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rongloa · 1 month ago

Text

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢’𝐦 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭 (𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮) — m.grayson oneshot

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. being mark’s best friend has always been difficult, he’s a nerd. but when he suddenly starts disappearing mid-hangout you can’t figure out what you’ve done wrong.

𝐰𝐜. 4.5k

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭. you’re acting like a doormat again, generous use of angst, big misunderstandings, feelings of abandonment, mark being a dickhead and not realising what he’s been doing is hurting you, swearing, and then they kiss, after arguing though

𝐚/𝐧. i actually had so much fun writing this darling ( @flwrch1d ), thank you sm! it’s not a lot but i tried my hardest for you 💪🏽

Before everything, it was always the three of you.

You, Mark, and William — the trio glued together by years of inside jokes, movie marathons, and a shared cafeteria table that was somehow always sticky. But really, it was you and Mark who were inseparable.

It wasn’t weird, not to either of you. It just was. Movie nights that turned into sleepovers on the couch. Falling asleep with your head on his shoulder while he quietly changed the TV volume. Late-night walks with no destination, sharing earbuds and arguing over which Studio Ghibli movie was objectively superior— you always won those types of arguments.

He wasn’t exactly popular, but Mark had that quiet, harmless kind of presence that didn’t invite trouble. He wasn’t the smartest, a little awkward, one of those nerds no one hated but no one really hung out with either—excluding you and Will.

But you were his person. The first one he texted when something stupid happened in math class. The one who knew what his hoodie smelled like and the kind of cereal he ate when he was stressed. You made space for him in your life without even thinking. And for a while, it felt like he made space for you too.

But then things changed.

Slowly at first. One missed hangout. Then another. Then a week where he barely answered your texts. He started looking tired all the time — eyes rimmed red, shoulders tense like he was bracing for something invisible. You asked if he was okay. He’d smile, say “just tired,” and change the subject to the newest Seance Dog comic.

You started doing more things without him. William did too. The table at lunch got quieter. Your weekends got longer.

And then you met Daniel.

It was dumb — your pen ran out of ink in chem lab, and he offered you his like it was a grand gesture. He had an easy confidence to him, the kind that wasn’t trying too hard. Funny, in a smug but charming way. You told him a joke Mark once made and Daniel actually laughed. And for a second, it felt nice. Like being seen again.

You never meant to start spending so much time with him.

But Daniel texted back. He showed up when he said he would, at that cafe you and Mark used to go to religiously. He didn’t vanish without explanation. And when you smiled at him, he looked at you like he knew exactly what it meant.

The hardest part? Mark didn’t fight it. He didn’t ask where you were going. He didn’t stop you. He just watched— from across the hallway, across the lunchroom—with that Mark Grayson-specific look on his face.

You’d convinced yourself he didn’t care. But that wasn’t Mark, not at all.

It still hurt, walking past his locker and seeing him laugh at something William said, only to fall quiet the second he noticed you looking.

It all started small.

Daniel offers to walk you to class one day when Mark doesn’t show up in the morning. You’re used to that by now — used to watching your phone screen go dim, unread texts hanging in your chest like anchors on sewing thread. Daniel doesn’t make excuses. He’s just there. Warm smile. Easy laughter. He knows your coffee order, knows you hate the sound of metal chairs scraping on tile. He starts waiting for you outside of lecture halls. Offers you half his lunch.

And you let him.

Because he makes you feel noticed. Present. Not like someone left on the back burner while other things pop up.

It’s not like you mean to pull away from him. Or William, for that matter. It’s just… easier, sometimes. Being around Daniel means no tight smiles, no dodging questions, no waiting for at least a ‘still alive’ text.

Still, every now and then — when Daniel says something funny and you laugh without thinking — you catch Mark watching.

He doesn’t say anything. He never does. But his eyes follow you like he’s trying to decode a language he forgot how to read.

It happens during second period.

You’re in the back row of your history class, seated beside Daniel like you have been for the past few weeks. Mark’s two rows ahead, and slightly to the left — close enough that you can see the curve of his jaw, the way he keeps tapping his pencil against his notebook, like he’s itching to be anywhere else. He always did hate Mr. Jace.

You try not to look. Or at least, not to be caught looking. But it’s hard. Not when a muscle flutters in his jaw like he’s thinking about anything but the Industrial Revolution.

Daniel leans closer, nudging your elbow with his. It snaps you away from Mark, away from the thought of Mark’s hair being longer than it was last time you hung out. Your heart stutters, is he gonna call you out?

“Tell me again why this guy thinks he can teach history through interpretive dance?” Oh.

You snort. It slips out before you can stop it—and for a second, you forget.

“That’s what I used to say to Mark all the time,” you say, grinning. “W–we had this running joke that Mr. Jace choreographed the French Revolution.”

You glance back towards your best friend—your old one—before you can help yourself.

He’s frozen. Completely still.

His pencil is hovering mid-air over the page, like he’s paused in the middle of writing. You see his shoulders stiffen — just barely — and then he presses the pencil tip to the paper hard enough that it snaps. The sound is small, but you feel it in the way Mark’s fingers tremble. In the way those brown hues are cast down straight at the shards of graphite scattered on his book.

He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t even flinch at the fact he just crushed a pencil in his fingers. Just calmly gets up, gathers his things, and walks out of the classroom without a word.

You blink. Flinching at the way he slams the door shut behind him. Little wooden bits scatter onto the floor, and a girl at the back of the class shrieks.

The teacher didn’t even notice he left, but he damn well does now.

Your heart starts pounding.

Daniel nudges you again, quieter this time. “Hey… what was that about? Is he okay?”

You shake your head slowly, the joke dying in your throat. “I don’t— I don’t know.”

But you do. You just don’t want to say it.

Because you remember that joke. The dumb one about Mr. Jace tap-dancing through history. Mark used to do it with a fake accent, arms waving dramatically in your living room until you were wheezing with laughter in the throw blanket Mark brought over. It was your little thing, one of many.

And now you’d handed it off — just like that.

You glance back at the door again, chipped at the edges and swinging on its hinges, as Mr Jace huffs and puffs in all his red-faced glory.

The hallway is empty.

You don’t see Mark after that class.

You check the hallway. The stairwell. Even the front entrance of the school where he sometimes stands, where he used to wait for you.

Nothing.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That maybe he just needed air. That he wasn’t angry, just overwhelmed. But the lie tastes bitter, and your phone feels impossibly heavy in your fingers. You glance up at your chem teacher—an older lady with large lensed glasses, she’s too nice for this school—then back at the screen. It’s a selfie of Will and you at Burger Mart, Mark standing behind the counter with your order held out like the world sent him a punishment in the form of his friends. You miss them, both of them. You breathe out a half-sigh half-laugh.

Swallowing your stupid sorrow, you unlock it.

You open your messages and stare at your last conversation with him—from nearly two weeks ago.

You: did you wanna go for lunch at that new cafe today?

You: markkkkk?

You: we can go somewhere else if you want

All left on read. You didn’t say anything after that, didn’t wanna bother him. Maybe he was finally moving on. Better friends or something.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You type something. Delete it. Type again. Biting at your nail as you resist the urge to rip it off entirely.

Finally, you send:

you okay? i saw you leave class

Three dots appear. You sit up straighter, heart kicking like it’s on a timer. You spare a glance at Miss Lily to make sure she hasn’t caught you.

They vanished.

No reply. No message. No explanation.

Just that haunting “Read 2:33 pm” stamp glowing beneath your text like a ghost.

You shove your phone back into your pocket, frustration and something deeper rising in your throat. You sit back into your chair too hard, making the metal legs scrape across the scratchy linoleum, staring at the ceiling like the answer might be written in the cracks.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m all good Danny.”

It doesn’t stop you from thinking about him.

It’s worse at night. When the house is still and your phone’s gone quiet. You replay old voice messages—ones you never deleted, where he’s laughing too hard at his own joke or asking you where you are that time you got lost in the shopping mall.

You see him everywhere, too. In the hoodie at the back of your closet that still smells like popcorn and the cologne he used to borrow from his dad. In the half-empty slushie cup in your freezer from the last time he showed up unannounced and dragged you to 7-Eleven “just because.”

You sit at your lunch table now with Daniel sometimes. William stopped sitting with you last week. You don’t blame him. It’s not the same. Maybe Mark said something.

And the worst part is that you still look for him—in the hallways, at his locker, in the corners of your classrooms where he always slouched like the chairs offended him personally. Horrible posture even for a teenage boy. You tell yourself you don’t care. That if he wants to ghost you, fine.

But you do care.

You care so much it feels like grief.

And every time you check your phone, you still hope the read receipt disappears—replaced by something that feels like him again.

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the pavement as you and Daniel make your way down the neighborhood sidewalk, your steps syncing in that easy, casual rhythm that comes from walking the same way more than a few times.

Your backpack digs into your shoulder, but you walk slower than usual. You’ve been doing that a lot lately. Drawing out the silence between things. Trying to outrun your own thoughts.

He’s talking about something—a goofy movie, maybe, or how the vending machine still owes him two dollars and a grudge match. You nod along, offering the right laughs at the right places, but your heart’s not really in it. Hasn’t been, not lately.

Because your mind keeps flickering back to Mark.

To that pencil snap in class. To the unread messages. To the way he looked at you like you were a stranger.

Daniel notices your quiet. He always does. For a guy he’s a bit too in tune with your inner workings.

He nudges your arm gently. “You’ve been kinda spacey today.”

You force a smile. “Yeah, just tired. Long week.”

He buys it. Or at least pretends to. “Well, you sure you don’t want me to walk you all the way home?”

“I’ll be fine,” you say, slowing as you reach the corner where his street splits off. “Thanks, though.”

He hesitates, like he wants to say more, then just nods. “Alright. Text me, okay?”

You nod and wave as he heads off, then slide your headphones on, turning up the volume just enough to fill the empty space.

The music cushions your walk—from the odd 80’s song to something stupidly sad that you skip because you can’t handle that right now, to ‘Get down on it’ by Kool and the Gang of all things.

You laugh at that switch up, you remember that one time Will, and Mark, were playing blind karaoke and Will somehow, out of all the songs in the world, began singing Pitbull. You were dying on the couch, quite literally. You choked on one of the sour strips you were eating. Mark fell over himself trying to save the day. He did end up saving the day and ending your near-death experience, your ribs were so sore that night.

Your shoes crunch along the sidewalk. Your fingers trail over the stray flower bushes as you pass. You miss those dumb little sleepovers you used to all have. It makes you miss the group.

What you don’t notice, is the footsteps behind you.

Not until you reach your gate—the familiar squeaky latch already at the tips of your fingers—when a haggard voice cuts through the one quiet song in your playlist.

“Please wait!”

You freeze, nearly like a deer in headlight.

Your heart does a strange, sharp flip. He’s a little breathless, like he jogged to catch up, hands tapping at the sides of his sweater you know better than your own. He looks bigger, or maybe the sweater’s gotten smaller. You can’t tell. You slip your headphones off, scratching at the stupid little sticker he put onto it.

His brows are furrowed like he’s barely holding it together. His lip is split—not badly, but enough that you notice.

He’s standing at the edge of your driveway, chest rising and falling like he ran the last block to catch you. His hair’s a little messy, wind-tousled. There’s a quiet desperation in his eyes—the kind that makes your own throat tighten.

“I need to talk to you,” Those bay brown eyes you missed so much flickering all over your face. “Please.”

You stare at him for a second.

Then push open the gate, you take two steps in and when you don’t hear him behind you, you simply turn. Tugging at the loose threads of your cardigan as you watch him. Finally, finally he’s here and you don’t know what to say, or how to feel. So you spit out the first thing you can think of, the way you used to talk to him. Like slipping back into normalcy.

“You coming, or what?”

He blinks like you’ve just broken whatever trance had him frozen in place, then finally moves—quick strides crunching over the cement path behind you. The two of you slip through the side gate like you used to—like nothing’s changed, like the silence between you hasn’t cracked the foundation. The gate creaks shut with that familiar metallic whine, and the two of you are alone in the backyard.

The sky has moved slowly into dusk. The sky’s already dipped into shades of gold and lavender, the edges of the day softening like bruises fading. The backyard is lit by the warm glow of the string lights above flickering to life as they sense the dark. You’d put them up with Mark last spring, threading them between the beams with both your hands dirty from potting soil and pruning the gardens. Your hanging plants sway gently in the breeze—ivy and succulents and little flowering herbs you’ve been nursing for months. Longer than all this stuff, has been happening. Ferns and ivy hang from every corner.

Little ceramic pots painted by hand line the railing, overflowing with green and bursts of colour that slowly blur with the darkening of the sky.

It smells like rosemary and fresh dirt.

Mark lingers by the patio entrance as you step up onto the wood, slipping off your shoes before curling up into one of the cushioned chairs closest to the back door. You don’t invite him to sit. You don’t have to. You know he loves these chairs, not as much as you, but still.

He doesn’t, at first. Just stands there, watching you like you’re the only thing right this moment.

You break the silence. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

For a moment, a singular breath between you both, the only sound is the hum of the lights and the soft creak of the wind swaying hanging pots.

He exhales through his nose.

“I’m sorry.”

You cross your arms, eyes fixed on a chipped piece of the wooden patio floor. “For what?”

“For avoiding you, for not answering, for all this stuff that I’ve done.” He pauses, toeing at a stray leaf. He can’t even look at you as he says it. “I just want us to go back to normal.”

You laugh.

Not because it’s funny, but because it’s the only thing stopping your throat from closing. A dry, bitter thing that makes Mark’s shoulders tense.

“Normal?” you echo, your voice sharp. “Mark, you haven’t even spoken to me in weeks.”

“I know,” he says quickly, eyes snapping up. “I know, okay? But it wasn’t because I didn’t care—”

“Then what was it?” you cut in. “Because from where I was sitting, it sure as hell felt like you just didn’t want me around anymore.”

“I was trying to protect you!” he fires back, louder than you expected. He catches himself, fingers curling so hard his knuckles turn white. “God, I didn’t want to drag you into—into the danger, the pressure. I thought if I just… let you go a little, you’d be safer.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” Your voice starts to shake now. “You say you’ll meet me and you don’t show up. You never explain anything, you just disappear. You don’t get to disappear, an—and then act like we can just snap back to what we were.”

“I was doing my best!” He starts pacing toward the edge of the patio. “You don’t know what it’s like, okay? Balancing everything. Trying to be there for everyone and still not being enough.”

“And you think I don’t know what that feels like?” You’re on your feet now too, arms at your sides, fingers curled into fists. “I’ve been showing up for you, Mark. Even when you wouldn’t answer me. Even when it felt like I was screaming into a void just hoping for one text back.”

His jaw flexes. He turns, hands gripping the railing, back to you.

“I didn’t know what to say.”

You stare at him, your voice dropping, cracking. Like one of the pots he dropped when you were painting them.

“You could’ve said anything.”

The string lights buzz quietly above, casting halos around the plants you’ve poured your heart into, into him. The air feels heavier now, thicker, like it’s trying to hold the weight of everything that’s never been said between you.

“I felt like you hated me,” you say. “Like I did something wrong.”

He turns then, his eyes wide, like the idea guts him. “No. God—no. I never hated you.”

“Well, you sure made it feel that way.”

He’s breathing harder now, chest rising and falling like he’s been running, but this time, it’s not from chasing you down the block. It’s from running in circles inside his own head. And you’re just… tired.

“You don’t get to play the victim in this,” you say, quieter now, but firmer. “You ghosted me. You left. And you only came back when you saw someone else being there for me.”

That hits. You see it land, like a real punch.

His lips part like he wants to argue, but no words come out. So you just stare at him. And wait.

Because if this is going to mean anything at all—he needs to mean it.

“I was trying to protect you.”

“Bullshit,” you snap.

The word hangs in the air between you, sharp and ugly. You don’t regret saying it.

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t glance out at the garden. “You don’t get it. I couldn’t tell you. Not then.”

“Why not? What could possibly be so bad that you’d rather have me thinking you hated me?”

He chews on his words, opening his mouth more than once, it makes you angry. He can’t even find a good reason. Right as you’re about to start up again, he blurts it out. “Because I’m Invincible.”

Silence.

The word falls like a nuclear bomb in a suburb.

You stare at him.

“What?”

Mark steps closer, eyes flicking over your face like he’s watching you come apart. “I’m Invincible. The superhero. That’s where I’ve been. That’s why I leave. That’s why I’ve been gone.”

You’re frozen. Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“I didn’t want to drag you into it,” He’s jumping all over his words, speaking so fast it hurts your brain as you try and figure out, how? “I thought if I distanced myself, if I cut it off before it got serious, I’d be keeping you safe. But I was wrong. I just hurt you.”

You don’t say anything at first. You can’t. The boy you grew up with is a superhero? Invincible? He was scared of cockroaches. How—how could, why could— your brain muddles and flips.

Your chest feels like it’s caving in—everything you’ve been holding back for weeks, maybe months, starts clawing its way out of you in shallow breaths and a pressure behind your eyes that refuses to stop building.

“I thought you hated me,” you whisper.

Mark’s face crumples. “What? No. No, I—”

But it’s too late. Your throat tightens and the tears start falling, hot and fast. Not the kind you can wipe away and pretend never happened—these are ugly sobs. The kind that rip out of your chest in pieces, leaving your voice shaking and your hands trembling. You try to cover your face, embarrassed, but your body won’t stop heaving.

“All this time,” you gasp, “I thought I did something wrong. I thought I pushed you away or—God, something. You stopped texting back, you’d look right through me, and I kept trying to pretend it didn’t hurt but it did, Mark. It did, and you didn’t even say anything.”

Mark’s already moving before you finish—stepping forward, arms wrapping around you with a desperation that almost knocks the wind out of you. You don’t fight it. You collapse into him, fists gripping the front of his sweater, sobbing into his shoulder like you’ve been carrying this pain in silence for way too long. You have been.

“I didn’t hate you,” he whispers, over and over again, holding you like the world is ending. “I never hated you. I thought you’d be safer if I stayed away. But it just made everything worse. I’m so, so sorry.”

His voice breaks at the end.

You cling to him like you’re scared he’ll vanish again, shaking with all the weight of what’s gone unsaid. He just holds you tighter, like he needs you just as badly.

“I missed you,” you manage through the tears, voice muffled by his shoulder. “I kept waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m here,” Mark whispers, forehead pressing to yours as he holds you so lovingly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You sniffle, the sound ugly and wet and real, like everything else.

His thumb catches a tear slipping down your cheek. You open your eyes, and his are right there—wet and glistening, holding yours like they never stopped trying.

“I’ve been in love with you since the day you made me sit through that terrible romcom and you cried harder than the main character,” he says softly, lips curved with the smallest, saddest smile you’ve ever seen on him. “And I didn’t even care that it sucked because you were leaning on me the whole time.”

You let out a watery laugh, tears still spilling, and he cups your face gently, reverently, like you’re made of glass and starlight and a thousand things he almost lost.

“I didn’t know how to be both,” he murmurs. “A hero and myself. But every time I was out there—saving people, fighting monsters, almost dying—I just wanted to come back.”

You reach up and hold his wrists, holding him now. “You should’ve told me.”

“I know,” he breathes. “I was scared.”

“So was I.”

He leans in, foreheads still touching, your breath shared under the fairy lights of your backyard. The rosemary sways in the breeze, brushing against your leg like a memory.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You let out a broken sound—half sob, half laugh. “Say it again.”

He smiles through his tears, nose brushing yours. “I love you.”

And this time, when he kisses you, it’s like the sadness finally gives. It’s messy and tear-soaked and trembling, and everything you both have been holding back for too long. His hands are in your hair, yours around his neck, and the kiss is so, so soft but aching—like the words he couldn’t say finally found a way out. It’s messy, so messy but you need this. Need him.

When you break apart, foreheads still pressed together, you whisper, “I love you too.”

You don’t need to ask if he’s staying. You already know the answer.

#mark grayson x reader #invincible fanfic #invincible mark grayson #invincible #invincible x you #invincible x reader #angst cause i’m a sucker #best friend!mark grayson

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todomochi-uwu · 4 days ago

Text

already over.

Pairing(s): Luffy x reader; Zoro x reader; Sanji x reader; Ace x reader; Law x reader Genre: Smut, angst Warnings: This content is for a mature audience Synopsis: The flesh is weak, and you are even weaker for him. Author's notes: I finished Marineford, and I feel like dying, so you might notice my love for Ace through this text. I'm thinking about writing a second part, but I'm not sure. Would you guys like a part two? Partially inspired by Already over by Sabrina Carpenter, hence the name of this work. Masterlist If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee

Luffy

You broke up with him, and it killed you, but you must face the truth: He's still too immature for a serious relationship. He isn’t what you need right now.

The idea of you not being in his life doesn’t make sense to him.

“Can we, at least, be friends?” “Maybe in the future, Luffy.” “Like, in a week?”

Pushing you out of his routine is something he can’t seem to do.

“Hey! Are we still on for dinner on Friday?” “Luff, we are broken up.” “Is that a no?”

Sends you constant TikTok videos and memes that remind him of you. You try not to answer but can’t help but see them.

Moving on from him is a nightmare cause he’s always there.

It takes something to have reality hit him.

“Oh, look at this photo Y/n posted!” He showed Usopp your profile. A thread of photos you had posted last night. The first one of you with chopsticks on your nose. The next one mid mid-bite. The third one of you smiling and looking at the camera.

"I thought you guys broke up?" He side-eyed his friend.

"Yeah, so?" He was too focused on flipping through your pictures until he came across the last one. You were posing with a guy, his arm around you while kissing your cheek. You were laughing. “Who the fuck is that?!”

“Um...”

He won't hesitate. He corners you to ask who the guy in your photo is. And when you answer honestly, it feels like a punch to the gut.

“It’s a guy I’ve been seeing.” “What? I thought you just needed a break or something. Not an actual break-break.” “Lu, we broke up four months ago...”

Be sure he’ll drive away anyone who dares to approach you. He wants you and won’t let you go. Not that easy.

It's no surprise you end up back on his bed. You love this man, your heart longs for him.

“Luffy!” Overstimulated and cross-eyed he had you, on the old and ragged couch of his living room. His tongue lapped at your wet cunt, thrusting and sucking on everything across its path. Luffy was always a messy eater, so oral sex wasn’t the exception.

"You always taste so good." He pulled away for a second, just to see the way your juices spilt out along with his spit. Then, he pushed two fingers inside, with no warning, but sure where to aim. He knew your body like the palm of his hand.

“Shit!” If he hadn’t been holding you, you surely would've face-planted. Your fingers ran through his hair, shoving his face closer to your core. Getting closer and closer for the nth time, thanks to the way his fingers fuck you and his lips around your clit.

Yeah, you fucked up.

Your head is a mess, and this won’t help. But you are weak, dumb and in love. And, painfully, in denial.

To him, it just doesn’t make sense. If you love him, and he loves you, why not be together?

“Are we good?” He asks while stroking your arm, leaving kisses on your shoulder. It’s then you realise you aren’t and he’s still the same man you broke up with.

“No, Luffy. We are not.” You get up and get dressed.

"But I miss you, Y/n, and I know you miss me too!" He hugs you from the back, "We are meant to be."

“Are we?” You won’t even look at him. No matter how much he tries.

Zoro

He doesn’t even flinch when you break up with him.

He’s the definition of lovers to enemies.

Being friends with the two of you is hell.

“Why are you acting like a fucking asshole?” “Why are you being such a bitch?”

Do not be mistaken, Zoro might act like he hates you, but he’s hurting. Having you so close but not being able to be with you is killing him. Even more, knowing it was his fault.

He took you for granted. He was neglectful and dismissive, prioritizing every aspect of his life over you. Unaware of it until it was too late.

It’s not that he didn’t care that you left, it's the fact that he didn’t know what to do to get you back. So, he resorted to anger.

Rolling his eyes every time you were brought up, being in the worst mood whenever you showed up; and arguing with you at every little opportunity he got.

Hate sex came out of nowhere, am I right?

“Don’t stop!” Eyes at the back of your head, face shoved against his pillow.

His hips pounded against your ass again and again. You’ve been going at it for God knows how long, but Zoro didn’t seem anywhere near done with you, "Such an obedient girl.” His thrusts slowed down while pressing his chest to your back, leaving kisses on the skin and biting your shoulder, “your pussy is more honest than you, baby.”

Your hands gripped desperately to his sheets. You couldn’t form a single straight thought, just his name and moans escaped your mouth. “Fuck you." You felt the knot in your belly snapping, legs trembling, and juices spilling everywhere, “Zoro!”

“You don’t have to pretend, baby. We both know how much you love this dick.” He didn’t stop, bullying your cervix with the tip of his cock, prolonging your climax, “Fuck, you feel so fucking good, baby.”

But each time, you would run away from him. Claiming it was a mistake, and that it wouldn’t happen again. (Spoiler: it did.)

He would find any excuse to get you riled up, poking you in ways only he could. If this was the only way he got to be close to you again, he would do it, no doubt.

“We can’t keep doing this.” You said while putting on your bra. Shame screaming in the back of your head.

"You always say that." He lies on his arm, looking at you with a smirk.

“I need to move on, Zoro.” A sob escapes your lips. This worries him, making him want to comfort you. “I can’t keep doing this to myself.”

"Give me a chance to prove you I've changed." He grabs your hand and looks you in the eyes, "Let me make it up to you. I won’t repeat the same mistakes.”

You contemplated it for a second. The man you so desperately love is right in front of you, begging for a second chance, but you can’t bring yourself to believe him, “I don’t trust you, Zo.”

He watches you walk away from him, and once again, he doesn’t know how to stop you.

Sanji

He’s a whore. Plain and simple. This is not to say he cheated because he didn’t... but flirting with everything that moves is just as bad.

He’s at a loss when you break up with him, claiming it came out of the blue.

“I don´t understand, my love. I thought we were okay.” “You can’t flirt with my friends and expect me to be okay with it.” “I'm just complimenting them, love. Every woman deserves to feel appreciated.”

Yeah, well, now he can appreciate them all he wants.

Do you want him to beg? He’ll do it, every day, all day.

Flowers and desserts are always present at your desk first thing in the morning.

Poems attached to gift bags at your doorstep when you come back from work.

Long texts professing his love and how much he misses you.

You gave in after a couple of weeks.

He seems genuinely sorry. He’s been attentive, caring, loving, and you are, mind-numbingly, in love with the chef. Why not give him another chance?

You look into each other's eyes while his fingers trace up and down your skin. “I missed you so much, sweetheart.” His mouth presses against your neck, leaving small, red marks on it.

“Sanji.” You whimper, running your nails against his back.

He’s slow to undress you but covers your body in kisses as he pulls off every piece of clothing. He whispers sweet promises against your body while his hands dance across your skin. “Don’t ever leave me, my love. I thought I’d die without you.”

You press your hand against his clothed member, making him whimper in your mouth. Both of you are hungry for more, longing for each other’s body and love, “please, Sanji, make love to me.”

And that’s all it takes. Sanji is inside you in a second, chasing your and his pleasure. His thrusts are desperate and uneven, but you couldn’t care less. "You feel so good, baby. Shit, so good, so good." He’s pussy drunk on you.

In the morning, you wake up feeling good and loved.

His scent and warmth still linger on the bed. The house smells like syrup. Your body aches in a good way. Could it get any better?

The moment you open your phone, you see it.

A heart-eyed emoji under Nami’s latest post.

That mother fucker.

You gather your clothes, shoving yourself into them, eager to get out and never see him again. Just as you are about to open the door, he does. A breakfast tray in his hand, makes your stomach grumble, but you refuse to acknowledge.

“Good morning, my sweet.” He places the food on the bed, “Why are you up? I thought we could have breakfast in bed.”

“I’m leaving, Sanji. Last night was a mistake.” You can’t look him in the eyes cause if you do, you know you’ll give in.

“What? But I thought,” He stutters, “I thought everything... I... We were fine.”

“We weren’t, Sanji.” You grabbed your bag, “Don’t call me.”

Ace

The absolute worst kind of ex. The perfect one you can’t seem to hate.

You broke up because you start to notice how much he loves being free, so much more than being in a relationship. He’s the flirty type, consciously or not, it was just who he was.

He won’t deny it, but he’ll say he likes meeting new people.

He will respect your decision, even if it breaks his heart. Sometimes wonders if he should have fought harder for you.

