“I…” he cleared his throat, low and quiet. “Yeah. No issue.”

No issue.

The lie settled bitter on his tongue. Metallic. Like blood.

There was every issue.

Because the girl he had once touched without mercy—the one who had gasped beneath him, shaking, cold, silenced by fear and force—was alive. Real. Breathing in the same air he was. Walking somewhere above their heads in this building.

And if the universe had any cruelty left in it—and it always did—you remembered.

God, maybe you remembered everything.

Maybe you remembered the cold metal table. The way he’d gripped your hips like you were something disposable. Maybe you remembered the weight of his body bearing down on yours with no tenderness, no humanity.

Maybe you remembered the sharp sting of the floor against your knees. The sound of your own breathing hitching against his shoulder. Your name reduced to nothing. Your voice swallowed by silence. The tears that had trailed down your cheeks when you thought no one was looking—except he had been. He always had been.

Maybe you remembered the way he hadn’t stopped.

The way he hadn’t spoken.

The way he hadn’t cared—because HYDRA had taken that part of him and burned it until only the weapon remained.

He’d fucked you like you were a tool to be used, like you were part of the mission. And when it was done, when his seed was leaking from between your thighs and your fingers had gone limp against his skin, he hadn’t pulled away.

He had just stared. Like he couldn’t understand what had just happened. Like part of him—some distant, buried part—could.

And maybe that was the worst part of all.

But… there had been one night.

One fucking night.

Late, in the middle of another mission cycle. He wasn’t fully reset. Not yet triggered. Just… quiet. Breathing. Blinking. Human, for a few stolen hours.

And you had touched him—not because you were forced to, but because you chose to.

Your fingers slid into his hair like you were anchoring yourself to something real—something still breathing beneath all that silence.

The strands were damp with sweat, thick and soft between your fingers, and you clutched them not with control, but with need. Gentle, but trembling. A desperate touch dressed up as tenderness.

You pulled him closer. Not rough, not forced—just certain. Like your body knew something your mind didn’t have the courage to say aloud.

His face hovered just above yours, his breath hot against your cheek, uneven now. Slower. Like for one stolen moment, the programming had fractured and something human was leaking through the cracks.

You tilted your head, lips barely brushing his ear—featherlight, sacred. Like a prayer.

And you whispered it.

Not Soldier. Not Asset. Not the name HYDRA had soldered into him like metal to bone.

You whispered, “James.”

Soft. Breaking. Yours.

Like you knew him. Like you remembered. Like some piece of the man still buried inside him might crawl toward the sound of it and stay.

He had cum that night too. But not because HYDRA told him to.

Because he wanted to.

Because you were soft, and you had kissed him, and for one second, the world had felt quiet. Real.

And fuck—

Some part of him wanted to believe that you remembered that.

That buried beneath all the violence, beneath all the tears and orders and years of cryo and blood, you remembered that there was one moment—just one—when he wasn’t a monster.

When you had invoked that one emotion he thought was long gone. Love.

Even if he didn’t know what the hell love was supposed to feel like anymore.

The meeting dissolved slowly.

Chairs scraped against the floor in discordant, screeching notes as the team stood. Screens powered down with mechanical hums, one by one, the mission data fading into darkness.

Someone cracked a joke—probably Alexei—but Bucky didn’t hear it. The sound passed through him like wind through a ruined building. His gaze lingered on the now-empty monitor, as if your photo might flicker back to life one last time.

But it didn’t.

You were gone again. Until you weren’t.

Val was already talking to Ava, pulling her aside, issuing last-minute adjustments. Walker yawned and stretched like they were heading to a sparring match instead of a black ops infiltration.

Yelena glanced over her shoulder at Bucky, something in her look almost—almost—curious. But she didn’t press. No one did.

He hadn’t moved.

He waited until the room cleared out.

Until the buzz of the briefing dulled into silence and the last bootsteps disappeared down the hallway.

Only then did he breathe.

It came out shaky. Shallow. Wrong.

His now vibranium hand flexed at his side, joints creaking softly in the cold air.

The adrenaline had faded, but the weight in his chest hadn’t. It was heavier now. Anchored deep. He rubbed the back of his neck with his flesh hand, dragging his fingers through his hair like maybe he could dig out the thoughts still looping in his mind.

But they stayed. They always did.

He finally stood.

The chair groaned beneath him, echoing in the empty room like a warning.

Bucky moved on autopilot, one boot in front of the other, out the door and into the corridor. The halls were narrow, dimly lit, the walls humming faintly with the energy of the facility.

Security cameras tracked his movement, but he didn’t care. He knew these halls well. Too well. They never changed—no matter the country, no matter the decade. Metal walls, low ceilings, air that smelled like oil and old wiring.

It reminded him of HYDRA. Everything did tonight.

He walked past the tech lab, the weapons vault, the intel room—every step tightening something behind his ribs. And then he reached the gear room.

Inside, it was quiet. Cold. The lockers were lined in rows, half-open, half-forgotten, each one a sealed little coffin of someone's war.

He opened the locker slowly. The door creaked on its hinges. Inside: his gear. Gloves. Boots. Custom tactical vest. The knives he preferred—weighted, balanced, perfect for close-quarters.

The gloves were folded carefully on the top shelf. Next to them was a file folder someone had left—probably more mission data. Or maybe your file again. It didn’t matter.

He didn’t touch it.

Instead, he sat down on the bench beside the locker, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed forward like he could hold himself together with posture alone.

And for a moment, just one moment, he allowed it to crack.

His eyes fell shut. His hands trembled. Not violently. Just enough that he had to lace his fingers together to keep them still.

You were alive.

After all these years. After all that pain. After cryo, after war, after HYDRA, after everything—they’d kept you frozen, tucked away in some forgotten chamber while the world moved on without you.

He wondered if it had hurt you to know what year it was. He wondered if it would hurt more to see him again.

Because what was he now?

Just a reminder of everything that had ever gone wrong. Of every scar on your body you hadn’t deserved. Of every night you’d cried into a concrete floor, trying to convince yourself that the Soldier wasn’t a real person. That he didn’t feel it. That he didn’t want it.

But he had.

He had wanted you. Not in the way HYDRA demanded. In the way that made his hands softer, just once. In the way that made him linger too long inside you, not because he was ordered to—but because he couldn’t bear to leave.

That was the part he never forgave himself for.

That flicker of love that bloomed in the middle of a crime scene.

It wasn’t pure. It wasn’t good. But it was his. It was the only real thing he’d felt in decades that he was tortured. And it was with you.

He opened his eyes. Swallowed hard.

Somewhere upstairs, you were being debriefed. Checked. Cleared. Suited up in your new uniform, maybe. Maybe Val was smiling that smug little smile of hers as she handed you your new orders.

Maybe you were asking about the team. Maybe you’d asked who was leading it.

And maybe, just maybe, Val had said his name.

James Buchanan Barnes.

And maybe that name meant something to you.

Or maybe it didn’t.

Maybe you’d look him in the eye tonight and feel nothing. Maybe you wouldn’t recognise him at all.

But Bucky had the feeling—deep, raw, gut-level—that when your eyes met his again, something would break. In you. In him. In both of you.

And whatever broke… it wouldn’t be fixable.

Not this time.

He stood. Slowly. Gathered his gear without ceremony. Buckled his knives to his thigh holster. Pulled on the gloves.

Every movement felt heavier than the last.

The next time he saw you, it would be face-to-face. On mission. Under pressure. With blood in the air and history in the room like a second skin.

He didn’t know what would happen. He just knew it had already started.

a/n: i am starting on chapter 2! and gosh, i am so excited already! i hope you love it and if you do, please drop a comment or a reblog, i am forever grateful for your support <3333

[shina913]

Tumble Dry | CSC

Tumble Dry

Pairing: Choi Seungcheol x AFAB!Reader

Rating: M 🔞; NSFW

Genre: Established relationship; domestic AU; smut; some fluff

Warnings: mentions of ovulation/menstrual cycle; cussing; breast play; fingering; oral (both giving/receiving); unprotected sex; PIV sex; ass smacking; dirty talk; creampie

Word count: 3.3k words

Summary: Sure, a man doing chores is hot. But a man who does the laundry, folds it, and puts it away? Absolutely irresistible.

A/N: The monkey is off my back and I finally channeled my Cheol Burstday comeback brainrot into this!!! Thanks to @roaminginthenights for always enabling me in the DMs. This is for you!

Throughout the workweek, you and Seungcheol text frequently. It’s your way of letting each other know you’re thinking of one another. You share the most mundane things, like mismatched socks on laundry day, or talk shit about coworkers you’d gladly dump on a deserted island along with your other annoying acquaintances.

Occasionally, the messages turn spicier, sent during quiet moments at your desks.

But today has been brutal. The kind of nonstop insanity that barely lets you glance at your phone, let alone reply. You feel guilty for leaving him on ‘read’, but you couldn’t get a moment to break away since there were too many fires to put out.

Seungcheol could tell the week was eating you alive. You’d been venting about that looming deadline, and judging by your radio silence, he connected the dots. Without saying anything to you, he heads out of work early to start dinner and knock out a few chores, just so you can walk in the door and finally decompress.

Back at your desk, you glance at the clock. Just a couple more hours until you can escape the madness and burn off every last ounce of tension with him. The thought alone has you pressing your thighs together. You lick your lips, letting the anticipation settle into the base of your belly, using it as motivation to power through the rest of the day. And you can come home and claim your well-deserved reward.

******

The scent of dinner cooking welcomes you as you walk through the door after a long and trying day. At the end of the hallway, you catch a glimpse of Seungcheol in the kitchen, his broad back turned to you while he unloads the dishwasher.

The exhaust fan hums softly, and music is blasting in the background. You figure this is why he hasn’t responded to your text that told him you were on your way.

You cock your head and watch him for a moment. Your heart swells with appreciation at the sight of him taking care of some chores at home without you asking him.

He looks up at the jangle of your keys as you hang them on the wall. He beams instantly when his gaze lands on you. “Hey, love! Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

He’s in sweats and one of his old college shirts, whose sleeves he proudly hacked off himself. It used to hang loose around his shoulders, but now it clings and stretches nicely over his biceps. They’ve been looking more defined lately, and you’ve mentioned more than once how good he looks in that shirt.

You spot the V-shaped sweat mark beneath his collar that tells you he just finished a workout. You can’t help but hope he’s not completely spent, and that he’s saved some energy for you.

Honestly, you’re hoping for a little more than “some.” You want—no—need to be manhandled tonight. After hours of trying to hold things together today, you’d want nothing more than to give up control and have him take over.

He strolls over and greets you with a kiss. A grin spreads across your face. “You didn’t have to cook!” you say. “I was going to order takeout, because I thought you’d be working late tonight.”

He turns back to the stove, lowering the flame beneath one of the simmering pots. “I was,” he says, “But Joshua owes me a favor, so I asked him to finish up the rest of the cases. Told him there was an emergency at home.”

You tilt your head, brows knitting in curiosity. “Oh? What kind of emergency?”

He crosses the room again, cups your cheeks, and plants a soft kiss on your forehead. His eyes soften as he meets yours. “The kind where I need to take care of you.”

He’s so cheesy—but your heart still melts. “Ugh... I love you,” you gush.

“Love you too. Now go get changed—dinner’s almost ready.”

******

After dinner, as the food coma settles, you and Seungcheol curl up on the couch to catch up on your favorite show. You’ve changed into an oversized sleep shirt and stretched out sideways, your legs draped across his lap. His eyes are on the screen while his thumb traces lazy circles over your knee.

You’re not really watching the show—your gaze keeps drifting to his profile, bathed in the soft, warm light of the nearby lamp.

“Thank you for dinner,” you murmur. “It was perfect… especially after today.” A slow smile spreads across your face.

He turns to you with a gentle look. “You’re welcome. I know this week’s been a lot,” he says, his voice low and warm. “I thought if I came home early and took care of a few things, maybe you could just… breathe a little easier this weekend.”

“Like what things?”

“Just a few chores. After grocery shopping, I stopped by the pharmacy to pick up your prescription…”

You could cry listening to him list many of the errands you planned to do this week, but never found the time for. How is it possible to love him even more than you already do?

“Then, before I started cooking, I did the laundry.”

Your shoulders tense up.

Every time he did the laundry, it was utter chaos—darks, lights, and delicates tossed into the same load. You never knew if your white tees would survive unscathed or come out with a tinge of pink. The last time, he left everything in the dryer overnight, and you spent the next morning re-running cycles just to tame the wrinkles. Since then, he’s been unofficially banned from doing laundry unsupervised.

He sees your expression shift and quickly adds, “Don’t worry. I sorted everything. Even used the pre-wash on the sheets—just like you showed me.” He gives you a reassuring look, promising there wouldn’t be a repeat of last time.

Your eyes go wide. “You did what?”

He hesitates. “I… did the laundry?” He breaks into a sweat as he starts to question every decision he’s made in the last couple of hours.

You shake your head. “No, no—what did you say after that?”

“I sorted it and ran a pre-wash cycle?” He winces, hoping this answer will get him in less trouble.

When he sees your jaw drop with a gasp, he assumes the worst and scrambles for an explanation.

“Okay, hear me out. I know I messed up before, but I swear, I did it properly this time. I even folded the clothes and put them away in our closet. I’m just waiting for the last load to finish in the dryer.”

You find yourself…inexplicably aroused by all of this. The thought of him in his cutoff shirt, doing a load of laundry, and carefully folding everything. Not only that, but most importantly, doing it exactly the way you like it—is enough to get you hot and bothered.

He sits there anxiously, completely unaware of the effect this has on you.

“I was just trying to help. Are you mad?”

Instead of answering him, you lunge forward and kiss him.

“Whoa, what? What’s happening?” He’s perplexed, yet pleasantly surprised by your sudden aggressiveness.

You shift to straddle his hips. “You had me at ‘sorting the laundry,’” you breathe against his lips before kissing him again, harder this time.

He pulls away again, still looking confused. “Wait, seriously? The laundry?”

It’s not just the laundry. Your hormones are already raging from ovulating, which not only piles onto your stress and irritability at work, but it also leaves you feeling unbearably horny.

The dinner he made had briefly distracted you, but now he’s stirred the memory of what you’d really been looking forward to since walking through the door.

You glare at him in exasperation for trying to derail your plans again. “Yes! Now, are you going to interrupt me again or do you want to get your dick sucked?”

He blinks slowly, your words echoing in his head. Then a slow smirk tugs at his lips, and his gaze darkens. He mimes zipping his mouth shut, hands lifting in mock surrender. He sinks back into the couch, arms stretched, eyes locked on you with quiet amusement.

“Good choice!” You cup his nape and pull his mouth to yours.

You kiss him with slow, deliberate strokes of your tongue—each one driving him crazy with want. Your hunger is intoxicating, only rivaling his scent: a heady mix of body wash, sweat, and the savory aromatics from the dish he cooked. It’s the perfect cocktail that sends your senses into overdrive.

When you break the kiss, you tug his shirt over his head. Then you lower yourself again, pressing soft kisses along his jaw, tracing it with gentle licks that elicit a low moan from his throat. Your mouth travels down his chest, leaving a trail of wet kisses as you slide from his lap, then finally sinking to your knees between his legs.

He lifts his hips when you tug at his waistband, helping you slide his bottoms, just enough to pull his cock out.

You tease the tip with a gentle flick of your tongue, making him inhale sharply. You slide your mouth down his length, drawing another gasp from him. At the first hint of suction, he sinks his head deeper into the cushions and groans in pleasure.

“Holy…f…uck…” The rush of wet heat from your mouth over his sensitive tip is so intense, he struggles to catch his breath. Your lips tighten around him, your tongue massaging that perfect spot on his cock that you know makes his toes curl.

You pull upward, then tease him with your fingers, stroking with just enough pressure to make him crave more.

His hands are in your hair, his neck straining to get a glimpse of your mouth sliding up and down his cock.

“Fuck, baby…” he hisses through his teeth, “So good.”

You peer up at him and see his lip caught between his teeth, eyes heavy-lidded, face etched with pleasure—the visual intensifies the throbbing between your legs. Unable to resist, you slip your fingers into your panties to ease the ache. Being extra sensitive during this phase of your cycle, it doesn’t take long before your fingers are coated in your slick.

The hum of your moans vibrates through him, fueling his torment and driving him closer to the edge. You can feel it in the way his thighs tense, hear it in the way his breath stutters. Then suddenly, his hands grab your sides, breaking your suction as he pulls you upward.

“C’mere.”

His hands slip beneath the hem of your shirt, gliding to cup the backs of your thighs and the curve of your ass. He pulls you in until your center hovers right over his face.

“Take it off,” he whispers, eyes gazing up at you with dark anticipation.

Without hesitation, your top comes off in one fluid motion.

He presses slow kisses across your stomach, each one making you sigh with pleasure and weak in the knees. His fingers hook into your panties, easing them down your legs, and he guides you back onto his lap.

You gasp as your overly sensitive nipples brush against his bare chest, sending a burst of sensation straight to your core.

“I want you inside me,” you whisper, nuzzling his nose with yours.

“Yeah?” His fingers find your nipple, pinching and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. You whimper when the sharp but pleasurable pain makes goosebumps race across your skin.

“How bad?”

You grind your soaked folds shamelessly along the length of him, then tease the seam of his lips with your tongue. “Really, really bad.”

Seungcheol flashes a cocky grin, clearly pleased with your answer. For a second, you think he’s about to finally put you out of your misery. But instead, he surprises you, lifting you off the couch.

His hands steady beneath you, he tightens your legs around his waist. You band your arms around his neck, clinging to him as he carries you down the hall—both of you giggling and kissing between breaths.

He angles his body and bumps your bedroom door wider. Your thighs hit the edge of the mattress first, and then he lowers you gently onto your back.

With a sly, teasing smile, he leans down and kisses you quickly.

“My turn.”

He hovers over you, then down—his hot mouth trailing over your breasts, your stomach, and finally, your center. You gasp, arching as his tongue flutters over your clit, every flick sending jolts through your body.

His hands slide up to cup your breasts, fingers teasing your nipples while his mouth devours you with unrelenting focus. The more you beg him to fuck you, the longer he makes you wait, savoring every sound you make, every tremble of your body.

“Cheol, please…”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he just slips two fingers inside you and curls them, pressing and stroking that sensitive spot deep inside you.

You’re close to tears when he makes you come once. Then again. And again. By the time he finally lets up, your legs are shaky, your body limp with aftershocks. You lie still, your limbs heavy, your clit still pulsing from his relentless mouth.

You barely register him speaking when his finger strokes you gently across your cheek. “Are you okay?”

You nod weakly.

He chuckles, clearly pleased with the satiated look on your face.

“Time for bed?”

The second the words register, your eyes snap open, and you push up onto your elbows, protesting. “What? No!”

The corners of his mouth twitch. That’s exactly the response he wanted. He leans in close, his breath fanning against your skin.

“Can you take more?”

His teeth graze the shell of your ear, then his lips trace a path down your cheek before claiming your mouth again.

“Please. I just want you inside me.”

He’s seen that look in your eyes before—hunger, need. And because Seungcheol aims to please, he gives in.

“Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

You give a vague nod and your body’s already moving, scrambling upright, too eager to wait another second.

He leans in again, his breath warm on your cheek as he gently tucks a few loose strands behind your ear.

“Say it.”

A small smile curves your lips as you kneel on the bed, hands resting obediently on your thighs, sitting back on your heels–like a good girl.

His teeth catch his bottom lip. God, he could come just from seeing you like this.

“Ask me again.”

He steadies himself, shifting his focus to hang onto his last shred of control. He wants to make this last—for both of you.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much?”

“Yes.”

He takes a couple of steps back, and your mouth waters as you watch him peel off his sweats. His hand wraps around himself, slowly stroking, before he climbs onto the bed with you.

“Lean into me,” he murmurs.

You shift until your back presses against his chest, resting your cheek against his shoulder. One hand cups your face, tilting your mouth up to his for a kiss, while the other slips between your legs, fingers pumping steadily inside you.

“You ready?” he purrs.

“I’ve been ready,” you whine breathlessly.

He chuckles. “Go ahead,” he coaxes, his tongue touching yours with teasing licks. “Put me in then.”

Reaching back, your hand wraps around his length. He adjusts to line himself up for you. You sink your hips as he pushes up simultaneously, both groaning at the sensation of stretch and constriction.

He wraps his hand gently around your throat, his palm flat against your stomach. He withdraws, then thrusts so hard into you that you could swear you see stars. He holds you firmly in his arms, pumping in and out of you steadily, his groans thrumming against your spine.

“Yes, yes…harder,” you pant, reaching behind and sinking your nails into the flesh of his ass, beyond needy.

You don’t have to ask him twice—he’s already on it. He pulls out, guides you down to the bed, and steadies you as you bend at the waist, cheek pressing into the mattress. His hands grip your hips firmly, and he slides in deep, pulling a whimper from your lips. This is exactly what you wanted, and he’s all too happy to give it to you.

Your insides tense, clenching desperately around him. He grunts through clenched teeth, pulling out just enough before pushing back in intensely. Again and again. Each time, hitting every one of those tight bundles of nerves inside you.

“Don’t stop…” You whine.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let me hear you.”

He smacks your ass hard, the stinging sensation causing your insides to clench around him in a vice-like grip. Your fingers claw at the sheets, deep moans rumbling from your throat.

Your legs tremble with a particularly rough stroke, but you’re still desperate and hungry for more. The steady rhythm of his hips and the sounds you make only add to his own insatiable need for you.

He spanks you again, before he picks up the pace, pounding into you, his fingers circling your clit add to the torment. Your cunt squeezes around him as another orgasm nears.

His movements grow unsteady and erratic—after delaying his gratification for so long, he’s now racing toward his orgasm.

He comes with a drawn-out, throaty growl, your knees buckling with the rush of his release melding with yours.

You both collapse onto the bed, skin flushed with a gleam of sweat, limbs tangled in the mess of sheets that he had, ironically, just washed.

He lets out a hoarse, breathless laugh. “Sorry if I went too hard.”

You giggle. “Are you kidding? No complaints here—at all!”

You both settle into a comfortable silence as your breathing steadies and heartbeats slow to normal.

After a moment, he glances over at you and asks, “Hey… are you ovulating, by any chance?” His tone is light, but there’s a hint of apprehension to it.

You narrow your gaze, intrigued. “Y-eah,” you draw out the word. “Why?”

He nods, as if that confirms something. “Figured.”

You tilt your head in amusement. “And how exactly could you tell the difference?”

His voice drops as he locks eyes with you. “Because I can feel it.” 

Sure enough, you’re much wetter, and he slips right into you with ease.

You bite back a grin. “Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs on that kind of thing.”

He shrugs, all nonchalant about it. “We’ve been together long enough for me to know you tend to like it rough around this time.”

You glance at him, cheeks warming. He wasn’t wrong. You wanted to be manhandled, and he delivered, as he always does. “Is that weird for you?”

His mouth curves into a smirk. “Weird? Nah. Hot?” He gives an exaggerated nod, eyes trailing over you, and blows out a slow whistle.

You tilt your head back, laughing softly at the ceiling. “Well, I never thought properly done laundry would end up on my list of turn-ons, and yet, here we are.”

You catch his cheeky grin from the corner of your eye.

“Well, in that case,” he drawls, “I should mention that I ran the delicates cycle. Even used that little mesh bag you keep stashed above the washer.”

You roll onto your side and slow-blink at him, as if he’d just grown an extra head.

“And,” he adds, his voice dropping, “I vacuumed.” His eyebrow arches in that cocky way that sends your pulse racing and your self-control straight out the window.

You sit up slowly, crawling toward him with purpose. “Oooh, Mr. Choi,” you whisper, fingers trailing up his chest, “Keep talking dirty to me.”

He breaks into that throaty laugh you love so much. “Round two, then?”

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[no-144444]

hey girl!

I LOVEEEE your writing, you're so talented! i was wondering if you could do a grid post where either the reader, or the driver starts crying during an argument? I'd just love to see how it would play out!

thanks ml :))))

crying during an argument

꩜ featuring: the entire grid, zhou guanyu, paul aron, jack doohan.

꩜ a/n: thank you for requesting and thank you for reading! I loved this idea and lmk if yall want a part 2 to any of them bc i have some ideas... :) also heads up, this is 14k words... my b i got carried away :p

mclaren

Oscar Piastri 

Oscar didn’t cry often. Special events required crying; terrible crashes where he genuinely felt scared for his life, his dog dying, missing his sisters’ graduations. 

And apparently this. 

You were ranting, not even raising your voice, just frustrated. You were so damn understanding too, so aware of the fact that it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t control his schedule. You just missed him. You just wanted him there for one of the biggest nights of your life, and he couldn’t be there. 

He felt the emotion building in his throat, foreign and clunky. Uncontrollable. He tried to swallow it down, but he just made this weird choked sound, and he felt the tears on his cheeks. 

You’d somehow sensed it, like you did with everything else about him. Always, after every race, every tough day, every great day, you always knew just what he needed. You stopped talking. You whipped your head around, and you were already in front of him with wide eyes and more patience than he thought he probably deserved.  

A soft hand on his shoulder, a tentative breath. “Oscar?” You practically whispered. He nodded, wiping his tears away, only for more to appear seconds later. “Oscar, it’s ok, I’m sorry,” you whispered, your hand reaching up and running through his hair, coaxing him to lean into you. He did. He dropped his head to your shoulder, his tears soaking your shirt. You didn’t seem to care. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out, not entirely sure what he was apologising for. You shook your head as he fisted your shirt, trying to hold onto something so he wouldn’t fully fall apart.

Your voice came soft and soothing. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” you tightened your grip on his waist. “Please don’t apologise.” 

“I just-“ hiccup- “I feel bad,” God, he sounded like a child to himself. You didn’t judge. “I want to be there so bad.”

“It’s alright Osc,” you hushed. “It’s okay. I know you support me,” you said it against his temple like a prayer, and it made him want to believe you. “I know you love me.”

He nodded, pulling his face out of its solace in the crook of your neck. “Okay,” he nodded, breathless. Your eyes were wide, but trusting. Truthful. “Okay.”

You hadn’t seen Oscar cry many times, mostly because he didn’t like to. He knew now, if he needed to, he could come to you. 

Lando Norris  

It was a dumb argument. Somewhere in your brain, you knew that. 

But it’s hard to remember that when you’re that angry, and that frustrated. 

You shouldn’t have shouted. You shouldn’t have stopped looking at him. You shouldn’t have let him go quiet. There were a lot of things you shouldn’t have done. 

He listened as best he could, truly. He wanted to solve the problem, to make it better, to make being with him easier. He can’t control his schedule though. He can’t control where he’ll be day by day. He can’t leave at a moment's notice. He has people who rely on him, too many people who rely on him. It weighs on him, and somehow, it’s started to weigh on you. You’ve become a background character in your own partner's life, and you couldn’t take it anymore. He feels like more of a roommate than a boyfriend, and he’s hardly ever home. He wanted to fix it, but when so many parts of your life are out of your control, you start to feel helpless. You start to believe the things people say online, the ones online telling him he should just break up with you since he only gets to see you twice a year. The ones who tell him he’s not a good boyfriend. The ones who remind him of his failings, and all the second chances you’ve given him without even thinking about it. 

He teared up and just left. The bedroom door locked behind him before you’d even notice he’d fucking left. 

Then the guilt settled, right down in your stomach, so deep you felt like you couldn’t breathe. You cupped a hand over your mouth, like it would reverse all the things you’d said. Like it could take it back. It couldn’t. You couldn’t. 

Time passed as you stared at that fucking door, debating about what you’d even do if you went in there. You didn’t know, but you knew you had to make it right. 

You knocked against the wood. “Lan,” your voice was breaking. “I’m so sorry,” you leaned your head against the door. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Slowly, you heard footsteps, and the door opened. He looked cosy, but the sad kind of cosy. The kind of cosy he looked when he was overwhelmed. 

He cleared his throat. “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that,” his usual sentiment lacked any conviction, but there was a soft kind of humour in his words. “She’s a genius.”

You shook your head, that guilt clawing at you from the inside out. “I’m not sure I am,” you chuckled out, but it lacked any kind of humour. “I’m sorry,” you looked up at him, his red-rimmed eyes, his soft expression, his sunken shoulders. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

He shrugged. “Probably not,” he let out a breath. “But I’ve said a lot worse, and you’ve given me another chance every time without thinking about it,” he admitted. “And I think we’re both exhausted.” 

“You’re too nice to me-”

“You’re not nice enough to yourself,” he corrected, wrapping his hand around your waist and pulling you into his chest. “I just needed a minute, I’m sorry I left.”

“I think we both needed a minute,” you admitted, that warm feeling in your chest somehow choking out the feeling of guilt. “I’m sorry again Lan.”

“Thank you,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “We’ll work through it. We always do.”

mercedes:

George Russell 

George argued like he drove; completely controlled until he wasn’t. He liked to think he could keep his cool, that an argument with his girlfriend wouldn’t shake him so much when he could make split-second decisions while driving 300km/ h. He couldn’t. Every word coming out of your mouth seemed to rattle him, make him falter, make him lose his mind. 

He didn’t realise he was crying. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t being overwhelmed. He was frustrated. He wanted to be what you needed, he wanted to be there for you, he wanted to always be able to drop everything for you, but he couldn’t. Yes, it was his dream to drive, but sometimes, it left a sour taste in his mouth on the nights you texted him sad and lonely, or exhausted and in need of affection. It made him feel… ashamed. He wanted to be the perfect fiance, be there for you more than anyone else. He couldn’t. And it made him feel like shit. 

“George,” your voice pulled him out of his shame-spiral, and he felt your hand on his cheek, wiping away the wetness. “Breathe,” you demanded, your voice full of fear and eyes wide. “You’re going to have a panic attack, George, breathe.”

He did as you asked, grounding himself with his hands on your hips, squeezing your shirt in time with his breaths like you’d made him do several times before. He focused on your eyes. Exploring the colours he knew so well, reminding himself that an argument is just an argument, and you were just frustrated, he was just frustrated. You’d both lie down together tonight, he’d kiss your shoulder, and you’d pretend to hate the way his hand sneaks up your shirt. You’d still be there. You’d still love him. 

He nodded. “I’m alright,” he sighed out, the tension finally breaking. You didn’t look convinced, you never did during one of these. “I’m alright,” he spoke slower again, reassuring you. 

You nodded, then pressed your face into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” you let out, soft and small. Like you were scared he'd fall away if you didn’t hold onto him. 

“I’m sorry I can’t be there,” he whispered, a humorless chuckle in his lips. “You’re always there to support me and I can’t fucking be there for you. Ever.” He spat out the last word like he was embarrassed, or disgusted with himself. 

You looked up and pressed your lips to his. He kissed you back like it could maybe make up for it. Like he could show you how much he cared, how much he wanted to be there. “George,” you were breathless, he tried to kiss you again, and you stopped him. “You’re always there for me,” you smiled softly, the kind of smile that made him see into the future, wrinkles and kids, everything he wanted. “Even when you’re a million miles away, you’re always checking up on me. You care so much it scares my friends sometimes,” you chuckled and pressed a kiss against his forehead. “I’m just…” you couldn’t finish your sentence, you didn’t even know how you felt. 

“I know,” he whispered, his forehead against yours. He always knew when it came to you. 

Andrea Kimi Antonelli

Kimi hated arguments. He hated making you upset, hated not knowing what to say. 

“You can’t say shit like that Kimi, it’s not fair,” you scoffed, fluffing the pillows of your couch. Moving in together had been tumultuous. You both loved it, but it was a long process to figure out the balance between being together all the time, and not ripping the heads off each other. He’d said something stupid, some off-handed comment that made you see red. He sat on the couch as you rage-cleaned the apartment, ranting all the way. He felt too much like a child for his liking, sitting on the couch as you scolded him. 

Kimi was an emotional person, and you’d only had so many arguments in your relationship. He hated seeing you upset, and knowing it was his fault just started a guilt pit in his mind, picking apart every single thing he did that upset you. 

“I think I just need some time alone,” you sighed, putting down the towel in your hand. “I’m going to go for a walk-“

“Don’t go!” He shot up, the emotion building behind his eyes as panic surged through his chest. You couldn’t leave, not like this. He grabbed onto your wrist and pulled you against his chest. “Please don’t leave, talk to me, scream at me, just don’t leave. Please.” His eyes were wide and pleading, and his grip was practically bruising. 

You’d never seen him like this. Begging. Pleading. Like if he didn’t convince you to stay, you’d never come back. You cupped his cheek, the beginnings of tears falling from his eyes as he tried to blink them away. “Kim,” your voice was soft. “I’m not leaving,” you assured him, stroking his cheek as he kept his eyes fixed on your face. “I’m right here.” You took his hand and placed it on your waist, showing him you weren’t leaving. 

“I hate it when people leave,” he admitted, breathless. “I don’t-“ hiccup “-want you to leave,” he closed his eyes. “I never want you to leave,” he pressed his forehead against yours, like it could somehow stop you from running. 

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered. “I’m not leaving, Kim,” you shook your head. 

He tightened his grip on your waist. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was just tired, I didn’t mean it-“ 

“I know,” you nodded, voice full of warmth and understanding. He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but he took it all the same. “You don’t have an angry bone in your body Kimi, I know you didn’t mean it,” you chuckled, and he felt lucky to ever hear the sound. “It just… upset me.”

“I didn’t mean to-“

“I know you didn’t,” you cooed, and his frown relaxed. “Again, I don’t think you have a mean bone in your body either. It just… it was what it was. And it’s done now.” 

Forgiveness, it had never tasted so sweet. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you,” he repeated, on his lips like a chant. 

williams:

Alex Albon

It’s haunting how strange Alex looks when he cries. That’s what he thinks anyway. He’s almost sure you think it too. He’s just so used to not being upset, that he really doesn’t know what to do with himself when he is. You were there for him, through everything. Through RedBull. You’ve seen him cry. You’ve seen him rise up from it, rise up to Williams, rise up to P5 being a genuine result, a constant result. He’s proud, of course, but there’s always that voice in the back of his head that sounds surprisingly like Will Buxton, telling him that he’s a problem. 

Even in his relationships. Even in your relationship. 

That’s what this stemmed from. He didn’t feel good enough. He shut you out again. He didn’t text for a full week. 

“Alex, you can’t just not text me for a week, alright?” You were exhausted, exasperated, and downright pissed. Frankly, you had every reason to be. He was in the wrong, he knew that, but he just couldn’t help feeling slightly justified. He would’ve caused a fight either way, especially when he got like that. “I want to hear from you, the good, the bad, the ugly, the mundane! I don’t care once it’s coming from you,” your words were raw with emotion, and it almost shocked him. He sometimes forgot the fact that he made a difference in people’s lives. 

He didn’t feel the tears falling until one landed on his shirt, and he almost thought it was somehow raining inside. “I know,” his voice broke despite himself. “I’m sorry.”

Your head whipped around and you were beside himin seconds. “Alex,” you whispered out, his name coming out like a secret. “It’s okay,” you wrapped an arm around his neck, your heart breaking as you felt him hiccup against you, trying against his better judgement to stop himself from crying. “You can cry.”

And he did. He wrapped his arms around your back and pulled you into his lap, and cried into your shirt. He didn’t know what to do after carrying this… hurt, for so long. But for some reason being beside you, having you hold him, it didn’t seem so heavy. 

“What’s wrong?” You whispered once his crying has subsided. Your expression was full of care, of understanding, of love. He wondered how he’d gotten so lucky. 

He shrugged. “I just… I don’t know. Sometimes there’s this voice in my head that, no matter what I do, tells me I should still be more,” he admitted, and immediately, he felt out in the open, and not necessarily in a bad way. You nodded your head, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

It took you a few seconds to formulate a response, but it didn’t make him panic like he’d thought it would in the millions of times he’d gone over this very scenario in his head. Your hand smoothed up and down his arm, and he knew you cared. You wouldn’t run away. 