You try to stay friends. At the end of the day, Ace is loyal to those he loves and cherishes, and you aren’t willing to lose that. (And selfishly, you don’t want to give him time to be on someone else’s lips.)

Both of you act like nothing ever happened. Pretending it wasn’t a big deal, and you are okay with going back to being friends.

Outings with your friend group are the perfect excuse to see each other, neither of you brave enough to admit how much you miss the other.

Robin tries to set you up with one of her coworkers. Ace prays to God he doesn’t show up, or he’s a complete pig.

He suffers in silence every time he sees someone hitting on you at a bar. (In silence meaning that everyone in the room can tell his fuming.)

“Why won’t you admit you miss her?” “Y/n and I are better off as friends, Marco. Don’t worry about it.”

Then why won’t you leave his bed?

Ignited by the feeling of missing each other (and the amount of alcohol in your systems), you are back on his bed.

“You are such a good view.” He moans, one hand grabbing your ass while the other one rests behind his head. Enjoying the way you bounce on his dick.

You threw your head back, legs about to give in, but desperate to feel his cum inside you, “Ace!” You whimper.

“Already tired, princess? Oh, but you are doing such a good job.” Ace loves to tease you, but even more than that, he loves making you cum. Both his hands on your hips and feet placed on the bed, making you lean on his knees, he takes over.

Chest to chest, your face against his neck, you cry out, begging him to make you cum, and for him to fill you up with his cum. "Please, Daddy, please, make me cum.”

He smirked, “didn’t know how much I missed you calling me that.” He spanked you, "Don't worry, baby, Daddy'll give you what you want.”

You love your bed, but it loves him too. It'll happen at the same time every weekend.

But you know it must stop. You love him and you can’t keep hoping that someday he’ll change.

So, you’ll make the most mature choice you can think of. You ghost him.

You won’t answer the phone when he calls, messages, emails, or anyway he can contact you goes unanswered. You don't show up to events or plans when you know he will.

And it works..., for like two weeks.

It’s seven a.m., and some maniac is banging on your door. With dry spit on your cheeks and puffy eyes, you answer the door, wondering who the fuck dares disturb you on your day off.

“Ace.” Shit.

“Yeah, may I know why you are ghosting me?”

“I, I am not.” You stutter.

“Don’t lie to me.” He shoves his way into your apartment. “What’s going on, Y/n? Why are you avoiding me?”

“Because we can’t keep doing this, Ace. I can’t keep allowing myself to fall for you when you don’t want me like that.”

“You were the one who wanted to break up, not me.”

“That’s beside the point, Ace. Please, don’t make this any harder.”

“Can we at least talk about it?”

“Leave, Ace.”

Law

Sometimes, you don’t know if he’s dating you because he loves you or just to shut you up.

He cares, and you know that, but words without actions are just that.

He’s a doctor, and you understand he’s busy, but the fact that you have to break up over the phone cause he’s too busy to talk in person makes you feel better about your decision.

It’s not until he finishes his shift that reality hits. Twelve hours later.

Drowns himself in work to try and forget you. Sometimes he forgets he’s human and still can hurt.

He won't call, text or contact you to talk things over. At least not in the beginning. Do you want to break up? Fine. He’s got too much going on to deal with you. (That’s what he says to convince himself.)

Starts noticing how much you loved him, and how much he took for granted.

Homemade lunches and snacks that no longer sit on the counter when he’s leaving for work. No random texts throughout the day that pull him out of the rut. No one waited for him at home, and no one filled his days off.

Law spends hours looking at his phone, contemplating whether he should call or not. What would he even say? Sorry? I miss you? I’m a fucking mess without you?

He cringes at the idea of acting that vulnerable.

“Didn’t know you and that girl had broken up.” Law barely heard the other doctor, too busy disassociating himself in a cup of cold, bitter coffee.

“Huh?” He’s too drowsy for this.

“Yeah, I saw her last night at that new club. She looks great, no wonder she had all those dudes trying to take her home." He laughed mockingly. "If I didn't respect you enough, I would have given it a try, oh well.”

The comment makes his blood boil, but he doesn’t say anything.

After that, it doesn’t take much for him to contact you. Men and their fragile egos.

“Hello?” ... “It’s me.”

You no longer have his contact saved on your phone. It’s been months.

“Okay? What do you need, Law?” “Can we talk?”

Oh, now he wants to talk.

You go to his place, as per his request. Talking turns into crying, then into yelling and onto you being pounded on his bed. The flesh is weak, and you are even weaker for this man.

Your knees are next to your ears, tears dripping down your cheeks and his dick shoving his way in and out of your cunt. You can barely breathe, and your head feels like it's stuffed with cotton. "God, Law."

“Miss me, babygirl?” His thumb pushes on your overstimulated clit, making you clench even harder around him, “do you miss my cock, love?” His thrusts won’t let up even if you cum he won’t stop, not until you are dripping out with his cum.

You are shaking, your lungs feel like they are on fire, and your core is so sensitive everything he does throws you over the edge. But you want more. You need more.

"No one can make you feel the way I do. Don't ever forget that." He says right after he spills his seed inside you. His fingers push it right back inside once it threatens to come out.

But when morning comes, everything goes back to the way it was.

You can’t go through it again. The lonely nights, the missed anniversary dinner, the unanswered texts. You won’t go back to feeling unloved.

“You don’t have to go.” He whispers while watching you put back your clothes.

You shake your head, "This was a mistake, Law." You grabbed your phone and looked for your purse.

“I know I fucked up, but...” You cut him, done.

“It’s been months, Law. I think we are past that." You close the door of his room and on you two.

550 notes · View notes

sugary-strawberry-shortcake · 10 days ago

Text

Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfamily x Neglected! Poison Ivy's Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 5

A/N: oki here we get to know more about my boy Tim!! and quite a lot about Y/N's emotions. I'm going to start writing for other fandoms soon too!! and are any of you fellow lactose intolerant people and get the feeling when you consume too much dairy (ice cream in my case) and now you're regretting all of your life choices...

btw I tried to add everyone from my taglist post on the taglist, if you‘re still not on it then text me privately:)

There was too much to figure out.

And too little time.

YN sat on the floor of her room, knees tucked to her chest, her back pressed to the side of her bed. The faint hum of her phone charging on the desk, the scent of dying lavender in the corner, and the emptiness of the room made it feel like she was caged in glass.

Seven days.

That’s all she had.

One week before the landlord gave the apartment to someone else.

One week to fake a signature.

One week to secure enough money to hold the place.

One week to find freedom.

Or at least— survival.

⸻

Her heart was pounding in that quiet, pulsing way that made everything feel wrong. Her fingers wouldn’t stop picking at the threads of her sleeves. Her thoughts looped in circles.

She’d never done anything like this.

She didn’t lie.

She didn’t forge.

She got straight As. Smiled at teachers. Shared her notes. Brought cookies to class on test days.

She wasn’t supposed to know how to survive alone.

But she didn’t have a choice now.

Not after she knows what her fate will be in the future. Not after her brother‘s weird behavior and how she does not want to get even more hurt by them once again.

Her phone buzzed with a low battery warning. She glanced at it, then reached for the notebook on her desk. The one she used to plan out real things—school schedules, homework lists.

Now she flipped to a blank page.

And started writing:

✦ Money

• trust fund balance: ❌ (can’t touch it, Bruce sees it)

• Cash on hand: ~$400

• Part-time jobs? No ID

• Fake bank account?

✦ Signature

• Needs to look like a Italian parent

• Has to pass legally

• Needs someone good. Discreet. No questions.

She stared at the words for a long time.

Then, almost against her better judgment, she wrote down what she’d been avoiding:

One week or I lose the place.

Her stomach twisted.

But then—

A spark.

A memory.

She’d overheard some classmates once. Talking in the hallway. About a guy at school who could “fix grades,” “clear detentions,” even “make permission slips appear.”

Not a real criminal.

But the type of person who existed in the gray space.

She didn’t know his name.

But someone would.

_____

The next day, she was sitting with her school friends at the launch table.

The courtyard buzzed with spring breeze and quiet laughter. YN’s friend group was circled under the trees as usual, books and bento boxes spread around them.

She smiled. Laughed. Ate half a sandwich.

And then, when the conversation shifted to something else—she leaned a little closer to the girl beside her.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Can I ask you something… a little weird?”

The girl blinked. “Sure?”

“I, um…” Y/N played with her straw. “I kind of need someone who can fake a signature. Just once. For something small.”

Immediately, three heads turned toward her.

“What?”

“You?”

“Why?!”

YN let out a soft, nervous laugh and waved her hands.

“No, no—it’s nothing bad, I swear. I just—my dad’s been super busy and stressed lately, and I didn’t want to bother him for something this small. But I need this form signed or I can’t submit my entry for a scholarship program. It’s silly.”

Her voice was light. Sweet. Convincing.

It always was.

They believed her.

Of course they did.

YN Wayne didn’t lie.

Didn’t cheat.

Didn’t need to fake anything.

⸻

One of the girls bit her lip. “I mean… there is someone.”

“Who?”

The group exchanged looks.

“He’s kind of… off-limits,” one of them whispered. “Not in a scary way, just… he’s not exactly PTA-approved.”

“People go to him when they want things handled,” another said.

“Things they don’t want teachers—or parents—to know.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Handled how?”

“Fake IDs. Signature work. Lab grade bumps. Stuff like that.”

She tried not to flinch.

“Do you know his name?”

A pause.

Then one of them finally leaned in and said it.

“His name’s Silas.”

She found him exactly where her friend said he’d be.

Back wall of the school, behind the arts building, where the vines were dry and the shadows hid the rusted fences. A place students weren’t supposed to linger—let alone the sweetheart of Gotham Academy.

He was sitting on a low concrete ledge, knees wide, blazer unbuttoned, a black pen flipping rhythmically between his fingers. The faint scent of cologne, cigarettes, and old ink hung in the air. He was an average tall teenage boy with dirty blonde hair and sharp facial features. His brown eyes showed a maturity above his age.

She stopped just short of the wall.

He looked up.

And blinked.

“…Huh.”

His voice wasn’t surprised exactly. Just curious. Dry. Like the universe had just dropped a snowflake into his cigarette ash.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Princess.”

Y/N clasped her hands in front of her.

Her uniform was perfect. White shirt tucked, skirt neat, hair braided into soft waves over her shoulder. Stockings uncreased. Shoes polished.

She looked like she belonged in a floral ad campaign, not standing in shadows near someone like him.

“I need a favor,” she said.

Silas raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought you were gonna report me for existing too close to the east wing.”

“I won’t ask questions,” she said calmly, “if you don’t.”

He leaned back on his palms.

“Now this,” he said, eyeing her with quiet amusement, “this is interesting.”

YN reached into her bag and pulled out the folded application form.

“I need a signature,” she said softly. “A parent one. For someone named Lucia Forenzi. Can you do it?”

Silas took the paper, flipping it once in his hand.

“Lucia Forenzi,” he repeated, smirking. “Let me guess. Italian ballet prodigy studying abroad?”

Something twisted in her throat.

She didn’t answer.

Just looked at him, wide-eyed and pleading.

He studied her.

She wasn’t shaking.

But her eyes were too still.

Too trained.

Too controlled.

It was the kind of look people had when they were lying about something they were terrified of anyone finding out.

“Right,” he muttered, sitting up straighter and pulling a different pen from his inner pocket. “No questions.”

He clicked the cap.

“Still gotta charge you, sweetheart.”

“Of course,” she said quietly. “How much?”

He looked her over, calculated something she wouldn’t understand.

“Sixty-five.”

Her brows lifted for a breath—but then she nodded, already reaching into her bag.

No hesitation.

No negotiation.

Definitely hiding something.

She passed him the cash folded neatly in an envelope.

“Neat,” he muttered, sliding it into his jacket. “Didn’t even crumple it.”

He bent over the paper and began working the signature with practiced, deliberate strokes—flourishes, pressure points, the little inconsistencies that made fakes real. He was good. Too good.

She watched silently.

When he finished, he blew lightly on the ink and handed the form back to her.

YN took it carefully. Slipped it into the protective folder in her bag.

Silas leaned back again, like the job meant nothing.

“You’re not built for this, you know,” he said lazily.

Her gaze flicked to him. “For what?”

“Lying.” He smirked. “You twitch every time you breathe wrong.”

She looked away. “I’m not lying.”

“Sure.”

She hesitated—then, voice lower:

“Do you know how to make money?”

He tilted his head.

“I mean… quickly,” she added. “A lot. Like… maybe a few thousand.”

That got his full attention.

His brows lifted.

Silas straightened slowly, eyes scanning her again, this time truly seeing the stress behind her face.

“You asking for you?” he asked.

She nodded.

Barely.

Silas looked at her longer than he should have.

Her question—so quiet, so sincere—echoed oddly in the air between them.

A few thousand dollars. Quickly.

Not pocket change. Not school lunch money.

Real money.

And from her.

He should’ve shrugged it off.

Should’ve handed her a few names, offered her options—favors-for-cash setups, under-the-table digital work, hush-hush favors for the rich kids who liked to get dirt without getting dirty.

He knew all those doors.

But he didn’t say a word about any of them.

Because she wasn’t the type of girl who knocked on those doors.

And he’d seen enough people walk through them and never come back out right.

⸻

“Why do you even need cash?” he asked, tapping the edge of the concrete beside him. “You’re Bruce Wayne’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Her eyes darted away.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t lie.

But the silence stretched.

Her shoulders were stiff. Her eyes fixed on the sidewalk. Her cheeks flushed pink—not the pretty kind, the embarrassed kind. Ashamed.

And in that moment, Silas actually pitied her.

Because she really didn’t belong here.

Not in his part of Gotham.

He watched her for another second, then exhaled slowly.

“You don’t want to do what it takes to make that kind of money,” he said flatly. “Trust me.”

She looked up at him again, startled.

“You’re not like the others who come to me,” he added. “They already made peace with the kind of things they’re willing to do. You? You’d cry if you saw how fast that road burns.”

Y/N’s mouth parted.

But she didn’t speak.

She just listened.

Silas reached back, adjusting the chain around his neck, then muttered, “I’m not gonna say anything about this. Don’t worry. But don’t come back here asking about that again.”

She blinked fast.

Then nodded.

And smiled—gently, sweetly, the kind of smile that shouldn’t belong on someone trying to break the law.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Really. And… I hope you find your way, too. I think you could.”

Silas didn’t respond right away.

But he watched her walk away.

Watched her braid swaying behind her, her shoes clicking too neatly on cracked pavement.

She didn’t look back.

Unbeknownst to her, three boys down the alley had been watching.

One of them stepped forward the moment she was gone.

“Yo, that was her, right? The Wayne girl?”

"Did she just pay you for something?”

“What’d she want?”

Silas didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look up.

Didn’t answer.

He just lit a half-burnt cigarette and said flatly:

“She wanted nothing.”

______

The building still smelled like old cigarette smoke and forgotten furniture polish.

The same chipped door. Same crooked number on the outside.

Same old man behind the cluttered desk, now flipping through paperwork and scratching his balding head with a tired sigh.

When she stepped in, he barely glanced up.

Until he did.

And blinked.

“Oh. You again.”

She nodded. “I brought the signature.”

She walked across the dusty floor, careful not to make her footsteps too loud, and handed him the form tucked in its sleeve.

The man squinted at it, pulled on his reading glasses, and grumbled under his breath as he scanned it.

“Lucia Forenzi… yeah, this’ll work.” He leaned back, letting the form rest on top of a stack. “Now we just gotta finalize the rest once you get your deposit together.”

YN hesitated.

She folded her hands together. “Do you think I could ask… for one more week? For the deposit, I mean?”

He eyed her.

She wasn’t trembling. But her voice was gentle. Careful. Like she’d been rehearsing it in her head for hours.

He sighed again.

“Kid… I usually don’t let stuff slide like this.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just—my ID is still stuck in customs back in Milan. And my bank account—American one—isn’t ready yet. I’m trying to… get something together.”

He stared at her.

Young face. Braided hair. Nervous posture. Accent just strong enough to carry the lie.

If she’d been anyone else—he’d have told her to get lost.

But she looked like a girl completely alone.

And despite the fact that he spent half his pension at poker tables and owed a guy named Ray twenty bucks from last month’s betting pool…

He had a daughter once.

Long ago.

She never looked this scared.

“One more week,” he said finally. “That’s it. No more games.”

She smiled—grateful, glowing, almost guilty.

“Thank you. Really.”

He cleared his throat. “You said you don’t have cash yet, right?”

She nodded. “I… I was actually thinking of trying to get a job.”

“A job?” He barked a short laugh. “You got papers for that?”

“No,” she admitted, softly. “But I’m good with plants.”

He squinted again.

“Plants?”

“I grew up around a lot of gardens. I know how to take care of things. Keep them alive.”

He looked around his office.

Half-dead potted thing in the corner. Wilting ivy on the window ledge.

“Tell you what,” he muttered. “The building’s got some rooftop planters the old tenants abandoned. Overgrown with weeds now. You clean ’em out, replant something nice, keep it alive? I’ll knock a bit off your deposit. Even give you a little cash if you do a good job.”

YN’s eyes lit up.

“You’d let me?”

He waved a hand. “Not gonna stop someone from doing free labor. Especially if it means I don’t gotta call some overpriced nursery.”

She smiled—real this time.

And for a moment, she didn’t feel like she was running.

Just planting something new.

“Thank you,” she said again, shouldering her bag. “I’ll come back after school tomorrow. If that’s okay?”

“Door’ll be open.”

She nodded once.

Turned.

And left.

The air outside smelled like pavement and car exhaust and early spring.

She took the bus home.

One hand on her bag.

One hand curled quietly in her coat pocket.

___

Tim

The hum of cooling fans filled his room.

Screens glowed softly around him—multiple tabs open, city feeds on low volume, encrypted Wayne Enterprises backend files half-scrolled through. He didn’t really need to be there. Most of his work for the day had been finished hours ago.

But he was restless. Edgy.

Something was gnawing at the edge of his mind.

He didn’t know what.

That’s when he saw it.

An unlabeled USB left near the base of one of the older servers—something Alfred had probably pulled from the manor archives or the mainframe logs.

Tim plugged it in without much thought.

Inside: dozens of folders. Video files. Unmarked. Untouched.

Most were labeled by year.

He opened one at random.

Then stared.

The footage was grainy but clear.

A school auditorium.

A handmade banner above the stage: Gotham Academy Winter Performance.

Kids lined up in stiff uniforms and glittery costumes.

And there—center left, third row—YN.

Maybe six. Seven.

Singing. Slightly off-pitch, swaying back and forth like she’d practiced a hundred times.

In the bottom corner of the footage, he could hear the applause.

Not much of it.

Definitely no one from the family.

Tim frowned.

Why hadn’t he seen this before?

He clicked through another.

Grade 4 Science Fair. YN Wayne.

Her booth was filled with little potted flowers and soil diagrams. He saw her holding a laminated sheet, explaining something with shy excitement to a panel of judges.

And again—no one from their family there.

Not even Alfred.

⸻

Tim leaned back slowly.

And something in his chest twisted.

He hadn’t seen her in weeks—months even.

Not really.

She’d always just… been there.

Quiet. Predictable. Not part of the mission. Not part of the crime board, or the investigations, or the emergency Gotham alerts.

Just soft footsteps in the hallway. Soft baking smells from the kitchen.

A small knock on his door, back when she used to knock.

He remembered when he first arrived.

Jason had just died. Bruce was… hollowed out.

And Tim, desperate for validation, had stepped into Robin’s boots with too much weight and not enough air.

She was small back then. Four? Maybe five.

Always trailing behind Alfred with wide green eyes. Always hugging something—blanket, plush rabbit, her own braid.

She’d tried to talk to him.

At first, it was just questions.

“Do you know how to make things explode without hurting the garden?”

“Why do your hands always have ink on them?”

“Do you like stories about space?”

Tim had nodded politely. Answered once or twice.

But Bruce needed him.

Dick kept him moving.

There wasn’t time.

And when she tried harder—when she came into his workshop with sticky notes and clumsily drawn circuit boards, when she made him a chess board with mismatched floral pieces to match the ones in the cave—

He’d smiled.

“Thanks. Maybe later.”

Then closed the door.

Later, he said something to Dick.

He didn’t even remember what sparked it.

Just a comment about how she was “always hanging around,” how she was “cute, but a distraction.”

“She’s kind of a liability,” he’d said.

And behind him—

She had been standing in the doorway.

Chessboard in hand.

⸻

Y/N

She hadn’t cried.

Not then.

Just smiled and nodded and said it was okay.

But she never brought him another project again.

She still helped him, sometimes, when she thought he wouldn’t notice. Repaired a snapped wire. Left tea near his monitor. Cleaned up wires on the floor.

But she stopped knocking.

Stopped asking.

Stopped trying.

Because what was the point?

He didn’t want her.

None of them did.

⸻

Tim

Tim sat still, staring at the paused frame.

Her tiny hands. Her proud smile.

And not a single member of the family had shown up.

Not even once.

His gut twisted.

How had he missed her?

How had they all missed her?

He opened another folder.

And another.

And slowly, it stopped feeling like research.

And started feeling like regret.

He searched her full name on instinct.

He wasn’t expecting much—maybe a locked account, maybe nothing at all.

But it popped up right away. She was not that secretive or paranoid to even have a private account. Not that that would have stopped him.

@y/n.wayne_loves_poppies

Gotham Academy | Greenheart Club 🌿 | 🧁 Sometimes I bake, sometimes I bloom 💚

Her profile picture was soft. Smiling. Just slightly blurred in that way that made it feel unfiltered, uncalculated.

It hit him harder than it should’ve.

She looked… older. Not by much. Just enough to make his stomach twist.

He hadn’t even known what her current face looked like.

She still had the same eyes. Same gentle expression.

Same softness. Same adorable delicateness.

He opened her highlights.

“Flowers” was the first one.

Clips of blooming vines, petals unfolding in slow motion. Her fingers gently touching the edge of a stem.

“Baking” came next. A video of cupcakes she made for a class birthday. Another of heart-shaped sugar cookies dusted in gold powder. Kids laughing in the background. Her voice behind the camera, barely heard.

She’d tagged her friends. Liked their comments. Replied with hearts.

There were no comments from any of them.

None of her family.

Not one from him.

Tim swallowed.

He scrolled down to her posts. The oldest one still up was from two years ago. Her sitting in the greenhouse. A short caption:

“🌸 Sometimes things only grow when they’re ignored.”

He hadn’t seen it.

Didn’t even know she had an Instagram.

He clicked through dozens of pictures.

Birthday cupcakes she made herself.

Class awards she never mentioned.

Photos at the museum—her smiling with two friends in front of a lunar exhibit.

She liked astronomy.

He hadn’t known that.

She liked baking.

She liked poppies.

She watched weird indie romance films with sad endings.

He hadn’t known any of it.

Tim leaned back in his chair.

His throat was tight.

His chest was quiet—but hollow.

He had missed everything.

She had been right there.

For years.

And he’d let her walk past him like she was just background noise.

But not anymore.

He reached forward slowly. Hands steady. Mind turning.

I’ll fix it.

He could ask her to play chess.

Tell her about his newest case.

Ask her about her favorite constellations.

Share her posts. Leave comments. Make her feel like she mattered.

Like she existed.

It wouldn’t happen all at once. She wouldn’t trust him yet.

But that was okay.

He had time.

He’d be different now.

He’d be better.

He’d be her brother.

_____________

Y/N

The familiar scent of lemon polish and old books greeted her as she stepped through the manor’s doors.

Alfred was in the hallway, arranging a vase of cut lilies—probably delivered by a vendor she’d never met, for a dinner party she’d never be invited to.

He turned when he heard her.

“Miss YN,” he said, surprised. “You’re home early.”

She gave him her usual small, polite smile. “I didn’t feel well. Just a stomach ache.”

He didn’t respond right away. His eyes stayed on her face longer than usual.

Searching.

Reading.

He’d always been the only one who looked.

But even now, his gaze held something else—worry.

She shifted under it.

He finally nodded.

“I’ll bring you some tea. Chamomile?”

She nodded quickly. “That would be perfect, Alfred. Thank you.”

⸻

She walked up the stairs without another word.

Every step felt heavier.

Her bag weighed more now—holding the fake signature, the crumpled plan, the reality of how little time she had left before she needed to vanish.

When she stepped into her room, she took a moment.

Let the door close behind her.

Then just stood there.

It used to be pink.

Green lace trim.

Fairy lights.

Stuffed animals in the corner.

After she came back—after she knew what was coming—it all went away.

She changed the curtains to gray. Folded the soft blankets into storage boxes. Swapped her old bedspread for something plain, something neutral.

Something invisible.

Because that’s what they wanted from her, wasn’t it?

Not sweetness.

Not softness.

Not the girl who drew them family portraits and wrote their names in glitter pens.

They wanted quiet.

So she became quiet.

She sat at her desk and slowly unpacked her notebook.

To-do lists. Rent deadlines. Sketches of job plans. A fake identity plan she knew would fall apart in front of any real system—but she had to try anyway.

She stared at it blankly, trying to remember which lie came next.

And that’s when the knock came.

It was soft.

Two short taps.

She blinked.

“Alfred?” she called, gently.

She opened the door—

And stopped.

Her fingers froze around the knob.

Because it wasn’t Alfred.

It was Tim.

⸻

He stood in the hallway, backlit by the glow of the antique sconces, hands shoved into his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.

His hair was slightly messy—like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. His posture unsure. His eyes… searching.

And behind all that awkwardness—there was a smile.

Forced.

“Hey,” he said, voice quiet. “Didn’t know you were home early.”

She stared at him.

He was tall. Way taller now. Broader than she remembered. Dressed in one of his clean-casual post-Enterprise outfits, too neat to be an accident.

And she felt tiny.

Small. Frail.

Forgettable.

Her doe eyes flicked up to meet his for a second.

Then away.

She stiffened without meaning to.

Her voice came out softer than she intended.

“…Hi.”

Tim’s gaze drifted over her head, into her room, and lingered.

His brows pulled together slightly.

He wasn’t trying to be obvious, but he couldn’t help it.

The room was… muted.

Clean, neat, and stripped bare of her.

No soft colors. No floral bedspread. No paper flowers, no paintings on the walls. The only thing alive was the half-drained diffuser on her desk and a dying succulent on the windowsill.

It didn’t match what he’d seen online.

Not the photos. Not the tone of her captions. Not the girl who made cupcakes in cat-shaped molds and cut strawberries into hearts for her friends.

The Y/N on Instagram smiled in pink and baked things for people who didn’t deserve it.

This one?

This one was standing in a doorway, blinking up at him like he was a ghost.

Tim pulled his eyes back to her and offered a slightly nervous smile.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

She didn’t say anything.

He scratched the back of his neck and stepped back, giving her space.

“I, uh… I realized I hadn’t talked to you in a while. Just wanted to check in.”

Still no response.

So he tried again.

“School going okay?”

Her fingers curled slightly around the doorframe.

She gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

He tried not to fidget.

“And… you’re feeling alright? I heard you left school early today.”

Her eyes widened—just for a second. A flash of instinctive fear.

Then she quickly covered it with a half-smile. “Just a headache. I’m okay now.”

But her voice was tight. Careful.

Like she wasn’t sure what game he was playing.

Tim could feel the wall between them.

He hated it.

But he also knew he’d helped build it.

He cleared his throat.

“Cool. That’s good. Uh… I was thinking maybe sometime—if you want—we could play chess again? I still have that old board. The one you made when you were little.”

He smiled at the memory.

She didn’t.

Her lips parted slightly.

Her eyes dropped.

And then—quiet, confused, almost painful:

“…Why are you here?”

Not angry.

Just… asking.

Like it didn’t make sense to her that he’d show up at all.

Because it didn’t.

Not in her first life.

Not in the years where she had knocked on his door a hundred times and only ever heard “I’m busy.”

Tim blinked.

And for the first time, his smile dropped entirely.

He looked at her.

Really looked at her.

And all the data in the world couldn’t tell him why the question hurt so much more than he thought it would.

Tim’s awkward smile didn’t quite match his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging, scratching the back of his neck. “I just—y’know. Miss my baby sister, I guess.”

It didn’t sound right in her ears.

Not with the years of silence still echoing in her memory.

Not when she remembered standing outside his door for hours, holding something she’d made for him—only to be brushed off again and again.

But now he was here. Smiling.

Like it hadn’t all happened.