“Thank you for telling me,” you smiled softly. “And I always want you to talk to me about these things, because I’m here for you,” you took a deep breath. “I’m going to say something that I know you won’t like, and that’s how you know I genuinely believe it. Alex, I think you should see someone again,” you placed a soft hand on his cheek as he stiffened. “Not right now, maybe not even in the next few months, but I think it would be good for you. I can love you as much as I can, and do, and evidently, I can’t make it go away. Race results don’t make it go away. Progress doesn’t make it go away. Nothing is going to make it happy, and if I’m understanding right, you can’t just turn it off,” you pressed your lips to his cheek again. “I think seeing someone would help.” 

He felt like you’d opened his eyes. You were right, nothing would make it go away, other than him. For the first time in his life, he was happy about an argument. 

Carlos Sainz

When he argued, he got quiet. Whether he meant to or not, he did. So there was nothing out of the ordinary when it seemed like you were talking to yourself as you listed out the problems. You didn’t want to go to a race when you knew a certain other girlfriend would be there, because she made you feel like shit. Carlos didn’t seem to understand that, and he fought you on it. He called you selfish. You walked off. This was part two of the argument, what you called the reconciliation, but Carlos was silent as he leaned against the counter, his back to you. 

“You’re not even fucking listening, are you?” You scoffed, feeling more than dejected. “I don’t know why I try,” you mumbled, starting to walk away again, but a strong hand gripped your waist and pulled you into his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered out. He hadn’t paid much attention before, when you’d said you didn’t want to go. He just felt rejected, and he ignored your reasoning. He stopped listening. He didn’t know it was because of the group chat you had been added to and humiliated by a girl you thought was your friend. He would’ve never fought you on it. He would’ve just agreed and moved on, asking you to come to the next one. “I didn’t listen, I’m sorry.”

“Carlos-” you reached up and cupped his face in your hands. “What’s wrong? I-I’m sorry-”

He sighed, that hole of guilt in his heart aching with every word out of your mouth. Of course you’d start worrying about him. You should get angry, but of course, you chose to be soft, to care, to love. Sometimes he wished he could do that. He wished he could think like that, instead of going straight for an argument. “You don’t need to apologise,” he shook his head, his big brown eyes dropping with tears as you tenderly wiped them away. “I’m in the wrong,” he reminded you, almost as if he thought you forgot. Maybe you had. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, and I’m sorry I started an argument,” he sniffled. “I love you,” he pressed a kiss to your shocked cheek. “I love you so much, mi cariño.”

“Car,” you were wordless, not even sure how to react. “It’s alright,” you answered, your eyes focused on him, only him. “It was a mistake.”

His heart ached. The world didn’t deserve you, your friends didn’t deserve you, he didn’t deserve you. You should scream. You should tell him to shove his apology up his ass. But you don’t. You chose to forgive him. 

He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but you kissed him like he did, and he couldn’t really complain from there. 

redbull racing:

Max Verstappen 

Max probably wasn’t the best person to go to about emotions, and you knew that. Not only was he emotionally stunted, he was also Dutch, a nationality famous for being blunt. 

But you thought he would see your side and agree. He didn’t. He spent a half hour lecturing you on why your mother was justified in what she said to you. You just agreed, it wasn’t worth the energy to fight with him, he was always so fucking logical. He couldn’t just appeal to the illogical side of you, he couldn’t let you just be upset. He had to solve the problem, he had to explain why the problem wasn’t a problem, he had to make you feel like a helpless kid. 

You finished getting ready for dinner in silence. No music playing. No fun dancing he pretended to hate watching (and sometimes joining you for). No bright smile when your hair looked how you wanted it to, or your outfit came together exactly how you’d wanted it to. Just a flat line on your lips. Just a dull gaze in your eyes. He, on the other hand, was completely entranced by you. You looked stunning in that dress, with your hair done the way you had it.

“Ready to go?” You asked him, not even trying to bait him into putting your heels on you. Another thing pretended to hate, but secretly loved. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, watching you with a sense of curiosity and confusion. “Are you alright?” He asked, trying to snake a hand around your waist, but you just walked on. 

“I’m okay,” you nodded, but there was a stiffness in your actions and words. “Just tired.”

He decided to put it to bed for now, just enjoy the night together, and check back in with you in a while. 

You ditched him the second you got on the yacht. Alexandra was there, so you practically ran to her, and Max loitered around the drinks table with Charles. 

“Alex is mad at me,” he admitted. 

“I think Y/n’s upset with me too,” he admitted. He could blame the loosening of his tongue on the gin in his drink, but he knew it was because of his growing anxiety about the situation. You rarely fought, and it rarely went on this long. 

“What did you do?” Charles knocked back the rest of his drink and Max took him in for the first time that night. He looked practically disheveled. A broken man in front of him, because he had an argument with his girlfriend. 

“Nothing really, she had an argument with her mom over something stupid, and I told her to get over herself. I have arguments with my folks all the time,” he shrugged, and Charles looked at him like he’d committed several war crimes. 

Charles’s jaw dropped even further when he realised Max wasn’t joking. “Are you fucking crazy?” He demanded. “Do you want her to break up with you?”

Now it was Max’s turn to think Charles was crazy. “Obviously not? I love her.”

“You sure?” He scoffed. “If I said that to Alex, I think she’d break up with me-”

“The fragility of your relationship has nothing to do with mine,” he interpreted because he’d finally realised what he sounded like. God, he’d been a fucking asshole, no wonder you were upset. 

You slinked into the bedroom with your head low and a tired expression on your face. You slotted into bed beside him, but you didn’t shock him with your feet against his, frozen against warmth. You didn’t turn to him. You didn’t show him the funny tiktoks you’d found that day. He felt something in his heart squeeze. 

You turned out the light without a kiss, and the air in the room filled with the atmosphere of a heavy silence, and he genuinely yearned to reach out for you. He didn’t. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed. 

You waited 30 minutes. Max was a good sleeper, and heavy sleeper. You could get away with sleeping on the couch for one night, not because you wanted to hurt him, but because you genuinely couldn’t sleep next to him after he told you to get a grip. 

Slowly, you climbed out of bed, pillow in hand. 

Something pulled you back. A hand. His hand. 

A sniffle. “Stay,” he whispered into the darkness of the room. “Please stay. I know what I said was shitty and wrong, and you can hate me all you want, but please stay.”

You halted in the darkness, his words carrying more weight than you thought he probably meant them to. “I don’t hate you Max,” you answered. “I’ll never hate you.”

“You can, if it means you’ll stay,” he admitted, his voice breaking. You climbed back into bed slowly, but he felt that hole in his chest, the one that had been there since the day his father left him at a petrol station, close up just a little more. The way it always did when he was near you. You climbed into his arms, feeling small droplets of water against your shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

You breathed out. “Alright,” you nodded. “Thank you for apologising.” He practically held his breath. What the fuck was he doing crying when he was one the in the wrong? He could hear his dad now, telling him to stop crying, telling him to grow up, telling him- 

“You can cry, y’know,” you whispered. “I like it better when you trust me. Like when we dance or when you put on my heels. You’re less nonchalant than usual. Makes me feel like you really care about me,” you admitted, running a hand through his hair. “Makes me feel like you like me enough to trust me.”

He closed his eyes, tight. Of course you’d say the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing anyone had ever said to him and act like you’re the one inconveniencing him. “I trust you,” he whispered. 

And that was the first time you’d ever seen Max cry. 

Yuki Tsunoda

Fathers were funny in the way they showed their love. You understood that Yuki probably didn’t have the healthiest relationship with his, especially based on the way he practically shunned him when he came out of the car, another disappointing Sunday. You knew it was already weighing on him with a simple glance. 

He clearly couldn’t. He complained the whole way back to the hotel, all throughout dinner, and even on the short walk back to your hotel rooms. 

And you couldn’t take it anymore. Yuki was trying his damnedest in one of the shittest cars on the grid, and the only reason it looked so bad for him was the fact that he had Max 4-Time-World-Champion-one-of-the-greatest-of-the-modern-era Verstappen as a teammate. 

“He’s trying. How can that not be enough for you? He’s trying,” you shook your head at her before bidding his wife a good night, and walking into your own suite. Yuki had no idea what to do, but his father just brushed by him coldly, his mother behind him offering a sympathetic smile. He felt twelve again, sandwiched between two things he wanted equally. He wanted his father’s approval, he wanted his dad to just say he was proud, just once. And he wanted your support. He liked that you stood up for him, that you were willing to, but it wasn’t that simple. The majority of things never were. 

He didn’t even know what to say. It happened in slow-motion. He couldn’t stop it, just watch the chaos unfold and have to deal with the aftermath. He just stormed in and demanded. “What the fuck was that?!” 

“Yuki, the way he was talking about you, it was disgusting,” you answered, shocked at his confusion. 

“You just disrespected my father, Y/n, you’ve just fucked the both of us,” he scoffed. He paced the floor, his eyes wide, panic surging through him. Tension filled the room, oozing from every corner. “He’s going to hate you now.” He knew it probably wasn’t the best thing to say, but he needed you to understand the level of disrespect, and how his father would hold that grudge. 

You shrugged, unbothered, as you pulled your earrings out. Though he could tell, from the stiff and rigid nature of your movements, it bothered you. “Let him hate me,” you sighed. “I’m trying to support you, and hearing about every tiny thing you did wrong isn’t going to make you feel any better, just worse. He needed to shut up.” 

He groaned in frustration, his head falling into his hands. Despite the way he wanted to keep his composure, he could feel it crumbling under the weight of the day. He sniffled and looked up again, willing himself not to cry. He failed, and the first tear fell. 

You stared at him through the mirror, your eyes locked in on him. You slowly turned around and stood when you saw him. “Yuki,” you breathed out, pulling him into a hug. “I’m sorry,” you cooed. “I made it worse, and I know that. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, emotion breaking his voice. “I just- I wanted today to be good. Not like every other fucking race this year. I wanted it to be worth it. Worth their sacrifice. Worth your sacrifices. And it’s not,” he sighed. “I just step into that car feeling like a failure.”

“I know,” you nodded as his hands circled your waist. “But you’re not, baby, you’re not a failure. Christian is. Helmut is. You’re just taking the brunt of the weight because they’re too small to admit their mistakes,” you soothed. He wondered how he’d ever gotten so lucky. “And you’d never fail me.”

Something about the way you said it made him believe you, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t go to bed feeling like a failure. 

vcarb:

Liam Lawson

He hated crying. He hated how it made him feel. He hated how it made other people feel. You hated arguing just as much. 

The fact that both these things were happening simultaneously was entirely your fault.

He knew you wanted to meet his parents, he really did. You were just busy. The life of a software engineer was busy. You couldn’t change that, even if you wanted to, which you did. You would’ve been there, at that restaurant on 43rd, that gorgeous Italian place you two frequented when you were in New York. Yet you stood him up for a late-night coding session with your team because the contract you were working on was taking longer than expected, and you were contractually obligated to keep on working until you could get as close to done. His texts were just… miserable. 

Hey baby, where are you?  (18:04)

We’re going to start without you, alright? I’m sure you’re just late (please don’t be too late my dad is already teasing me about you not being real :)) (18:35)

Y/n, where are you? (18:47)

Are you alright?  (18:59)

Please text me I’m getting worried. (19:34)

Fucks sake Y/n. I just checked your location. Really? 

Work is more important than this? Than me?  (19:57)

Congratulations my parents are pissed and I’ve been doing fucking recon all night. I thought you’d actually make it this time. I thought you put the time aside. I thought you fucking cared.  (20:07) 

Don’t text me. I don’t want to talk to you until tomorrow. (21:49) 

I’m staying in my parents' hotel. (21:50) 

He was crying on the streets of New York like some bad romcom. He felt pathetic, in more ways than one. How was it that he could fuck everything up, all over again. He trusted you. He relied on you. He was so sure you’d show up for him like you’d done so many times before, and you just didn’t. His parents felt disrespected, fuck, he felt disrespected. He’d planned out the entire dinner, picked a place you loved, briefed his parents on you as a person so they could ask questions, briefed you on them, so you’d have just as many questions. 

And you didn’t show.

You walked towards his hotel, shame hanging off you so clearly, you were sure anyone who could see you would know. Fuck, you stood up Liam’s parents. Brilliant first impression, you thought to yourself. You knew him well enough to know that after a night like this, even when you fucked him off so badly, him still wanted you to try. He’d messed up enough for you to know this routine, though you didn’t think it would go as it did regularly. You’d missed dinner with his parents. Possibly the worst first impression you could ever make, especially when you truly planned on marrying him. You loved him, so bad it hurt sometimes. 

You dialled his number. You couldn’t wait the 18 minute walk to apologise. You just hoped he’d pick up. 

He picked up on the fifth ring. 

“I’m so sorry,” you rushed out. “I’m a fucking piece of shit, and you deserve so much better and I’m mortified that I missed it, I’m so sorry Liam.” You waited with bated breath as he just breathed on the line. He was quiet for a minute, so still you thought he almost hung up. 

“I can see you,” he answered. You raised an eyebrow, and looked around, seeing a figure that looked a lot like Liam, just across the stream between you. 

“What-? Liam-” you started, hearing the thickness of his voice. He’d been crying. The knife twisted in your heart, and you had only yourself to blame. 

“Across the water,” he finished. “You look beautiful,” he smiled through his tears. “So fucking pretty.”

Again, that knife got deeper. Of course he’d compliment you even after what you’d done. Of course, because that’s the kind of man he was. Caring. Loving. So fucking sweet it hurt your teeth sometimes. You let out a small humourless chuckle. “You’re too sweet to me.”

“You fucked up tonight,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair as he stared at you from across the water. “Figured a compliment might soften the blow.”

“You don’t need to soften the blow, I was an asshole. I deserve the full consequences,” you breathed out. “I’m so sorry Liam. I’m genuinely so embarrassed and fucking… ashamed. I’m such a fucking idiot,” you played with the ring on your middle finger. He’d given it to you after he noticed that you liked to fidget while you spoke. That's what he did, he noticed. 

He let out a teary laugh. “Yeah, you were an asshole,” he agreed, nodding his head. The words felt foreign in his mouth. He hated saying shit like that, but objectively it was true. You were the asshole in the situation. “But I fucking love you,” he let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “And for some reason spending a night we could spend together, alone, makes me sick to my stomach. I want to fall asleep next to you and I want to wake up beside you tomorrow before I fuck off to wherever,” he admitted, his vulnerability pulling at every single string of your heart. “And I fucking love you so much I spent all of tonight convincing my parents I got the date wrong. So you owe me.” 

You breath caught in your throat at that. Of course he did. Always protecting you. Always caring too much. “Liam, you didn’t have to do that. You should tell them-”

“Just come over here,” his voice was pleading, like he wasn’t above begging for you. “Please,” he added at the end. 

Against your better judgement, you walked straight through the shallowest part of the stream, ruining your dress from the knees down, and running right into his arms. “I’ll make it up to you,” you whispered against his lips as he kissed you like he hadn’t seen you for months, not days. 

“You fucking better,” he chuckled, wiping away the last of his tears as he pulled away. 

Isack Hadjar

Isack had vowed to himself he wouldn’t cry until the end of the season. Was it the healthiest thing on planet earth? No, very much not, but he seemed set on the idea, so you let him. You were just ready to be there if it fell apart, and he needed some comfort. 

He did pretty well, up until it started. You came home, quiet. You weren’t humming in the kitchen as you made a snack, you weren’t asking him about his day, it was like you were there physically, but not mentally. And it didn’t change. He’d thought it had been a once-off, but no, the next day you pushed him further and further away, and he had no idea why. You’d always been the better communicator out of the two of you, hell, you’d taught Isack everything he knew about communicating effectively. So getting radio silence from you was not only unusual, it was worrying. He left for the double header, thinking you were just mad and needed time to process it, and then you’d talk. You didn’t. You texted him a few times, small messages wishing luck, or congratulations on a good result, but your regular messages about your day were gone, much like your hours-long facetime calls. He didn’t let it bother him. He gave you space. He didn’t lose his cool, because he knew you loved him, and he loved you. That wouldn’t change.

He walked into the living room with a confused expression when he found you sitting on the couch, the apartment looking more barren than when he’d left. It hit him. His heart stopped in his chest and he dropped his bag. No. He thought. This isn’t real, she’s pranking me, she’s just mad at me, she’s just-

“Isack,” your voice was steady, but anyone could see the way you were breaking inside. “We need to talk.”

Those dreaded words. He nodded and gulped back the emotion building in his throat as he sat beside you, his eyes trained to you like you’d disappear if he looked away for a split-second. Maybe you would. He didn’t reach out and hold your hand or grab your thigh like he usually would, he didn’t know if he was allowed. He held his breath. “What’s wrong?” he asked, all the care in the world in his voice. 

You sighed. “I can’t do this anymore,” you admitted out loud for the first time. For months you’d been going over every scenario in your head, trying to work through every possible fix, and none of it left you satisfied. You couldn’t just be someone’s WAG, even if that someone was Isack. You needed a boyfriend who could show up for you, always. And Isack never could. And the worst part was, it was never his fault. He always wanted to, tried to support you from oceans away, sent you message after message, and you’d see how disappointed he was once you came back and you had to recount the whole night to him. He cared so deeply, but it just wasn’t enough. You needed someone to be there, mind, body, and soul. Not in a racecar halfway across the world. “I love you,” you sniffled, a stray tear falling down your face. “But this isn’t working for me anymore. I need someone who’s here, someone who can be there for me all the time. And it’s not your fault. You’ve been nothing but the best to me,” you choked up, unable to continue as more tears fell down your face. He wanted so desperately to reach out and wipe them away, promise you he could be there, that he would be there, but that was unrealistic. He couldn’t be there, no matter how badly he wanted to be, and intentions and text messages after the fact are never as good as actually showing up. He couldn’t give you that. He understood. “You’re so kind,” your voice was barely above a whisper. “And caring, and loving. I just… I need something else right now.” 

You finally looked up and saw his face, tear-stained but accepting. He nodded. “That’s alright,” he whispered, though every syllable killed him. “You deserve someone who can be there for you,” there was a small smile on those lips you knew so well, and it hit you that it might be the last time you ever see him in person, you were sure you'd end up seeing him on your TV screen, even long after today, probably winning world championships. Time stopped for a moment and you let yourself remember what it meant to be with Isack, just one last time. “And I’m so sorry I cannot give that to you,” he sighed out a teary, angry sigh. “It is one of my great failings,” he sniffled, but brought a hand up to your cheek and wiped a tear away. “Maybe one day we’ll find each other again?” he asked, his voice hopeful. 

“Maybe,” you nodded, but you both knew this was the end of the two of you. 

You left the apartment after that. You didn’t look back. You saw him, years on, watching the sport you fell in love with because of the boy you fell in love with, with your family. Your husband and your children loved car number 6, and you didn’t have the heart to tell them you loved it for a different reason. He won world championships, like you always knew he would. He never got married, he just raced. He sent you Christmas cards and thank yous that you hid and cherished forever, because you never really forget your first love. 

Years on, you told your granddaughter about the boy with the hazel eyes and fighting spirit, and how some nights, you wished you’d stayed with him. She told you that you should’ve. You told her she was wiser than you were at her age. 

Maybe she was right. Maybe you should’ve held on a little bit longer. 

ferrari:

Charles LeClerc

Charles notoriously hated fighting. He had no idea what the point was, because he’d just apologise, kiss you, and want everything to go back to normal. That worked for him. He came from a family that didn’t yell, a family so tightly woven together through something so deeply upsetting, that shouting was never an option. He came from a family that took care of each other, no matter what it cost them. Loyalty. Strength in numbers. Unconditional love. 

You didn’t. You came from a family that made their children compete for love, made you hate your siblings and them hate you in return, and a family that boarded all that up with their perfect image. 

He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have pushed if he did. He wouldn’t have gone behind your back and set up the dinner if he realised it was like this, on your birthday no less. 

Those carefully disguised jabs from your mothers, those deliberately placed smirks and sniggers from your siblings and their stuck-up partners, those blatant comments from your father, he saw how they all weighed you down slowly. Over the course of a dinner, he saw you turn from the extroverted, kind, and sweet girl he’d fallen for, to the small, picked-on, and scared child you’d been for half your life. The side of yourself you’d never shared with anyone. The side of yourself you promised you’d never have to. He saw how your eyes watered before you got up to go to the bathroom, another snarky comment about your career choice being ‘unique’, like you weren’t literally changing people’s life with your work. He shook his head as he watched you leave. 

“You are all terrible,” the words came out of his mouth before he meant them to, his eyes low as he looked at the table around him. He’d already said it, why not dig the grave deeper? “Get out of my house, now.” 

There was a tense stillness that followed. Knives stopped. Chatter died down. Anger pulsed through his veins. 

“Pardon?” your father asked, an incredulous smile on his face. He acted as if he didn’t hear Charles, and if he was a better man who wanted to keep a relationship with your family, he would’ve apologised and told everyone to continue eating. He wasn’t a better man, not when it came to you. He would do anything to protect you. He would go to any length to make you happy. He’d do anything if it meant he wouldn’t have to see you with that heartbreaking pout and cloudy eyes. 

“I said, get out of my house,” he repeated, standing from the table. “I don’t want to see you here again.” He walked over to the door and opened it wide, waiting for them to step outside. They looked at him dumbfounded. Like he wasn’t being serious. Like he wasn’t seconds away from grabbing your brother, who’d made an awful comment on how you were ‘parading yourself around the paddock like an instagram whore’, when he didn’t understand or know how long it took Charles to convince you to come with him. When he didn’t see the hours you’d spent before walking into that paddock, pacing your hotel room, and nearly backing out at the last minute, but you forced yourself to because you wanted to be there for him. 

“W-what’s going on?” you asked, walking out of the bathroom, the tension palpable. 

Your father turned to you. “Brilliant question, what is going on?” he demanded, his tone laced with anger. You flinched. Charles knew that was it. 

“They’re leaving,” he said, never raising his voice, never arguing. Just assertive and simple. “Say goodbye.”

The fear in your eyes broke his heart. Had this really been how you’d grown up? You looked around the room, panicked. “Charles, they’re not done their-”

“No, we are,” your sister bit out, standing up with her husband beside her. “Thanks for the hospitality, Bunny,” she practically spat at you. You just flinched, those beautiful eyes filling with fresh tears. He wanted nothing more than to go to you, hold you, promise you he was sorry, swear he’ll never let it happen again. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make sure they left. 

“Meg, come on, I’m sorry-” you reached for her, but she slapped your hand away. Like it didn’t even matter. Like you were less than her. Charles couldn’t stop himself. He crossed the room and grabbed her wrist, holding it tight. She gasped. You grabbed his arm and tried to get him to let go, begging in his ear gently, but he had this unbreakable focus and precision. He wanted to scare her, scare them all. He needed to show that you were untouchable now, that he wasn’t going to let this shit slide. By the way your mother’s eyes widened, he guessed she got the gist. 

“What did you just do?” he questioned, the terrifying calmness in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. She didn’t answer. “Apologise, then leave.” 

She mumbled out something, and Charles let her go. It wasn’t that he actually cared about her apology, it was about scaring them. She shuffled out the door with her bitch of a husband behind her, your brother following, shouting about a lawsuit. Your parents were last to go, their eyes on Charles the entire time as you just watched them leave, feeling eight years old again. If you had it in you, you probably would’ve begged them to stay, just because dealing with their teasing is better than the opposite. Silence. For months at a time. Even when you were in the same house. Even when you were a child. 

Your hand was wrapped so tightly around Charles arm, he didn’t even notice the pressure until you released it. Your eyes were clouded over, you were shaking, and you just walked over to the table and started cleaning up dishes. 

“Y/n-” he started. 

“Don’t,” you breathed out, your voice uneven and broken. It squeezed his heart. “Just don’t, Charles.” He held you clean up the table in silence. He dried the dishes after you washed them and he tried to push that terrified look in your eyes out of his mind, but it kept coming back. Your realisation of them leaving, the way you were trying to apologise, and the way you tried to stop him. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled, stopping in his tracks as his eyes watered. You just kept washing the dishes. Mindful, like it was a ritual, holding onto it like it was the only thing stopping you from crumbling. “Y/n, please,” he begged, reaching over and turning the tap off. “Talk to me.”

You looked up, a tear already flowing down your cheek. You dried your hands on a towel, then wiped your cheek. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you against him. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, hsi voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.” 

You nodded, tears falling onto his shirt silently. “I know. You didn’t know. It’s alright,” you whispered, that heartbreaking frown on your lips against his neck. “It just sucks.”

“Was it always like that?” he asked in a broken whisper. You didn’t respond, and that was answer enough. He choked back a tear. “It’ll never be like that here, I promise. I swear.” 

You nodded. You believed him. Charles made you feel safe. Sure, he made a mistake tonight, but he was already making up for it. 

He loved you. That was worth a shitty night.

Lewis Hamilton

The apartment was ground zero for an explosion of toys, arts and crafts, and Lewis was sure there was some mashed up food in there somewhere. And it was quiet. Too quiet. A newborn, two toddlers and a five year old meant there was constant noise, but none tonight. He raised an eyebrow as he expertly stepped through a broken lego set, and moved towards the kids bedrooms. 

No one in the nursery, not unusual, since the most time Millie spent there was sleeping. 

No one in the boys room, again, also not unusual at this time of night, they usually stayed up with you until about 8, then when he got home, they’d go down without a fight. 

No one in Emmy’s room, so they were in your room. 

He opened the door as quietly as he possibly could, and found three children sprawled out on the bed, already asleep, and Millie asleep in her crib. He smiled fondly, tucking them in, kissing Millie on the forehead. Moments like these made those shitty days in the car bearable. Just knowing he had his own little fan club back home, made getting into the car just that bit easier. 

The light from the bathroom spilled out from under the door, and he froze when he heard a tiny choked sob. He softly opened the door, worry furrowing his brow as you came into view. Red-rimmed eyes, hand over your mouth to stop the sobs from waking the kids, exhausted eyes. His heart ached and he pressed a cautious hand on your shoulder, just a simple ‘I’m here’. 

You whipped around and fell into his chest, everything you’d been holding in for weeks finally coming out. Then you did something unexpected, you pushed him away. 

You stood up, wiped your eyes, and went back out to the main room, and you started cleaning. He closed the bedroom door and followed you out, a confused brow raised. “Baby?” he questioned. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing Lewis,” you spat, picking up toys, as tears fell like you didn’t even notice them. “Nothing’s wrong.” His heart ached. What could possibly be this wrong? Why would you be calling him by his first name? 

“Clearly something’s wrong,” he started, approaching you slowly. You stilled and stared, finally looking at him. Ferrari shirt and some jeans, necklaces and rings, hair done perfectly. It made you hate him. He got to go out and live his life every single day, every single weekend, while you were stuck in an apartment in a country hundreds of miles away from your family and friends, and you were just expected to deal. Deal with a newborn. Deal with your toddlers. Deal with the actual important things in your life while he gets to go race, and still be the favourite parent. God, you fucking hated him for it. You weren’t sure when it started. You weren’t sure if it was just your regular case of postpartum depression, or if you genuinely hated his guts, but either way, you didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want him to touch you. You didn’t want him. 

Seeing him standing in your living room filled you with so much rage, you actually didn’t know what to do with yourself.  “Just fuck off Lewis,” you scoffed, resuming picking up the toys. “Go on the sim or something, leave me alone.” 

“Y/n,” his voice was stern, serious. “What’s wrong?” He tried again. 

And you broke. Even though you didn’t want to. Even though you’d been holding it together since Millie was born. You dropped the toys to the floor with a loud crash, and you sobbed. Openly. Angrily. 

You let yourself rage. You didn’t think about the other people. You didn’t think about the kids asleep inside. You didn’t think about the fact that you’d end up saying things you regretted, because you didn’t care. You just wanted him to hurt, to understand your hurt, and you didn’t know how else to show it. “Fuck you Lewis,” you sniffled. “You’re never here!” you shouted, thanking your past self that you soundproofed the apartment years ago, so hopefully, the kids wouldn’t wake up. “You’re never fucking here. You leave me, all the fucking time. You don’t parent our kids, ever. I do. Every fucking day. Every drop-off, every mess, every spillage, every argument, every fucking day. And I don’t get a moment to myself. Because I have four fucking kids relying on me, alone. Their father is never fucking here. And every time I remember that, I think back to your vows to me, as your wife,” you choked out, sobbing as you shouted. You didn’t even feel like a person anymore, just a mom. Not a functioning human with thoughts and opinions, and needs, and wants. “You promised you’d never leave me.” 

He stood there, dumbstruck. He had no idea. Of course you didn’t, you’re never here, a voice in his head shot back. “Baby, I’d never leave you-”

“You already have, Lewis. Clearly you have,” you sighed, letting your arms cross over your chest. “I just… I need to go home.” 

“You are home, baby,” his voice which was once soothing, sounded so fucking patronising now. You gritted your teeth. 

“I want to go back to my home. With my family, and my friends,” you bit out. “I’m bringing the kids with me. You can visit us there.” 

Fuck, that was heavy. You both felt that settle in the room, tension filling the air. He didn’t realise he was crying until it dropped down onto his shirt. “Y/n, you can’t just leave-”

“You do it every damn weekend,” you offered an angry smile. “I hope you’re satisfied by the end of the season, because if you don’t choose our family and me over your career, I’ll be filing for a divorce.” 

And the ultimatum was set. Fuck, he probably would’ve fallen over if he wasn’t already leaning against the wall. You didn’t notice. You just continued picking up the toys and putting them away. He felt bile rise in his throat. 

Zhou Guanyu

Zhou cried, he was just like that. But, he’d never cried because of you. This had rattled him. He’d never expected you to be so… mean. He knew you didn’t mean it, emotions were high anyway and this was just the cherry on top of a shit week. 

You knocked on the door, guilt heavy in your stomach like a bowling ball. “Zhou,” your voice was soft. He held his breath. “Zhou I'm so sorry,” you started choking up yourself. “Fuck,” you mumbled. “I’m being mean to you and I’m the one fucking crying,” you sniffled, leaning against the door. “I’m an asshole.” He felt your weight against the door, and heard the desperation in your voice. He just… wasn’t ready to respond yet. He didn’t have anything to say to you. 

You took another deep breath. “I shouldn’t have said that, I-I’m sorry,” God, you felt so small. Taking Zhou down just because you were stressed? Snapping at him like he wouldn’t do anything for you? Like he didn’t love you so much it hurts? You were disgusted with yourself. You honestly thought you didn’t deserve forgiveness. “I was stressed, and I know, that’s not an excuse. I just don’t know how to fucking deal with it. When everyone is breathing down my neck, a-and you’re just trying to love me with, with your fucking love languages and I love it. I swear I do, I don’t ever w-want it to fucking stop, I just… it gets c-crowded in my h-head,” you admitted, hiccups interrupting your explanation. You’d never been good at this, at love. But you were willing to try for Zhou, because you loved him so much you felt like you couldn’t breathe without him. You let out another sob. He felt the tears falling down his cheeks. “I just don’t know what to do with myself sometimes. I’m so bad at this, I just… I’m so scared you’re going to wake up one day and realise that I’m not worth the trouble. And I-I push you away because I already love you so much that losing you w-would break me,” you held in a sob. “And I’m so sorry Zhou. You deserve so much better than that.” You knocked your head against the door lightly, like it could somehow fix the turmoil in your brain. It didn’t. 

He sniffled from the other side of the door and it twisted the guilt in your stomach. The door unlocked. You stepped back. Zhou stood in front of you, looking just as broken as you were. 

No words were exchanged. He didn’t shout or demand an apology. He did the most Zhou-thing he could’ve done. He forgave you. He hugged you. He kissed you. He promised you he’d stand by you when you felt like this. 

He chose to be kind, because of course he did. He was your Zhou. 

haas:

Ollie Bearman 

He was fucked. Literally, and metaphorically, he was fucked. 

Seriously, he’d just fucked someone. And he’d just realised it wasn’t you. After the fact. After it was over. 

Dodging calls wasn’t like Ollie. Dodging texts wasn’t like Ollie. But, he’d changed a lot since moving up to F1. He was colder. Less goofy. Less… himself. He walked around like he cared what people thought now, which you guessed he must’ve. You saw it in the way he carried himself. You saw it in the light in his eyes, or lack-there-of. 

And you were seeing it in person, right now. He stood in front of you, eyes wide and teary, excuses pouring from his mouth like those tyre strategies he used to rattle off. 

“It was a mistake,” he sniffled. “And I’m so sorry.” He let his head drop, eyes falling to the floor. He couldn’t face it, face you. This was the biggest mistake of his life, and he was a Haas driver. He thought back to those nights where you’d hold him when he got like this. Whether it was results or pressure or stress, you always cared. You hugged him and kissed him and told him everything would be alright. Well, right now, he wished you would. He knew you wouldn’t, knew he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t stop him from hoping.

“Alright,” you shrugged, no tone, no hurt, nothing. His head snapped back up, eyes filling with hope. “Pack your shit.” 

His world stopped. “Y/n-” 

“Fuck you Ollie, I don’t care. I don’t trust you. I can’t love someone I don’t trust,” you laid it out perfectly. Simple. Easy. He broke your trust, so he didn’t have you anymore. “Begging won’t change anything. Just leave with your dignity.” 

And even if he didn’t want to, he did. He left with that pit of guilt in his stomach, knowing he made the biggest mistake of his entire life. 

Esteban Ocon

Esteban was quiet. You were tense. Your apartment was usually full of laughter and light. It was silent that night. The sun had set on the beautiful city of Geneva, and the chill crept in from the cracked window, or just the cold shoulder your boyfriend was giving you. The bed felt cold. He felt cold. You thought back and noticed how those sweet routine moments you’d cherished for years had slowly started to dwindle in recent months. He wouldn’t join you for a shower anymore. He didn’t bother teasing you while you did your makeup or skincare. He didn’t dance with you in the kitchen anymore. He spoke more French, a language you didn’t quite understand (though in recent months you’d been learning it, for him). He focused on work. 

Your heart broke slowly as it hit you. He fell out of love. 

“Just say it,” you whispered into the darkness of your shared bedroom. His hands weren’t around your hips like they used to be. His face wasn’t buried in your hair as he slept soundly. No, he stayed to his side of the bed like you had the plague. 

“Say what?” he huffed, tired voice and eyes turning over to meet your eyes. “It’s 2am Y/n.” 

You stared at him for a moment, and you knew she knew what you were saying. He knew exactly what you were saying, he was just too pussy to do it himself. “You’re seriously going to make me say it?” you scoffed. He shook his head in annoyance and looked at you expectantly. He was a small man. He was pathetic. That's what you reminded yourself as you spoke. Maybe your voice would shake, but at least you spoke. “You’re not in love with me anymore,” your voice sounded so small it was almost like you didn’t recognize it.

He was quiet for a moment, then he broke. Eyes weeping, chest heaving, fully sobbing. You stared in shock. Never in your three years together had he ever done that. Never had he fully broken down in front of you. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I never meant for this to happen.”

And you hated yourself for being right. Of course he fell out of love with you, everyone always did. “Yeah,” you shrugged, sitting up. “I know you didn’t.” There wasn’t much enthusiasm behind your words, but I think anyone could’ve excused you for that. You didn’t reach out for him. You didn’t comfort him. You didn’t care to. Who was he to be crying when he was the one at fault? You’d been the perfect girlfriend, perfect support system, perfect fucking WAG, and he fell out of love. That was his failing, not yours. You told yourself, but it had started to feel like there was something wrong with you. This kept happening. You’d give yourself to someone completely, and they wouldn’t care anymore.

He grabbed your wrist before you could leave the bed. “You’re going to find someone who loves you like I should’ve.”

Fuck, if that didn’t break you more. 

aston martin:

Fernando Alonso

Arguments weren’t uncommon in any relationship. People disagree, it’s just humans being humans. But these disagreements were showing up more often, cutting into you a bit more, his words became more harsh. You knew he didn't mean to, but he hurt you. He made you feel like a child, with the way he talked down to you, like you were too fucking stupid to understand the complex inner-workings of his brain. 