Like none of it mattered.

He stood for a second longer, maybe expecting her to say something.

She didn’t.

So he nodded toward her desk. “Need help with schoolwork?”

“No, thank you,” she said quickly. “It’s… a group project. I have to call Maya soon.”

That name again. The lie she’d built to protect her escape.

Tim nodded. “Got it. Well… I’ll let you get back to it then.”

She gave a small nod. “Okay.”

He hesitated.

Like he wanted to say something else.

Then didn’t.

He stepped back and left.

She closed the door behind him slowly.

Then locked it.

And exhaled.

⸻

The light outside was dimming into gold.

She sat cross-legged on her floor, her notebook open, sketches of furniture and ornaments she’d seen lying unused around the mansion: antique vases, decorative trays, crystal bookends—small enough to pack into a backpack, valuable enough to sell at any downtown collector’s shop.

She hated it.

She hated the idea of stealing.

But this wasn’t theft—it was a last resort.

And she was careful.

Nothing from the family’s main rooms.

Nothing with names etched into them.

Nothing anyone would miss.

They already forgot her birthday every year.

Already forgot her when she left the table.

This wasn’t new. They were good at not missing lost things.

In the back of her notebook, she was already drafting the lie she’d tell her friends:

Mom is an Italian businesswoman. Wants me back home to get more familiar with my roots.

No forwarding address. Just a long goodbye.

Her fingers trembled a little as she wrote.

But her voice in her head was calm.

You can do this. Just make it through one more week.

That’s when the knock came.

Sharp. Heavy.

Not gentle like Alfred.

Not hesitant like Tim.

Her heart froze.

She scrambled, grabbing her notebook, papers, burner phone, shoving them under the blanket and pulling it flat with both hands.

She stood up, forcing her face into something neutral—her eyes wide, breath tight.

And then she opened the door.

He stood there like a statue.

Tall. Broad. Impossibly built.

Bruce Wayne.

Her father.

Dark suit, no tie. Shirt collar open. Shoulders squared, posture perfectly relaxed—yet utterly intimidating. Shadowed jaw, sharp cheekbones, tired, steely eyes. His presence filled the doorway like a wall.

And her body forgot how to breathe.

He had never stood there before.

Not since she was three years old and Alfred had shown her the room.

Never once.

And now?

Now he looked at her like he was searching for something he’d misplaced.

She stared up at him.

Small. Still. Shaking without showing it.

Bruce

It had been a week since Alfred brought it up.

A full week since that quiet, direct conversation—the kind Alfred rarely initiated unless he knew something was slipping too far.

“She’s asked for money, Master Bruce. Not out of greed. Out of fear.”

Bruce had nodded, said he’d look into it.

And then he hadn’t.

Not because he didn’t care.

But because some part of him had locked the thought away. Too proud to admit what it really meant.

Too afraid to admit that somewhere along the way—he’d forgotten her face.

Until now.

He walked through the upper hallway slowly, unfamiliar with this wing despite technically owning it. The shadows here were deeper. The air, stiller. This part of the manor was quiet in a way none of the other children’s corridors were.

And when he reached the end of the hall and saw her name—engraved gently on the door, the paint fading—his chest clenched.

Why was she this far away?

From everyone?

From him?

He made a decision right then.

She’d be moved.

Her room was too far.

Too far from him.

That would change.

He lifted a hand and knocked twice.

Sharp. Measured.

And the door opened.

⸻

Y/N

She looked up at him, and the breath stalled in his lungs.

She was…

Still small.

Still delicate.

Still had those wide, soft doe eyes he remembered vaguely from the time Alfred had first placed her in his arms. Her hair a little longer now. Her expression tighter. Guarded.

But the girl who had once followed him with awe and silent hopes was standing there, now looking at him like—

She didn’t know who he was.

Or maybe, like she remembered too well.

⸻

Bruce

Bruce’s voice didn’t crack, but it softened more than he expected.

“…Hi, little leaf.”

It was a name he’d never said before.

A nickname he’d never used.

Not even when she was a toddler.

But it came to him then—natural, instinctive, like something that had always waited behind his tongue.

“Little leaf.”

Because she was so small.

So quiet.

So easy to miss in the wind.

He glanced over her head with ease—she didn’t even came past his chest.

His eyes swept her room.

Muted.

Cold.

Devoid of life.

Nothing on the walls. No bright colors. No scattered crafts. No signs of who she was—just a blanket on the bed covering something, maybe books.

It looked less like a home.

More like a holding space.

Something in him twisted sharply.

⸻

Y/N

What. The. Hell.

Her thoughts were loud.

Exploding behind her face as she tried to keep her features neutral.

First Dick and Damian

Then Tim.

Now him.

Bruce Wayne.

Her father—in name and blood only—who hadn’t stepped into her room since she was two years old.

He looked… the same. Towering. Dark. Dressed in one of his half-armored casuals, broad enough to block the entire hallway behind him.

His voice had been low. Calm.

Little leaf.

She nearly recoiled.

He’d never called her anything before. No pet names. No warm nicknames. He barely called her by her name at all.

So why now?

She stared up at him, stunned, her hand still gripping the doorframe. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Her thoughts twisted violently in her head.

Why is he here? Why is he suddenly pretending like I exist? What is wrong with them?

Is this some game?

Is this part of whatever’s going on with Tim and Dick? Did something happen?

Did someone tell them to prank me now?

Her fingers curled tighter.

She wanted to scream.

To ask what the hell do you want?

But she couldn’t.

Because he was Bruce Wayne.

Because she was YN Wayne.

Because her entire plan depended on no one noticing her.

And now—suddenly—everyone was.

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em1i2a3 · 5 days ago

Text

Embrace

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader!

Summary: After a year hiatus from dating, you decide to get back on the apps and begin the search again for the one…Only to find out that the pool of guys in New York has extremely slim pickings. Every time you return from a date though, Bob and a glass of wine are always waiting to hear the latest story from your dating chronicles.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, and just a little small hint of Angst (like a dusting of angst…a little peppercorn of angst lol), Reader and Bob have an established friendship and they are super close, Bob just wants the reader to be happy…But I mean…At the same time he’s a bit jealous of course, Swearing, Talks about relationships and awkward interactions with guys lol.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (…please protect yourselves, I beg of thee), Sensual/Super frickin soft looooove makin’ lol, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Fingering, Biting, Scratching, Leaving Marks by accident but kind of on purpose? Heheheheh. It’s been a while since reader has had sex, Worshipping/Praising Kink,

Author’s Note: Thank you Anon for requesting this! I went off the damn rails with this one because I really loved the concept, and thought it would be great to put a really cute little twist to it! I truly enjoy writing this type of stuff, it’s just so scrumptious for my brain. Hope y’all enjoy <3

Word Count: 16,826

The cold bit at your knees the second you stepped out of the restaurant.

You wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, pulling your jacket closed as you shifted your weight from heel to heel. It was a nice jacket–mid-thigh length, fitted, soft beige wool with a classic belt–but it didn’t do much to protect your bare legs from the peak fall weather that plagued New York. You were wearing a navy-blue satin slip dress that skimmed your thighs and clung in all the ways the mirror at the compound had promised would be flattering. You had paired it with a delicate rose gold necklace and matching heels that now dangled from your fingers–replaced with the fold out flats you always brought. The outfit had felt elegant when you left earlier tonight…Now it just felt cold.

You were standing a few feet away from your date, Jeremy–the man who insisted on dining at Le Pavillon because he ‘had a connection there’ and claimed it was ‘just upscale enough to set the mood.’ He was scrolling absently through his phone, occasionally glancing toward the street like he was trying to manifest his ride faster.

You shifted again, arms crossed under your chest. Your Uber was three minutes away…Three minutes too long.

The dinner itself had been passable. The wine was decent, and the risotto was rich enough to almost make up for the conversation. But…He had a habit of interrupting. Correcting. Smiling too long. You insisted on splitting the bill after he made a smug comment about being ‘happy to invest in a beautiful woman’–and he had not taken it well. You could feel the awkward tension humming between you now, like static off an unplugged cord.

His phone buzzed and he quickly glanced down at it, “That’s me!” He exclaimed, stuffing it into his coat pocket. He turned toward you, giving the kind of grin that probably worked better in dim lighting, “I’ll text you, yeah? We’ll set up something for next week.

You forced a tight, polite smile, “Sure…” He leaned in for a hug, and you let him–quick, loose, impersonal. He smelled like cheap cigars, chlorine, and headache inducing aftershave. When he pulled back, you already had your phone out.

The second his back turned and he slipped into his rideshare, your whole posture deflated–your shoulders dropped, your jaw unclenched, and the carefully pleasant expression faded off your face in the chilly fall air.

You opened your text thread with Bob and typed with cold fingers:

“Heading back to the compound now, no need to be worried. Will talk soon.”

Three dots appeared almost immediately, and he responded:

“No problem, see you soon. Send the location tracker thing when you get in.”

You smirked at his message, thumbs already moving before you could stop yourself:

“Such a worrier Robert…Kinda hot though 🥵”

You sent it before you could think twice. The moment it was delivered, you stared at it–head tilting slightly, your expression catching somewhere between amusement and embarrassment. Of course it was meant to be a teasing, lighthearted message. The kind of dry humor you always used when Bob got extra overprotective.

But you knew how he was about safety, especially regarding your safety, and especially since you started going on these dates.

You could still hear Yelena’s voice echoing in your head–“You’re turning into a hermit. A sexy, socially-anxious, wine-drunk hermit. That’s not hot, babe…Download some apps for the love of god.”

So you did, and now you had been on six dates, with six different men, and had been introduced to six different brands of disappointment.

And for the first time tonight, as you froze outside, with your fingers brushing the familiar edge of your phone case, the thought crept in that maybe it was you…

You weren’t exactly inexperienced, you had been in a relationship prior to this that had a bad falling out due to you moving to New York…But you were a Thunderbolt, for God’s sake–trained, capable, unflinching in combat. But when it comes to this kind of intimacy? Emotional vulnerability? The whole practice of letting yourself be seen? It felt harder than dodging bullets sometimes.

The Uber driver–a soft-spoken woman with calm eyes–pulled up to the restaurant and greeted you, confirming your name before you stepped into the back.

“Y/N…” You responded, returning a tired smile to her. You placed your heels beside you on the seat and sank into the warm leather, finally feeling the muscles in your back relax. You had one more task before you could switch off for the night–you opened Bob’s pinned thread and tapped the location share icon, putting a note below.

“Tracker sent…Unless the driver turns out to be a serial killer, you’ll see me in twenty.”

The reply came a second later.

“Don’t joke about that…I’m already watching your route.”

You rolled your eyes fondly and let your head fall back against the seat. Of course he was already watching, because that was just Bob. He was always two steps ahead when it came to you. Every time you mentioned a new guy he always asked to read through the profile, but he never said anything critical–like he just wanted to put a name to the face, and see the little blurb they wrote. Then he would always stay up for you, and wait till you got back to the compound safely.

You exhaled softly, watching the city blur past your window. It was late enough that traffic was light, and the closer you got to the Tower, the more you felt the tension bleeding out of your body in slow waves. The warmth of the car helped, but so did knowing who was waiting at the end of the ride.

Twenty minutes later, the familiar glass front of the Watchtower loomed into view. The car came to a slow, quiet stop along the curb.

The driver turned slightly toward you, smiling, “Wow,” She said, tilting her head a bit to get a better look outside the passenger window, “What a nice building.” You followed her gaze toward the glass-fronted façade of the Watchtower, the compound’s lower half glowing faintly from the lobby lights still burning behind reinforced panes. The upper floors were dark now, a few security strobes blinking red against the skyline. It looked sleek from the outside–imposing, even. But from within, it was just…Familiar. The only place in New York that really felt like home. You gave a soft, tired smile.

”Still under renovations,” You replied, gathering your shoes up in your arms, “But it’s comfy.”

”Looks very secure,” She commented with a grin, you chuckled a bit.

“Yeah…That’s definitely the idea.” You slipped out of the back seat with a gentle murmur of thanks, heels in one hand, Your small clutch tucked beneath your arm.

“Have a great night,” You added, closing the door behind you. “Drive safe.” As the car pulled away, you turned and padded toward the entrance, cold air nipping at your legs again. You reached for the key fob clipped to the inside of your jacket and scanned it against the reader beside the reinforced door. A soft chime, then a green light blinked.

Click.

You slipped inside before the wind could follow you.

The lobby was dim and quiet, lit mostly by the soft glow of recessed ceiling panels. The walls were a combination of blackened steel and warm wood accents–part utilitarian fortress, part sleek design prototype. A sitting area to the right was still cluttered with folded blankets and someone’s abandoned socks (Walker’s, probably). One of the wall panels buzzed faintly as the security system refreshed. Somewhere in the back hallway, a cleaning drone hummed past.

Your cheap fold-out flats squeaked against the polished concrete floor as you walked toward the elevator bay, the straps starting to chafe against the inside of your toes. You pulled out your phone and quickly left the driver five stars and a generous tip before sliding it back into your pocket.

The elevator dinged a few seconds later.

You stepped inside and hit the button for the 80th floor–Thunderbolts’ private quarters. The doors slid shut behind you with a whisper.

Then came the feeling. That familiar weightlessness.

The elevator ascended fast–too fast for your already sensitive post-date stomach. You felt it in your ribs first, that swooping g-force pull that lifted the pit of your stomach an inch higher than it was supposed to sit. You leaned your head back against the cool mirrored wall with a quiet sigh and let your eyes fall shut for a moment, letting yourself go completely still.

You felt the shift in your knees when the elevator slowed.

Then–ding.

The doors opened.

You stepped out of the elevator, the doors whispering shut behind you.

The 80th floor always had a particular stillness to it at this time of night, one that could be felt from miles away. The air was cooler here, tinged with the ever-present scent of industrial concrete, stale coffee, and the softest trace of Bob’s cedarwood laundry detergent. Someone–probably Ava–had left a sweater draped over the back of one of the common room chairs, and the hallway light above flickered once, then steadied. Everyone–but you and Bob–were sent on their own missions for the next few weeks, so the both of you had settled in this rhythmic routine of soft conversations and silence. It was peaceful, and for once you didn’t feel like you were being pulled every which way like a medieval torture device.

You bent near the wall, carefully setting down your heels with a soft clink of buckles. Then, with a quiet sigh, you toed off your fold-out flats one by one, nudging them beside the heels in a tired pile. Your toes stretched gratefully against the cold floor.

Soft sounds filtered in from the common room–a low, rhythmic rustle of fabric.

You padded forward.

Bob was sitting on the far end of the couch, folding a small pile of freshly washed clothes on the coffee table in front of him. He wore his usual nighttime uniform–dark sweatpants, slightly too-long sleeves pushed up on a navy crewneck. His light brown hair was still a little damp at the ends, like he had showered not long ago, and gave up halfway through blow drying his locks.

He didn’t notice you at first. His head was bent in quiet concentration, fingers folding a t-shirt with slow, precise care. But the second your footsteps hit the carpeted edge of the room, his head lifted.

His eyes met yours. And then, briefly–barely–they flicked down.

Your jacket had fallen open slightly, the soft beige parting just enough to reveal the satin navy-blue slip beneath. The dress caught what little light there was, glinting at the edges where it hugged your waist and dipped at the neckline. Your makeup was still intact, though your lipstick had faded, and your eyeshadow had begun to crease. But there was something else too–something vulnerable in your eyes now, without the polite mask you’d worn earlier.

Bob swallowed.

His gaze returned quickly to your face, and he offered a soft, crooked smile.

“G-Guess the d-driver wasn’t a s-serial killer, hmm?”

You shook your head with a tired huff. “Disappointing, right?” That earned a soft laugh. He shifted on the couch slightly, still holding a half-folded towel in his lap.

“H-How was the d-date?” You gave a groan that seemed to come from your soul and reached up to rub your fingers along your temple.

“Let me take my face off first,” You muttered, already turning toward the hallway. “Then I’ll divulge the gory details.”

Bob let out another quiet laugh, head tilting slightly. “A-alright. I’ll be here.”

He always was.

You made your way to your room, the door swinging quietly shut behind you. The ritual was muscle memory now: a warm shower to get the city off your skin, your fingers pulling pins from your hair one by one, the hiss of the micellar water bottle as you soaked a cotton pad and wiped away the eyeliner that always smudged more than you expected.

Fifteen minutes later, you emerged again in your night robe–pale gray and soft as clouds, cinched at the waist–and your fluffy white slippers, the thick soles muted against the floor. A cooling gel mask clung to your face, pale green and slightly shiny, promising to soothe the irritation blooming beneath your cheekbones from where you had rubbed too hard.

You looked like a woman who had been to war and came back with just enough energy to report what had happened.

Bob looked up the second he heard your approach.

You didn’t speak right away–just shuffled back into the common room and dropped into the spot on the couch beside him with a dramatic grunt, your limbs folding into the cushions like you were eighty years older than you were.

“W-Want me to get y-you a glass of wine?” He asked quietly. You nodded immediately at his offer, adjusting your robe with a small tug at the collar to cover the exposed curve of your shoulder. The cooling mask clung a little tighter as your expression settled somewhere between

Bob smiled–crooked, and fond–before rising from the couch, stretching out his long limbs, shaking off the stiffness.

He padded softly across the room, bare feet silent against the concrete floor as he stepped into the kitchen. The fridge opened with a quiet suction-pop, casting a muted glow across the space. He pulled out the bottle of red you’d been nursing your way through all week–a California Pinot Noir with plum notes and just enough bite to make you feel like your post-date venting was sophisticated instead of sad, disappointing, and embarrassing.

He poured it carefully into the large glass you always used–stemless, wide-rimmed, and shimmering from the last time you cleaned it.

Then he grabbed himself a can of lemon-lime sparkling water from the side shelf and cracked it open. The hiss echoed softly in the quiet. He grimaced slightly at the first fizz.

It tasted like the static from an old TV, but it was better than caffeine this late at night.

When he returned, he handed you the glass slowly, like he didn’t want to startle you out of the soft space you’d found yourself in.

You looked up and accepted it with both hands, the glass cool against your fingers. “Thanks, Bob.” He nodded–shy, and timid–before he reclaimed his spot beside you on the couch, legs folding underneath him as he resumed his slow, methodical folding of socks and towels and the occasional Thunderbolts t-shirt.

A beat passed.

Then: “S-So…You’re all c-comfortable now…” He paused for effect, glancing sideways with a small, expectant raise of his brows. “D-Divulge.”You let out a long sigh and stared into your wine like it might come alive and answer for you.

“It started okay,” You began. “Really. The place was nice, I actually liked the risotto. He was polite at first, made some decent small talk–asked about my job, what I do with my team. I kept it vague, obviously.”

“O-Obviously,” Bob echoed, smiling faintly as he folded another shirt.

“But then…” You took a slow sip to try and give yourself time to choose your words carefully–letting the sweet tinge of plum settle on your tongue before swallowing, “Something shifted. I don’t even know how to describe it. Just–this weird vibe started coming off him. Like I owed him something for showing up. Like just agreeing to dinner meant I was suddenly locked into…I don’t know. Some kind of romantic contract.”

Bob’s hands slowed their movement. “H-He said that?”

“No,” You muttered, shaking your head. “But he didn’t have to. He looked at me like that. And then I said I wanted to split the bill because he made this smug little comment about ‘investing’ in me.”

Bob’s face twitched. Slightly. His fingers resumed folding, carefully adding another towel to the growing pile. “And h-he didn’t like that?”

You snorted. “Not even a little. He got all passive aggressive about it. Like he was trying to hide that he was annoyed, but it was obvious. Barely made eye contact the rest of the time. Kept checking his phone. He didn’t even wait for me to get my ride.”

Bob’s jaw ticked for half a second, and you missed it. You were still staring into your wineglass, lips pressed into a faint pout that he’d seen too many times lately. He wished he didn’t love that face. He wished you didn’t have to make it so often.

“I just don’t get it,” You started quietly after a beat. “Am I giving off the wrong energy? Is there some neon sign over my head that says ’emotionally exploit me’?”

Bob’s voice came soft. Gentle.

“No,” He replied, “Y-You’re just going out with the w-wrong people…I-I’m sure if you k-keep looking you’ll find someone.” Bob swallowed hard. You could see it–how his throat moved around the sound he didn’t quite let out. His jaw flexed once, and his hand paused in the middle of folding a t-shirt, fingers tightening slightly on the fabric.

The stutter had come on stronger, and you watched as he tried to shake it off, attempting to get a handle on it, even though it wasn’t completely possible. He hated that it got worse when he was around you. There was no way for him to get rid of it–even though the lab techs in the med bay said they would try to help him–but lump the issue in with the anxiousness he felt when you came around him, it became an issue.

Bob wanted to say ‘Maybe that person is me’, he wanted to say ‘The right one could be sitting right in front of you actually’.

But instead, he stayed quiet–letting it rot in the back of his throat like a fruit that never quite ripened. Because the fear of losing this, whatever it was you shared together, was louder than any hope he might’ve harboured.

There was something tragic all poetic about it, really. How close you were, how often you leaned on him, how easily he could reach out and touch you right now–and how impossible it felt to close that final, aching inch.

You took another sip of wine, rolling it across your tongue slowly before swallowing and sighing into the glass.

”All I want is simplicity,” You muttered, eyes fixed somewhere off in the distance. Bob’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second. Then he began folding again–but his pace quickened. Not rushed. Just…focused. Sharpened. Like he couldn’t afford to let himself freeze.

His voice, when it came, was soft but pointed. “A-And w-what does that entail e-exactly…? ‘Cause if you can explain it well, y-you should put it in your profile.” You let out a surprised laugh–small and warm–and nudged your shoulder gently against his.

”Yeah,” You chuckled, “And I should absolutely put a picture of me in this face mask too…It’ll really give off an Osiris vibe.” Bob gave a breathy little laugh of his own, glancing sideways.

”I-I don’t know…M-Might give off the w-wrong impression.” You raised both brows in a mock challenge.

”Who wouldn’t want to go out on a date with the god of fertility, agriculture, the afterlife, and resurrection?” He grinned.

And for a second–just a second–it was easy. Light. You and Bob, trading quiet jokes in the warmth of low light and soft fabric piles. But then the moment shifted again, softening at the edges as the laughter tapered off.

Your voice dropped, just slightly.

“I just want…Small gestures,” You said. “To show that I’m appreciated…Like a bouquet of daisies or something…I’d take anything…”

Bob’s hands stopped moving completely.

“I don’t need extravagant dinners, or to be treated like I’m royalty,” You continued, still not looking at him directly. “I just want some… calm. This life that I lead is already so chaotic. Every mission, every city, every week is different. I want to come home to someone who–” You hesitated, just a beat, “–who will hold me. Who’ll tell me everything is alright. Who won’t ask me to be anyone except exactly who I am.”

Bob’s jaw clenched again. He didn’t realize you were watching him now. Not fully. Not in that slow, deliberate way you only looked when you were trying to see something.

And there it was–the soft pink rising at his cheeks. Not just from your words, but from the fact that he couldn’t hide how much they meant to him. How much they wrecked him.

He swallowed once more, eyes darting to the pile in front of him like it was his lifeline.

Then he cleared his throat and said–voice low, cracking slightly:

“Y-You should… P-Put that down.”

You tilted your head, amused despite the emotion threading your chest. “In my profile?”

Bob nodded quickly–too quickly. “Y-Yeah. All of it. Just—j-just like that.” There was something raw in his voice now. A quiet gentleness. Like he’d been handed a blueprint for the life he wanted most, and it was yours. You leaned back slightly against the couch cushions, one hand curling gently around your wineglass.

“You sure I’m not asking for too much?”

“O-Of course not…” Bob said, his voice low but sure, even if the edges of it still wavered. “I-It’s what you want… I-I don’t think it’s that big of an ask.”

You took a slow breath, one that stretched deep into your chest and pulled at something behind your ribs. Then you tipped back the rest of your wine, letting the last few sips warm your throat as you swallowed down the lump forming there.

You set the empty glass gently on the table and looked down at your hands, thumb brushing along the curve of your palm.

God, Bob.

You’d always known he was a good man. Not just kind, but tender in a way most men didn’t know how to be–especially in your line of work. Bob had that softness that didn’t come from fragility, but from surviving pain and choosing not to become bitter. He was loyal in a way that felt bone-deep. Present without being overbearing. He saw people. He saw you.

And the worst part was…You’d wanted him for a long time.

Not in a crush-on-your-teammate way. Not in a reckless, post-mission hookup way.

But in the quiet way. The real way.

You wanted the version of love that grew slowly between two people who already knew each other inside and out. Who’d seen one another covered in blood and grief and stubbornness. Who’d still shown up anyway. You and Bob had fallen into this rhythm over time–a pattern of mutual tending. Him reading the signs of your stress before you spoke. You reminding him to drink water, to eat, to rest. Him folding your laundry when you left it in the wash too long. You buying his favorite weird little snacks for the pantry without saying anything.

There was so much care between you. So much love, if you were brave enough to name it. But you weren’t. Not really. Because Bob had been through so much–too much–and he was still trying to heal, still trying to be here. You didn’t want to complicate that. You didn’t want to reach for more if it meant tipping the balance.

So instead, you gave him a small, quiet smile and reached out to pat his shoulder once. Just a light tap. Friendly. Familiar.

“I wish they made carbon copies of you, Bob,” you murmured.

He blinked, startled by the comment, and glanced up at you with slightly flushed cheeks. “W-W-Why’s that?”

You shrugged, playing it off like it wasn’t a dagger of truth tucked inside a half-joke.

“I think the dating pool would be a lot less disappointing,” You said casually, but your eyes lingered on him just a second too long. Your voice softened. “Maybe then I’d actually have a chance at something good.”

Bob’s brows furrowed faintly.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Tilted his head like he was trying to solve a riddle.

“W-Wait, d-do you mean–like–m-more guys who c-care about safety? Or–uh–laundry?” He asked, uncertain, lips pursed slightly.

You smiled–tight, almost fond. Of course it went over his head.

You turned back toward the couch cushion, pulling your legs beneath you and tucking your robe a little tighter at the waist.

“Never mind,” You said, voice easy and light, but your heart thudding just a little harder. “Forget I said anything.”

Bob looked at you for a moment longer, like he could sense something more behind the words but didn’t quite know how to reach it.

Then, slowly, he nodded and went back to folding.

You watched the way his fingers moved–so gentle, so meticulous. As if every wrinkle mattered. As if it was easier to smooth out cotton than the knot slowly forming in his chest.

Neither of you said anything for a long time.

But your hand stayed close to his on the cushion, only an inch away.

————————

Two days later you were walking up the familiar steps of the Watchtower again, this time with your hands deep in your jacket pockets and lips pressed into a thin, tight line.

It had started off fine–actually, better than fine. Leo had chosen something casual, a walk through Central Park with lattes in hand. Low-pressure, decent weather, and a chance to talk. You’d worn jeans this time, a cozy knit sweater tucked into a belt at your waist, a cream scarf wound loose around your neck, and boots that were comfortable enough for walking.

You tried. Yet again.

But about twenty minutes in, you realized you were asking all the questions. You asked what he did, what he liked to do, where he grew up, what kind of music he liked–trying to keep the flow natural, easy. But every time you paused to take a sip of your coffee, hoping he’d ask you something back…He didn’t. Not once.

Worse still, every other sentence seemed to reference how close his apartment was. ‘Just a few blocks up, fifteen-minute walk tops, I could make us some drinks, you like mezcal?’ You smiled through it, tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just nervous. Maybe he wasn’t great with conversation. But the more time passed, the more it felt like you were auditioning for the role of “hookup of the night.”

Eventually, you stopped walking.

“Hey…” You started, wrapping both hands around your coffee cup for warmth. “I don’t want to waste your time. You seem nice, but…I’m not really feeling a connection here.”

Leo blinked, shrugged, and gave a crooked smirk. “Well…Your loss.”

You smiled back. Not because it was funny–but because it was so damn predictable.

You peeled off from the sidewalk and ordered an Uber back to the Tower before he could say anything else.

The elevator doors whispered shut behind you as you stepped out onto the 80th floor, your boots thudding softly against the polished concrete. The air smelled different up here tonight.

Warm.

Sweet.

Soft citrus curled into your nose before you even reached the hallway–sharp and bright, softened by a buttery undercurrent that clung to the air like steam from a kettle. It smelled like sugar and zest and something just on the verge of golden brown.