It made you feel less-than, and you fucking hated that. It made you feel like you weren’t in a partnership, but a mentorship, and you hated that too. He used language that he knew would hurt you, childish, adolescent, a baby. Like you couldn’t understand just how bad life can get because you were 28 instead of his wise age of 43. 

So you were quiet. You stayed quiet, shrunk yourself to fit in better. You didn’t take back when his friends made awful comments, you spent more time to yourself, you stopped wanting to come to races, you stopped wanting to dress up and go out, you stopped wanting things. Race weekends passed in a still kind of tension, one that he didn’t seem to notice. He did. He saw every time you made yourself smaller for him. Every time you gave up something you wanted for him. Every time you kept your mouth shut for him. And it broke him. Why would you think he wanted you to be any different? Why would you change yourself for him? Why would he let it go on so long? 

So he sat down at the table one day, dinner in front of him, you to his left, and he broke down. It was all too much. The pressure from the sport, the silence in the house, the shrinkage of the only thing good left in his world, you. 

You gasped. “Fernando,” you reached out and cupped his cheek, panic filling your eyes. “What’s wrong?” You asked, your food forgotten as you leaned in closer to him. So caring, so kind. It twisted the knife into his heart, but he was always good at persevering. 

He shook his head, a sad smile reaching his lips. “You deserve better than me, than this,” he spoke softly and your heart dropped into your stomach. He couldn’t make you miserable a minute longer. He couldn’t watch you shrink. “I think we have to take a step back,” The fear in your eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life, but he knew he needed to do this. He had to set you free, you had to live your life free of him. He pushed your hand off his cheek. “I’m not interested anymore. I want you gone.” 

That was all it took. That panic and fear melted away into something darker. Resentment. Anger. Hatred. It killed him to watch, but he knew it was the right thing, even if it felt like his world was falling apart. 

Lance Stroll

“Just- shut up!” he groaned, his hands flying around the room uncontrolled. It was quiet for a moment, you were quiet for a moment. Just standing there, still, either in shock or rage, he couldn’t tell. He just knew nothing good could come of this argument since the minute he started it, and he still started it. “I just… I need a minute.” His voice broke and that unforgettable burning sensation began in the back of his throat. You stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his back, soothingly rubbing up and down. He could tell you were still upset, still mad, still raging. But you chose to put it aside for a moment, and calm him down. Fuck, he didn’t deserve you. 

You sighed, laying your head on his shoulder and leaning into him. “Lance, you can’t start an argument and leave it once it gets hard, or I get angry. It’s not fair,” you whispered out, your exasperation clear in your tone. “It’s not fair.”

He knew you were right, knew he should apologise, knew he should say something. He didn’t. He just nodded, trying desperately to hold himself together as he felt everything in him beg to be let out. You huffed. “Lance, you can cry, we just need to keep talking after. You have to stay here. Trust me enough to let me comfort you. If you don’t trust me I genuinely don’t understand why we’re still together,” you admitted, your voice raw and tired. You couldn’t do this dance again, you needed him to commit. Feel the fear, and do it anyway. Trust. Love. 

He nodded again, stronger this time. He took another shallow breath, and he turned to you. She has you. He told himself. She loves you, this isn’t going to scare her away. 

And he let himself go. 

sauber:

Nico Hulkenberg 

He missed it, even though he’d flown all night. Exhaustion had settled itself in his bones long before he reached his front door, and still, he continued. 

But he missed it. 

That’s what she would remember. Her dad wasn’t there for her birthday. He didn’t get there in time. 

You were waiting in the living room. It was 5am. Too early to get the day started but also too late to go back to sleep. You told yourself you should go for a walk, start breakfast, get ahead on your work, but something anchored you to the couch, watching the sun rise on Monaco. The harbour shone in the sunlight, making it as beautiful as the time you first saw it. When he brought you here for the first time, all those years ago. You sat on a boat beside him, a new exciting talent in the world of F1, a jittery 20-something guy you’d met through mutual friends. Someone had said to you that even then, he looked at you like he saw something else. A future, a loving home, a family. And they were right. You chuckled, remembering those moments where he’d come home to you after a shitty weekend, and he’d just melt into you. Not leave your side for three days. It made you laugh. 

“I missed it,” he whispered into the expanse of the dark living room, just brightening up in the new day's light. He didn’t approach you. He didn’t know if he was allowed. “I fucking missed it.” You stood up and walked over to him, hearing the wobble in his voice. It cracked your heart, just like every question from your daughter had, during the day. You wrapped your arms around his neck. You should be mad. You should shout.

“She’s four,” you whispered. “She loves you more than anything. Children are more forgiving than adults. Don’t miss the next one,” you advised with a soft smile on your lips. He squeezed you tighter, the beginning of tears falling onto your hoodie. “You’re not a bad father,” you reminded him, instilling in him that he wouldn’t become his worst fear. “You’re a lot of things Nico, and a bad father will never be one of them.”

He shook his head in the crook of your neck. “I don’t deserve you two.” 

Now it was your turn to shake your head. “You do,” you smiled. “We love you so much Nico.” 

Gabriel Borteleto

He wasn’t prepared, he didn’t think about it, he just said it, he didn’t realise the implications, didn’t notice the way you stiffened. 

Now his apartment was empty. It was his apartment, as he’d so unkindly shouted during that godforsaken argument. It all came back to him clearly, the housing, the tears, his unwillingness to stop. He hadn’t meant to drive you away, he just… he needed you to understand. Understand the pressure. Understand the disappointment. Understand how he felt like he was failing every single time he jumped into that car. But he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Even when you left, he sent you message after message, calling you selfish. Making you out to be the problem, as if you weren’t the only thing holding him up. 

The pounding in his head didn’t cease throughout the day. You’d told him to at least wait a day before talking to you, or else you’d never hear him out. It was torture. Counting the minutes down as the time slowly ticked by, never quite close enough for his liking. Then 8pm rolled around, and he was dialling your number as fast as he could. You picked up on the fifth ring. 

He spoke first, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry.” He held his breath. He wasn’t expecting you to forgive him immediately. He wasn’t really expecting you to forgive him at all. He was expecting to get scolded, to get told just how bad he’d hurt you. 

“Alright,” you shrugged, indifference crept into your tone and it made his blood freeze, his whole body shivering with a scary sense of dread. You didn’t care. Not anymore. Not now. He’d pushed you too far. He’d done it. He’d fucked it. He leant against the bathroom door, a sob ripping out of his throat as the burning sensation of his unshed tears began. You sighed. He held his breath again. “Gabi, what do you want me to say?”

You might as well have stamped on his heart. God, he wanted to scream. Anything that shows you fucking care? He thought. Anything that makes me think this is salvageable? “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Just… something. This has to be worth saving, we have to be worth saving.” He choked out through angry tears. Why weren’t you fighting? Why weren’t you angry? Why didn’t you care? 

“Is it worth saving?” you asked him, and his world tipped on its side. Of course it is. Was his immediate response. He loved you. You loved him. It made sense. You groaned. “We fight all the fucking time, Gabi. You’re not happy, I’m not happy. We haven’t been for a long time.” 

He thought back to those fights and those nights you both spent angry. By morning the problem would be forgotten and you’d make up right? You’d kiss his cheek and make him a coffee, he’d give you some half-assed apology but you’d accept anyway. That’s the way it was, and he never wanted it to change. Maybe she wants it to change, a voice in his head spoke up. She’s getting the short end of the stick. His heart dropped to his stomach when he realised he’d been ignoring all the animosity from you. The burnt coffees. The glares. The subtle and slow retreat back into yourself. He coughed. “It is for me,” He had to fight for you, promise you he’d change. “I’ll change, I swear. I love you.” 

“I don’t need you to change. I need to change. I need other things, and you can’t give me them. I’m sorry Gabi, but we’re over.”

alpine:

Pierre Gasly

He hated arguing, really he did. He was just good at it. Weirdly good. Like, he’d been told to become a lawyer on more occasions than one. But he hated arguing with you. And he hated when he took it too far. 

You wouldn’t understand. He’d said.

What, like I’m not smart enough now? You were livid, and rightfully so. 

I like taking care of you, is that so hard to understand?! He didn’t mean to raise his voice, but he had. He just didn’t understand why it was such a big deal, it was just money, a simple thing he had more than enough of, and he wanted to spend it on you. You weren’t having it. 

It’s not being taken care of Pierre, it makes me feel gross, like I’m using you or something. And you could use that money to do so much good in someone’s life, God! You were just being kind, but he was frustrated. He just wanted to do something nice and you’d blown it out of proportion. It was a dress. A fucking 5,000$ dress. It made you sick to just look at the price tag, but he didn’t feel the same. That kind of money was cheap change to him. 

You’re being dramatic, it’s s dress, I just wanted to congratulate you. You got a promotion, it was a big deal. He was proud. 

I’m not trying to sound ungrateful Pierre, but flowers would have sufficed. 

And he snapped. He said things he didn’t mean, and you left. You went back home, leaving him in Austria with a race weekend to finish. You told him to sort his shit out. You told him to think before he speaks. God, he’d been thinking of you since you left. He called your phone. 

You didn’t pick up the first time. Or the second. Or the third. 

Ten times. Then you responded. You picked up the damn phone on his lucky number ten. 

“Pierre,” you yawned. “Isn’t it late over there?” you whispered into the phone like you’d wake someone if you weren’t quiet enough. You wouldn’t, you were alone in your hotel room, still sorting out your shit from the argument. 

“I missed you already,” he admitted, the first tears falling down his cheeks. He sniffled. “I’m such an idiot sometimes.” 

You chuckled. “Yeah, you are.” He chuckled too. Quiet conversation filled both your hotel rooms as you both drifted back off to sleep. You didn’t talk about the fight. You didn’t talk about how he was crying. You just… talked. About your busy schedules, how you were running out of foundation, and how tired he was. Boring things. The in-between things. Monotony. Regular, normal life. 

He loved every second of it. 

Franco Colapinto 

His body ran cold when he looked at the time. 2am. You still weren’t home. He’d pretended it didn’t bother him long enough, he had to text you. Or call you. Make you come home. 

He wasn’t a stranger to fucking up, especially with you. He knew what he did was shitty. He knew he should’ve tried harder, worked harder to be there, but duty calls sometimes, and fuck, he has to answer whether he wants to or not. He called your number, his hands shaking. 

Pick up. He begged. Pick up, please. 

You picked up on the sixth ring. “Franco?” your voice was tense. Like he was annoying you. He didn’t care, he was just happy you were responding to him. Relief surged through his body like a fucking lightning bolt, and suddenly he could breathe again. “Why are you calling me?” You were sick of this, of him, of being a secondary priority. You didn’t even want to fucking fight anymore, you just wanted peace, a boyfriend would could be there, who could show up. 

“Where are you?” he asked, his voice quiet. Timid. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he sounded scared. He was. He felt sick to his stomach that you were walking around Spielberg all alone. You left the hotel 4 hours ago. 4 hours of him burning a hole in the floor pacing the room, 4 hours of genuine fear that it might all be over, 4 hours of shit. Pure and utter shit. He was scared, alright? Fucking terrified. He wanted you back, in the hotel, in his arms, in his bed. He wanted you home, to him. He wanted to make sure he was still home. You were quiet for a moment, debating on whether to tell him. “Come on mi cielo, just… come back,” he let a small sob out, his voice just above a whisper. 

You stopped in your tracks. You’d seen him cry a handful of times at most. Over family stuff. Over results. But never was it over you. You didn’t think this had pushed him that far, didn’t think it would. He was so… unbreakable sometimes, you forgot he was just as fragile as you were. He hurt and bled the same, and of course he wouldn’t want you walking out in the dark in a foreign town with your location off, ignoring him. Of course not. “I’m on my way back now, I’ll be there soon.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut and held back a relieved sob. He nodded. “Great,” he choked out. “I’ll be here.” 

Jack Doohan 

It was important to you, he understood. He saw the way your eyes lit up when you spoke about it. He basked in that light, he planned beside you. 

Blood is thicker than water. His father’s mantra rang out through his head, taunting him. He’d been the one to fucking say it and the hurt on your face told him everything he needed to know. Not that he hadn’t known it before, he had. He knew you wanted him there more than anything, he knew how much it would mean for him to get on a plane and meet your family. Yet, he flaked. For some fucking family holiday he didn’t even want to go on. But you cried when he left, and you asked him to practically never come back, and even though he felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest, he boarded that plane like he didn’t have another choice. He saw that he did now. He saw the right choice. 

Mick saw the changes in Jack. He saw the untouched food, the sluggish walk, the lack of interest. He texted you and got no response and he knew what it meant. 

Dinner was too loud, so Jack sought refuge with the sand and the water. His bracelet, the bracelet you gave him was threaded through his fingers as he watched the waves roll out. He was too deep in thought to see Mick sitting beside him. 

“What did you do?” he asked, his voice soft, though it startled him all the same. He jumped and turned to him, a slow smile made its way onto his lips, a chuckle leaving Mick’s. “She’s gone for good?”

That smile disappeared quickly. Jack looked back out at the ocean in front of him, so vast and wide. “I fucked it up,” he admitted, his heart aching with every word. “I left her for this.” He gestured to the area around him, but Mick got the gist. He sighed and clapped a hand on his friend's back. 

“Did you talk to her?” 

“She doesn’t want to hear from me,” he shook his head. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried, he had. You genuinely didn’t want to hear from him. Emotion bubbled deep in his throat, but he tried to swallow it down regardless. He didn’t care if it’d choke him, he didn’t want it. Emotion admits more than words ever would. If he let himself break down he’d be admitting it was over. He wasn’t ready for it to be over. He wasn’t ready to kiss those moments with you goodbye. The way you smiled at him, the way you’d tease him over anything you could, just because you loved it when he’d finally tease back. He couldn’t say goodbye to those nights when you’d stay up until dawn, just talking, making promises about a future you two weren’t guaranteed. He wouldn’t leave those memories of you telling him you loved him in a box in the back of his mind. 

He hadn’t realised he’d been crying. Well, there it was. 

Over. 

Paul Aron

“You can’t fucking do this! You can’t leave for weeks at a time and not talk to me Paul, for fuck’s sake!” you groaned, your eyes wild and angry. It had been like this for 40 minutes, a back and forth that wouldn’t end no matter how much you both wanted it to. He wouldn’t see your side, and you couldn’t see his. He didn’t really have a justification for his actions, just empty promises, and you were sick to death of those. Your hands raked over your face, and you sighed, your eyes meeting his. “Either sort your shit out, or break up with me Paul, because those really seem like our only options right now.” You already knew you were crossing a line, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You just had to say it. 

He could’ve pretended that didn’t feel like a punch to the gut, but you knew him too well. You knew the second you said it too, because you stilled. His face faltered, his body twitched and jerked in a weird way. He wanted to recover, to pretend it was normal, act like it didn’t happen maybe. He couldn’t. Not when it was you on the line. Not when you were talking about a universe where he couldn’t come home to you every night and have you kiss his head or let him kiss you silly. 

You walked over and wrapped your arms around him. Your face was serious but tender and he cupped your cheek. The low light made him look like an angel, a crying angel, but an angel all the same. “Paul, I’m sorry,” you whispered, tender but timid. Like you were scared you’d make it worse. “I’m tired and you’re tired, and you’ve just had a huge weekend, and we just need… we need each other, right?” you offered and he just nodded, too shocked to really comprehend what was going on. “Let’s just head to bed, yeah?” 

He nodded, then dipped his head down and kissed you like it was the last time, like he was trying to put all the love and care and passion he had for you into the kiss. Like that would make you understand him. To an extent, it did. 

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

mclaren masterlist (OP81 &LN4)

ferrari masterlist (CL16, LH44 & AL65 )

williams & mercedes masterlist (GR63, KA12, CS55 LS2 &AA23)

redbull & vcarb masterlist (MV1,IH6 & LL40)

alpine masterlist (JD7, PA17, FC43, PG10)

[oldermenfucker]

Love In The Sand / M. Robinavitch

Summary: a beach date with Robby and his girls

Warnings: nothing! Fluffffffff, girl dad!robby, breastfeeding in public, English isn’t my first language<3

Word count: 1k+

An: just had an idea and decided to blend these all together and write something specifically for girl dad!robby🥺

“We look like a train.”

“Doesn’t matter as long as no one gets burned,” Robby says, kissing your shoulder as he applies sunscreen on your back while you try to do the same and keep your daughter from crawling out of your grasp.

“Sir, that’s entirely you,” you chuckle, applying the cream on the back of the baby’s neck, shaking your head as you close your legs around her and Robby spreads his legs more to make room for the two of you between them, “You get sunburnt and turn red. You get cooked, not us.”

“Never underestimate my genes, love,” he replies, stroking your arms to cover all of your skin, “Don’t know about you, but she might get cooked as well.”

“Don’t say that!” You gasp, turning your daughter around, applying the sunscreen on your fingers to cover her little face as well while she tries to eat your fingers, “Besides, I’ve got her a pretty hat just for today.”

“Yeah? Wanna show me?”

“Let’s show Daddy your new hat!” Your daughter tries to rub the cream off her face but you catch her hands before she has the chance to do so, “Na uh, don’t do that.”

“Let’s see what you got, sweetie!” He rests his chin on your shoulder watching how his daughter crawls up your body, standing on her little feet with her hands clutching the strings of your bikini top while you search for her hat in the bag.

You laugh when she starts playing hide and seek with Robby, using you as a shield to hide before she starts jumping when he peeks at her from the top of your shoulder.

You keep her secured with your forearm under her bottom, holding her up as she squeals and makes grabby hands at Robby. You take the hat out finally; a beige floppy hat with a knitted flower on top, casting a shadow on her chubby face.

“Doesn’t she look beautiful, Michael?” You say, kissing her round cheek until she starts giggling and squeaking before you hand her to Robby, turning around to apply his sunscreen with care — knowing damn well how sunburnt he gets.

“She does,” he cradles her in his arms gently, “She is the most beautiful girl in the whole world!”

“No funny business near the sea, okay?” You make sure Robby’s looking at you when you talk, pecking his lips before you cover his broad shoulders with the cream, smiling when you see your daughter tapping his cheeks with both hands.

“Of course, we’ll just sit there and make castles. How does that sound, sweetheart?” He picks her up, blowing air against her belly over her floral swimsuit, making her shriek and laugh.

“Good, remember you suggested that I relax—“

“She’s all mind today, I promise,” he reassures you, kissing you again before he stands up with her in his arms, grabbing the buckets you bought on your way to the beach before he sits her down on the sand and lowers himself on his side as she begins to play.

He doesn’t know how he is at this moment. He truly doesn’t know because he never imagined himself to be here, with his daughter and his wife, on a day off and no sounds of beeping.

It feels like heaven, it has to be. There is no joy compared to watching his daughter babble around while she fists the sand and dunks her little hands into the bucket of water he brought her, building castles with him right by her side.

The sound of the waves and the scent of the beach is enough to calm his nerves and the way his daughter throws the wet sand at him and giggles when they land on his belly, slapping her hands on the spots and making him feign groans.

“Who wants ice cream? I think I can see a shop a few meters down the beach,” You walk towards them, a dress already worn on top of your bikini — good, cause you had already put Robby in a state of dizziness when you walked out of the bathroom in the tinies swimsuit he’d ever seen, “Cause I’m hungry and the heat’s getting into me.”

“Sure, take my wallet, love— no, no, don’t eat that-“ he manages to grab his daughter’s wrist before she shoves it into her mouth, “You shouldn’t eat that, sweet pea, okay?”

“Clean up nicely and I’ll be back as soon as possible,” you lean down to capture Robby’s lips in a quick kiss, waving with his wallet already in your hand, walking away with your sandals catching a bit of sand on them.

“Alright, baby, c’mere,” he picks her up before she has the chance to cry over uneaten sand, gently lowering her on the shoreline, sitting behind her with her between his legs, pouring water over her hands gently to wash off the sand.

She kicks her legs excitedly, giggling and splashing water over Robby’s legs, reaching for a seashell when she sees one. She turns around to show the new wonder she has discovered but the sun makes her close her eyes and scrunches her face.

“It’s so beautiful, baby,” he kisses the top of her head over the hat, reaching for another seashell to hand it to her, keeping an eye on her to make sure she doesn’t try to eat these as well.

“Mama’s here!” He turns around at the sound of your voice, smiling when you hold up two bags, “Come, let’s eat.”

“Will be there in a sec,” he responds and stands up to wash his daughter’s sandy toes, cleaning her up as best as possible before he brings her to you, handing her over as you wrap a clean towel around her.

“There was also a diner next to the store! Not the healthiest burger we’ll have but they looked too good to not buy them!” You explain, lowering yourself under the lounge’s umbrella, lying on the bed with your dress discarded and bikini top pulled down enough for your daughter to drink her milk.

“I hope we don’t end up with a stomach bug,” he scolds you gently, sitting on the other bed after pulling it closer to you, making sure the towel is wrapped around her and your upper body enough to give you privacy.

“Good thing I’ve married an ER doctor, yeah?” You say softly, kissing him gently before he hands you your ice cream, “Thank you for today.”

“Anything for my girls.”

[kukinkrim]

Hiii💗

I was wondering if you could do headcannons of the Saja boys with a demon s/o that’s a little weirdo? Like maybe she has a very odd hyper fixation like embalming, poisons, spirits, etc. She could be a little eerie looking, still pretty but theirs just something off. Maybe one of the boys hears their fans bashing the reader on her interests or appearance and instantly shut in down publicly?

the tales of five demon boys & their delightfully disturbing lovers

saja boys x gn!demon!reader (separate)

note: they ended up longer than i inteded TT i'm getting used to writing hcs, sorry!

jinu + a spirit-whisperer s/o

when jinu first met you, he was convinced you were possessed. like actually.

demons are evil and weird—he included, of course, he has his own fair share of hobbies. but you were different

you would mutter in latin to the air and say things like “don’t step there—he hates being walked through.”

sometimes you would stop mid-conversation to stare at something in the air and say, “can you not breathe down my neck right now?”

jinu can't see them, which makes it all the more scary.

how can a demon be scared of ghosts? he doesn't know.

but jinu fell inlove still.

and your spirit friends actually, genuinely, liked him.

their approval gives him pride, like he was asking your parents to court you.

jinu thinks your quirks that humans deemed 'weird' were what made you all the more beautiful.

he never found you weird.

not once. not even when you left cups of tea in the hallway and whispered to empty rooms like you were tucking invisible children into bed. if anything, it made the world feel less lonely.

most people said the word ghost with fear in their voices.

you said it like family. and jinu was welcomed into that little family of yours.

jinu had grown used to hearing you talk to the air. to them. like bakunawa, the ancient spirit who refused to sit unless the tea was boiling, steam hissing. or gertrude, an old lady, who hovered around his lover like a protective auntie, brushing your hair when you fell asleep.

sometimes, he’d catch glimpses—just shapes and flickers of movement. but it was your stories that brought them to life.

he'd make you tea and listen. no judgment. he listens and gets to know the spirits you were so fond of.

because in your world—between the living and the dead—you were never alone.

and neither was he. h had grown to love them, too.

but it was only a matter of time before his fans knew of your existence. not that he was hiding you deliberately, but kpop fans were just whole other level of nightmare to control.

he wasn’t even sure how they found you.

regardless, the storm hit fast.

your face was everywhere, and the nickname "spirit freak" was trending.

“they need help.”

“jinu’s dating a that freak??”

“is he being posessed because why them? that's so creepy.”

“someone check his house for ouija boards.”

the worst ones weren't just mocking. they quickly turned violent. threats. doxxing. they managed to catch wind of your cellphone number and blew up your notifications with nonstop threats that made you feel disgusted.

mortals were scarier than ghosts; demons, even.

they didn't faze you, of course. you are a decade older than the rest of this sorry population. you wouldn't stoop so low as to dignify their taunts with any more response—you don't care much.

but jinu cares alot more than you realized.

he didn’t go online. he didn’t tweet, didn’t post, didn’t stream.

everyone thinks it's because he was weighing his options. that, or he finally woke up from this 'nightmare' of a relationship—according to his fans.

but what the public didn't know was that he spent three weeks studying defamation laws, cybercrime statutes, digital harassment ordinances. he skipped meals to do his research thoroughly, leaving no stone unturned.

he compiled every tweet, every handle, every traceable threat; especially those that were sent to your phone.

when the lawsuits dropped, the media exploded

“Multiple Pride Fans Facing Court Action from SAJA BOYS's Jinu’s Legal Team.”

he didn’t post a statement.

he didn’t need to.

his silence did all the talking.

abby + an embalmer s/o

you're a 10/10 but owns 5 vintage embalming kits and a preserved raven in your entryway.

when abby first visited your home it smelled like clove oil and faint formaldehyde.

abby once asked if that was a perfume, only to be surprised of the answer.

the shock wore off quick, though, because he didn't really understand what it really is and what it was for. "what's a floramahehaye?"

abby actually likes your job. he doesn't care about humans so it didn't really faze him when you knew of your occupation and hobbies.

if anything, he would volunteer sometimes when you're studying about human anatomy.

mostly because his abs, his proud and joy, fascinated you so much.

he's very smug about it actually.

as a demon, you spent most of your early existence buried deep within the earth’s crust, surrounded by a screaming fire lord and lava rivers and imps who couldn’t didn't have anything more to do than wallow in despair. you didn’t like hell—everyone doesn't. it was too loud, too hot, too full of shame. but you were used to it.

until you started watching humans.

they were delicate. complicated. tender. they lived fast and rotted faster.

you wanted to understand them.

so, naturally… when you were given the chance to stay on the surface, you took a job where you could open them up and study what they left behind.

embalming was never about death. to you, it was about learning. it was preserving. honoring the shell left behind.

your coworkers thought you were a little off. not that you would blame though. your uncanny precision, your fascination with each organ’s texture, your absolute indifference to that iron smell—but you never let it bother you.

and abby doesn't too.

your first time meeting, you were shamelessly staring and he absolutely drank that attention up.

he was unnaturally pretty. not like “idol pretty,” more like if the concept of youth itself hit the gym. broad shoulders, pretty mouth, lashes long enough to dust a corpse’s cheek, and those godsent, chiseled, mouth-watering abs.

you didn’t mean to fall in love.

and when you once murmured your confession, “i wonder what your heart looks like outside of your ribcage,” he just grinned and said, “kinda sweet. kinda terrifying. i'd give it to you if i could, though.”

he never made you feel like a freak.

so when fans found out who you were. when your job, your calling, became the butt of every joke online—it crushed him.

it started with a leaked photo. you, in your lab coat, smiling serenely as you adjusted a body’s jaw. it was taken out of context and plastered everywhere.

“abby’s lover is a corpse freak???”

“THEY HANDLE DEAD PEOPLE FOR FUN.”

“what happened to dating normal people.”

“wouldn't be surprised if abby's dead one day with an open stomach lolol. what a freak."

the comments weren’t just cruel. they were invasive. some found your workplace and showed up outside, calling you all the names on the book.

you nearly lost your job.

abby didn’t wait for the PR team to draft an apology. apology for what? he wasn't sorry for loving you. he ignored the company meetings taht called to him for damage control.

and three days later, at the next fansign, he arrived wearing a tight white t-shirt.

on the front, in bold red gothic lettering: "EMBALM ME, MOMMY."

and on the below it is a large, flattering photo of your face—taken when you weren’t looking. probably in your embalming room. you had a scalpel in one hand and a slight smile on your lips. you looked beautiful.

mystery + a poison-obsessed s/o

your kitchen looked like a potion lab. bottles of liquid with caution plastered all over them.

your kisses sometimes tasted like bitter almonds or lemon balm.

you have a garden in your backyard solely for growing herbs.

you labeled your garden beds like “mild paralysis” and “emotional support toxicity."

he liked it.

sometimes he’d join you, fingers brushing yours as you crushed petals into paste.

mystery: you drank WHAT?

you, grinning: only a sip. i just wanted to know if it numbed my tongue—turns out, it does!

true to his name, he would sometimes ask you to let him taste some of them too

mystery wasn’t sure when it became normal to wake up to the smell of crushed wolfsbane and jasmine tea.

he just knew that when he saw your apron covered in petal dust and your fingers stained faintly green, it felt like home.

you were strange.

you were a poisoner.

not an assassin—just a curious one. a demon with a flair for toxicology and herbal pharmacology. you’d been alive for centuries and tasted everything from heavenly herbs that made angels cry to the extract of a root so potent it made your vision turn sideways for a week.

he once caught you licking a leaf, then calmly scribbling down symptoms in a leather-bound notebook.

“just tingling this time,” you had mumbled, smiling.

mystery stared at you for ten full seconds before croaking out, "honey, you ingested… all of that?!”

you just blinked, head tilting slightly. "it was for science. science tasted kind of burning though."

he nearly died of a heart attack. not from your herbs—just you being you.

but did he ever stop you? no.

he was mystery, after all. and you? you were every dark thrill he never knew he needed.

you were careful, really. but one photo of your windowsill garden—specifically the belladonna and monkshood—somehow surfaced on a gossip account. then someone dug deeper and found your blog; a poison-for-research journal filled with herb tests, absorption rates, even antidote recipes you’d developed yourself.

the internet of course lost its mind.

some fans began speculating even the smallest things like his energy drinks having odd colors and were convinced you were poisoning him slowly.

#SaveMystery

“that freak is literally feeding him poison!”

“they're a murderer, i swear.”

mystery read them out loud with a deadpan face. "they're not exactly wrong though," he comments as he zooms in on a picture his fans posted of his 'odd drink.' "you put wolfsbane here, right? they're exaggerating though. didn't kill me."

you squinted at the picture he was holding up. "oh that? that's just vitamins.”

mystery blinked. "what?"

you chuckled. "you think i'd feed you something dangerous? you big goof. they're all vitamins. ever wondered why your skin is glowing and you're healthy as a baby?"

"what."

mystery felt betrayed that you didn't poison him like he believed you did. in fact, he's so butthurt about it he decided to rant about it on his live.

in the garden, pretending to be sad as he expressed how he was deeply hurt by his lover's actions, ignoring his angry fans that flooded his comments—all the while you were working in the background with your frilly apron, tending to your garden.

"you're all wrong. they aren't poisoning me. in fact, i found out rhey've been sneaking vitamins and immunity boosters into my food this whole time, and i, frankly, feel betrayed that my glowing skin is natural.”

you peeked from behind him, holding something in your hands.

“this one’s elderberry and magnesium. want it in your smoothie?”

he nodded solemnly. “yes, please.”

the fans had long since stopped trying to protect mystery because he clearly doesn't want it. who whines on live about not being poisoned by their lover?

romance + dollmaker s/o

he met you during a fansign when you showed him a picture of your next doll project: the saja boys.

creepy button eyes and sewn mouths, unfinished, but still creepy

thought it was a prank.

realized it wasn’t and said, “nice detail on the jawline.”

perhaps the mini doll of himself that you made was cursed, but it hangs on his bags permanently.

the thing actually purred and he was elated.

he brags about it to his members.

romance had always been used to fans doing bold things. letters written in blood (food coloring, hopefully) life-size cardboard cutouts of him left at hotel lobbies, one girl even proposed with a ring pop.

but nothing—and he means nothing—could’ve prepared him for you.

you arrived at the fansign table dressed sweetly enough, nothing out of the ordinary. fans likes dressing uo for these occassions, it wasn't anythinf new. but what you placed in front of him had romance.exe malfunctioning.

it was a doll. a creepy, uncanny-valley doll. big head, button eyes, sewn lips, and somehow… his exact jawline...?

“is this… me?” romance asked, blinking, and you nodded, excited. “yes! and here’s the rest of your group, but j spent the most time on you. i even added your tattoos!”

at first, he thought it was a prank. maybe, there was joke he missed.

but then you pulled out stitching diagrams. color palettes. handmade clothes. and you started yapping and you just looked so passionatr about it that he couldn't even bring himself to say anything bad.

he eyes the doll, fiddling with its hair. it was very real. and kind of creepy, he swore it would start walking if left in a room alone. but also… he's shockingly flattering?

“i look nice here, actually,” he said, grinning. “perfectly captured my jawline.”

romance hadn’t stopped thinking about you. the dolls were weird—but you weren’t. besides, anyone who paid that much attention to his features? yeah. he doesn't mind one bit.

you were dating quietly, secretly. he loved visiting your apartment—shelves lined with little haunting faces, half-stitched limbs, eyes in jars waiting for placement. dors he find it creepy? absolutely. but your focus, your joy, your pride in every weird little creation?

he loved that even more.

you once handed him a tiny version of himself. a keychain doll. “for luck,” you said. and he has it always, ALWAYS, hanging on his bags. he swore the mini-romance purred when it sat beside the mini-version of you on his nightstand.

if it was a curse, he’d never felt more lucky.

one day, during a casual vlog in his apartment, fans noticed something in the background.

two dolls.

not just any dolls. your dolls, but they didn't know that yet. it was very clearly a couple's item. one of him and one of… someone else. a striking resemblance to a photo they'd seen from an obscure art account.

the internet did its thing.

within hours, fans had connected the dots. your etsy store. your blog with antique doll restorations. they even managed to dig up the blurry photos of you behind him on some vlogs he had carelessly posted.

“that freak collection is dating romance???”

“THEY PUT HIS SOUL IN A DOLL, GUYS.”

“those dolls probably blink at night.”

“they're gonna curse the whole group. watch.”

the hate was immediate and brutal. they called you everything from creep to witch.

the hate had been building for days. rumors of your “witchcraft,” the conspiracy threads claiming you’d stolen romance’s soul and trapped it inside a life-sized doll made of bone dust and silk; they flooded comment sections with hex emojis. fans even speculated you had a whole graveyard in your apartment.

romance merely lets them bark. he let them foam.

and then he announced a solo comeback.

no teaser. no album name. just a picture of his new merch on his account.

on a worn velvet armchair sat the doll. rhe very first one you made. slumped slightly, hands on its lap. it stared directly at the camera.

the photo captures every detail of the doll that he called mini-romance. on his heart was an embroidery of your name in red thread.

"she made me with her hands. now you can hold a piece of me too. preorders now open."

baby + an s/o that loves haunted artifacts

this one? wasn't fazed in the slightest.

he actually liked accompanying you to go store hopping, even if most of the stores you visited were eerie.

he hels you arrange them sometimes.

he would even help you with installing shelves for your little trinkets.

he once caught the porcelain hand on your desk waving at him and he waved back.

baby’s been many things in life. a demon, idol, walking disaster with a voice like sin—uh... that's kinda it, to be honest. but scared? never.

so when he started dating you, the only real shock wasn’t your hobby… it was how into it he got.

your apartment looked like the aftermath of a haunted estate sale—crucifixes, ouija boards sealed in glass cases, dolls missing one eye but “don’t worry, she sees just fine,” and shelves of jars with things inside he doesn't to ask about.

your prized possession? a cracked music box from the 1800s that played by itself at 3 a.m. every third thursday.

“it’s a spiritual warning,” you explained sweetly.

he blinked, shrugging his shoulders as he holds the music box carefully. “well, the melody kinda slaps. mind if i sample it for our next song?"

baby genuinely loved your weirdness.

you’d get excited explaining where your “possessed” trinkets came from, describing the terrifying rumors around each one. he’d nod along, snack in hand, letting you ramble for hours like you were narrating a true crime doc he was deeply invested in.

“this mirror’s from an asylum that burned down.”

“dope.”

“if you stare into it too long, you see your past life.”

“bet mine was hot too.”

baby was actually one of the members who was pretty open about your relationship, which is no wonder why everyonr had been questioning his sanity the moment they first discovered your love for weird and creepy things.

at first, he ignored it. it didn't matter what the public said anyway, he didn't care about them. it didn't seem like you cared either.

“is baby okay?? that room is CURSED.”

“i swear i heard someone singing inside the bathroom.”

“his lover is a witch. or a demon. or both.”