Lemon.

You breathed in deeper. There was vanilla too–just a touch–folded gently beneath the tartness. Something baked. Something familiar.

Lemon poppyseed.

Of course.

You kicked your boots off by the wall, nudging them neatly beneath the little bench just outside the elevator bay. You could already hear movement coming from the kitchen–quiet shifting, the muffled rattle of a spoon against ceramic, and the hum of the oven fan cycling low in the background.

“H-How did i-it go?”

His voice came from around the corner, soft and hopeful and already laced with a nervous edge.

You paused mid-step.

For a moment, you just…Stood there. Breathing in the smell. Letting the warmth settle somewhere in your chest. Then, slowly, you reached up and unraveled your scarf from around your neck. The soft wool slipped free with a sigh of fabric, and you tossed it over the hook near the elevator. Your jacket followed, shoulders slumping as you shrugged out of it and hung it up too.

You padded forward.

“Another dud,” You announced plainly, turning into the wide open space of the Thunderbolts common kitchen. The lights were low, golden, casting soft amber glows across the granite counters and brushed steel appliances. Bob was perched at the far end of the kitchen island, elbows resting on either side of an open book, one knee pulled up on the stool.

He looked up from the pages immediately.

The sleeves of his dark thermal sweater had been shoved up to his forearms, revealing his pale blue veins that traveled up the inside of it. His cheeks were pink–not just from the oven’s warmth, but from the way your voice had settled into something tired and close. He closed the book slowly, a thumb marking the page.

“R-Really?” He asked. “I-I thought you said he w-was awesome…” You moved toward the oven without answering, hands absently dragging along the edge of the counter as you passed. Your fingers reached for the switch beside the stovetop, flicking on the tiny oven light. The inside glowed to life.

A loaf tin sat in the center rack–round and golden, the top just beginning to dome. Tiny cracks laced the surface where the batter had risen, flecked through with little black seeds. A small pool of sugar syrup had glazed part of the crust, catching the light like glass. It was almost done.

You stared at it for a beat. The warmth from the oven kissed your knees through your jeans. Then you exhaled through your nose, lips curling faintly.

“What’re you making?” You murmured, though you already knew.

He cleared his throat, sitting up a little straighter. “L-Lemon poppyseed l-loaf…Your f-favourite.”

You turned slowly to look at him over your shoulder, one brow raised, a knowing smile twitching at your mouth. “You know me too well.”

Bob flushed immediately–his chin tucking just slightly as he looked down at the book again, shifting like he didn’t know what to do with his hands now. He fiddled with the edge of the spine. “T-Thought we would be c-celebrating a successful first date…”

You let out a small, quiet laugh–not because it was funny, but because he meant it. Because he’d baked your favorite thing, timed it to be warm for your return, because he had hoped.

That was the thing with Bob. He hoped for you when you didn’t even bother anymore.

You stepped away from the oven and came around the island, hands brushing along the edge again as you moved. You leaned one hip against the stool beside him and glanced down at his book–Dune, from the looks of the cover. An older edition. His finger still held the page bookmarking it as he kept his attention on you.

You reached for the lemon syrup bowl he had left near the stove and dipped one finger into it absently, then touched it to your tongue. Tart. Warm. Sticky. He watched the way you closed your eyes for a brief moment and sighed before glancing up at him.

“Guess I don’t know how to read people too well.” Bob stared at you like he could read you better than anyone else ever had.

But he didn’t say it.

He just nodded once, shy and small, and reached for a folded tea towel beside the cooling rack, laying it out for the loaf even though it wasn’t quite ready yet.

Your eyes lingered on his hands for a second too long, and then your voice broke the silence–gentle, but teasing. You dipped your finger into the syrup again–just to give yourself something to do other than daydream about the gentleness of his touch–then licked it clean with a soft sigh and turned toward Bob.

“Why haven’t you gotten on the dating apps?” You asked, voice quiet but genuine. “I mean, I’m sure there’s a girl out there who’d be dying to have someone like you.” Bob’s head snapped up slightly, like you’d just suggested something obscene. His brows pinched together, and then he let out a nervous laugh, shaking his head almost immediately.

“N-No, no…That’d mean b-both of us would end up swapping b-bad date stories every other day,” He said, waving the idea off like it might physically catch fire in the air between you. “I-If the dating pool’s treating you this badly…I think I’d be incinerated on the first go.”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t think you’d have as much trouble as me, Bob.”

He gave you a small, confused glance. “W-Why not?”

You shrugged, your tone casual, but your eyes stayed trained on him. “Because you’re…You. You listen. You care. You’ll literally do anything to make sure someone is comfortable, and you don’t make people feel like they’re a burden. That’s…A lot more rare than you think.”

Bob blinked. Then flushed again–his jaw tightening slightly as he looked down at the tea towel like it held the answer to everything he didn’t know how to say.

He didn’t joke this time. He didn’t deflect.

Instead, his voice came soft, honest, and out of nowhere.

“I-I think you deserve someone who c-could give you the world…” Your eyes lifted to his–soft and searching, your expression unreadable for just a breath.

“You really think so?” You asked, your voice quiet. Too quiet.

Bob met your gaze, hesitant at first, like he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to look at you like this. But he nodded, slow and sure.

“O-Of course…” He said, the words trembling just slightly. “Y-You’d want the same for m-me…w-would you not?”

Your brows lifted a touch, surprised by how gently–how truthfully–he turned the question around onto you, so the spotlight would no longer be directed to him.

And for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

Then, almost instinctively, you smiled. It was small, lopsided. But real. Something soft tugged at the corner of your mouth, and you had to glance away for a moment just to keep your chest from cracking wide open.

“…Yeah,” You murmured, clearing your throat faintly. “Yeah. I would.”

It wasn’t just a platitude.

You meant it.

You wanted the world for him too. You always had.

And maybe, for the first time, you realized he knew that.

Bob blinked a few times, like he was trying to ground himself in the moment–trying not to let the weight of your answer topple him over. His hands twitched slightly on the tea towel, and he looked like he was about to say something else–something important–when–

Beep.

The oven timer broke through the silence, sharp and shrill in the golden warmth of the kitchen.

Bob jolted slightly, blinking hard as if the sound yanked him out of a dream. “O-Oh,” He breathed, rising quickly from the stool. “T-That’s the loaf.”

He turned, his sweater sleeves falling slightly down as he grabbed an oven mitt and opened the door.

Heat spilled into the kitchen in a rush–rich and fragrant. The scent of sugar and lemon intensified, thickening the air with sweetness and steam. Bob carefully slid the tin out and onto the counter, setting it on the tea towel he’d laid out earlier.

You watched as he worked–his hands steady despite the pink in his cheeks, despite the subtle tension still sitting at the base of his neck.

The moment between you still hummed there, quiet and full of everything unsaid.

But you didn’t press it. Not yet.

Because something had changed. Because even though the timer had interrupted the words, the feeling still lingered. Settled between you like the scent of lemon zest and vanilla.

You stood beside the counter as Bob leaned over the loaf, gently brushing the syrup glaze over the top with a small silicone brush, careful not to let it pool too fast.

He didn’t speak. Neither did you.

But your arms brushed once, barely.

And he didn’t move away.

You stayed there–close enough to feel the warmth rising off the pound cake, close enough to feel the air shift every time he breathed.

Close enough to wonder if maybe, just maybe…

You hadn’t been looking too deep into it at all.

————————

Three days later, you were sitting in the corner of a quiet coffee shop downtown, holding a half-full latte that had long gone cold.

The man across from you–Jason? Jordan?–was talking. About something. Work, maybe. Or CrossFit. Or how his ex still texted him sometimes, but it wasn’t weird because “she’s just not over me yet.” You’d stopped tracking it somewhere around minute seven. Your eyes were on him, your chin resting on your palm, but your mind was far, far away and sharply focused on Bob.

You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since that night in the kitchen. The smell of lemon glaze still lingered somewhere in your senses, curling around you like a memory you didn’t want to shake off. You kept replaying the sound of his voice–the way it cracked when he said you deserve someone who could give you the world. The way he looked at you when you asked if he meant it.

It wasn’t fair to sit across from someone new while thinking about him—but here you were, watching this guy check his reflection in the window for the third time while your mind looped the image of Bob brushing syrup across golden crust like it was an act of devotion.

You sipped your latte again. Cold.

“I mean, what kind of girl doesn’t like tequila?” the man asked suddenly, with a scoff and a shake of his head.

You blinked. “Hm?”

He laughed. “I said–I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like tequila. Like, if a girl says that on a date, I’m already checking out.” He grinned like it was charming. Like it was some kind of universal truth.

You offered a tight smile and checked your phone. No new messages. But Bob’s pinned thread sat right there at the top, quietly glowing like a lighthouse in fog.

“Excuse me,” You said suddenly, pushing your chair back, grabbing your coat before he could say anything else. “I just remembered I have to be somewhere.”

You didn’t wait for him to respond, you just apologized and rushed out.

The cold slapped your cheeks the moment you stepped outside the café, but you didn’t care. You didn’t even flinch.

Your boots hit the pavement hard, one after the other, your hands jammed deep in your coat pockets and your mind racing with every step. You didn’t call for a car this time. You didn’t need to. The Watchtower was just a block away–rising tall and familiar through the gray city haze like it had been waiting for you. Like he had been waiting for you.

You crossed the street on instinct, breath catching at your throat as the compound’s glass façade came into view. You didn’t even register the security team at the front desk. You just nodded once, clipped your badge at the scanner, and pushed your way through the reinforced door like it owed you answers.

The elevator opened with a quiet chime.

You stepped in, hit the button for the 80th floor, and leaned back against the mirror, exhaling through your nose.

Your fingers were trembling. You folded your arms across your chest, trying to keep still. But your hand started tapping against the side of the elevator anyway, bouncing in a quick, nervous rhythm. One. Two. Three. Tap tap tap.

This wasn’t just about the date anymore. This wasn’t about frustration or exhaustion or bad conversation. This was about Bob.

This was about all the quiet gestures. The folding of your laundry. The checking of your location to make sure you were safe. The lemon loaf. The way he had looked at you like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how. You couldn’t sit on it anymore. You couldn’t wonder if you were imagining it. You had to know.

The elevator dinged.

You stepped out.

The air on the 80th floor was warm–quiet. Like the world was holding its breath.

Your boots hit the polished concrete with familiar weight, but you kicked them off quickly near the bench, letting them thud softly as they landed side by side. You padded forward in thick socks, heart thumping loud in your ears, and turned the corner toward the common room.

“Bob?” You called softly, voice catching on the edge of your breath. “Are you here? I… I need to talk–”

You stopped mid-step.

The words caught in your throat like smoke.

Because there, right in the center of the coffee table, beneath the soft glow of the standing lamp–

Was a vase of daisies.

Your breath hitched quietly.

Not roses. Not peonies. Not anything dramatic or overt.

Just simple, white-petaled daisies–dozens of them–tall and bright and a little uneven, like he’d picked through the bunches carefully to find the right ones. The ones that felt like you. Gentle. Honest. Unassuming.

Beside the vase was a small bowl–ceramic, navy blue, the one you always used for popcorn on movie nights. But instead of popcorn, it was filled to the brim with Lindor truffles.

Every kind.

White chocolate. Dark. Sea salt. Milk. Hazelnut. Pistachio.

Your breath left you in a soft, shaky exhale.

He remembered. You’d once told him–months ago in a conversation you barely remembered yourself–that you didn’t have a favorite flavor. That you just liked the surprise of reaching in and never knowing which one you’d get. That it felt like a reward no matter what.

You stepped forward slowly, almost on instinct, like the moment would vanish if you moved too fast. You came to stand before the table, eyes wide and soft, lips parting just slightly as you reached out.

Your fingers brushed the rim of the vase.

The stems were fresh. Still damp with condensation. He must have gone out earlier today–probably snuck them in while you were on your date, hoping to surprise you when you got back. Hoping to make you smile.

And God, it worked.

Your eyes shimmered slightly–not with sadness, but with something else. Something warm and aching and full.

You smiled, small and stunned and tender.

Then you heard it–the quiet shuffle of footsteps from the hallway behind you.

You turned.

And there he was.

Bob stood just past the hallway arch, bathed in the low amber light spilling from the living room. His light brown hair was soft and fluffed at the crown, like he’d run a brush through it half a dozen times and still thought it wasn’t enough. There was a faint wave to it, the kind that always tried to curl when he let it dry naturally. His sweater–charcoal gray with sleeves pushed up to his elbows–clung slightly to the line of his shoulders, and the soft cotton of his navy sweatpants hung low on his hips, loose but familiar.

He looked so domestic it nearly broke your heart.

He froze when he saw you standing there, still in your socks, still inches from the daisies, still wrapped in the kind of silence that only ever came before something life-changing.

“I-I didn’t expect you to be b-back so early…” He stammered, eyes flicking to the door like he was trying to reorient himself in real time.

You shook your head, the corner of your mouth tugging with something soft–something bruised and full of clarity.

“I left.”

Bob blinked.

“I stopped the date,” You added, voice quiet, but steady. “I couldn’t be there anymore.”

His brows drew in with sudden concern. “A-Are you okay?”

You hesitated.

Then shook your head again–then nodded. A small, helpless sound left you, somewhere between a laugh and a breath. “No–I mean…yes, I’m okay, I just…”

Your hand lifted slightly from your side, like the words needed a physical anchor. Your fingers hovered in the air between you.

“I left because of you.”

That stopped him.

Completely.

His mouth parted slightly, confusion flickering across his face, chased by something softer–something more dangerous. Hope.

You stepped toward him.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Bob.”

His whole body stilled. His shoulders lifted–just a little–like the breath in his lungs was suddenly too big to keep quiet.

And then you said it.

“I’ve been trying so hard to pretend that it’s just friendship. That it’s just comfort. That I’m just tired or lonely or healing from something else. But it’s not. It’s never been that.”

Your voice was trembling now. But it didn’t falter.

“Every time I sit across from someone new, I realize that all I’m looking for is you. I’m hoping for your laugh, your voice, your hands. I’m comparing everything to how it feels when I’m sitting beside you on that couch folding towels and drinking wine like we’re building a life together in the quiet.”

Bob’s eyes shined. Wide and liquidy. Like the words were pouring into him faster than he could hold them.

“I don’t need someone who’ll try to impress me. I don’t want someone who’ll try to win me. I just want someone who’s already here. Who sees me, who remembers the truffles I love, who bakes lemon poppyseed loaves not because I asked–but because they knew I’d need comfort.”

Your voice cracked, and you let it bloom raw and real between you.

“I want someone whose voice I miss when I’m surrounded by people. I want someone who listens like the world goes quiet when I speak. I want you, Bob. Not a maybe. Not a someday. Not if you ever get around to feeling the same. I want you now. Exactly as you are.”

Silence stretched.

Your chest rose and fell, breathless and stripped bare.

Bob didn’t speak. He just stared–like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right. Like the words were still echoing in the space between you, too fragile to touch.

His mouth opened slightly. Then closed. His eyes flicked across your face like he was trying to memorize it again, all over again–trying to understand how something he’d wanted for so long had just unfolded in front of him like a gift he didn’t think he deserved.

You could see it–the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his chest rose too fast and shallow beneath the soft cotton of his sweater. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move.

And then he did.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Each step he took was measured, careful–like if he moved too fast, it might startle you, might wake you both up from the spell that had settled over the room like warm syrup and late summer light. And the closer he got, the more the air shifted.

That scent–his scent–wrapped around you before he even reached you. Clean cedar. Fresh laundry. Something faintly earthy, like he’d gone out earlier and carried the scent of wind back with him. It hit you like a comfort you hadn’t realized you’d been starving for. And then he was right in front of you.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

He just looked at you.

And then his hands rose and found your cheeks.

Warm. Gentle.

His thumbs swept forward, brushing softly beneath your eyes, tracing the delicate skin there like it mattered to him more than anything. And maybe it did. His fingers curled along your jaw, tilting your face just enough to meet his eyes.

They were glassy blue–pale and bright and shining with something barely held back. The kind of color that looked like sky at the edge of winter, but deeper somehow. More infinite. His lashes fluttered just once as he took you in, as if he couldn’t believe you were real. His gaze searched every inch of your face–your lips, your brows, your tear-glossed lashes–like you were a question he already knew the answer to.

He was smiling.

So soft.

So vulnerable.

Like it hurt, but in the best way.

“I-I’m very sure y-you know how I f-feel…” he whispered, voice fraying around the edges. “I… I t-think it’s obvious…R-Right?” You couldn’t breathe, not with him this close. Not with that look in his eyes. But your hand lifted–nervous, slow–and slid to the back of his, pressing your palm against his knuckles where they cupped your cheek.

“…Can you say it?” You whispered, barely audible. Your voice cracked on the last word.

Bob’s breath hitched.

His forehead tipped down, brushing just slightly against yours as he closed his eyes for a moment, gathering himself. You could feel it in the way his chest trembled when he exhaled. And then he nodded–just once, almost imperceptibly.

“I-I love you.”

The words were quiet and raw. Just pure truth.

“I’ve l-loved you for months,” He added, his breath hot against your cheek. “I–I just didn’t know how to say it without losing you.” You made a soft sound, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, and his eyes opened again–so blue, so open it made your knees weak.

“You’re not losing me,” You whispered.

Bob gave you the smallest smile—barely a curve, barely a breath—but it lit up every inch of his face. His eyes glimmered, lashes low as they flicked down…

To your mouth.

And God help you, your gaze did the same.

You saw it happen—the moment everything between you shifted. The air went still, thicker somehow, humming with anticipation. Your chests rose in perfect rhythm, and when your eyes met again, it was like every hesitation had burned away under the weight of the moment.

You leaned in at the same time.

Not fast.

Not urgent.

But with a certainty that stole the breath straight from your lungs.

Your lips met with a soft, searing press–a sigh shared in skin.

Warm. Delicate. Then deeper.

Bob kissed like he’d been waiting his entire life for it.

He tilted his head just slightly to the side, coaxing you closer with a trembling inhale against your mouth. His lips parted slow, brushing yours again–this time with more heat, more surety–and you responded in kind, your fingers curling into the soft cotton of his sweater as your body folded into his.

You could feel it in the way his chest moved–tight, uneven, like the kiss had undone something at the center of him. His hands left your face then, slow and reverent, sliding down the line of your neck, over your shoulders, down your sides until his fingers found the soft denim belt loops at your waist.

He tugged gently.

And you stepped into him like you were meant to be there.

The front of your body pressed against his fully now–your sweater brushing his, your belt buckle hitting just right against the soft curve of his hips. He pulled you closer by those loops, anchoring you there as his mouth moved against yours with more purpose.

This wasn’t a tentative kiss.

This was discovery.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize everything–how your breath caught when his tongue teased the edge of your bottom lip, how your fingers fisted tighter in his shirt when he deepened the kiss just slightly, how you sighed into him like you were pouring your soul through your mouth.

And God, the sound he made when you kissed him back like that–a low, broken hum that spilled from his chest and straight into your skin–made your knees falter. He caught you without thinking, his arms tightening around your waist as he walked you backward gently.

Your knees hit the couch with a gentle bump, and Bob slowed just enough to ease the kiss, to make sure you were still with him–still saying yes in every way your mouth and hands and breath could offer it. His lips lingered against yours for one last soft brush before he pulled back just slightly, just enough to breathe.

His eyes searched yours–wide, awestruck, dazed with heat and disbelief. His breath was shallow, his chest rising fast against yours. He looked drunk on you. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like it was better than any dream he’d dared to have.

“That was…” He whispered, voice raw and ragged. “That was b-better than what I-I imagined.”

Your lips curled into a smile. Slow. Deep. Smug in the softest, most tender way.

“You’ve been imagining this?”

Bob flushed instantly–pink rising to his cheeks, to the tips of his ears. But he didn’t deny it.

“…Every night,” He murmured, like it was a confession too intimate to speak aloud, but too honest to bury. “S-Since the mission in Prague. W-When you fell asleep in my room…And you–”

You didn’t let him finish. You leaned up and kissed him again–fast, needy, grateful.

He groaned softly into your mouth, and then he moved.

One arm wrapped behind your thighs, the other around your back, and with a soft grunt of effort and a gentle grip, Bob lifted you–just enough to make you gasp quietly against his lips.

You clung to him instinctively, your arms winding around his shoulders as he eased you down onto the couch, laying you out gently across the cushions. His body followed, covering yours in one slow motion. His weight was careful, braced on his forearms, but the closeness was unbearable in the best way. Every line of him pressed against you–chest to chest, hips cradled between your legs, the fabric of his sweatpants brushing your jeans.

The world outside that couch didn’t exist anymore.

Not the cold, not the city, not the weight of bad dates or missed signals or time spent pretending. There was only this–the heat of his body pressed to yours, the sharp rise and fall of his breath, the way your legs cradled his hips like you were carved to fit him there. His nose brushed yours once–just the lightest touch–before his mouth returned to yours with a kiss slower than the last. A little deeper. A little more certain.

Then he pulled back just enough to press his forehead to yours again. His breath ghosted across your lips, shaky and uneven, and his eyes fluttered closed for half a second like he needed a moment to just exist inside the feeling.

“C-Can I…?” He whispered, the words barely a sound. His hands hadn’t moved—still braced beside your ribs, still careful not to overwhelm you with his weight. “C-Can I kiss you there…? J-Just your neck, I—” He swallowed hard. “I-I’ve imagined it s-so many times…” Your heart thudded in your chest, and you tilted your head without a word, exposing the soft skin that lined your neck and slipped beneath the collar of your sweater.

And that was all it took.

Bob bent slowly, reverently, until his mouth met the curve of your throat. His lips brushed there once–so gentle it felt more like breath than contact–before he kissed again, then again, a little lower each time. His nose nuzzled against your skin, and you could feel the way his breath stuttered as his lips found the hollow just above your collarbone. He lingered there. Soft. Warm. Like he needed the taste of your skin to make sure this was real.

You reached up slowly, fingers weaving into his hair, and the soft sound that left his chest–half a whimper, half a sigh–nearly undid you. His mouth parted against your neck and he kissed deeper this time, tongue flicking out to taste you with a need so gentle it ached.

“You’re so…” He murmured between kisses, lips brushing the base of your jaw, “s-so beautiful…”

Your breath hitched as you felt him mouth along your pulse, each kiss more tender than the last.

“B-Bob…”

The sound of his name in your voice–it wrecked him.

He lifted his head, eyes heavy with awe, and looked down at you like you were the center of the universe. Like he’d been holding back every star just to make sure they didn’t blind you. His fingers moved finally, trembling as they skimmed along your waist, slipping beneath the hem of your sweater with devastating care.

“I… I want to see you,” He whispered, and even though the words were quiet, they carried the weight of everything he’d never let himself say. “I w-want to kiss all of you. I w-want you to feel how long I’ve been waiting…”

You lifted your arms in silent answer.

He tugged your sweater up slowly–inch by inch–like every new patch of skin was something sacred. His eyes never left you. Not even when the fabric caught at your elbows, not even when it bared your ice white bra and the delicate slope of your waist beneath. He was trembling when he helped you sit up just enough to pull it the rest of the way off, his breath hitching as he took in the sight of you–soft and flushed beneath him, chest rising fast.

“Oh my god…” He breathed, voice frayed and full of light. “You’re…y-you’re unreal…” You could see him drinking you in. His hands moved on their own now, cupping the sides of your ribs, thumbs brushing up just beneath the line of your bra. But even then–trembling and overwhelmed–he looked up at you for permission, eyes wide, desperate for yes.

You gave it with a kiss–hot and slow and aching–and his body folded into you like it was breaking.

His hands moved with more certainty now, finding the clasp at your back, undoing it with a shaky exhale. You felt the tension melt out of him when the bra slipped away and your bare chest was revealed. His mouth parted slightly. His pupils blew wide. His gaze swept over you like poetry he didn’t know how to write.

Then he bent.

And kissed the swell of your breast–so gentle, it made your back arch into him desperate for more. His lips lingered there for a moment, breathing warmth onto your skin before giving a soft, open-mouthed kiss that left heat blooming across your skin. He moved with aching restraint, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you with his mouth. You gasped as his tongue slipped out to taste you, the barest flick before he suckled gently at the skin, then moved down again. His breath hitched as his lips dragged along the swell just above your nipple, and his fingers dug tighter into your waist like he needed grounding.

“You smell so good,” He whispered hoarsely, words barely audible against your skin. “Y-You taste like…Like vanilla and heaven and–God, I don’t know, I…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

His mouth moved lower again, and this time he parted his lips around the top of your breast and sucked–softly, then increasing the intensity. You felt the pull of it all the way down your spine. His teeth grazed just slightly before his tongue smoothed over it, like an apology and a promise in one. Your back arched, your fingers threading tighter into his hair, and that made him groan. Deep in his throat. Almost possessive.

And then he did it again.

A slower suck. Firmer. Longer.

And then another.

He moved to the other side, leaving your skin glistening and flushed in his wake. And now you felt it–cool air where his mouth had just been, and the slow, heady sting blooming beneath the surface as blood rushed up to meet the bruises he was pressing into you.

Little love bites.

He was marking you.

Not out of control, not careless–but worshipfully. Intimately. He wanted to see the proof of how much he adored you, how much you wanted this. Wanted him.

His hair had fallen forward now–messy, loose strands tickling across your chest, brushing against your collarbone and the top of your stomach. The softness of it contrasted the way his mouth worked–hot and unrelenting now, like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t want to.

You whimpered–soft, broken–and he moaned at the sound, dragging his lips down again to leave another kiss, another suck, another blooming ache just above your rib cage.

When he finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, he lifted his head and stared down at you.

At the marks.

His eyes darkened. And a smile–barely there, but unmistakably real–curved the corner of his mouth.

He looked proud.

His thumb traced one of the little bruises, and he hummed softly, like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever made. “C-Can’t believe… I get to do this,” he murmured, voice rough with disbelief and reverence.

And then he bent lower, slowly, slowly, until his mouth hovered over your nipple.

His breath hit you first. Hot. Shaky.

Then–just once–he sucked.

A soft, teasing pull that made your whole body jolt.

“B-Bob…” You whispered, your voice shaking like it couldn’t contain the sound of his name and the feeling at once.

He looked up at you through his lashes, hair falling into his eyes, lips still parted over your skin.

“I-I’m sorry,” He whispered, but the wicked glint in his eyes betrayed him. “I-I’ve wanted this f-for so long… I c-can’t go slow anymore…”

And then he closed his mouth over you fully.

Heat exploded through your chest as he sucked harder this time, tongue circling, flattening, flicking over your nipple in fast, rhythmic passes. He moaned again–loud and broken–like just having you like this in his mouth was overwhelming him.

His hand came up to cup your other breast, thumb brushing the peak, coaxing it to life while his mouth ravaged the first.

You arched against him, hips lifting, your fingers tugging his hair hard now–and that only made him groan louder. He pressed himself closer to you, grinding just a little, like he couldn’t help it, like the pleasure of this was sinking through every inch of him and setting his nerves on fire.

His mouth worked with feverish devotion–sucking, licking, pulling until the pleasure had you gasping, trembling, whispering his name like it was a prayer.

When he finally released you, your nipple wet and swollen from his mouth, he kissed it once more–soft, lingering.

Then his voice came again, low and reverent.

“You’re…Y–You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He was visibly shaking.

His eyes were glassy with heat, with awe, with everything he’d been holding back for months.

And still… He wanted more.

Bob’s lips lingered against your chest, breath coming in shallow waves, his mouth still slick from the last kiss he’d left on your skin. His hand was trembling slightly where it cupped the side of your waist, and when he pulled back just enough to look at you, the blue in his eyes was molten–liquid with heat, gentleness, and just a trace of hesitation.

“W-We…W-we can stop now, if you want…” He whispered, voice raw and uneven. “I-I know we’re going, like…R-Really fast right now and I just–”

You shook your head immediately, too fast, your hand reaching for his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek like you needed him to hear you–really hear you.

“No. No, I like this,” You said, breathless but sure. “Fast is fine with me. Please don’t stop.” Bob’s brows lifted just slightly, his expression wrecked with awe and something softer–something close to disbelief

“A-Are you sure?” he asked, the words catching on the edge of a breath. “I-I don’t wanna mess this up. I don’t wanna rush y-you or–”

You cut him off with a whisper

“I haven’t been touched like this in over a year, Bob.”