“SOMEONE GET HIM OUT OF THERE.”

but a particular request from you made him sigh. you asked, innocently, so gently, if you could show his fans your trinkets so they wouldn't be so scared.

so, thats why he found himself setting up in the middle of your living room.

the live started with a low hum.

not from the camera, but from the background. something in a jar on that third shelf was vibrating. which is something that happens everyday. the chat doesn't know that though and they were going absolutely nuts.

omg is that the haunted jar?? WHAT IS THAT NOISE who let baby go live unsupervised again IS THAT A DOLL IN THE BACK why is it BLINKING

then baby appeared onscreen—grinning, holding his phone like a microphone. he waved lazily. “sup.”

behind him, your famously haunted living room was in full display. crucifixes, preserved bones, jars that kept rocking about, and many more things that the chat didn't want to see.

he stepped back, then gestured off-camera. “okay, listen up. i brought someone.”

you stepped into view, sheepishly waving at the camera.

baby leaned into the frame again, eyes narrowed in a glare. "they're going to show off their favorite artifacts and your only job is to clap and say good things. you're going to play nice, got it?”

then he retreated to the back, letting you have the spotlight while he crossed his arms, glarimg from behind you.

“okay, babe. show ‘em your favorites. i'll be back here, not getting possessed. probably.”

you brightened.

“okay! first—this is tobias, my favorite mirror.”

[flofaiiry]

the little things — michael robinavitch x reader

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ a collection of relationship headcannons

warnings: fem!reader , a few of these are smutty but mostly fluff!! smut ones include mentions of oral f!receiving, p in v sex, kissing & maybe a teeny bit of dry humping. the rest are just cute & fluffy, also talks of a non sexual massage & showering together.

wc: ~1000

note: i haven't written anything in two weeks what the flip!!! anyways sorry about that here is my offering bcs this man has been on my mind heavy lately 🤲 gif is from this post!

✩ it does not matter how long you've been together- robby is eternally so so so down bad for you. this man's jaw will drop every time he sees you dressed up all fancy

✩ he’s normally the big spoon. he’s just so broad and warm it’s natural, he also loves knowing that you’re there. right there. secretly though, robby loves to be the little spoon. he loves when you wrap around him from behind, legs tangled with his and arms around his waist, your breath in the crook of his neck- it brings him back to earth after a long day.

✩ ^^ to expand on this he actually needs to touch you while he's sleeping. will pull you closer while he's asleep if he feels you're not right next to him.

✩ on the rare occasion he actually gets a little tipsy while he's out drinking with the pitt crew he will drunk text you misspelt nonsense how much he loves you and how pretty you are and how he can't believe you're his.

✩ holds your hand during sex!!!!! whether he's eating you out or fucking you he's got his fingers weaved through yours. he doesn't care that you're squeezing hard enough to cut off the circulation or leave little halfmoon indents from your nails in his hands, he just wants to feel you- feel every twitch of your body and know how good he's making you feel.

✩ he actually gets offended if you pay for things yourself. like if you’re talking about ordering food and he goes to get his card but you say it’s already on the way because you paid for it… he is just so confused!!! he knows you can afford it but that’s not the point!! he should be the one taking care of those things!!

✩ his hands are always warm and he'll always hold yours no matter how cold they are

✩ no weighted blanket is heavy enough for this man's anxiety- he loves when you fall asleep fully on top of him- encourages it even. if you feel yourself getting sleepy and go to roll off of him he'll just wrap his arms around you and hold you there. he does not care if he can't feel his arms after a while, he just wants you as close as possible & loves to be your human pillow!!!

✩ listens- like actually listens to all your song recommendations and tells you what he likes or doesn't like about each one. for him, nothing beats the smile on your face when you catch him listening to one while folding laundry or when it comes on his playlist in the car.

✩ won't let either of you go to sleep upset after an argument, always wants to talk it out after the yelling stops and make sure you know he's not angry at you.

✩ he's got great self control. can and will kiss you for hours. loves having you straddled over his lap in a sloppy & wet makeout sesh with both of his hands on your hips guiding you to grind harder against his ever hardening cock.

✩ can't cook for shit but he refuses to stand idle, so he'll clean up all the dishes and utensils afterwards.

✩ robby "forgets" shirts and hoodies at your place because he loves the way you look wearing his clothes. lets you believe you've "stolen" half of his wardrobe but little do you know he's bought most of that stuff because he knows you'll like it and that it'll end up becoming yours soon enough.

✩ keeps his eyes closed for a second after you pull away from a kiss- like he can't believe what just happened even if it's the one billionth time you've kissed him.

✩ looooves when you play with his hair- the gentle scratch of your nails against his scalp, the way your fingers rake through the strands. you'll stop because you think he's fallen asleep with his head in your lap, but seconds later you hear a little groan of dissatisfaction and he's dragging your hands back into his hair.

✩ robby gives a mean massage. strong hands and knowledge of the human body? you're like putty under him the second he starts pressing along your back and he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the borderline moans slipping from you at the feeling of the knots in your muscles unravelling themselves.

✩ pet names include (but are not limited to): baby, sweetheart, my love, angel, pretty girl, etc etc.

✩ he buys a ring early. not freakishly early, not like a month into your relationship, but pretty soon after the first 'i love you' there's a little black velvet box sitting in his bedside drawer. he doesn't know when or how he's going to propose, but he knows that you're the one he's going to spend the rest of his life with, so he wants it ready for when the right circumstances line up.

✩ gets you flowers before a date, for your birthday, anniversary- even gets you 'just because' flowers whenever he walks by a cute shop or when there's a new vendor in the hospital.

✩ he is a capital G gentleman!! makes you walk on the inside of the sidewalk, gives you his jacket at the first sign of you being cold, does the hand on your back through a crowd thing, opens your door to the car before you get in, etc.

✩ his favourite position is missionary bcs he loves to look at you. especially the little faces you make when you feel good- it just eggs him on and makes him want to get you there that much more.

✩ loves loves loves to shower with you, sure shower sex is great but it's the closeness he's after. he's enamoured with the sight of the water droplets rippling down your skin, the feeling of your fingers working shampoo into his hair and just the warmth of your body against his while you stand in eachother's arms under the spray.

pls leave a comment & reblog with your thoughts! i would love to hear them <3

[wrotebymii]

MAYBE ITS ME?… | Date Everything x gn!reader

Summary: You aren’t sure why but almost every dateable hates you and you’re starting to wonder if you’re the problem.

Warning: I’m a little sad due to my seasonal depression so you get this! Angst, social anxiety, socially awkward, very self deprecating Doug is working over time. Not edited.

It’s driving you and all the objects in your home up the wall. You aren’t sure why but almost everyone hates you.

Everyone from Lux, and Rebel to Rainey, Betty, Dunk, Hoove, Kopi, Keyes, hell even Celia can’t look you in the eye due to the overwhelming complaints she’s been getting!

The nail in the coffin was getting thrown out of the Breaker Box club, you still can feel the shock in your arm when Volt grabbed you out the door. You were shaking and starring wide eyed at the breaker closet that Doug surely would’ve appeared if Reggie didn’t.

You couldn’t hear him, lost in your own thoughts when you cut off his passive aggressive pity party for you by…taking the dateviators off.

It still had charge left but you felt so tired. You don’t know what you were doing wrong, maybe you came off too strong or said something that was hurtful despite you just trying to fit in. Similar to what Tony said in his workshops.

Changed to fit what you thought they’d want in love or even friendship. Though, it doesn’t matter now cause almost all of your household objects hate your guts.

You curled in your spot, head tucked in your knees with your eyes peering over to stare at the glasses you held by the frame with your pointer and thumb tipping it up and down.

Maybe the hacker guy that gave you these would take them back, or maybe you can return them to David without getting accused and arrested by the government?

You just know one thing…

You don’t want to put them back on.

You tried to got back to your mundane life before realizing that everything around you is alive. But it started to make you paranoid and self conscious. Like you couldn’t live in your comfort space anymore.

You swore to Sam that the water was hot one second then cold then hot again, the coffee didn’t taste as good, you tripping on air, zapping yourself when you plugged a charger in, the food going spoiled even though you got it a day ago, the piano playing loud keys randomly, your white clothes getting stained right out of the wash, and now your comfort blanket wasn’t feeling so comforting.

You’ve had it.

One night you were laidback on the now springy uncomfortable bed, venting to Sam about how you need to get out of the house—she offered you her place for the time being. Understanding about your weird struggling relationships.

However. Out of all the people you’ve made hate you, one still remained the same throughout it all and never inconvenienced you.

Dorian. His friendship status didn’t waver at any moment of your—very fast—conversations. He found you rather interesting…respectable. When you met the firt time with Skylar he knew you’d try to get along with everyone, knew how you’d change yourself even to get everyone to like you. You were kind, thoughtful, and a little pathetic but in a charming way.

Currently, he thinks he needs to initiate the conversation this time.

You were shuffling through Dirk clothes when you heard Sam’s car honk outside. Quickly you stuff your luggage with things you knew weren’t sentient and rushed downstairs and opened the door.

Or well…tried too. Each time you turn the top lock then the bottom it shuts again. With a frustrate groan you knock your head on the front of the door, a hand still on the knob.

“Open, Dorian…” You whisper, you mind reeling in the fact that you might’ve made even Dorian upset with you. You try to open it. You curse loudly when he it doesn’t budge

You turn on your heel, leaving the luggage there as you head to your office, opening the junk drawer Jerry and searching for those fucking glasses. It was in the far back with a little dust on them. You put them on, walking pass Skylar trying to warily greet you and straight to Dorian at the front door.

He’s in his typical pose. Arms folded and chest pushed up with a ‘taking no shits’ expression. It reminds you of a conversation you had with him where you said he’d make a great bodyguard or bouncer if he were human. He had cracked a tiny smile and said that just being a door for this house was enough.

“Dorian-“

“Don’ say nothing. Let me speak.” He says, you tsk and roll you eyes but don’t say anything else.

“I don’ think you running away from your home is a good idea fro-“ You wave a hand stopping him.

“They all hate me”

“Not all-“

“Then they likely will” You voice is stern, but there’s a sadness laced in the words. He doesn’t respond to that letting you rant.

“I’m over feeling like trash in my own damn house. I need to leave, so open!” You yell, you don’t care if you’re being watched by Sam from outside or anyone from the living room.

“It’s dangerous out ther-“

“It’s better than here.” There’s a long pause.

“You’know…” Dorian starts as you’re about to take off the glasses, you glance at him. “If it means an’thing—I think we’re still friends.”

The confession makes you want to sob but you grit your teeth, look ahead at Sam’s vehicle.

“Respectfully, Dorian…I wish I never got these glasses…”

Your words stung but he doesn’t show it. You know being angry with him will likely end the same as it did with everyone else, but he remains still for a moment longer then steps aside. Letting you leave.

You toss the dateviator somewhere and walk away. Dorian closes, staring blankly at the glasses that landed in the middle of the walkway. He ignores the whispering in every room—some confusion, some even cheering

He huffs bitterly, arms still crossed and up against his chest. Dorian is ever in balance and composed, he takes his job serious and to not let any detractions get to him. However, this situation is getting out of hand even for him. He’ll have to get an appointment with Mayor Celia layer, but for now he regains his position and awaits your arrival.

How ever long that would be.

[randomshyperson]

classified love - wanda maximoff x kryptonian!reader

summary: wanda is new to the avengers, and learns the concept of a secret identity. or the one where kryptonian!reader has a secret, and a crush.

warnings: reader is superwoman; mild angst; mutual pining; nervous flirting; soft wanda; protective reader; fluff with feelings; light humor; superhero bureaucracy; canon divergence; minor ultron reference; mild language; happy ending.

a/n-> i'm going for my old drafts and this is from months ago when i was reading a bunch of supercorp fics, especially ones about lena learning about kara's secret identity. So i made my own with this two lovely dorkies. (nope, this is not related to the series with kryptonian!reader i'm working on).

General Masterlist | AO3 |

-&-

It wasn’t that Wanda didn’t know what a secret identity was.

Of course she did. She just hadn’t quite grasped the weight of it.

In her defense, the Avengers weren’t exactly the poster children for discretion.

Tony Stark made sure everyone knew he was Iron Man. Steve Rogers had been the star-spangled face of American propaganda since the forties. Natasha was arguably the most famous spy on Earth - and somehow still mysterious - and poor Bruce had his green alter ego splashed across news channels since his very first rampage. And then there was Thor. A literal god. No mask could hide that hair.

So maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t completely her fault when she leaned over during breakfast, bright-eyed and curious, and casually asked you,

“So… what’s your name, by the way?”

The room fell dead silent.

Wanda blinked, eyes flicking around the Avengers compound’s cozy living room. The sun spilled lazily through the tall windows, warming the hardwood floors and catching dust in the air. A pot of coffee burbled in the kitchenette, and the smell of waffles hung pleasantly in the background. But the atmosphere shifted like someone had cut the power.

Tony was the first to crack. He snorted into his mug, trying and failing to smother a laugh.

Wanda’s eyes widened further when Natasha silently reached over and handed him a crumpled five-dollar bill.

Your smile dropped. Just seconds ago, you’d been grinning at her, saying how nice it was to finally have someone around your age on the team. Now your expression shuttered. Calm, professional. Guarded.

“Uh… that’s confidential,” you said simply.

Wanda let out a short laugh, confused. She tilted her head, hoping she’d misheard.

“What?”

Your eyes flicked over to the group still half-watching from the couches. Clint was biting back a grin. Steve looked conveniently invested in stirring his coffee. You exhaled through your nose.

“I guess nobody warned you about the secret identity policy,” you muttered, not bothering to hide your disappointment. Your arms crossed over your chest - biceps straining slightly under the fabric of your suit - and Wanda was momentarily distracted by just how much muscle you were hiding beneath the armor. She didn’t think that was allowed.

“I’m not trying to be rude,” you added, your voice softer. “But I can’t tell you my real name.”

Her brows drew together. “But you know mine.”

From the couch, Natasha barked out a laugh. You shot her a look that was half glare, half plea, before turning your attention back to Wanda, a flicker less certain than before.

“I do,” you admitted. “But that’s because… everything about you is already public knowledge.” Your voice lowered a little, like you were offering her something real. “It’s nothing personal. It’s about safety. The only reason Ultron didn’t find my family was because I wasn’t in any of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s databases. Not the Avengers’, either. Same way they kept Barton’s family off the radar.”

That explanation landed - she could feel the weight of it - but it didn’t soothe her. Not really.

Wanda forced a tight smile, but a bitter coil twisted in her stomach.

Of course, it still came back to Ultron.

She hadn’t fought beside you back then - hadn’t fought against you either - but that didn’t mean the past was erased. That didn’t mean trust grew overnight. Clearly, it hadn’t.

And suddenly, she was the one on the defensive. Because why should you get to know her when she was still in the dark about you?

“I don’t think that’s very fair,” she said, echoing your posture with a huff and crossing her arms. “You get to know everyone’s names, but we don’t get to know yours?”

You blinked, surprised by the shift in her tone. But it only lasted a beat.

Clearing your throat, you held your ground. “They know. You’re the only one who doesn’t.”

The offense hit her like a slap. She turned sharply toward the others, sending each of them a scandalized glare. They all conveniently found something fascinating to look at - the wall, the floor, the coffee machine.

Only Natasha had the nerve to smile into her cup.

“Hey, I don’t know either!” Sam piped up from the back, his voice light, trying to cut through the tension like sunlight through fog.

You cracked a small smile at that, grateful. But Wanda didn’t move.

Her arms stayed stubbornly crossed, a pout tugging at her lips, and whatever iron-clad resolve you’d been clinging to softened immediately.

“Hey, if it’s any consolation - for both of you,” you start again, your voice lighter, trying to reset the energy to what it had been before your name became the hot topic of the morning. “It’s only because I’ve known them longer. Maybe… if we hang out a little more, I’ll tell you.”

You flash Wanda a tentative smile. There’s warmth behind it - an invitation, not a promise - but she doesn’t take the bait.

She presses her lips together, visibly fighting the tug of a grin, but loses the battle to her pride. With a sharp turn of her head, she mutters, “Don’t bother,” and spins on her heel.

You watch her walk away, ponytail swaying with each step, her back impossibly straight and her jaw clenched in defiance.

And just like that, you’re certain - painfully certain - she might be the most charming girl you’ve ever met.

Unfortunately for you, Natasha doesn’t miss a beat.

She catches the way your gaze lingers a moment too long, your head tilted just slightly as Wanda disappears down the hall. The corner of the assassin’s mouth curls with amusement as she leans back into the couch, arms crossed.

You snap out of it fast, frowning in her direction. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you paying Stark when Wanda brought that up,” you accuse, tone laced with mock betrayal. “You two were betting on this again?”

Tony lets out a bark of laughter from his seat and shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Natasha raises both eyebrows, feigning innocence. The five-dollar bill is already gone, stashed away like evidence in a classified file.

You sigh, rubbing your hand over your face. “Unbelievable.”

“Oh, come on,” Natasha says, barely hiding her amusement. “You’ve gotta admit - it’s hilarious when people realize Superwoman isn’t your actual name.”

Steve chuckles from the other couch, finally giving in. “That reminds me - remember that poor waiter in D.C.? The one who panicked and couldn’t decide whether to call you Miss Super or Madam Alien?”

Laughter ripples through the room at the memory. Even Banner cracks a smile. You roll your eyes dramatically, throwing your hands up.

“I told him just ‘Ma’am’ was fine,” you mutter as you start walking toward the door, shaking your head. “And for the record,” you call out, tossing a glance over your shoulder with a perfectly straight face, “I am from another planet.”

Tony doesn’t miss a beat. “See? Knew it.”

The room erupts into fresh laughter, but you just shake your head, waving a hand dismissively as you walk off.

“Still unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, though this time, there’s amusement in your tone. The kind that sits warm and quiet in your chest, like sunlight through clouds.

-

A new bet had been circulating through the Avengers Compound ever since your disastrously awkward introduction to the team’s newest recruits.

How long until Wanda Maximoff discovers your true identity?

Clint said a few weeks, tops. Steve and Tony were betting for a couple of months. Thor, bless him, didn’t even understand the concept of keeping a secret identity and nearly shouted your actual name across the room - only to be stopped by a flying metal gauntlet Tony launched with frightening precision.