His breath hitched hard in his throat. His lips parted, but he didn’t speak.

“I forgot what it was like,” You continued, voice cracking with emotion and need, “To want someone to touch me this badly. To feel good with it. Safe with it. Wanted like this. Like I’m…Something you can’t stop worshipping.”

Bob made a quiet, broken noise in the back of his throat. His hand fisted gently in the cushion beside your head, his whole body taut with restraint. You pulled him closer, your leg curling around his hip as your voice dropped even lower–soft and hot against the shell of his ear.

“I want to feel all of you. I want to feel your hands everywhere. Your mouth, your breath, the way you look at me like I’m yours. I don’t want to slow down, Bob. Not with you. I’ve been waiting a long time… And it’s only ever been you in the back of my mind.”

A shudder rolled through him like a wave. His head dropped to your shoulder for a beat, breath heaving once, twice, as he soaked in your words.

When he lifted it again, something had changed in his eyes.

There was no hesitation now. No uncertainty. Just wonder. Just hunger. Just the overwhelming need to give you everything.

His hand slid down to your thigh, trembling but firm, and his voice was barely above a whisper as he pressed his forehead to yours and spoke.

“O-Okay,” He said, with a nod so soft it felt like a vow, and then he kissed you again–deep and devastating and full of everything he had left to give. His tongue swept into your mouth with a low, muffled groan, meeting yours in a rhythm that made your thighs clench around his hips. You kissed him like you needed to breathe him in–open-mouthed, gasping, letting the slick heat of it slide between your teeth as your fingers curled into the back of his neck. His moan vibrated against your mouth, and you swallowed it down, letting the sound melt between the drag of your tongues and the quiet, breathless whimpers it drew from both of you.

It was messy in the best way–saliva slicking the seam of your lips, the soft pull of his bottom lip between your teeth, the desperate glide of his mouth returning to yours like he couldn’t stay away for more than a second. Your fingers drifted down from his neck–shaky and eager–sliding past his collarbone to the hem of his sweater.

You tugged once.

Bob pulled back from the kiss, breath shuddering, and looked down at you with flushed cheeks and glistening lips. A string of wet heat broke between your mouths as he hovered just above you, eyes dark, dazed, and wrecked with reverence.

He reached behind his head and took hold of the back of his sweater–then in one slow, fluid motion, pulled it over his head and tossed it aside.

It hit the floor with a soft thud. Your breath caught.

The sight of him–bare and warm and glowing in the soft amber light–made your stomach tighten with want.

His chest was all soft muscle and broad lines, defined but not super intense, he looked strong without even trying. There were faint shadows where his ribs curved beneath smooth skin, and a constellation of freckles scattered across his chest and shoulders like the stars had kissed him once and left their mark. You traced them with your eyes, then your hands, fingers feathering over the slope of his abdomen, feeling the warmth of him, the subtle tremble in his stomach as you dragged your touch lower.

There were beauty marks near his ribs. A scar just beneath one. A thin, faded line on his left hip. You memorized each one like they were holy things.

His breath hitched.

He looked down at you, blinking slowly, and then he smirked. Just barely. Just enough to steal your breath all over again.

“That s-suit…” He rasped, eyes flicking across your face as your hands continued their soft exploration, “R-Really doesn’t do all of this justice.”

You let out a breathy laugh, thumb brushing a freckle near his sternum. “What, the Sentry suit?” You teased, eyebrows lifting as you let your gaze drag down his torso again. “No kidding. That thing hides the good stuff.” Bob’s laughter was soft and hoarse–more a puff of breath than a full sound–but it shook through him all the same.

His shoulders trembled slightly as he ducked his head, the flush creeping up from his chest to stain his neck and cheeks a deep rose. He shook his head slowly, strands of light brown hair falling over his brown, then looked back down at you with a gaze so open and adoring it made your heart lurch.

“Y-You’re ridiculous,” He whispered, smiling like he didn’t know what to do with how much he wanted you. Your fingers brushed slowly down the center of his chest, and he shivered under the touch. His breath caught, and before you could say anything else, he reached down gently–his hand curling around your wrist like it was made for his palm. He brought it up between your bodies, eyes never leaving yours.

Then, with infinite care, he pressed a kiss to your palm.

It was slow. Hot. The kind of kiss that burned straight into your skin and stayed there. His lips parted slightly as they brushed your hand, and the sigh he breathed out as he kissed it again–so tender, so loving–made your throat tighten.

“C-Can I take your j-jeans off?” He asked, voice barely above a breath, almost shy despite the way his eyes darkened with want.

You nodded.

His expression flickered–relief, desire, awe–and then he shifted. Slowly. Carefully.

Bob sat back on his heels between your legs, hands moving to the waistband of your jeans with trembling fingers. He leaned down as he worked the button open, pressing a kiss just beneath your navel, right where your stomach dipped gently in.

You gasped.

And he paused, glanced up at you, searching for permission.

“Please,” You whispered, your voice breaking slightly from how badly you wanted it. “Keep going.”

He nodded–swallowed hard–and began to shimmy the jeans down.

He kissed his way down with them.

Every inch he uncovered, he honored. The denim slid inch by inch over your hips, down your thighs, and as it went, his mouth followed. He kissed the curve of your hipbone, the soft dip above your inner thigh, the top of your kneecap. His nose nuzzled into the skin as he worked, lips brushing tenderly along the sensitive flesh of your upper legs, and every kiss made you twitch, gasp, sigh.

By the time your jeans were completely off and tossed to the side, you were panting—half from anticipation, half from the weight of his mouth on your skin.

Bob’s hands ran up your calves, slow and wide-palmed, then curled behind your knees, spreading you open just a little more, until you were fully on display for him. His gaze dropped then.

And when it landed, it stuck.

You could see his breath catch. His mouth parted slightly as his eyes took you in—laid out beneath him in a delicate black pair of underwear trimmed in lace, the shape of your body flushed and trembling and framed by the soft glow of the room.

His fingers drifted toward your hips again, calloused pads skimming along the waistband.

He swallowed.

“V-Very pretty…” he whispered, almost reverent. “So, so pretty…”

Your face burned. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your chest, your neck. Not from embarrassment. From the intensity of the way he looked at you. Like you were something priceless. Like he wanted to take hours just exploring every inch of you.

His fingertips traced the lace slowly–just once–before he bent down again.

This time, he kissed just above the waistband. Soft, warm, slow. Then lower.

A gentle nibble at the curve of your lower stomach made you jolt, your breath catching in your throat as your hips twitched under his mouth. He kissed the spot soothingly, tongue brushing the skin like an apology–or a tease–and then did it again, just a little to the left.

You whimpered. And he smiled against your skin.

“You’re so warm here,” he murmured, brushing his nose along your lower belly. “S-So soft…”

His hands caressed your thighs, thumbs rubbing gentle circles near the crease where they met your hips. You felt your legs fall even wider at his touch, inviting him in, your fingers tangled tight in the couch cushion now, fighting the urge to cry out from how badly you wanted him.

Bob looked up then, his breath hot against your stomach.

“I… I d-don’t want to rush this part,” He whispered. “I-I want to remember every single second of it.” And then he kissed your belly again–longer this time, slower. His lips parted against your skin, and his breath fanned out in warm, reverent waves as his hands slid down to anchor you by the hips.

He looked like a man starving.

And you were going to be his first meal.

Your bottom lip slipped between your teeth as your hips lifted–barely, instinctively–chasing the heat of his mouth like it was the only thing that could soothe the ache blooming inside you. Bob let out a soft laugh, low and wrecked, the sound curling in his throat like smoke.

“P-Patience,” He murmured, the word half-teasing, half-sincere, as he kissed the sensitive skin just below your belly button again. “I–I wanna savor this…All of you…” You whimpered, the sound involuntary, and he moaned softly in return, like the sound alone had done something to him.

Then his hands slid down.

They curved around your hips again, warm and steady, and you felt the fabric of your underwear catch under his fingers–tugging gently, down your thighs. His mouth followed, lips brushing every newly revealed inch, teeth grazing the soft skin just above your hipbone as he slowly pulled the lace past your knees, then down over your calves. You lifted your legs for him, obedient, trembling, and he pulled them the rest of the way off, tossing the panties to the side without looking.

Bob shifted on the couch again—his body moving fluidly, slowly, like he didn’t want to jostle a single nerve in you. He settled lower, then gently reached for your legs.

“C’mere…” He instructed, voice thick and shaking as his hands slid beneath your knees.

He lifted one leg, then the other, and placed them over his broad shoulders with exquisite care–his palms gliding down the backs of your thighs before curling around to brace you, spreading you open for him. Your breath caught at the position–so exposed, so vulnerable–but Bob didn’t take his eyes off you as he adjusted, settling his weight between the cushions and anchoring himself close to the edge of the couch.

His breath hitched the moment he looked down.

You saw the awe flood his face–the wide, hungry eyes, the parting of his lips, the quick, sharp intake of breath that sounded almost pained.

“C-Can’t believe y-you’re this wet from j-just kissing me…” He commented, voice ragged and hoarse with disbelief.

Your cheeks burned. Your breath came faster. But you didn’t look away.

“I’ve been aching for you, Bob,” you whispered, voice raw with truth, “You have no idea what you do to me…” Bob let out a small whimper, and then his gaze dropped again. His hands smoothed down your thighs, thumbs gliding reverently over the soft skin before slipping outward to spread you wider–just enough to bare you fully to his eyes. He looked like a man who’d found something holy. His lashes lowered briefly. Then he bowed his head.

And kissed you.

Not where you thought he would. Not yet.

He kissed your right thigh–just inside, just above the crease–soft and slow. Then your left. Then lower, right above your knee. And then he returned to the center, placing a final kiss high up between your thighs, right above your aching core.

It was gentle.

Like he was making an offering.

Or a promise.

A cross traced in heat and mouth and meaning.

Then he exhaled–and the warm gust of his breath ghosted across your slickness, and you whimpered again, hips twitching upward. His gaze flicked up to meet yours one last time.

Then he lowered his head…And tasted you.

His tongue didn’t drag.

It pressed in with a short, purposeful stroke–just enough to part you, just enough to collect the slickness waiting there. His mouth sealed around the heat of you, and he groaned. Loud. Shattered. As if the flavor of you had broken him open from the inside.

“God…” He groaned against you. “Y-You taste so s-sweet.” He dove back in.

No more teasing. No more waiting.

Bob’s mouth opened fully, tongue licking again–slow but deliberate–lapping in tight, precise motions as he held your thighs wide around his shoulders. His nose brushed just against your mound as he angled in deeper, and the moment his tongue swiped over your clit–just once–you gasped aloud, back arching off the cushions.

“B-Bob–!”

He moaned again at the sound of his name–drawn out, broken, overwhelmed. His hands held you steady now, fingers digging slightly into your skin as his mouth worked with growing confidence and hunger. He licked again–short strokes, then longer ones. His tongue flattened and dragged through you like he was savoring every drop, then circled your clit with devastating patience, only to pull back and kiss the tender, flushed skin around it again like he was apologizing for the pressure.

You were trembling.

Every touch, every flick of his tongue sent lightning up your spine. You were so sensitive and yet not enough. Your fingers buried in his hair, fisting it tight, pulling him closer. He groaned at that, the vibration of it sending another wave of pleasure through your core.

“P-Please don’t stop,” you gasped, voice cracking.

His answer was another lick–firmer, more focused, his tongue curling at the end to pull a strangled cry from your throat. He latched on then–mouth sealed over your clit, tongue flicking in a rhythm that felt like worship, felt like penance, felt like a man trying to pray with his mouth and be answered through your moans.

And he was.

Because you were moaning for him now, falling apart under the heat and wet and weight of it all. Your thighs quivered, toes curling against the couch cushions, and your voice turned to broken breaths and whimpers, each one gasping his name between sobs of pleasure.

You could feel it building–already, too fast–coiling low and molten in your belly. But you didn’t want to stop him. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Especially when Bob pulled back for just a moment–just long enough to murmur:

“I c-can’t stop, Y/N…Y-You taste too good…”

And then he was back again, eating you with feverish reverence, moaning like the pleasure was mutual, like he was addicted to the slick heat of you and had no plans to come up for air. The wet, obscene sounds of his lips moving against you filled the room, thick and echoing off the walls like music made just for you.

Then his hand moved.

You felt it the moment the heat of his palm slipped from your thigh, slow and steady, like he didn’t want to lose an ounce of pressure from where he held you open for him. But he let go, trailing his palm upward, over the sensitive crease of your hip, then lower…Lower…Until his fingers hovered just beneath the place his mouth was devouring.

You gasped as two thick fingers dragged through your slick heat–teasing, testing, coated instantly in the arousal spilling from you in waves. And then, with the same aching care he’d used to undress you, Bob pushed them in slowly, curling slightly.

Your body jolted.

“Ah–fuck, Bob–!” Your hips lifted off the couch, back arching violently as the stretch filled you in a way nothing else had, in a way that made your head spin and your toes curl and your lungs seize on a sob.

Bob moaned against your clit like your voice alone could shatter him. His fingers stilled for just a moment, buried inside you, and then he pulled back slightly–just enough to look up, lips wet and swollen, chin slick with your arousal.

“Y-You like that?” He asked, breathless, his voice cracking at the end with the weight of it. “D-Does that feel good?”

You couldn’t even form words. You nodded hard, trembling, your hand fisting tighter in his hair.

His lips parted in a dazed smile. “G-Good. That’s… God, you’re so tight around me…” His fingers curled gently inside you, stroking the front of your walls in a slow, searching rhythm–testing, learning, worshipping.

And then he ducked his head again.

And sucked.

Your clit disappeared into the hot, wet seal of his mouth just as his fingers pumped into you again–this time firmer, faster, curling on every thrust. The pressure of his mouth matched the rhythm of his hand, and the combination sent lightning straight through your core.

Your thighs trembled on either side of his head, muscles spasming as you cried out, hips rocking in time with the rhythm he’d set.

His tongue flicked over your clit again–fast and tight and focused–and you keened. Loud. Desperate.

“B-Bob–please–don’t stop–”

He groaned in answer, the sound vibrating right against your nerves. He sucked harder, then released you with a pop and murmured hotly against your skin:

“S-Say it…”

You gasped, hips stuttering.

His fingers curled again. Slipped deeper. Rubbed just right.

“Say it,” He moaned. “T-Tell me how much you l-like it. Please. I-I need to hear it. Please–”

Your head fell back against the cushions, neck bared, eyes fluttering shut as your body began to unravel. You were so close. So, so close.

“I love it,” You sobbed, voice cracking. “God, Bob–I love it–I love the way you’re touching me, please don’t stop, I’m gonna–”

He moaned at your words like they were a blessing–his mouth sealing over your clit again, tongue lashing in tight circles, fingers thrusting in perfect time. He was desperate with it now–mouth and hand working together in a rhythm that shook you to your bones, each movement driving you closer and closer to the edge.

“J-Just like that,” He whispered raggedly between strokes. “W-Want you to come for me…W-Want to feel you break…”

And then he sucked again. Hard.

Your orgasm ripped through you like a wave crashing into the shore.

You cried out–raw, loud, trembling beneath him as your walls clenched around his fingers, your thighs shaking, back arching high off the couch as your climax tore through every nerve ending. He moaned against you, riding it out, never stopping–his tongue slower now, soothing, coaxing you through it as your body spasmed in his hold.

Even when your cries turned to gasps, then to broken sobs, Bob didn’t let go.

His movements stilled inside you, fingers curled as if holding your heartbeat in his palm.

And then, slowly he pulled his mouth away and looked up at you.

Your thighs were still shaking. Your chest was heaving. Your skin was flushed, dewed with sweat, lips parted, eyes glassy with the kind of bliss that rewrote memories.

Bob’s lips were red and swollen, and his chin was glistening with your arousal.

Bob’s chest was rising fast. His lips were swollen, chin slick with you, breath still uneven as he blinked up from between your thighs like he’d just emerged from a dream he never wanted to wake from. His fingers gently slipped from inside you, slow and careful, glistening with the aftermath of your release.

“I-I don’t know w-what you do to taste that good…” he murmured, voice hoarse and reverent. His eyes never left yours as he gently lowered your legs from his shoulders, his hands lingering on your thighs like he didn’t want to let go. “…B-But I’m going to want to t-taste you on a daily basis.”

Your breath caught.

The warmth of his words settled in your stomach like a second pulse. Your fingers flexed where they still clutched the couch cushions, your thighs trembling as he shifted upward, bracing one palm near your hip for balance.

But then…His eyes flicked down.

You followed them–lower, between your bodies–and saw it too.

The thick line of him, straining against his sweatpants. The dark, damp spot blooming near the waistband. The outline of his erection was impossible to miss, thick and long, twitching visibly beneath the soft fabric like he’d been trying to keep still and failing. Your breath hitched. It had been so long… and he was–

Bob saw where you were looking and stilled completely.

“I-I…w-we can stop here,” he said quickly, breath catching, voice laced with concern even as arousal made his cheeks flush a deeper red. “If you’re not ready, I–it’s okay, I swear.”

You looked up at him. The way he was shaking slightly. The way his hair fell messily across his forehead. The way his mouth was still wet with your pleasure.

And something inside you lit up.

“No,” You whispered.

You reached for him–slowly, reverently–your palm resting gently over the hard ridge in his sweatpants.

“I don’t want to stop,” You murmured, fingers curling slightly over the thick outline beneath the fabric. “Not even a little.”

Bob let out a soft, broken breath, but he didn’t move–not yet. You leaned up slowly, pressing your lips to his jaw, letting your voice brush across his skin like silk.

“I want you,” you whispered, softer now. “All of you. I want to feel you inside me. I want to be full of you. I want to fall apart with you.”

Bob made a low, ragged sound in his throat, like he’d been hit. The muscles in his stomach tightened as you continued, voice barely a breath now.

“I want to feel you lose control inside me, Bob. I want to know what it feels like when someone loves me that deeply.” His hesitation shattered.

He surged up and off the couch for only a moment, just enough to strip.

His sweatpants hit the floor, followed quickly by the soft cotton of his boxers.

And when he straightened again, you saw him.

Your breath caught. Your eyes widened. He was…Beautiful. And daunting.

Thick. Long. Flushed red at the tip and leaking, veined and curved with a weight that made your thighs clench in anticipation and awe. Even with how wet you were—how utterly undone you’d already been by his mouth and his fingers—it was clear this would be a stretch.

Bob followed your gaze and immediately blushed, a deep, flustered pink rising up his chest and staining his cheeks.

“A-Are you o-okay?” He asked gently,

“You’re just…Really big. And it’s been a while.” Bob’s brows furrowed slightly, gaze darting back to your face as he lowered himself between your legs again, careful, attentive, bracing one palm beside your shoulder.

You reached up to cradle the back of his neck, grounding him.

“You’re going to have to be a little gentle with me,” you said, your voice low, reverent. “I think I’m going to need to adjust to your size.”

Something in his expression broke–melted.

He looked down at himself, then back at you, and nodded. Slow. Careful. In awe.

“O-Okay,” He nodded, like it was a promise. “I-I’ll go slow. I s-swear.”

You leaned back, spreading your thighs open for him. Welcoming him in. His hands found your knees, slid slowly down to your hips, and he settled into the cradle of your body–bare skin to bare skin, heat meeting heat.

Then his mouth found yours again.

This kiss was different. Wet with the taste of your own release, it was heady, consuming. You could taste yourself on his lips–sweet and a little salty from the sweat of your skin–and the intimacy of it made you whimper into his mouth. Your hands slid up the warm lines of his back, curling over his shoulders as his tongue stroked yours in slow, languid passes.

He tasted like want. Like you, and like something ethereal.

When he pulled back, he kissed your jaw, your cheek, the soft spot beneath your ear, and then whispered:

“A-Are you ready?”

You nodded. Breathless. Eyes wide and glassy. His mouth pressed to your neck again with wet aching lips brushing just beneath your ear before trailing slowly down to the curve of your shoulder. You could feel the tremble in his breath, the way he lingered there, like he was gathering himself.

Then you felt his hand move between your bodies.

Careful. Gentle. Fingers trembling slightly as he reached down and took himself in hand, nudging gently between your thighs.

The weight of him settled against your entrance–hot and heavy, already slick from your arousal. You both gasped at the contact. Bob’s breath stuttered, his forehead pressing to yours for a moment as he adjusted, dragging the head slowly through your folds, coating himself in the evidence of how badly you wanted him.

“I-I just wanna m-make sure it’s easy…” he whispered, voice thin with restraint. He leaned back slightly on one arm, propping himself up so he could see you. His eyes flicked to your face, searching.

Terrified.

Like he was afraid you wouldn’t say anything even if it hurt.

And then slowly he moved his hips and started to push in.

The pressure bloomed instantly. It wasn’t painful, but there was a stretch, heat, and fullness that pulsed through you. You gasped, lips parting around a soft, unbidden sigh as the head of him slipped past that first resistance. Your hips shifted instinctively, your hands curling tighter into the muscle of his arm.

Bob froze immediately. “A-Are you okay?” He asked, his blue irises searching you, wide and worried.

You nodded, breath catching. “Y-Yeah,” You whispered, “I-It’s just a little overwhelming…” He exhaled shakily, chest shuddering, and leaned down to kiss your cheek. Then your nose. Then the corner of your mouth.

“S-Sorry,” He said softly, pressing another kiss just below your eye. “I–I’ll keep going s-slow, promise. Y-You’re doing so good…”

You moaned softly at the praise, your hand sliding up to his bicep again. It was taut beneath your palm, flexing slightly as he braced himself, inching deeper with agonizing care. You felt every centimeter. The stretch, the drag, the slow, steady push. And with each inch, the pressure grew–delicious and deep. He took your hand then–your free one–and brought it to his mouth. Kissed it. Soft and lingering. Then he laced your fingers together, his grip firm but tender as he pressed in deeper still.

“You feel so warm…” He moaned, “Y-You’re so p-perfect Y/N.” You pulsed around him, involuntarily, and he groaned–a low broken sound escaping his chest. He brought his hips forward just a little more, a sigh of relief coming from him, now that he was fully inside you.

Your hips adjusted slightly beneath him. You felt stretched open, filled completely, every inch of you claimed by the weight and warmth of his body, like he was blanketing you from the rest of the world. A whimper broke from your throat.

Bob’s face crumpled. He looked down at you like he was witnessing something sacred. His eyes were wide, glassy, blown dark with awe. You could feel the subtle twitch of his cock inside you–your sound had undone him.

“Y-You okay?” He asked, so softly it barely made it past your ear. You nodded, dazed by all the sensations that flooded your body.

“You…I’ve never felt this full be…Before…It’s just a lot.” You breathed. Bob swallowed hard. He ducked down, pressing his lips to yours with trembling reverence, and then shifted–slipping his arm carefully beneath your neck. He cradled you against him, drawing you closer so that your chests pressed together, your heartbeats stumbling in time.

“I-I’ll hold you,” He murmured. “I’ll kiss you the whole time. J-Just breathe, sweetheart…”

You nodded, lips brushing his, and then he moved.

Slowly. Gently. A careful pull back–just an inch–before he rocked forward again, his hips rolling in a rhythm so soft, so intimate, it felt like poetry being written in the space between your skin.

He kissed you through it.

With every thrust, he pressed a kiss somewhere new–your cheek, your jaw, the swell of your breast. His mouth never stopped. His praise never stopped.

“You’re s-so beautiful…”

“You’re doing s-so good for me…”

“Y-You feel…Incredible…”

His movements stayed slow. Reverent. Deep. You felt each one ripple through you, stretch you, soothe you. You gasped against his lips, moaning softly as he filled you again and again, each thrust brushing the deepest part of you with aching precision.

And every time you whimpered, every time your fingers squeezed his tighter–he whispered your name like it was the only thing that he knew or had in this world.

Bob leaned down and kissed you again.

Not like before.

Not with urgency or hunger or even the heat of building need.

This kiss was slow. Deep. A brush of mouths that didn’t ask, didn’t beg, didn’t even need to speak. It just…Was. The way lips pressed and parted, the way his breath filled your lungs between kisses, the way he moaned softly into you like kissing you was the only prayer he had left to give.

It was the kind of kiss that made time feel irrelevant. That made the ache of your bodies, the rhythm of your hips, the trembling of your hands–secondary to the fact that you were kissing. And that he was still here. Inside you. All around you. Filling every inch of your body and soul.

His forearm shifted beneath your neck, so he was able to cup the back of your head, cradling it, guiding you deeper into the kiss like you were the most fragile thing he was given to protect.

And all the while, he kept moving inside you.

Slow. Measured. So deep it felt like he was shaping himself into the spaces that had always longed for him.

You gasped into his mouth with each thrust, your hips beginning to rise now–slowly, instinctively–meeting his rhythm, chasing it, deepening it. Your thighs bracketed his hips with more urgency. Your walls fluttered around him, slick and desperate, and Bob’s body jolted at the sensation.

“Y-You’re… God, you’re getting even wetter for m-me…” He rasped. He rocked into you again–deep, slow, the drag of him catching every sensitive spot inside you–and you sobbed a sound against his mouth. Your arms wound tighter around him, clutching his back, feeling the muscles work beneath your palms as he moved.

“B-Bob…” You gasped, your voice cracking on his name.

He kissed you again. Tender, open-mouthed. Then down your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your lips.

You were trembling. Your hips rolled in time with his now, your breath stuttering every time he bottomed out.

And then, you said it.

“My God…Bob…” You moaned, voice thick with love and ache, “I fucking love you so much.”

Bob’s eyes fluttered closed for a beat, like the words physically hit him. When he looked at you again, he was smiling–soft and wrecked and full of light.

He kissed you like it broke him.

Then he rocked his hips faster.

Just a little.

Just enough.

You gasped. Your nails dug into his bicep, and your joined hands clenched tighter between your bodies as he began to thrust in a rhythm that built and burned and bloomed.

“You’re mine,” He whispered, breath hot against your mouth. “You’re mine, and I’m yours, and I’m never letting go.”

You broke.

Your walls clenched tight around him, pulsing as your orgasm overtook you–trembling beneath him, crying out his name, breath lost to the stars. Your nails carved crescents into his shoulder. Your thighs locked around his waist. You were unraveling in his arms, and Bob never stopped kissing you.

“Oh fuck–baby, I can feel you,” He groaned, voice strangled. “You’re so tight–so perfect–God, I c-can’t–”

He thrust deep, once. Twice. Then he gasped.

“I wanna cum inside you,” He whispered against your lips, voice low and desperate. “Wanna fill you up, sweetheart. W-Wanna give you all of me–everything I’ve been holding back–please, can I?”

Your breath hitched. You reached up with your free hand and cupped his cheek, eyes wide and full of nothing but love.

“I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

That was it.

He groaned–loud and broken–and buried himself deep as his release tore through him. His body trembled violently, forehead pressed to yours, and his hips bucked once, twice, then stilled as warmth spread inside you. You felt the heat of it–felt him pulse, empty, surrender.

And then–like the final vow of devotion–he bit your shoulder.

Gently. Carefully. A love mark. A claim. His lips soothed the skin after, kissing where his teeth had grazed, his arm wrapped tight around your body like he never wanted to let go.

You were both still breathing hard.

Bob’s body pressed to yours, skin warm and slick with sweat, his chest rising and falling in fast, shallow waves. His forehead was still resting gently against yours, his breath ghosting across your lips like it didn’t know how to stop being close. But eventually, he shifted–just slightly–and pulled back just enough to look at you.

His fingers slipped free from your tangled grip, moving up slowly to cup your cheek instead. He held your face in his palm like you were still fragile, like the weight of his love was something he didn’t want to accidentally bruise. Then he leaned down and kissed you again.

Just a peck this time.

Soft.

Lingering.

Like punctuation at the end of the most beautiful sentence he’d ever written with his body.

When he pulled back, he was smiling. Flushed and glowing.

“Y-You look so beautifully w-wrecked,” He whispered, voice still rough with what you’d just done. “I wish y-you could see h-how you look.”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound half-dazed and full of affection. Your cheeks burned immediately under the praise, your fingers brushing over the back of his hand where it held your face.

“That’s your doing,” You complimented, still breathless. “But my God… I think we should’ve considered where we did this…”

Bob blinked.

And then glanced down to the cushions beneath you.

His ears flushed even redder.

“I-I have a strange feeling,” You continued with a weak smile, “…That we stained the hell out of this couch.”