Bruce, ever the scientist, made a whole prediction chart - color-coded and everything - outlining the likelihood of various exposure scenarios. According to his behavioral analysis, you’d eventually slip up and reveal yourself accidentally. Tony called him a spoilsport but still convinced him to place a bet anyway.

Maria and Natasha, meanwhile, were curled together on the couch like shadows stitched at the hip, indistinguishable in the half-light of movie night. Natasha didn’t even look up from the screen as she muttered, “It’s not fair to bet on that. Wanda could just read her mind.”

Maria hummed her agreement. “And not tell anyone. Classic Maximoff move.”

Right on cue, as if summoned by sheer chaos, Wanda reappeared in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows drawn tight in a frown.

“I would never invade someone’s mind like that,” she snapped, voice low and tight with restrained indignation. “If she wants to keep secrets and build walls, that’s her choice.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked off, her crimson flannel pajama pants fluttering slightly with the motion. The room sat in silence for a beat, then Natasha grinned.

“New bet,” she announced. “How long until Wanda admits she has a crush on Y/N?”

Laughter erupted.

It only got more ridiculous from there.

Maintaining a secret identity was hard enough with your crazy schedule, missions popping up at ungodly hours, and an internship at Oscorp that demanded more from you than legally acceptable. Peter Parker was the only one who truly understood the madness. You had a little ongoing competition: “How many times did I almost get caught today?” A point system. The winner got free shawarma.

But lately, things felt… off.

It was as if the team had collectively decided to test you. You were being sent on last-minute missions, brought back in civilian clothes, tossed into briefings before you had time to shed your disguise. It felt deliberate. Sabotage by friendly fire.

Of course, no one mentioned the bet to you.

It was one of those mornings - chaotic, cursed, and running ten steps behind the clock. You were still in your Oscorp clothes, your signature lead-laced glasses perched on your nose, hair slightly frizzy from rushing. Your dress shirt wasn’t completely buttoned, and beneath it, a glimpse of the familiar blue and red peeked through like a bad omen.

As you stumbled barefoot into the Tower’s common room, scanning for your shoes, you froze.

Wanda Maximoff was standing there in oversized pajamas, her hair a sleepy mess, blinking at you from over a mug of steaming coffee.

“Oh, uh. Hi,” you said, voice cracking just a bit under the panic.

This was it. This was the moment you’d have to change your name, disappear to the Arctic, and start a new life herding goats.

Wanda just blinked, forced a smile, and murmured a polite “Good morning” before turning back to the coffee machine, like you were no one. Like you were just some intern passing through.

Your shoes sat mockingly on the far side of the room. You crossed to them, fumbling with your shirt to make sure not a single thread of the Superwoman suit was visible.

You sat down, tugging your laces tight, when her voice broke the quiet.

“Are you… Friends with anyone here?” she asked suddenly. Wanda leaned casually against the counter, but there was something soft in her voice, almost cautious.

Your mind blanked. Friends? With anyone?

“Uh yeah,” you blurted, nerves turning your brain into static. “I’m friends with Superwoman.”

You could hear your soul leave your body.

Wanda tilted her head. “Oh?”

Before she could press further-or laugh, or question the absurdity of what you just said, the automatic door whooshed open.

Bruce stepped in with a file in his hands and a furrow on his brow.

He took one look at you, then glanced at Wanda. You weren’t often in civilian clothes around the Tower - especially not so early, or without warning. His pause was subtle, but it said enough.

“Y/N?” Bruce asked, tone neutral but probing. “Didn’t know you were here.”

You jumped to your feet, trying to act casual. “Hey, yeah. I came by late last night. Needed to grab some documents.”

Bruce blinked slowly.

“I, uh, ended up staying. Superwoman said it was okay,” you added, your lie falling apart as it left your mouth.

Bruce, mercifully, decided not to comment. The brilliance in his eyes suggested he knew exactly what you were doing. He gave a slow nod. “Right. Of course.”

You grabbed your shoes, already half out the door. “Nice meeting you, Miss Maximoff,” you said quickly, voice almost too formal as you escaped, waving once and not daring to look back.

Bruce stood there for a moment in silence, then looked at Wanda.

She simply lifted the cereal box into the air with her magic, poured it with too much force into her bowl, and carried it off, pouting the whole way.

-

The worst part of the whole secret identity thing isn't the exhaustion, or the constant lies, or even the juggling act between superhero landings and corporate deadlines.

It’s remembering exactly why it's necessary.

Peter runs into an old friend - Harry Osborn - who, by some cosmic joke, also happens to be your boss. Superheroes have their own demons, their own secrets clawing behind the masks, and something serious unfolds between them.

When the dust settles, Gwen ends up in the hospital.

She’ll recover - Peter says it like a prayer - but the guilt is carved into the spaces under his eyes, and it doesn’t go away when he tells you what happened. About Harry, about the favors he wanted from Spider-Man. About how betrayed he felt when he discovered Peter was Spider-Man - and had refused to help.

You don’t sleep that night.

There's a pit in your stomach, bitter and deep. That could’ve been anyone. That could’ve been you.

There are only a handful of people who know who you really are. Your family. Carol - your lifeline, your salvation, the one who pulled you from the wreckage of your dying world. Fury - who raised you through SHIELD like some grim guardian angel. A few Avengers who found out under specific, inescapable circumstances.

Peter, of course. He understands the weight of the mask.

And then… there’s everyone else.

Your classmates. Your bosses at Oscorp. The coffee shop barista who always forgets your name. The world.

And Wanda.

Wanda, who bickered with Superwoman during missions like it were a sport. Who never let you win without a challenge and rolled her eyes so dramatically you sometimes thought she'd levitate off the ground.

Wanda, who always looked at Y/N Danvers like she was made of something softer. Who shared food without asking. Who nudged your knee during movie nights. Who once touched your badge, just to straighten it, and sent a shiver up your spine with the brush of her fingers against your neck.

Wanda, who was slowly becoming a reason to smile in rooms too quiet.

And precisely because of that… Wanda, who could never know.

You couldn’t stand the idea of putting her in danger.

Not just from enemies, but from you. From what it costs to be close to you.

By the time your distress becomes impossible to hide, the bet has long been forgotten. You walk through the Tower in pieces. The team stops whispering about when you'll slip up and starts worrying about whether you’re okay.

It’s Natasha who finally had enough.

She kicks you off the next mission.

No arguments. No chance to protest. Just a firm grip on your wrist and a silent march through the hallways until you're sitting in an empty room that smells faintly of metal and ozone. The door closes with a hiss behind you.

“Okay,” she says, arms crossed. “Let’s talk.”

You glance at the wall like it might give you an escape route. It doesn’t.

You can hear faint voices down the hallway. The others are whispering about your little outburst in the briefing room. You clench your jaw.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you mutter.

Nat raises an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” you repeat. You shrug. Look at the floor. Your voice dips quieter. “It’s just…”

A breath escapes you. Heavy. Frustrated.

“…how did you know this was what you wanted?”

Natasha’s expression shifts. The sharpness in her posture softens. She sets her tablet down on the table behind her, unread.

“What do you mean?” she asks, but her voice is gentle now.

You hesitate. Your throat burns.

“I mean… back then. When you stopped being the Black Widow. When Fury gave you the option to just be Natasha Romanoff. Why didn’t you take it? Why didn’t you stop?”

She doesn’t answer at first. She just watches you, eyes trained and careful. You hate that they see too much.

You blink, and the tears well up despite yourself. You’re so tired. Of pretending. Of juggling two lives. Of wonder, which one is real?

“And now you’re living with Maria,” you continue, voice cracking. “You could’ve quit. You could be… happy. Quiet. Safe.”

Natasha sighs.

“I get it,” she says softly, like a truth you didn’t want to hear.

She sits beside you.

“But this isn’t really about me, is it?”

You shake your head, eyes shining with unshed tears. Natasha reaches out instinctively, finding your hand and resting hers over it. It's warm. Solid. A grounding force you didn’t realize you needed.

“I visited Gwen in the hospital before I came here,” you say quietly, your voice thick with guilt and fury. “Harry… he did a number on her. Four broken ribs. Internal bleeding. She’s lucky to be alive.”

Your breath shudders. “Peter hasn’t put the mask on in weeks. And I can’t stop thinking - if any of my enemies came for the people I care about…”

You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t need to.

Natasha squeezes your hand tighter. “Hey. I get the fear. I really do. But we’re not helpless. You’re not alone. We can defend ourselves.”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh and nod, though there’s nothing funny in any of this.

“I didn’t want any of this to be necessary, Nat,” you murmur. “The mask, the secrets. I didn’t come here to be a superhero.”

“I know,” she says gently. “But no one makes it through this life alone, Y/N.” She laces her fingers with yours. “And, if you must know, the weight got a little easier for me when I let Maria in. Turns out, sharing the burden isn’t so bad. Who knew?”

You huff a soft laugh and bump your shoulder lightly against hers. The touch feels safe. Reassuring.

There’s a brief silence before you speak again. “I’ll get my head on straight, okay? You don’t have to bench me.”

Nat smiles at you with that knowing tilt of her head. “Look, I think you’re one of the best heroes we’ve got. But maybe - just maybe - getting benched is a good thing right now. Take a breath. A day off. Ask a girl out.”

Your face heats immediately, and you mutter something about not having time for relationships.

Nat smirks, entirely unsurprised. “Then maybe you should consider someone who gets the job. Say, another superhero?” She wiggles her brows. “Someone in the Tower who, as far as I can tell, is very interested.”

You blink. “Wanda doesn’t even know I’m Superwoman.”

Natasha bursts out laughing.

“Oh, honey. Do you really think the mind reader of the group doesn’t know?”

You stare at her, stunned. “But - she never said anything! She treats me like I’m two different people!”

Nat sighs, her smirk softening into something more understanding. “Because you asked her to. Maybe not with words, but with walls. You put this distance between yourself and everyone. Between her and you.”

You look down, guilt landing like a weight on your chest.

“She’s the new kid, Y/N,” Natasha continues gently. “She’s trying to make real connections. Trying to earn trust. And you - ” she nudges your knee with hers - “you won’t let her in all the way.”

You swallow hard, throat tight.

“I just thought… maybe she didn’t know. Or maybe she liked Y/N Danvers more than Superwoman.”

Natasha throws her head back and laughs again, full and exasperated. “Wow. You really are the queen of self-denial.”

She stands and grabs her work tablet off the table, mumbling to herself as she taps through a few screens. “Well, since neither of you is cleared for the mission, it looks like you and Wanda are stuck with tower duty. Desk work, all day.”

You grimace. “Ugh, but I hate desk work - ” You stop. Catch the flicker of amusement in her eyes. Oh. Desk work.

Alone. With Wanda. In an empty tower.

“This desk work,” you mumble.

“I love desk work, actually,” you add quickly, sitting up straighter.

Natasha rolls her eyes and chuckles, already halfway to the door. “You just cost me twenty bucks, Danvers.”

It takes a second to process what she means. Another bet. Another chance. Another push.

And before the door closes behind her, you're on your feet again - chasing after her, heart hammering with something that feels a lot like hope.

-

Desk work is, without a doubt, the least glamorous part of being a superhero.

Bureaucracy. Mission reports. Intelligence logs. Inventory updates. Categorizing classified items into neatly labeled folders.

Endless, soul-crushingly boring stuff.

Boring enough that your focus slips every five minutes - though maybe that’s less about the files and more about the hum of Kryptonian energy beneath your skin, begging for movement. Or maybe it’s the presence at the other desk, steadily flipping through files, her brow furrowed in concentration.

You spin absently in your swivel chair, just to keep your body busy. One turn too far and the chair wobbles dangerously under your weight, threatening to tip. You gasp and grab the desk for balance - just in time.

Wanda lets out a small giggle, quick and unexpected. The sound makes your heart stutter.

“Sorry you got dragged into this too,” she says, trying to make conversation. Her eyes flick toward you, soft with something you can’t quite name. “I think this is just them getting back at me.”

You tilt your head, brows raised. “What do you mean?” Your voice is playful, but your mind leaps straight to the worst possible interpretation. “Wait - am I that bad to be around? Is this some kind of punishment?”

Wanda's eyes widen, and she scoffs, scandalized. “What? No! That’s not what I meant.” She sounds almost flustered, and when you give her your best wide-eyed puppy dog look, she glares, flustered but amused. “Come on, you’re not that bad.”

There’s laughter in her tone, and you offer a reluctant smile, looking away before it turns into a grin you can’t hide.

She leans back slightly in her chair, her voice softer now. “It’s because of Ultron, really. My fault he managed to compromise so many of our files. Now we have to go all analog. Hard copies for everything. Hence…” She gestures broadly to the pile of folders between you.

You pause, your smile fading a little. “You know you didn’t create Ultron, right?”

Wanda doesn’t answer immediately. Her fingers hover over the edge of a file. You can hear the shift in her breath, just slightly unsteady, before it evens again.

“Maybe it’s time to stop blaming yourself for something that wasn’t yours to carry,” you add gently.

There’s a moment of quiet between you, something unspoken passing in the space between your desks. A heartbeat. Hers, steady now. Yours, skipping like it’s forgotten how to keep rhythm.

Then Wanda clears her throat. “Still,” she says lightly, “I have to admit - it’s a little funny. Seeing Superwoman stuck behind a desk.”

You roll your eyes, shifting in your seat as the poor chair creaks under your weight. She smirks. “It’s like watching Thor try to sit on Tony’s designer couch. That poor thing never stood a chance.”

You laugh under your breath and adjust your posture before the chair gives out. “It’s not so bad,” you murmur, casting her a sideways glance. “I like my work partner.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. They land in the air between you with more weight than you intended.

Wanda blinks, and her cheeks flush instantly. You feel the heat creep up your own neck in response.

“I mean - like, in a friendly way,” you stammer quickly, eyes darting back to your file. “Like… liking my teammate. Not like liking liking - ”

She lets out a breathy laugh, somewhere between nervous and charmed, and turns her attention to the stack of papers in front of her like they’ve suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.

You try to listen - listen for the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat - but yours is pounding so loudly in your ears, you can’t hear anything else.

“I get it, Y/N,” Wanda murmurs.

And just like that, your mouth clamps shut. Embarrassment floods through you, hot and fast. You duck your head and pretend to care very deeply about the stack of inventory files in front of you, wishing you could disappear into them. Or, better yet, have one of those heavy boxes topple over and end this moment with poetic finality.

It takes a full five minutes for your brain to catch up - five minutes of sitting there in silence, pretending to work, heart pounding uselessly - before it hits you.

She called you by name.

Your eyes widen as realization crashes into you like a wave. You freeze, blinking at the words on the page that don’t even register anymore. Your breathing shifts, shallow and uneven.

Wanda brought it up first.

You didn’t even notice.

You’ve been so locked inside your own anxious spiral, so distracted by every small move she makes, that you missed the one thing you were most afraid of.

You’re so wrapped up in your panic that you don’t realize she’s stopped working, that she’s crossed the room, quiet as a shadow. She pulls something out of one of the drawers. It doesn’t belong to the inventory.

Your glasses.

The old pair, lost ages ago in the mess of the tower, now held gently in her hands like they were something precious.

You only catch her movement in your peripheral vision, and when she’s standing beside you, you instinctively hold your breath.

The chair shifts slightly beneath you, the telltale shimmer of her magic moving it to face her.

She doesn’t say anything. But there’s no anger in her face. No judgment. Just that patient, quiet look that always makes you feel like maybe the world isn’t such a bad place after all.

She brushes a few strands of hair from your eyes. Then, slowly, she slips the glasses onto your face.

“There you are,” she says softly.

It’s almost enough to undo you.

The contrast of the suit - the bright blue and red - and the old glasses feels ridiculous, but the way Wanda’s eyes soften makes it something else entirely. Familiar. Real. You.

“Wanda, I - ” you start, but she moves before you can finish.

She kisses you.

It’s soft, gentle - just the press of her lips to yours. Barely long enough to register before she pulls away.

Your cheeks go up in flames. “H-hm...” Your brain short-circuits. Words evaporate. You’re just... sitting there, in a slightly too-small chair, in your super-suit, with the most incredible girl in the world looking at you like that.

Wanda’s lips quirk in a smile. “Sorry. I just thought we had to get a few things out of the way.” Her fingers trace lightly down your cheek. “You’ve been thinking about it for days. But it didn’t seem like you were going to actually do anything.”

“I was going to,” you mumble, flustered. “Eventually.”

She laughs under her breath, warm and amused. “Sure. Eventually.”

Before you can think of a clever response, she leans in again - this time slower, more certain. Her nose brushes yours, a soft, teasing touch, before her lips find yours again.

This kiss is different. Unhurried. Confident. Her mouth moves against yours with quiet intent, and when her tongue brushes against yours, it sends a shiver down your spine.

Unfortunately, the chair makes a rather unfortunate groan beneath your shifting weight. You lurch slightly, catching yourself before you topple over completely.

Wanda pulls back with a burst of laughter, and you can’t help but join her, even as you cover your face in embarrassment.

Eventually, you peel the glasses from your nose and set them on the desk beside you. Your hands find hers and bring them to your chest, pressing them gently against the symbol on your uniform. Her gaze flickers down, then back to your face.

Your voice comes quieter now, almost fragile. “I’m sorry it took me so long to tell the truth,” you say. “I’ve never been this scared to let someone in. To risk putting them in danger just by loving them.”

Wanda doesn’t flinch. She nods, her expression softening as she wraps her arms around your shoulders.

“I do understand,” she whispers. “Come here.”

You fold into the embrace, arms slipping around her waist, grounding yourself in the feel of her - warm, solid, real. There’s a long moment where neither of you says anything. You just breathe each other in.

Then, voice low and almost conspiratorial, Wanda murmurs against your ear: “I love Mexican food, if you ever get brave enough to ask me out.”

You laugh into her shoulder, breaking the hug. “Oh my God, stop reading my mind.”

“But it’s so fun,” she teases, her smirk blooming again.

You roll your eyes, but the grin stays. “I can think of something better for you to focus on.”

She raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

But she’s the one leaning in first, closing the distance with a wicked little smile and a kiss that promises a thousand unsaid things.