He looked horrified for all of half a second…And then shrugged, sheepish.

“W-We can always flip the c-cushions…” He mumbled. “I-I’m sure it’s…Able to be hidden.”

You both burst into soft laughter–warm and tangled and helpless. The kind that carried all the release and joy and post-orgasm euphoria you couldn’t put into words. His arms tightened around you again, pulling you in like the laughter had made something loosen in his chest, and then he kissed you.

Again.

And again.

Short, slow, breathless kisses against your mouth, your cheek, your jaw.

“I-I love you so much…” He admitted again, lips brushing your skin between words. “A-And I’m s-so glad you said something.”

Your hand curled over his shoulder. You could still feel him softening inside you, the warmth of him lingering where you were joined. You smiled as your lips found his again, soft and slow and sure.

“Me too,” You murmured into the kiss, with the taste of the beginning of something new lingering between the two of you.

865 notes · View notes

hobi-side · 20 days ago

Text

for morale | myg

— pairing: min yoongi x f!reader

— playlist: moment's silence (common tongue) - hozier, love me harder - ariana grande, honey - kehlani, adorn - miguel, don't - crush, waves - dean

— summary: After two weeks apart, you come home from Bali sun-kissed and full of stories—except none of them compare to the warmth of Yoongi’s arms. He wrote you a song. You brought back tequila, a TikTok trick he has no idea about, and a plan you executed after a terrible week strictly for morale.

Yoongi never stood a chance.

— word count: 9.9k

— warnings: lovey dovey couple, they're so in love, little fluffly at the beginning but they're always horny (i get them), established relationship, tequila shots?, yoongi missing oc, oc missing yoongi, unprotected sex, dirty talk?, cunnilingus, little rough, multiple orgasms, jealous yoongi if you squint.

— note: HELL YEAH! so this was fun to write because it was born, like most of the things i write, from a personal experience with tequila shots. wanna thank miss salma hayek for letting us know The Trick to get a man like that. i miss you yoongi (thank god he'll be back soon). FIRST YOONGI ONE SHOT BTW CROWD CHEERED.

Yoongi has always been sure of two things. Well—always is a strong word. Maybe lately is more honest. Certainty doesn’t come easy to him; it’s something he’s had to fight for, inch by inch, thought by thought. But here, in this quiet moment—his fingers idle on the keys, a half-finished verse echoing in his mind—he knows these things like he knows his own name.

One: he loves music. Not in the cliché way people throw around the word love, but in the way it threads through the cracks in his chest and holds the broken parts together. It’s been his anchor, his escape, his language when he couldn’t find the right words. Music has never asked him to be more than what he is. It just lets him be.

Two: he really, truly, fucking loves you. It’s terrifying, how real that is. How permanent it feels. Like it’s carved into him somewhere deep. You came into his life without warning, without fanfare—and now you’re in the pauses between his breaths, in the silence between his notes. He doesn’t know when it happened, but loving you feels inevitable now. Like it always would’ve come to this, no matter the path.

Three—was there a three? Yeah because now, standing here at the airport, watching you walk toward him, duffel slung over your shoulder, smile cracking through the jetlag—he knows something else, too.

He’s really fucking glad you’re home.

You nudge him gently, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his hoodie sleeve as he sits hunched over his laptop, headphones around his neck, the room bathed in dim yellow light and the faint scent of coffee and something else uniquely him.

“Yoongi,” you say, voice soft with that teasing affection only he ever gets to hear.

He glances over, the corner of his lips twitching into a tired smile—one of those barely-there ones that still makes your chest warm. His eyes, though, tell a different story: they flicker with something like relief. Like seeing you in front of him makes the past two weeks fall away.

“I wanna hear the full song?” you ask, and then you hesitate just a beat, voice quieter, more vulnerable: “Missed you.”

That’s when he turns fully, shutting the laptop with a quiet click. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I missed you, too,” he says, and it’s not just words—he means it. His voice carries that low, slow sincerity you know he only lets out when he’s too tired to hide anything. “House felt empty. Bed felt colder.”

You laugh softly, settling down beside him on the couch, your thigh pressing lightly against his. “You could’ve texted more, you know.”

“I know,” he murmurs, and his hand finds yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Didn’t want to bother you. You were having fun.”

“I was,” you admit, leaning your head on his shoulder. “But it didn’t feel right without you. Kept looking over like I was gonna see you sitting next to me.”

He lets out a breath, quiet and shaky. “I kept hearing your voice in my head when I was working. Thought I was losing it.”

You grin. “Maybe you are.”

He finally laughs—low and real. Then he squeezes your hand and says, “Let me play you the song. I finished it... the night before you came back. It’s about you.”

Your heart skips, just a little. “Of course it is.”

And in the soft silence that follows, he slips the headphones over your ears and presses play, watching your face as if every beat and lyric matters more now, because you’re home. And so is he.

The music washes over you like a wave—warm, layered, intentional. It’s him in every note: the way he composes with feeling first and logic second, the subtle textures, the pause right before the chorus that somehow says more than words.

And the lyrics? God. They’re not even overly romantic, but they are him—honest and understated and impossibly vulnerable. There’s a line in the second verse that pulls something tight in your chest. Something about “empty spaces filled by the weight of a laugh I forgot I needed.” And another one, quiet, tucked into the bridge, that just says: “You made room where I didn’t know I had any left.”

When it ends, you don’t say anything for a moment. You just breathe. His hands are resting on his thighs now, and you can tell from the way he’s chewing the inside of his cheek that he’s nervous.

You blink a few times, then take off the headphones slowly, setting them aside. “Yoongi,” you say, voice soft, caught somewhere between awe and teasing, “are you trying to kill me? Be honest.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Emotionally or musically?”

You snort, nudging him with your shoulder. “Both, obviously. That was… wow. I don’t even have the words.”

“That’s ironic, coming from someone who works with words all day,” he says, smirking just slightly, but his eyes are searching—worried.

You look at him. “I’m serious. That was beautiful. It felt like…” You pause, pressing your lips together before letting the truth out: “Like you cracked open your chest and just—let me see everything.”

Yoongi shrugs, but it’s the kind of shrug he does when he’s trying to be chill and failing. “Yeah, well. Took me long enough to say all that. Figured I’d just put it in a track before I chickened out.”

You lean in, forehead touching his. “You’re still such a coward sometimes,” you whisper, smiling against his skin.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But you waited for me anyway.”

You both go quiet for a second. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. The kind you only get with someone who knows you inside out.

“I was gonna say,” you continue, pulling back just enough to look at him, “funny how this all started with you awkwardly avoiding eye contact that night we met at Hobi’s thing.”

Yoongi groans. “Don’t remind me. I was not avoiding eye contact.”

“You literally stared at the floor the whole time.”

“I was tired.”

“You were shy.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. “And you were so annoyingly composed. Sitting there with your editor brain probably judging my entire existence.”

“I was not judging,” you say, laughing now. “I was intrigued. You were the only one in the room who looked like they wanted to be somewhere else.”

He smiles again—smaller this time, realer. “Yeah. Then you sat next to me and started talking about existentialism and short stories and somehow I didn’t want to leave.”

You grin. “And then we spent the next year pretending we weren’t falling in love during every 3 a.m. conversation.”

Yoongi’s hand finds yours again, and this time he lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “You didn’t pretend very well, by the way.”

“Oh?” you tease.

He nods. “You kept looking at me like you were already writing a story about us.”

You shrug. “Maybe I was.”

Then, quieter, you add: “But I like your version better.”

You and Yoongi have been together for over two years now. That’s not even counting the year before—when you both clung to the idea of just friends like it was some kind of lifeline, even as everything between you said otherwise. Late-night calls, shared silences, too-long stares, the kind of conversations that felt like peeling each other open, layer by layer.

Everyone saw it. Except, apparently, you and him.

Or maybe you did see it. Maybe you were just scared to name it.

Either way, it all came to a head one night—tangled sheets, hearts racing, a confession slipping out in the dark like it had been waiting all that time just to be said out loud. And after that, well… the rest unraveled beautifully.

“It was bound to happen,” Hoseok had said with a grin so wide it felt smug. “Honestly, I was just waiting for one of you to crack. You were already acting like a married couple and you hadn’t even kissed yet.”

Seokjin, ever the dramatist, had clapped a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder and told you both, “You don’t understand. This guy? He doesn’t react to people. He nods at introductions and moves on. But you? You walked into the room at that party and he looked up. That’s practically a love letter coming from him.”

Namjoon had agreed, of course—more calm, more analytical, but just as insistent. “We’ve seen him hear a song he loves and still just blink. But when you spoke for the first time, he tilted his head, like he was trying to figure out a melody he didn’t want to forget.”

It sounds dramatic. Overblown. But you’ve lived with Yoongi long enough to know that his reactions aren’t always loud—but they’re deep. And real.

And now, two years in, you still catch him looking at you the same way he did back then—like he’s studying you, memorizing you, writing lyrics in his head that only you’ll ever get to hear.

You joke that he’s soft for you. He just shrugs and says, “Yeah. And?”

But there’s this quiet steadiness to it, too. Like after all the slow burn, the long talks, the almosts and maybes, you both found something solid. Something that doesn’t need to burn wildly all the time because it stays.

So yeah—Hoseok was right. It was bound to happen.

And now you both took a break.

Well—technically, you didn’t take a break. Let’s rewind. That makes it sound way more dramatic than it was.

You just went on a trip.

A girls’ trip. Bali. Sun-soaked beaches, endless laughter, fruity drinks with names you couldn't pronounce, and the kind of easy joy that only comes when you’re surrounded by women who love you like sisters. It was good. No—wonderful, even. It was the kind of trip you talk about for years after, the kind that feels like a pause from real life in the best possible way.

But still… you missed him.

You didn’t say it at first. You told yourself it was healthy—good, even—to have space. That it was nice not to be The Couple for once. You didn’t need to be that clingy type, right?

Right?

Except… it hit faster than you expected. Maybe on the second morning, when your coffee didn’t taste quite the same without his weirdly specific milk-to-coffee ratio. Maybe when someone cracked a joke and your instinct was to turn, to catch his eye across the table and share that look you always did when something was exactly your brand of funny. Maybe when you fell asleep without the weight of his arm slung around your waist and woke up reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

It was the first time you’d spent more than 48 hours apart since becoming officially, capital-B Boyfriend and capital-G Girlfriend—a title that felt funny on your tongue at first, but quickly became second nature. You weren’t all over each other all the time.

(Okay, you were. But like, in a wholesome, “I’d follow you into the kitchen just to steal a grape from your hand” kind of way.)

But it wasn’t just physical. That wasn’t it. You liked him. Genuinely. You liked being with him—liked how he made space for your chaos, how he listened like every word mattered, how he challenged you without ever making you feel small. You liked the quiet hours and the loud laughter and the strange little routines that made your life feel stitched together in all the right ways.

So yeah, Bali was gorgeous. Your girls were radiant. The food was incredible. But there was this quiet, persistent pull in your chest the whole time—a whisper that said, I wish he was seeing this too.

And now you’re back. Sitting beside him, knees brushing, headphones still warm from when he played you that song. And it hits you all over again:

You missed him. Not in a dramatic, world-ending way.

Just in the way you always miss home when you’ve been gone too long.

You’re still barefoot, half sunk into the old couch in the corner of the studio, hair a little messy from the flight, face flushed with excitement instead of exhaustion. You just listened to the song—his song—and you swear your ribcage is still vibrating from the last chord. But your mind’s already off, burning through memory, hands moving animatedly as you talk.

“Oh, babe,” you say, practically bouncing in your seat, “Bali was insane. I mean, the kind of beauty that doesn’t even feel real half the time. You’re walking down a street and suddenly there’s a temple just... there. No gates. No warning. Just stone and incense and a woman with silver hair weaving flower offerings like it’s the most normal Tuesday in the world.”

Yoongi hums from the swivel chair, eyes on you, chin in hand. You’re not even looking at him—you’re too wrapped up in everything you're trying to say at once. And god, you’re glowing.

“And the air?” you go on, laughing breathlessly, “Yoongi—it’s like the whole island is perfumed. Salt, frangipani, smoke, clove cigarettes—it gets in your clothes, in your hair. You become part of it. I haven’t felt that light in years. Like my whole body was being wrung out and re-threaded.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches. Quiet. Intense.

“And there was this one night,” you continue, tucking your feet under you. “We went to this hidden beach—like, you have to go down a billion steps that look like they’ve been carved by actual ghosts—and when we got there? Bonfire. Music. Locals playing guitar on these beat-up amps powered by a generator that sounded like it was dying.”

You grin, eyes flicking up to him for the first time. He’s still. Too still.

You push on, because you’re on fire now. “They handed us drinks—stuff made with arak and fruit juice, totally unregulated, I’m probably lucky I didn’t go blind—and they were just... flirting. Shamelessly. With everyone. Dami got asked to teach this guy how to salsa. Chaeyoung got proposed to with a mango. And I—” you pause, tilting your head, eyes dancing, “—I got called a goddess like, three times. Four, if you count the guy who kept asking if I wanted a moonlit shoulder massage.”

Yoongi's eyebrow twitches.

You notice. You smirk.

“Relax,” you tease. “I told him I was taken. Very taken. Like, off-the-market, emotionally-devoted, boyfriend-writes-me-songs kind of taken.”

His lips twitch, but the line of his jaw stays tight.

You lean forward a little. “Yoongi.”

He still doesn’t look at you.

“Yoongi,” you sing again, dragging out the vowels.

Finally, he lifts his eyes to yours, deadpan. “I’m just wondering why you remember how many times someone called you a goddess, but you can’t remember the name of the ramen place we went to three times in one week.”

You blink. Then you laugh. “Are you—oh my God, are you jealous?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I’m just saying, you were gone for two weeks and apparently became the main character in a beach romance novel.”

“Well,” you hum, shifting closer, “I am a woman of many genres.”

He gives you a look. “Including ‘hot girl summer in Bali with mysterious shoulder-massaging men.’ Got it.”

You bite back another laugh, slide closer until your legs touch. “Would it make you feel better if I told you none of them had your voice? Or your hands? Or your devastating ability to turn missing someone into actual music?”

He doesn’t reply—but he’s listening.

You rest your chin on his shoulder. “I loved every minute of it. But I thought about you the whole time.”

His voice is lower now. “Even when someone was calling you a goddess?”

You grin. “Especially then.”

He exhales, finally, leaning back into you.

“You’re still annoyed,” you murmur, smiling.

“I wrote you a love song and you got proposed to with fruit,” he mutters.

You laugh against his neck. “Okay, that’s fair. But at least your song didn’t give me food poisoning.”

He finally cracks a smile.

And in the soft silence that follows, you slide your hand into his.

Back. Safe. Still burning—with the sun, with the music, with him.

The day after the studio session—after Yoongi had pulled you into his world and played you that new song with the kind of pride he rarely let show—you were finally home, finally grounded enough to unpack.

You’d brought back a mountain of things, mostly souvenirs for your friends. It wasn’t even guilt-buying; you just missed them. A lot.

You started sorting everything out on your floor, each item sparking a memory of someone’s laugh, someone’s oddly specific obsession.

For Namjoon, you had a set of handcrafted ceramics—delicate bowls and one oddly shaped mug you knew he’d appreciate in an “object with character” kind of way. He was into stuff like that: things with weight, texture, stories.

Seokjin’s little bundle was easier. He had this current fixation with coffee, and not just any coffee—he’d sent you the exact brand he wanted, grown somewhere at a particular altitude, roasted a certain way. You weren’t even sure how he found it, but you made the detour just for him. Worth it, you figured, for the chaos he’d unleash in the group chat once he got his hands on it.

Hoseok was getting the batik fabric you found in a tiny shop tucked away near the market. It had deep blues and burnt oranges—bold and beautiful, just like him. You already pictured him turning it into a jacket or draping it over something dramatically at a dance studio. And for his girlfriend, a delicate piece of handmade jewelry—silver with tiny amber stones, shaped like falling leaves. She was going to lose her mind over it.

Your own stuff? That took less time. You hadn’t packed much to begin with—mostly bikinis and breezy tops. The heat had practically demanded it. But you’d also picked up a bunch of new shorts, the kind that showed off your legs just enough. The thought made you grin.

You were definitely planning to wear them around Seoul soon. Yoongi was definitely going to like them.

You were halfway through organizing your pile of clothes when your hand hit something solid near the bottom of your suitcase.

“Oh... right.” Tequila.

Chaeyoung.

The memory hit you like the smell of lime and salt.

She’d shown up in Bali like a whirlwind—barely touched down in Seoul for the past eight months. She’d bounced from London to Chile, Argentina, and then Mexico, and somehow skipped straight to Bali to meet you all, suitcase in tow and stories practically spilling out of her mouth.

“I brought the best tequila for you girls,” she’d announced like it was gold. She held it up like a trophy, her sunglasses still on even though the sun had already dipped behind the trees.

“You’re gonna love it. I swear,” she added, unscrewing the cap to let you smell it right then and there.

Dami squinted at her, skeptical. “What do you mean best? Like—good flavor or good time?”

Chaeyoung had smirked. “Oh, babe, if I told you half the things I did after a couple of shots of this…”

“You’re crazy,” Taeha called out from the back patio.

“No, babe,” Chaeyoung said, eyes wild and glass already half-empty, “you’re gonna want to be crazy after I teach you this little trick. Trust me—this stuff? It’ll get your man on fire.”

The room paused, like it collectively sensed incoming chaos.

Jieun blinked. “Why does that sound illegal?”

“Because it probably is,” Dami whispered, crossing her arms like she was preparing for war.

Chaeyoung ignored both of them, too far gone. She slammed her glass down like she was about to present a scientific discovery. “Okay, LISTEN. I’m about to change all your lives.”

“Oh no,” Taeha muttered. “Not another ‘I saw a TikTok and now I’m a sex guru’ monologue—”

“SHUT UP and listen”, Chaeyoung snapped, already standing like a drunk prophet. “So I was in Mexico, okay? Had just eaten like...six tacos and a churro. I’m tipsy. This guy is rambling about the flavor notes in mezcal like he’s auditioning for MasterChef: Alcoholic Edition, and I’m scrolling TikTok minding my business—and BAM.”

She clapped loudly. Everyone jumped.

“This woman—an actress, like straight up goddess energy—comes up on my For You Page. And she’s like, ‘This is how you seduce a man in ten seconds or less.’ I didn’t even blink. I learned.”

“Stop,” Jieun begged, already wheezing. “I can’t breathe when you talk like this.”

“I’m serious!” Chaeyoung shouted. “You don’t need lingerie. You don’t need a playlist. You just need THIS.”

She grabbed a pillow off the couch and slammed it onto the floor like it owed her money. “Dami, you’re the man. Get over here.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“DAMI. Get. Over. Here.”

By the time Dami crawled over, purely out of morbid curiosity, Chaeyoung was already miming the scene. She picked up her shot glass like it was sacred, locked fake-eyes with Dami, and whispered:

“You take the tequila. You hold it. You stare. Not blink. Not smile. Just stare like you’re about to commit emotional crimes.”

She mimed holding the shot in her mouth, then leaned toward Dami with cartoonishly intense eye contact.

“And THEN,” she continued, dramatically slow, “you pass it. Mouth. To. Mouth.”

The room exploded.

Jieun SCREAMED. “WHAT THE FUCK!!!”

“I SWEAR TO GOD I’M GONNA DIE,” Taeha said, curled into a ball.

Dami fell backward, shrieking. “Get off me, you demon woman!”

“I WAS DOING RESEARCH!” Chaeyoung yelled back, offended.

“YOU DID THIS TO SOMEONE?” you gasped.

“In the bathroom of a rooftop bar in Oaxaca!” she declared like she was announcing a Grammy win.

“WHAT.”

“WHATTTTTTTTT?!”

Jieun was hiding behind the couch now. “I cannot believe I have to know you.”

Chaeyoung, now fully unhinged, launched into a dramatic reenactment—flipping her hair, straddling the pillow like a man was beneath it. “Then we made out so hard I almost knocked a soap dispenser off the wall. I think there was applause outside. I don’t know. I blacked out from the POWER.”

“You need help,” Dami groaned, fanning herself.

“No, YOU need tequila and a man with low expectations,” Chaeyoung snapped, already pouring more shots. “Now, who’s next? Let’s practice. I’ll be the guy. Come on. Seduce me, cowards!”

You were crying from laughter. Your stomach hurt. Your soul hurt. Jieun looked like she was about to call a priest.

“Do we need to tell Yoongi about this?” Taeha asked you with an evil grin.

“No one tells Yoongi anything,” you said quickly, gripping your drink like it was your only protection.

Chaeyoung just smirked at you, devilish. “You’re gonna try it. I know you are.”

You just laughed—and avoided her gaze.

But she already knew.

Yeah, that bottle of tequila was now staring at you.

Oh, you were gonna have fun.

By the time Yoongi woke up—hair messy, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blinking at you like you were a dream—it was nearly noon.

“You unpacked already?” he asked, voice raspy, warm with sleep.

“Trying to pretend I’m not still on Bali time,” you mumbled, smiling into your mug.

He padded over, kissed your temple, and muttered something about making tteokbokki.

And god, he really could cook.

You sat cross-legged on the counter while he moved through the kitchen with quiet confidence, slicing green onions, adding just the right amount of gochugaru like it was instinct. The rich, spicy scent filled the apartment, and when you finally sat down to eat, you could have cried from the comfort of it. After two weeks of fresh seafood and tropical fruits, having something that tasted like home—like Seoul, like him—felt grounding.

“Still like mine better than any Bali food?” he asked, smug as he watched you devour the last piece.

You licked your spoon. “No offense to Bali, but your tteokbokki is emotional support food. It wins.”

He grinned, that small, rare one that made your stomach flutter.

Now, hours later, the sun was setting outside the living room window. The city buzzed softly in the distance, but here in the apartment, it was calm—dim lights, a quiet movie playing, legs tangled under a shared blanket. Yoongi leaned into the cushions, one arm draped behind you, the other lazily scrolling through his phone during the slow parts.

“Should we open some wine?” he asked, his voice low, almost a hum.

“Only if you pick it,” you replied, resting your head on his shoulder.

He gave you a small pat on the thigh before heading over to the shelf tucked into the corner of the kitchen—a narrow unit lined with a modest but respectable collection of bottles. He crouched down, humming to himself, searching for the right red.

Then he paused.

“...What the hell is this?”

You turned your head.

Yoongi straightened slowly, holding up a sleek, unfamiliar bottle. The label was bright. Bold. Very not him.

He squinted at it. “Did this multiply in my apartment without my permission? I did not buy this.”

You bit your lip, trying very hard not to smile.

He turned to face you. “This yours?”

You gave him a sheepish nod.

He examined the label again, then looked at you with a mixture of suspicion and amusement. “Why... do you have a bottle of tequila hiding in my apartment?”

“Chaeyoung gave it to me,” you explained, as innocently as possible. “As a gift.”

Yoongi arched a brow. “That sounds fake. Try again.”

“Okay,” you admitted, slowly standing up, blanket falling from your lap. “It was part of a girls’ night... situation. Involving stories. And hypotheticals. And a very specific TikTok.”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes at you like he was trying to read subtitles you weren’t offering.

“…What kind of TikTok?”

You gave him a totally innocent smile. “A harmless one.”

“That’s never true,” he said flatly. “Every time someone starts a sentence with ‘so I saw this TikTok’ it ends in something insane or borderline illegal.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Nobody got arrested. Nobody died. There were just... beverages. And discussions. That’s all.”

Yoongi held up the bottle like it was radioactive. “So this ended with you bringing back imported mystery tequila from girls' night? That’s the takeaway?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you said, walking over and plucking the bottle from his hands. “It’s artisanal.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“You act like I’m hiding a crime,” you teased, setting it carefully on the table.

“You are hiding something,” he muttered, still watching you suspiciously. “You’re way too smiley for this to be a normal ‘hey let’s have tequila’ situation.”

You shrugged, doing your best to look unbothered—even as your face threatened to betray you with another grin. “Maybe I just missed you and thought it’d be fun to have a drink together.”

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing like he was filing that line away for later. “Totally believable. No other reason. No hidden context.”

“Exactly.”

A pause.

Yoongi finally dropped back onto the couch beside you, still eyeing the bottle like it might start talking.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he muttered under his breath.

You nudged his knee with yours. “I am lucky.”

He glanced at you, then let out a small, exasperated laugh. “And now I’m low-key afraid to drink that.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Well, good thing we’re having wine right now.”

He shot you a look, but couldn’t help the amused smile tugging at his lips.

It had been a shitty week. No poetic metaphors, no dramatic flair. Just plain, exhausting, soul-sucking shit. Going back to work was shitty. As an editor at a publishing company, you were used to juggling deadlines, writer meltdowns, and 2 a.m. “urgent” revisions — but this week? This week decided to personally test your will to live.

By Friday, you were running on caffeine, petty rage, and whatever serotonin your cat videos could offer.

Thankfully, it was over. Finally.

You were curled up on the couch in an oversized hoodie, staring blankly at your phone while half a bag of chips sat forgotten beside you. Yoongi had texted earlier — be home in an hour, miss u — and even just that had been enough to keep you from combusting.

With a sigh, you opened your messages app, finally catching up on the chaos you’d ignored all week.

Your friends' group chat was on fire. Everyone was still riding the Bali high, posting blurry sunset photos, thirst traps in bikinis, and messages like:

Taeha: literally thinking about the nasi goreng at 3am Jieun: my skin still glows like i bathed in tropical gods Dami: WHEN are we doing round two. i need a new passport stamp and a new man. urgently. Taeha: can we do Greece. or Spain. or literally anywhere with sun and drama.

You smiled, heart softening a little. Yeah. That trip was magic.

And then you saw it — a private message from Chaeyoung.

Chaeyoung💥: [TikTok link] “this is the visual representation of what i tried to explain that night LMAO” “giving this to u cuz u r the only one with a man lol”

You tapped the link, suspicious.

The video started playing — and you immediately paused it, jaw dropping, face heating.

Oh. OH.

It was the exact tequila trick she’d so enthusiastically attempted to act out back in Bali. Except now, seeing it performed in real time — slow, hot, absolutely lethal — made something in your brain short-circuit. You blinked, stared at your phone like it betrayed you, then hit play again. For science.

The way the woman in the video straddled her man, the effortless way she passed the drink between their mouths, the almost moan he let out like it rewired his whole nervous system—

Yeah. You were watching this on a Friday night after getting metaphorically body-slammed by your job. You deserved joy. You deserved serotonin. And preferably, you deserved it in the form of your boyfriend, shirtless, on this very couch.

You: chaeyoung. what the hell. why r u sending me this

Chaeyoung: DIDN’T I JUST SAID YOU R THE ONLY ONE WITH A MAN THAT YOU CAN CALL YOURS. SEE THE VISION

You: i see it i feel it

Chaeyoung: YESSSS get that man WEAK, babes.

You: he’s coming home in 40 how fast do u think i can shower and emotionally prepare

Chaeyoung: light the fucking torch.

You stared at the screen for a second, heart racing, lip caught between your teeth.

Well. You did just wash your hair last night. And your cute robe was clean. And that bottle Chaeyoung gave you? Still hiding behind the wine rack like a dirty little secret.

You stood up.

Time to turn this terrible week around—with tequila, TikTok tactics, and one very lucky boyfriend.

The apartment was dimly lit, cozy, and quiet—exactly the way Yoongi liked it after a long day. He kicked off his shoes by the door, ran a hand through his hair, and called out casually, “Babe? I’m home.”

No answer.

Well, no immediate answer.

Just the soft hum of music coming from the living room—something low and sultry. It wasn’t your usual playlist. This was a vibe.

He squinted. Suspicious.

“Babe?” he tried again, stepping further in. His jacket was halfway off his shoulders when he turned the corner—and stopped dead in his tracks.

You were in the living room. Waiting.

Correction: you were posed in the living room.

Wearing your favorite silk robe—one that barely grazed your thighs, tied in a loose, suspiciously flimsy knot. Candles flickered on the coffee table. Two glasses sat beside a bottle he definitely didn’t own.

“Hi,” you said sweetly, crossing one leg over the other as you sat perched on the edge of the couch like a perfectly wrapped sin.

Yoongi blinked. “...What the hell is going on.”

“Celebrating,” you answered, like it was obvious.

He raised a brow. “Celebrating what?”

“The end of a very horrible week,” you said, then added with a grin, “And also… you.”

Yoongi was now actively side-eyeing the bottle. “Is that—”

“The tequila,” you confirmed. “Yes.”

“I thought we said we were saving that for—”

“Plans change,” you cut in, voice light. “Besides, I have a new method. A fun one.”

He blinked at you again, slower this time. “Why does that sound threatening.”

“It’s not,” you said. “It’s sexy.”

You laughed, a little wild in your eyes, and patted the spot in front of you. “Sit. Trust me.”

Yoongi hesitated, that familiar wariness flickering behind his dark eyes like a warning siren—this was definitely going to be one of those moments. But as always, he couldn’t resist you. With a sigh, he shrugged off his jacket and dropped onto the couch, still shooting you a suspicious look. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being generous,” you teased, voice low and mischievous.

You slid closer, your hands gentle but firm on his shoulders. “This is something I learned.” You practically straddled him, settling down on his lap with a confident smile.

Yoongi’s brows knit together, confused but intrigued. “What—”

“They said this is how tequila tastes the best,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the buttons of his shirt. “And since I know you really like your alcohol…”

You slowly hooked your finger into the top button of his shirt, eyes not leaving his face. “Can I unbutton this?”

Yoongi tilted his head slightly, lips curling in amusement. “Yes,” he replied, raising a brow as if to say whatever you're up to... I’m watching you.

With a sly little grin, you unfastened one button. Then the next. Then another. You were deliberate with it—fingers brushing his skin each time, exposing just enough of his chest to leave your mouth watering. His skin was warm, soft, and smelled faintly of the cologne he always wore. That scent you liked to steal from the collar of his sweaters.

You leaned in, holding the tequila shot glass loosely in your hand, and whispered—half to him, half to yourself, “And then I have to... huh... lick.”

You dipped your head and—without hesitation—flattened your tongue against the base of his neck. You dragged it slowly up, tracing a path over his collarbone and along the curve of his shoulder, right where the salt would go in the classic version. Except you weren’t following any rules.

Yoongi’s breath caught sharply. His hands, resting on your hips, twitched.

You leaned back, just enough to lock eyes with him. He looked stunned. Flushed. Slightly speechless.

Then, as if to really commit to the bit, you took the shot. Head tilted back, throat bobbing as the tequila slid down.

And finally—eyes on his—your hand reached out for the lime. But instead of putting it in your mouth, you brought it up to his lips.

“Bite,” you said softly.

He obeyed.

You leaned in one last time, stealing the lime back with a kiss that lingered longer than necessary, your lips brushing his in a mix of citrus and heat.

“Okay—where the hell?” Yoongi sputtered, blinking like he just came out of a trance. “What? Why? What the hell?”

He was flustered—genuinely flustered—and that was rare for him. A soft pink crept up the sides of his neck, and his chest was still rising and falling just a little faster than usual. You stayed exactly where you were, still straddling his lap, hands resting lightly on his now half-unbuttoned shirt like it was the most casual thing in the world.

You tilted your head innocently, though your smirk betrayed you. “This is why I wanted to save that bottle.”

Yoongi stared at you, eyes narrowing. “This is what that TikTok discussion was about?”

You leaned forward just enough so that your chest brushed his, your voice dropping to a whisper. “I told you it was educational content.”

He huffed a dry laugh, but his hands were already on your hips again, holding you tighter now. “Educational? Babe, you just licked me like a human salt rim and then kissed tequila into my mouth. That wasn’t education. That was witchcraft.”

You bit your lip, eyes gleaming. “Witchcraft that works, clearly.”

Yoongi’s gaze dropped to your lips, his breath catching slightly. You could feel him shifting beneath you, his composure unraveling by the second.

“You’re literally still on top of me,” he muttered, voice lower now, rougher.

“Mhm.” You rolled your hips just a tiny bit, enough to make his hands dig into your waist in warning. “On purpose.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, something darker flickering there now. “You planned this.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Maybe.”

“Maybe, my ass.”

He surged up just enough to kiss you fully, mouth warm and tasting faintly of lime and tequila, his hands sliding under your shirt like he was reclaiming control. But you broke the kiss with a breathless laugh, leaning back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“You said you liked tequila.”

“I like peace and quiet too, but I guess I’m not getting that either,” he muttered, though the way he looked at you said something very different.

“Not when I’m around,” you teased, pulling his shirt fully open now and tossing the shot glass aside like the game was only beginning.

He chuckled, low and wicked. “And here I was, just trying to have a normal Friday night.”

“But did you like it though?” you asked, breathless now, lips still tingling from the kiss. You dragged your hands slowly up his chest, over the exposed skin you’d just unbuttoned, nails light enough to make him twitch. “You haven’t said anything about it, babe.”

Yoongi looked at you—really looked at you. His pupils were blown wide now, jaw tight, lips slightly parted as he processed the question, like you had just asked him something offensive.

“You’re seriously asking me that,” he said, voice low, hoarse with restraint, “while you’re literally sitting on me like this?”

You rolled your hips ever so slightly, the friction cruel in how light it was. “Just want feedback.”

Yoongi let out a sharp breath—half disbelief, half groan—and grabbed you by the hips, steadying you, containing you, but barely. His fingers dug in, possessive.

“Of course I fucking liked it,” he said, eyes dragging down from your lips to your neck, to the swell of your chest beneath your shirt. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”

You smiled slowly. “Just making sure.”

“You licked my neck, downed a shot like it was foreplay, and then had the audacity to grind on me like it was a goddamn game.”

You tilted your head. “It was a game.”

He pulled you flush against him, his mouth brushing the corner of yours with maddening softness, the kind that made your whole body tense in anticipation. “Oh, it’s a fucking war now.”

You gasped, but before you could respond, his mouth was on yours again—hotter this time, needier, tongue sweeping past your lips like he needed more of you now. His hands slid up your back, under your shirt, dragging it higher with every desperate kiss.

He was already hard beneath you, and the way his hips bucked up, just once, slow and deliberate, told you exactly how much control he was pretending to have.

“You wanna know if I liked it?” he growled against your mouth, lips brushing yours with each word. “I’m gonna show you how much.”

And he kissed you again—messy, rough, like the question had flipped a switch in him. One hand tugged at the waistband of your shorts while the other held you firmly in place, his thigh pressing between yours now. Heat pooled low in your belly.

“Tequila,” he muttered against your skin, trailing kisses down your neck. “What kind of spell did you girls cook up in Bali?”

You laughed, breath shaky as your hands tangled in his hair. “The kind that ends with you begging.”

He was gone the second you straddled him.

Yoongi tried—really tried—to keep his cool. But the minute you whispered “lick” and dragged your tongue along his neck, something short-circuited. His brain, his restraint, his sense of time. All of it.

And now, here you were—sitting on him like sin in human form, asking if he liked it.

Liked it?

He wanted to laugh. Scream. Flip the couch. Instead, he grabbed your hips because he had to. Not to stop you—hell no—but because if he didn’t hold on, he might do something entirely unhinged. Like flip you over and lose his mind.

“Of course I fucking liked it,” he said, and even to his own ears, his voice sounded wrecked. He could feel the way your weight settled into his lap, how warm you were, how smug. You knew exactly what you were doing, and it was driving him insane.

He couldn’t look away from your mouth. The way you were breathing a little faster. The faint shimmer of tequila still lingering on your lips.

When you rolled your hips again—again—he swore under his breath.

His body reacted instantly, hips lifting into yours with an involuntary jerk that made him clench his jaw. Your breath caught. Good. You felt it too.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he muttered, dragging his hands under your shirt, mapping every inch of skin like he had to memorize it. “This—whatever this is—you’re not walking away from it, you know that?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “Wasn’t planning to. I told you I had a shitty week.”

Yoongi chuckled, the sound deep in his throat as he leaned in, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “So this was your plan, huh?”

You felt the slow drag of his hands down your sides—warm, steady, maddening.

“Mmm,” he murmured, voice low and laced with amusement. “You just wanted to have a little fun. That it?”

His nose nudged against your cheek before he whispered, “You missed me, babe. Don’t play like you didn’t.”

You tried to keep a straight face, but the way he spoke—so casual, so sure of you—made your breath hitch.

“Two weeks without me…” His teeth grazed your jaw. “Two weeks without sex.”

Your thighs instinctively tightened around his hips, and he noticed—of course he did.

“Ohhh, I knew it,” he grinned, cocky now. “I wonder what you got up to while I was around. Hm? What kind of desperate little thoughts did that pretty head of yours have?”

He ran his hands up under your shirt again, slow, appreciating every curve like he’d been starving for it. “You did something to this body, didn’t you?” he drawled, voice dark velvet now. “You’ve been walking around all tan and glowy and smug like that trip fixed your soul—but I know what you really needed.”

His fingers curled around your hips, rocking you down against him, just enough to remind you exactly how ready he was.

“You’re a whole different person when you’re horny, baby. So needy. So fucking honest.”

You squirmed, and his laugh was smug, satisfied.

“You had a shitty week,” he said, dragging his mouth down to your neck, lips soft but teasing. “So naturally, you thought—‘Hey, I know what’ll help. Let me climb on top of my boyfriend and ride the stress away.’”

“Is it working?” you whispered, breath hot against his cheek.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look, eyes burning like they could eat you alive.

“I made you a song while we were apart,” he said with mock offense. “You? You learned a seduction trick off TikTok.”

You grinned. “Productive two weeks.”

Yoongi’s hands were still on your waist, warm and possessive, when he leaned back just slightly, eyes hooded and gleaming with something dangerous. You knew that look. That smirk. Your stomach flipped.

“So…” he began, brushing his thumbs in slow circles over your bare skin, “you pulled that little tequila stunt…”

You grinned. “Guilty.”

“…and thought I wouldn’t retaliate?”

Your smile faltered. “What?”

He leaned in again, lips barely ghosting over yours as he whispered, “You really think I don’t have a few tricks of my own, baby?”

You swallowed hard.

“I’ve been patient,” he continued, dragging his fingers slowly—infuriatingly slowly—down your spine. “You had your fun. Now it’s my turn.”

Before you could respond, he was lifting you effortlessly, standing with you wrapped around him like it was second nature—because, at this point, it was. You barely had time to gasp before he was carrying you down the hallway toward the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him like he meant it.

He laid you on the bed with a reverence that made your heart race and your thighs press together, and then he disappeared for a second—just long enough to make you whine in protest.

“Relax,” came his voice from somewhere near the kitchen, casual and dangerous. “I’m just grabbing the bottle. If you’re gonna start something, babe, you better be ready to finish it.”

Your mouth went dry.

When he returned, the bottle of tequila was in one hand, and that same dark smirk was back on his face. He set it gently on the nightstand, then climbed onto the bed with the kind of grace that made your breath catch.

“You remember how it goes, right?” he murmured, kneeling between your legs. “Salt… lick… shot.”

You nodded, suddenly the one speechless.

He dragged a finger across the curve of your collarbone, then leaned in to kiss the spot—slow, open-mouthed, lingering. You felt your heartbeat stutter.

“Lift your arms,” he whispered.

You obeyed. He licked a line just below your clavicle, then sprinkled the salt there with deliberate precision. His lips brushed your ear again.

“Keep still.”

You couldn’t breathe.

He brought the shot glass up, holding it steady in one hand as he dipped his head.

The lick came first—wet, slow, decadent. His tongue traced the salt from your chest with a kind of reverence that made your whole body tighten beneath him.

Then the shot—head tilted back, clean and quick.

And then?

Then came the lime.

Instead of handing it to you, Yoongi brought it to your mouth himself, holding the wedge with his fingers just so. “Bite,” he murmured, his eyes locked on your lips.

You did—and his eyes darkened.

He watched the way your mouth moved, watched the little shiver run through you from the sour tang and the heat still lingering on your skin.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dropping the lime to the side and pushing you gently back onto the pillows. “You're never allowed to do that trick again unless I get to do it right back.”

Your laugh was breathless. “Deal.”

But before you could say anything else, his mouth was back on you—hot, insistent, everywhere at once. He kissed a path down your stomach, murmuring praise between every inch of skin.

And just before he disappeared between your thighs, he looked up at you with that same boyish smirk that always got you in trouble.

“You had a shitty week,” he said, voice low “Guess I’m gonna have to fuck it out of you.”

You barely had time to react before Yoongi’s mouth was on you again—slow. He kissed down your stomach like he was mapping it, like he was reclaiming it. His fingers slid under the waistband of your shorts, tugging just enough to make you whimper.

“You wore these to tease me, huh?” he murmured, hot breath fanning over your skin. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“Maybe,” you said, breathless, hands tangling in his hair.

He chuckled, dark and low. “You walk in here, tequila bottle like some kind of sex witch… straddle me like it’s nothing, lick salt off my chest like that’s a normal Friday night—what the fuck do you expect me to do?”

You were about to answer—something witty, something bratty—but then he had your shorts off and his mouth was on your inner thigh, kissing the skin there like it was sacred.

“You smell like heaven,” he muttered. “And you’re shaking. You’ve been thinking about this all week, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasped.

He hummed. “Then stop pretending like you don’t want me to ruin you.”

And he did. Tongue pressed flat, slow and firm—one long lick that had your hips bucking off the bed. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you down with practiced ease.

“Fuck, baby,” you breathed, already seeing stars.

Yoongi didn’t respond. He was focused, utterly and deliciously focused, like he was composing a melody with your body as the instrument. He switched between long, slow strokes and quick flicks that had you sobbing his name.

Every time you got close, he’d pull back—kiss your thighs, suck a little mark into the skin just to watch you squirm.

“You don’t get to come yet,” he said, voice rough now. “Not until I say.”

You whimpered, a full-body shiver running through you.

He slid two fingers into you—slow, curling just right—and your back arched. Your hands gripped the sheets, clawed at them. He pressed kisses to your inner thigh as he fucked you with his fingers, mouth still devastating between your legs.

“You taste like you missed me,” he said, voice hoarse, fingers never slowing. “Is that what this is? Two weeks of missing me? Of needing this cock and not getting it?”

“Yoongi—”

“Tell me.”

“Yes—yes, fuck, I missed you—”

“Yeah, you did.” His teeth grazed your skin, his fingers moving faster now. “Missed being filled. Missed being fucked like you deserved.”

You were a trembling mess, every nerve ending lit up, every muscle tense and begging for release.

And just when you thought you couldn’t take another second, he moved up your body, hovered over you, kissed your lips deep and dirty with your taste still on his tongue.

“Wanna come?” he whispered, grinding against you, already rock hard through his boxers.

“Yes, please—”

“Good,” he smirked. “Because I’m not stopping until you do. And then again. And again. You're not sleeping tonight, babe.”

Yoongi didn’t stop—not when your legs started to tremble, not when your breath hitched in that high, helpless way that drove him insane. He was relentless, completely immersed, tongue gliding in slow, torturous circles before switching to sharp, precise flicks that had you arching off the bed.

“God, fuck. Please,” you almost choked, voice wrecked, coming out in desperate, broken pieces. “Fuck, fuck—”

Your hand flew to his hair, threading through the dark strands with shaking fingers. You weren’t just touching him—you were clinging, grounding yourself against the overwhelming wave crashing through your body. Then your other hand joined, not stroking, not pulling—just holding on as he pulled deeper sounds from you than you'd ever made before.

“I—fuck,” you gasped again, voice hoarse and breathless, hips rising against his mouth. “Yoongi—please—I can't—”

He growled low, the sound vibrating against you in a way that made you cry out. And still, he didn’t stop.

Didn’t even look up.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

You were falling apart under him, trembling and moaning and begging, and he was drinking it in like your body was his favorite kind of worship. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open, holding you down—as if to say You’re not going anywhere. I’m not done yet.

Because he wasn’t.

He was building you like a beat, layering sensation on sensation until it all collapsed—until the dam broke and you screamed his name, clenching around nothing, your body shaking as pleasure tore through you.

And even then, he still didn’t let go.

“Good girl,” he murmured against your thigh, breath hot, voice rough with pride and lust. “Now let’s see how you take cock”

He didn’t give you much time to recover—just enough for your breathing to even out, for your lashes to flutter open, dazed and ruined, still trembling from the aftermath.

Yoongi leaned over you, chest brushing yours, the weight of him grounding you. His lips ghosted across your jawline, featherlight, and then lower, over your neck, where he bit down gently—claiming.

"You always taste like this?" he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Or is this just what happens when you miss me?"

You whimpered, already breathless again.

He sat back on his knees, undoing his belt in one smooth pull that made your mouth go dry. His eyes never left yours—dark, heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide with hunger. His shirt hung open, still a little damp where you’d licked the salt off his skin, and he looked completely, devastatingly fucked out, even though he hadn’t gotten anything yet.

“Look at you,” he murmured, eyes raking down your body. “You’re shaking. You really had a week, huh?”

You nodded. Barely. And he smiled, slow and sinful.

“Well, baby,” he said, positioning himself between your thighs, stroking himself once, twice—thick, flushed, already dripping—“let me make it better.”

And then he pressed in.

The stretch made your breath catch, eyes fluttering shut—your body still too sensitive, too desperate—and he hissed between his teeth.

“Fuck, you’re tight. Always so good for me. Goddamn.”

He rolled his hips, slow and deep, and it was like the air was punched out of your lungs. He filled you completely, every inch deliberate, every movement dragging against all the places you needed him.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in for purchase.

“Yoongi—fuck—”

He caught your mouth in a kiss, messy and hot, all tongue and teeth, swallowing your sounds like he wanted to own them. His thrusts got harder, deeper, finding that rhythm that had your entire body arching, your legs locking around his waist like he was the only thing anchoring you.

"You think you can come in here, ride me with tequila tricks, and not get absolutely wrecked?" he growled into your neck.

You moaned—helpless—and he smirked.

"Not after that little show, baby. No way."

He shifted, one hand sliding under your thigh to hitch it higher around him, changing the angle—and fuck, you saw stars. Your back arched off the bed, your head thrown back, and Yoongi watched like he was witnessing art.

Yoongi’s grip tightened, his voice dropping low and rough against your skin. “What did they call you? A goddess?” His hips thrust harder, heavier, deliberately rougher, every movement pushing you closer to the edge. “But they didn’t get to have you like this, right?”

You choked on a breath, overwhelmed by the sensation. “Oh my god… I told you—fuck—because I thought it was… there, fuck—funny… Oh my god, are you really jeal—fuck!”

Your eyes rolled back, pleasure washing over you in waves so intense you could barely keep up.

“I’m not jealous,” Yoongi growled, voice thick with need.

“No?” you teased breathlessly, arching into him.

“I’m thriving,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, every word dripping with possessiveness. “They don’t fucking get to see you like this. Only I do.”

“You feel that?” he grunted, thrusting harder now, body slamming into yours with a rhythm that left you gasping. “That’s mine. All of this—mine.”

You couldn't speak—you could barely think. Every movement was electric, every drag of him inside you a white-hot promise of release. His pace was brutal now, every snap of his hips laced with possession, with the kind of love that ruins you for anyone else.

“You’re gonna come again,” he said—low, rough, a little breathless, but firm. Not a question. A command. “And then you’re gonna do it one more time. Because I missed this, too. I fucking missed you.”

He growled the last part, voice cracking slightly under the weight of how real it was. His hips didn’t let up—deep, relentless, tuned perfectly to your body like he’d memorized every reaction, every gasp.

Your fingers clawed at his back, useless against the way your body spiraled. You were wrecked—utterly, completely, beautifully wrecked.

“I—I missed you so much, Yoongi,” you sobbed, the pleasure too much to hold in anymore. “I’m gonna… fu—fuck, cum—”

“Oh my god,” is all you can manage, your voice wrecked and breathless, your whole body trembling beneath him.

“Inside,” you whisper, your lips brushing his ear, need thick in your tone.

He’s still moving—slow now, but deep, deliberate—as if he wants to feel every last second of you wrapped around him. The look in his eyes is feral, undone.

“Fucking missed you so much, babe,” he groans, and then he’s right there—burying himself deep as he cums hard, hips stuttering, spilling into you with a growl so raw it vibrates in your chest. His whole body tenses against yours as he rides it out, forehead pressed to yours.

“I fucking missed you,” he repeats, almost breathless, voice rasping against your lips. “I told you—I wrote a whole damn song because I missed you. I didn’t have time to give you something earlier but I had this whole fucking plan—a date, like a proper boyfriend.”

He huffs out a breathless, delirious laugh, still barely able to move.

“And now look at us,” he adds, burying his face in your neck. “Fucking tequila.”

You laugh, weak and breathless, wrapping your arms around him tighter. “Next time you bring the salt.”

Group Chat: 🌴 Good Bitches Reunited 🌶️

You: update: tequila trick was… effective 😌✨

Chaeyoung: I KNEW IT

Taeha: WAIT. omg she DID

Jieun: This is why I need to start collecting frequent flyer miles. I’m flying to you next.

Dami: HELLO???

You: girl. the look on his face when I did it… like he saw God

Chaeyoung: I’M SO PROUD I COULD CRY

Taeha: Honestly I thought you’d chicken out but no. you did the whole “lick → salt → shot → kiss” thing right??

You: Of course I did I studied the tape

Jieun: So you're telling me tequila + cleavage + terrible week + some sort of emotional reunion = Yoongi malfunction?

You: He short-circuited 😌 Then rebooted and proceeded to rearrange my internal organs

Chaeyoung: This is now a case study Scientific proof that tequila leads to spiritual fulfillment and hot sex like I SAID.

You: Anyway. Legs? Gone. Dignity? Questionable. Regrets? Zero. So… success?

Chaeyoung: Tell Yoongi I accept thank-you notes in the form of concert tickets or exclusive unreleased demos 🫶

You: He wrote me a whole song during the trip So I seduced a man and got a song.

Dami: MAIN CHARACTER SHIT

You: I’ll send a selfie later once my legs function again Love u whore💋

Taeha: God I missed us Can we go to Greece next?

Jieun: Bitch, we’re going to Spain next. Get a freakin grip.

#yoongi smut #bts smut #bts fanfiction #yoongi fanfic #yoongi x reader #yoongi ff

770 notes · View notes

jungkoode · 28 days ago

Text

死 KKANGPAE | #17 死

† bedroom confessions †

“His real name is the most dangerous thing he’s ever given you.”

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 7.5k

rating: explicit (18+)

content: first time in jeon’s bedroom, real name revelation, sexual tension finally exploding, dirty talk that’ll make you blush, spanking kink discovery, emotional walls starting to crack, post-sex vulnerability, and lines being crossed that can never be uncrossed.

Kiki Nation’s discussion thread for this chapter.

☠ author's note ☠

Y’ALL I’M DECEASED. Just casually writing 7.5k of filth like it’s nothing. Who even am I at this point? My laptop is judging me, my FBI agent is traumatized, and I haven’t made eye contact with my roommate in three days.

So… that happened. Jungkook finally shared his real name AND his bed, and honestly? The power that man holds when he’s being all dominant and teasing is absolutely CRIMINAL. I had to take several water breaks while writing this chapter because WHEW. Is it hot in here or is it just me? (¬‿¬)

The fact that Jungkook’s idea of aftercare is literally “wanna stay connected all night?” has me HOLLERING. Sir, that is NOT how this works—but also it’s so perfectly HIM. Our emotionally stunted sniper boy doesn’t know how to process feelings unless they’re shooting through a rifle scope.

And Y/N with the attitude even DURING sex? A queen behavior. Standing ovation for not becoming a complete puddle the second he touched her (though let’s be real, it was close).

Let’s also talk about how they can’t stop BANTERING even post-orgasm. These two idiots calling it “charity work” when they’re both equally obsessed with each other? THE DELUSION. I love them so much it physically hurts my face.

I know I promised slow burn but uh… Listen. LISTEN. It’s an EMOTIONALLLL slow burn. The fuck buddies tag is there for a reason. Sometimes characters just take over and you have to let them bang it out, you know? It’s for their mental health or whatever.

Don’t get too comfortable though! We all know what happens in this universe when people get too happy… the universe (aka me, their cruel god) decides to throw a wrench in everything. ⌒(o＾▽＾o)ノ

Next chapter will give us a little morning-after situation and maybe even some actual plot development if I can stop writing smut for five seconds!

Love ya, trauma vultures! Keep those comments coming, they fuel my sleep-deprived writing sessions!

xoxo 💋

P.S. Also, for the hate comment I deleted 5 seconds after it was posted (you tried though)… here's an even longer author's note, since yk, like you said, nobody reads them… More for me to yap without consequences, I guess.

⚔ socials ⚔

read on ao3

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

You're in Jeon's room.

Jeon's fucking room.

When he'd texted you to come to the shooting range earlier, you'd figured it was just another one of his typical late-night training sessions.

But now? Now you're here, on his bed , with him standing over you like he’s already decided you’re his next target.

Like you’re already dead and just haven’t figured it out yet.

Okay, maybe a tiny part of you had hoped for this. (Shut up , horny brain.)

But you'd only agreed to be fuck buddies like, what, some hours ago?

And here you are already, sprawled across his sheets, heart hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape.

Talk about moving fast.

Except it isn't simple. Not when you're already spread out across his bed like you fucking live here. Not when your heart's kicking like a scared rabbit in your chest.

Your fingers curl into his sheets on reflex. Satin. Dark. Smells like pine and something sharper—pine. Him. God, that should not do things to you but it does.

You fight the dumb grin twitching at the corner of your mouth.

Because here's the thing.

He's just as gone for it.

Jeon's staring down at you like he hasn't eaten in days. Dark eyes locked on you like you're dinner and dessert and every guilty pleasure combined. There's no hesitation. No second-guessing. No going slow. Just that razor-focused, dangerous glint he always gets before pulling the trigger on a mark.

And Jesus Christ, you're the mark.

Your breath catches.

That stormy energy of his? It's fucking alive. Wrapping around you. Crawling over your skin. You feel it. You taste it. Static in the air—sharp, biting, almost buzzing in your goddamn teeth.

His fingers graze your thigh and oh.

That's nice. Really nice.

But before you can really enjoy it, he pulls his hand away. Plants it on the mattress by your head, making the bed creak under his weight.

You snap your head up in disbelief. "Seriously?"

Your voice cracks. Great. Love that for you.

But then his other hand comes up—slides along your jaw like he owns you. Fingers rough. Callused. Deadly. And all you can do is stare like a fucking idiot as his thumb presses against your bottom lip. Tugging. Testing.

You go pliant before you even process it. Lips parting on instinct.

His mouth opens just a little—like he's picturing it. Like he wants to taste you. Swallow you whole.

And goddamn it, you want that too.

So bad it hurts.

Is he imagining what it'd be like to kiss you? 'Cause you sure as hell are.

"You sure you can handle the kind of tension relief I'm talking about?" he asks, voice low and gravelly.

You almost laugh. As if you haven't been thinking about this exact scenario for weeks.

"Guess you'll have to show me so I can decide, huh?"

That does it.

He moves. Fast.

You barely register it before he's already there—mouth crashing into yours like he's starving. Teeth. Tongue. Fucking warzone.

There's no slow build-up. No teasing. Just pure, raw take.

Your breath punches out of you as you grab for him. Instinct. Desperation. Your fingers slip into his hair—damp, messy, soft as hell. You tug. Hard.

He groans into your mouth. Loud. Deep. Way too fucking hot. It rips down your spine like lightning.

You bite his lip just to feel him suck in air through his teeth. God, that sound—that sound—shoots straight to your core. Your legs twitch under him, thighs pressing together, trying to ease the ache.

It doesn't work. Makes it worse.

Jeon doesn't let you off easy either. He dives back in. Deeper this time. Tongue claiming, swallowing every shaky breath you give him like he owns them now.

His body shifts—presses down harder—pinning you to the mattress without saying a single word. Your back arches up like a fucking reflex. Can't help it.

And then, just as fast, he pulls back.

Forehead against yours. Breath ragged. Lips slick and swollen.

His chest rises and falls like he just ran a mile.

You're no better. Gasping. Throat dry. Pulse wrecked.

"We doing this?" he asks.

Not really a question. He knows. You both know. Still—he waits.

And maybe it's stupid how much that makes your throat go tight.

You nod, still trying to catch your breath. "Yes."

One word. That's all it takes for Jeon's eyes to darken further.

His mouth finds yours again, but only for a moment. Then he's moving—trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to your neck. When his teeth graze below your ear, a small gasp leaves your throat.

Fuck.

The sound does something to him. You can tell by the way his fingers dig into your hip, how his breath comes out just a bit harsher against your skin.

His other hand slides down your stomach, fingers spread wide like he's trying to touch as much of you as possible. The shirt bunches up with the movement.

More skin exposed to the cool air of his room. More of you for him to explore.

You can barely breathe right. Every inhale is shallow, desperate. A whine builds in your throat, needy and embarrassing, but you're too far gone to care. You want more. More of his hands on you, more of his mouth, more of the way he's practically caging you in with his body.

He makes this sound—low and satisfied, almost like a growl—that has heat pooling between your legs.

"Jeon," you breathe out.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.

"Jungkook," he corrects, voice rough with want. "My real name is Jungkook. Say it like that again."

Your breath catches. Using real names in Kkangpae isn't something you take lightly. It's intimate. Personal. A sign of trust that goes beyond the physical.

"Jungkook," you say again, louder this time. Testing how it feels on your tongue.

The way his eyes darken tells you everything you need to know about how it sounds to him.

He growls—actually growls, okay paw patrol?—at that, like your voice saying his name is doing things to him. Like he can't get enough of it.

God. The way he's looking at you right now.

"Turn over for me," he murmurs like a command, but there's something patient in his voice. "I need to see that ass."

Your whole body feels like jelly as you move. The mattress dips beneath you, and fuck—you realize how exposed you are right now, laid out for him like this. How vulnerable.

How wanted.

"Ass up, sunshine," he says, voice raspy.

You push yourself up on your elbows, lifting your hips. The position makes you feel s̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ bold, but it also feels slightly intoxicating, being on display like this, knowing exactly what it's doing to him.

The sharp intake of his breath is worth it.

His hands hover over you for a moment—those same hands that can take a life from a mile away with a sniper rifle now ghosting across your skin. The anticipation has your stomach in knots, has you fighting the urge to push back against him.

When he finally touches you, it's almost reverent. Like he's mapping out territory he plans to claim.

"Fuck," he breathes out; and the way he says it—like a prayer, like worship—makes your face burn. "You have no idea what your ass does to me."

His fingers dig into the flesh of your ass, kneading with the kind of expertise that makes you wonder h̶o̶w̶ ̶m̶a̶n̶y̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶s̶ if he's thought about this before.

You have to press your face into the pillow to muffle the sounds trying to escape your throat.

Because if you start, you're not sure you'll be able to stop.

He takes his time, methodical in a way that's driving you insane. His thumbs spread you open, then let you fall back together. His hands work their way, massaging and squeezing. The heat under your skin builds until you feel like you might combust. Like you might actually catch fire right here in his bed.

"Such a perfect ass," he groans, and then—oh—his lips are pressing against one cheek, then the other. Soft kisses that feel somehow filthier than anything else he's done. "Fucking beautiful."

The praise hits different when it's coming from him. When it's Jungkook—cold, distant, perfectionist Jungkook—telling you how perfect you are.

When he pulls back, the loss of contact hits different. Like someone just yanked a warm blanket off you.

"I want to try something," he says, and okay, when his voice sounds like that you'd say yes to almost anything he'd say.

"Yeah?" Your voice is breathy, but at this point you're too curious (too turned on) to give a single fuck.

His hand traces up your spine, gentle in a way that doesn't match how intensely he's staring at you. The contrast makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

"I want to spank that gorgeous ass of yours."

It comes out like a confession, like he's been thinking about this for a while. There's a question mark hanging at the end of it though, waiting for your permission.

Oh.

Something hot and electric zips through you at the suggestion. Your brain staggers for a second, but your body's already made up its mind. You're nodding before you can even process what this means.

"Let's do it," you say, maybe too eagerly, but the thought of his hand coming down on your ass has lit something up inside you that you didn't even know was there.

"Remember our safe word?"

Even in the middle of this is, he's making sure you're both on the same page.

"Black tape," you confirm immediately.

Having that word there, knowing you can use it anytime—it's like a safety net. Makes everything else feel okay.

"Good."

He positions himself behind you again, and the anticipation is k̶i̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ driving you crazy. His hand hovers over your skin, making you feel every inch of exposed flesh.

Then, the first spank lands.

It's almost gentle—like he's testing the waters, seeing how you'll react.

The sound it makes in the quiet room has your face burning.

Sharp. Clean. Loud.

Your skin blooms with heat where his palm connected, and fuck—it's not exactly painful, but it sends this electric feeling through your whole body that has you gasping. The sting melts into something warmer, spreading under your skin until you feel like you're floating.

Your face burns.

And... It's not from pain.

Obviously, he's watching you like a hawk, trying to read your reaction. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy and intense.

"How was that?" His voice comes out rough, like he's the one who just got spanked.

You have to take a second to remember how words work.

"Good," you manage to get out, barely above a whisper. "Really good."

He gives you time to process, to just feel it. Then his palm is back on your ass, but this time he's not spanking. He's just... touching. Soothing the heated skin with gentle strokes that somehow feel more intimate than the spank itself.

It's messing with your head—how he can switch from rough to gentle so fast. One second he's spanking you, the next he's treating you like you're made of glass.

The air feels exactly like right before a storm hits.

Jungkook's presence behind you is overwhelming in the best way, and when his hand moves away, you actually have to bite back a whine.

Every second he makes you wait feels like torture. You arch your back a little, trying to be s̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ subtle about asking for more. You can't see his face, but you know he's smirking.

You've seen that look enough times to picture it perfectly—that cocky little quirk of his lips, the way his eyes get all dark and intense.

"Ready for another?" he asks, voice gone all gravelly; and it shouldn't be hot, but it is.

Your heart's going crazy in your chest when you nod. "Yes."

Waiting has has your skin tingling, has you holding your breath without even meaning to.

You can feel him shifting behind you, the mattress dipping as he draws his arm back.

When his palm connects this time, it's not a question—it's a statement.

The smack echoes off the walls, louder than before, and holy shit.

"Fuck," you gasp out.

It stings more this time, sharp and intense, but in a way that makes everything feel unfairly good.

"How does that feel?" His words drip with arousal, but there's still that undercurrent of concern.

Always checking, always making sure.

"Nice," you hear yourself say, and you're surprised by how eager you sound. Like you can't get enough. "Keep going."

There's a pause, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head.

"As you wish," he finally says, and you don't need to see his face to know he's smirking.

He pulls back again, and like the asshole he is, he makes you wait a little bit.

Not for long though, because clearly, the fucker is enjoying this too.

When the third spank lands, it's like a lightning bolt straight to your core. It's stronger, more controlled, and the pleasure that rips through you is so intense it steals your breath.

You cry out—not from pain, but from how good it feels.

How it makes your whole body sing.

This time, his hand stays put. You can feel the heat of his palm against your stinging skin, and it's grounding in a way you didn't know you needed.

"Beautiful," he breathes out, like you're some kind of work of art.

You hadn't pegged Jungkook as the type to be into this kind of thing. But the way his breath catches, the slight tremor in his hand as it rests on your ass—it's like he's discovering something about himself right along with you.

Maybe it's a spanking thing. Or maybe it's just a you thing.

Or your ass thing.

Either way, the realization that you're affecting him this much?

Heady. Bargaining material.

His fingers start tracing patterns on your heated skin, soothing the sting. Again with the contrast, from the spanking to this. Like he's not quite sure himself where he stands.

"You okay?"

You nod into the pillow, not trusting your voice right now.

Because how do you tell someone that you're more than okay? That you're floating on some kind of pleasure high you didn't even know existed?

And honestly, this whole situation is simply making it hard to think straight.

But then, Jungkook moves, slowly, creates some distance and—oh?

A soft thud. His towel hitting the floor.

He steps closer once more, bare skin against yours, and it's hot. He's hot. His skin is hot.

His body is all hard lines pressed up against your softer curves, and when his cock presses against your panties, you actually have to bite your lip to keep quiet.

You push back against him without thinking.

S̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ Needy.

"You're driving me fucking crazy," he makes this sound you can't quite classify.

The raw want in his voice does things to you. But before you can even think of responding, his hand comes down on your ass again.

Hard.

The sound echoes through his room, and you can't help the moan that slips out.

(Anyone walking past his door would definitely hear that one.)

"Tell me you felt that," he demands.

"I felt it," you manage to get out between breaths. "I felt all of it."

Then his free hand wraps around your waist, fingers spreading wide like he's trying to conquer as much of your body as possible. He pulls you closer, and god—you can feel every inch of his cock pressed against you through the thin fabric of your panties.

The contrast between his rough skin and the smooth material is driving you insane.

"You want more?"

He's trying to sound teasing, but you can hear how affected he is. His voice is multiple octaves deeper than his usual 'whatever' tone.

"Yeah." Your voice comes out wrecked. "Don't stop."

He laughs—this low, dangerous sound that makes your toes curl. "God, I love how eager you are."

His hand comes down hard—harder than before—and the sound echoes through his room like a gunshot. You can't help the groan that rips from your throat. It's embarrassingly loud, but who cares at this point?

The sting burns hot across your skin, sharp and biting, sinking deeper until it melts into that aching pulse you can’t get enough of. You can feel exactly where his palm landed, the heat of it sinking deep into your flesh.

"Christ, you take it so well," he says, and his fingers dig into the spot he just spanked, pressure making you bite your lip. "I can see the shape of my hand on your ass, turning red. It's fucking sexy."

You're breathing like you just ran a marathon, each exhale coming out kind of whiny and desperate. Your brain’s mush. All you can register is his hands and the heat of him grinding against you.

"Jungkook, please." The way you say his name is straight-up pathetic, way too needy.

You push back against him, wanting to feel him without these stupid panties in the way.

His fingers trail down your spine, so slow it’s infuriating. They dance over the curve of your ass before playing with the edge of your underwear. When his fingers finally hook into the fabric, you freeze, chest tightening as he pulls the fabric aside.

Your face is pressed into his mattress, ass up in the air like some kind of offering. You should feel exposed, but something about it just feels right.

"You're already so wet for me..." You can hear the smirk in his voice. What an asshole. "How can I resist?"

But he does resist, the bastard.

His touch goes all gentle, fingers just barely exploring your folds like he's got all the time in the world. Like he's trying to memorize every little detail—how wet you are, how warm, the way you can't help but tremble.

He then makes this approving sound deep in his throat and you've had enough.

"Jungkook," you whine, dragging out his name like some kind of desperate prayer. "Stop teasing."

"But I want to watch you squirm," he says, and fuck—you can tell he means it.

He wants to see you fall apart, wants to watch you beg.

What a bitch.

His sadistic little game only gets worse when you complain. You can feel his finger right there, barely touching where you need him most, just collecting evidence of how embarrassingly wet you are. The anticipation is k̶i̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ driving you insane as he slides that finger up and down, parting you without actually giving you what you want. Using your own arousal to make the glide easier.

You try to push back against him, to get his finger inside you—anything. But his other hand is pressed firm against your lower back, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

"Jesus Christ, just fuck me already," you can't help but groan, frustrated.

But Jungkook—because he's a bastard—just keeps playing his little game.

"I'll fuck you when you're ready to break from wanting it so bad," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

He loves it.

His finger circles your entrance, the touch so light it's actually torture. Every time he passes over that spot, you clench around nothing, desperate to feel him inside you.

When he finally pushes just the tip of his finger in, you actually sigh out loud—half relief, half frustration. Your whole body's shaking with how bad you need more, but he keeps holding back. Adding pressure so slowly it should be illegal, pushing in just to pull back out again.

He's drawing this out just because he can, the power-tripping dickhead.

The pressure builds just a tiny bit as he shows you the smallest amount of mercy, sliding that one finger in entirely so slow you think you might actually lose your mind.

It's not enough—nowhere near enough—and he knows it.

You want him to stop being so careful, to just take what you're offering.

Despite how frustrated you are (or maybe because of it), you can't help but smirk.

"What, you got no condoms this time either?"

The words come out all breathy between your gritted teeth—and honestly? Not your brightest idea, bringing up that particular memory from the tent.

The response is immediate—his hand comes down hard on your ass, sting spreading across your skin like wildfire.

"Aw, what the fuck—?"

You yelp, caught between the sharp pain and how embarrassingly turned on it makes you feel—like your body can't decide if it wants to flinch away or push back for more.

"You should know better than to sass me right now."

Then his hand is smoothing over the spot he just spanked, gentle in a way that feels almost worse than the hit itself.

"You're such an asshole," you tell him, but there's no real bite to it.

You both know you don't mean it, not when you're bent over his bed with his finger inside you.

"Mhm, but you fucking love it, don't you?"

He says it like it's just a fact. Like the sky is blue, water is wet, and you get off on him being a dick.

(The worst part is he's not wrong.)

You can't help but grown more impatient when you feel his ring finger press up against your entrance, right next to where his middle finger is already buried inside you. He pauses there, just letting you feel the pressure.

"For fuck's sake, just do it." Your voice cracks embarrassingly, giving away just how bad you want it.

He laughs, low and rough. "Patience, I want you to feel every single inch."

Can he die? Genuinely.

Then the pressure builds as he starts working his ring finger in alongside the other one. He's being so fucking methodical about it, pushing deeper into you at a pace that's making you lose your mind.

Every inch feels like it takes forever.

"You feel so fucking tight, you sure you can handle both?"

The teasing note in his voice makes you want to bite him. He already knows the answer, the smug bastard.

"I can take more than you can give," you get out between breaths, because fuck him.

And it's meant to be cocky, but it comes out sounding more desperate than anything.

"We'll see about that."

His fingers stop moving for a second—just long enough to make you whine—before he starts pushing in even slower. Like he's trying to make you feel every single movement, every stretch, every slide.

And at this point your body's on fucking fire. But can you be to blame, when he's been nothing but an infuriating tease?

Little pleading sounds keep escaping your throat without permission. You're practically chanting 'please's as you try to push back against his hand. But he's got you pinned, keeping that torturously slow pace.

"Fucking... jerk," you mutter—because he absolutely is.

"Yeah," he agrees. "I am."

When both his fingers finally—finally—bottom out inside you, you actually gasp. Your body clenches around them greedily, trying to get any kind of movement, and the grunt he lets out sounds s̶e̶x̶y̶ pleased.

"Tell me how much you want it."

It's not a request. His voice has that edge to it that makes it very clear.

"I want it more than my next breath." The words tumble out raw and honest.

"Good girl," he says, and even though it's rough around the edges, the praise makes you stutter.

His fingers curl inside you, making you moan embarrassingly loud. Then the bastard just... stops. Stays completely still, letting you feel exactly how deep his fingers are, how they're stretching you open.

You're actually going to lose your mind if he doesn't start moving soon. But you refuse to beg—you won't give him the satisfaction.

"I think listening to you beg is my new favorite sound," he says, like he can read your thoughts.

"Fuck off—" The words die in your throat when his fingers pull back just a tiny bit before pushing deep again, and yup, the sound that comes out of your mouth is straight-up pathetic.

"You're driving me insane," you tell him, trying to sound angry.

"That's the idea." He says, but it's all dark and pleased. "I want you out of your mind with need, so when I finally give you what you're begging for, you'll remember who put you there."

Fuck.

His fingers are still buried deep inside you, not moving, and you can feel every single knuckle. It's like a preview of what's coming later—a promise that this is just the start, and he's planning to take his sweet time getting there.

The seconds drag by like hours. You're stuck in this weird space between pleasure and frustration, where his fingers feel so good but it's n̶o̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ not nearly enough. The heat of his body against yours isn't helping either. Having him this close but not getting what you want is actually torture.

"Are you planning on moving anytime this century?"

And yeah. It sounds bitchy.

Exactly how you want it.

"In due time."

You can barely breathe right, desperation clawing at your throat. Then—oh—his finger brushes against your clit, so light you almost think you imagined it. Your hips jerk without permission, chasing that barely-there touch.

"Jungkook," you warn, half-growl, half-whine.

He chuckles. "No patience at all, huh?"

"Just fucking touch me already." The snark in your voice is falling apart, giving way to pure need.

"Ahh, I love it when you get all feisty."

You open your mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove that smugness, but then his finger is back on your clit.

Just ghosting over it, barely any pressure at all.

But your whole body lights up anyway, every nerve ending suddenly wide awake.

"This is torture," you accuse, though the breathiness in your voice kind of ruins the effect.

"Not torture. Appreciation." He hums. "I'm just enjoying all those pretty sounds you make. The way you shake. How desperate you get."

Bastard.

His finger starts moving in slow circles around your clit, adding just a tiny bit more pressure. It's enough to make your back arch, trying to get more friction, but it's n̶o̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ not nearly enough.

"Please," you whine, past caring how needy you sound. "Just—a little harder, please, Jungkook."

He gives you what you asked for—barely.

Just a fraction more pressure, but combined with his fingers still buried inside you, it's enough to make your body clench around him.

He's got you trapped between pleasure and frustration, keeping you right on that edge.

"This what you want?" he asks, mocking. "This pace good for you, hmm?"

You know exactly what he's doing—getting off on your impatience, on how desperate he can make you with just his fingers and that stubborn w̶i̶l̶l̶p̶o̶w̶e̶r̶ control of his.

The pressure on your clit keeps changing, going from barely-there touches that make you want to scream to just enough to have you chasing more.

"Jungkook, I fucking swear—"

The words die in your throat when his finger suddenly presses harder.

"What?" His voice drops even lower, hitting that dangerous note that usually means he's about to stop playing nice. "What exactly are you swearing?"

"That I'll rip your fucking hair out if you don't stop messing around." You have to grit your teeth to get the words out, trying to sound threatening even though you're literally shaking with need.

He laughs—this deep, dark sound that vibrates through you—and rewards your threat with a firm stroke that has heat coiling in your stomach.

"That's not very nice," he says, but he sounds more amused than anything. Like your empty threats are entertaining him.

His finger goes back to those slow, torturous circles around your clit. Each pass builds the pressure a little more, but it's never quite enough to get you there.

The most f̶u̶c̶k̶e̶d̶ messed up part? You're kind of into it.

This whole power play thing you've got going—how you push and he pulls, how you threaten and he teases.

It's addictive.

Because in truth, there is something powerful about knowing you can make Jeon Jungkook, Kkangpae's perfect soldier, want to hear you say his name.

Suddenly his whole rhythm changes.

No more of that torturously slow pace—his fingers start moving with actual purpose, curling inside you in a way that has your toes curling. Like he's finally done playing around and just wants to make you genuinely cum.

Hallelujah.

The sound that comes out of your mouth is straight-up filthy. You have to press your face into the mattress to muffle it, which only makes you more aware of how heavily you're breathing, each gasp basically fucking advertising how good his fingers feel.

"Come on, sunshine," he teases. "You don't have to be quiet. These walls are soundproof."

But you just press your face harder into the mattress.

It's become a matter of pride now—you refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing exactly what he's doing to you.

You're right there, so close you can taste it—

And then the fucker stops.

A pathetic whimper leaves your throat as you squirm beneath him, feeling weirdly empty. The loss of sensation has you actually wanting to cry.

When you turn your head to glare at him, he's got this insufferably satisfied look on his face.

He reaches over to the nightstand, pulling open the drawer like he's got all the time in the world. The foil packet he holds up catches the light, and the victorious look he gives you makes you want to bite him.

"See, I do have condoms this time, you smart mouth." The smirk on his face should be illegal.

"Oh wow, look who's being a semi-functional adult for once." You narrow your eyes at him."Want a fucking gold star or something?"

He laughs whilst tearing the foil packet and for some reason, it is weirdly hot—how focused he looks while rolling the condom on.

"Maybe after this you'll want to give me one," he says, still sounding way too amused.

He settles back on his knees, raising an eyebrow at you like he's waiting for something. You huff, pretending to be all put out even though you're literally dying from how bad you want him. When you press your cheek against his cool sheets again, you make sure to arch your back just right.

You know exactly what that view does to him.

Feeling extra b̶r̶a̶t̶t̶y̶ bold, you wiggle your hips a little. Just a tiny movement, but it's basically saying 'come and get it' without words.

And bingo.

His hand comes down on your ass hard—but despite that, you feel weirdly victorious.

Then he's right there, lining himself up.

His tip brushes against your entrance, teasing to the point of madness, because at this point you just want him inside already.

You bite down on the sheets, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg again. But your body's giving you away anyway—the way you're trembling, how desperately you're trying to push back against him.

He takes his sweet time, just watching you. His eyes trail down your spine to where his handprints are probably turning your ass red.

After what feels like forever, he finally pushes in, one smooth stroke that rips the air from your lungs.

And it's impossible to muffle yourself; even with your face squashed against the mattress, when he bottoms out completely.

You feel every single inch of him, filling you up so completely it's genuinely insane. And he just stays there, buried deep inside you.

"So fucking tight," he growls, sound vibrating through you, making your toes curl.

Your body moves on its own, pushing back against him, desperate for more. You need him to move, need that relentless pace you know he can give you. But the bastard just holds you there, completely still, making you feel every single detail of how he's splitting you open.

His fingers dig into your hips—not hard enough to leave marks (yet), but firm enough to keep you exactly where he wants you. And the slight bite of pain just adds to the pleasure, kind of welcome honestly.

When he finally pulls back, you almost whine at the loss—but then he slams back in, hard and deep, and your brain melts. Everything gets kind of blurry after that.

Your skin feels like it's on fire everywhere he touches. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes through his room (thank god these walls are actually soundproof), getting louder with each thrust. His pace is brutal, punishing, but it's exactly what you've been dying for.

"That's it, take all of it."

And there's just this thing in how he says it—that has you pushing back against him like you're desperate for it.

(Maybe you are.)

Every thrust feels like getting hit by a natural disaster; like a fucking hurricane. It's hard to breathe, hard to think about anything except how he's driving you into the mattress.

He's fucking you like he's got something to prove, hips snapping forward so hard it's just obscene, has you clutching at his sheets like they're the only thing keeping you grounded.

Then his hand slides underneath you, looking for your clit. Like he knows exactly what you need without you voicing it out.

The second he finds it and starts rubbing circles against it, electricity zips through your whole body. It's almost too much, the dual sensation of his cock stretching you open and his fingers working your clit.

"Fuck, Jungkook," you moan, and you barely recognize your own voice. "Don't stop."

He lets out this grunt that gets lost in the sound of him pounding into you.

But he listens, thank god, keeping up that relentless pace with both his cock and his fingers.

It's not gentle. He's fucking you like he wants to break you, like he wants to hear every embarrassing sound he can wring out of your throat.

"Just like that, sunshine," he pants. "Fucking take it."

Each thrust builds something wild inside you, like being caught in the eye of a hurricane. The pressure coils tighter and tighter until you think you might actually lose your mind. Everything feels too much and not enough all at once.

Your senses go into overdrive—the obscene sound of skin hitting skin, the heavy scent of sex filling his room, the salt of sweat on your tongue. You're drowning in pleasure, and Jungkook's the one holding you under with his relentless pace.

Then it hits.

The orgasm crashes through you in waves, drawing these embarrassingly loud sounds from your throat—whimpers, growls, straight-up begging. Your body clamps down around his cock like it's trying to keep him there forever, fingers still working your clit through it all. Pleasure zips through every nerve ending until you can barely breathe.

"Jungkook—" His name rips from your throat when you come, sounding absolutely wrecked.

The pleasure is so intense it almost hurts.

He falters for just a second before picking the pace back up, fucking you through your orgasm until you're seeing stars. Each stroke sets off these little aftershocks that have you questioning your sanity. His groans get louder, deeper, mixing with the sounds you can't help but make.

Every thrust hits exactly where you need it, precise and commanding in that way only he can manage.

You can feel how tense he is, how close he is to losing it.

His breathing comes out all rough and uneven, matching the brutal pace of his thrusts. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave marks, using the grip to pull you back onto his cock like he can't get deep enough.

It's feral, is what it is— how he's moving now—like he's completely lost in it, chasing his own pleasure.

"Shit, I'm close," he groans against your neck, chest pressed tight against your back, skin burning everywhere you touch.

Then he goes rigid as it hits him.

You can feel every twitch of his cock, every pulse as he fills the condom.

He makes this plethora of sounds—deep, rough groans combined with some high pitched ones; all stripped away until he's just raw need and pleasure.

"Ah— fuck—"

Every curse that falls from his lips sounds snatched from him, desperate.

His hips stutter against yours, losing his rhythm as he rides it all out. His grip on your hips is tight enough to bruise, holding you still while he falls apart. Each thrust gets slower, like he's trying to make it last.

When he starts coming down from it, his hands go gentle where they were rough before.

He's still panting hard against your neck, little aftershocks making his cock twitch inside you. His heart's hammering so hard you can feel it against your back.

Jungkook collapses against your back, his legs apparently giving out after how hard he just came. His chest is slick with sweat where it presses against you, and his breath fans hot across your neck. He's still buried inside you, cock softening but still making you feel so full.

The sound he makes—this low, satisfied groan—is almost cute. Like a big cat after a good meal.

The afterglow starts to settle, leaving this heavy kind of quiet between you. Your breathing starts evening out, going from desperate gasping to something more normal.

You both just... stay there for a minute, too worn out to move.

Then he just... drops his full weight on you. Like his arms finally give out or something.

The heat of his body wraps around you completely, and maybe it'd be nice if he wasn't crushing your lungs.

His whole body is radiating exhaustion, and yeah—you get it. That was intense.

"Jeon, move... you're heavy," you grunt into his pillow.

Your voice comes out all rough from how loud you were being earlier.

"Give me a second," he mumbles against your skin, sounding just as wrecked as you feel. "You can't expect me to move after fucking you like that."

He sounds half-joking, half-serious, nuzzling into your neck like he's planning to just stay there forever.

You can't help but laugh at that. Something about seeing Kkangpae's perfect soldier brought down by an orgasm is kind of hilarious.

You shove at his side, trying to get him to budge.

He doesn't move an inch, the bastard.

Instead, he has the audacity to suggest something so wild it's weirdly very him.

"How 'bout we fall asleep just like this, me still inside you?" His voice comes out all lazy and satisfied.

You can tell he's half-joking, but there's this note in his voice that says he's actually considering it.

You reach back to smack him, caught between being annoyed and kind of endeared by how shameless he is.

"Fat chance, thundercloud," you tell him, but there's no real bite to it.

He laughs—this deep, warm sound that tells you he's smiling even though you can't see his face.

But you really can't breathe with him crushing you, so you push at him again, harder this time. "Seriously, off. You're heavy as fuck."

He makes this exaggerated groan like you're asking him to run a marathon or something, but finally rolls off you and onto his side.

His cock slips out (and fuck, that's a weird feeling), and then he sprawls out next to you, throwing one arm over his face as he catches his breath.

The sight of him like this—all tatted up and muscled, skin still kind of shiny with sweat—is doing things to your brain that you really don't want to examine too closely.

After a few more deep breaths, he sits up with this little sigh like moving is the worst thing ever. You watch him from the corner of your eye as he deals with the condom.

There's something almost gentle about how he handles it, which is kind of funny considering how rough he w being just a minute ago. He ties it off and tosses it in the trash with this practiced little flick that says he's definitely done this before.

"So, you wanna cuddle?" The teasing in his voice is obvious.

It's a callback to your conversation earlier, when you were both pretending this was just going to be sleeping.

"Seems like I'm not the one wanting to cuddle after all," you shoot back, matching his tone.

Jungkook gives you that smug little grin.

"Just doing some charity work," he says, voice all teasing and challenging, daring you to argue.

You can't help but scoff. The audacity of this man.

"Charity work? Please. If anyone's being charitable here, it's me."

He laughs—this deep, satisfied sound that fills his room. "Ha. Don't act like you didn't enjoy that just as much as I did."

Well. He's got you there, but you're not about to admit it out loud. Not when he's being this smug about it.

You tilt your head, feeling a crooked smile tug at your lips. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. Guess we'll never know."

He shifts closer to you, and fuck—even after everything you just did, your body still reacts to his proximity.

"Maybe I need to fuck you again to find out," he says, voice dropping low enough to make heat pool in your stomach.

"Oh? You sure you can handle another round, tough guy?"

The smirk he gives you is absolutely criminal.

"Sunshine, I've got stamina for days." He says it like he's joking, but something tells you he's not exaggerating.

"For days, huh?" You raise an eyebrow. "Someone's confident."

"Because I know you," he says softly, words ghosting across your skin.

That makes you pause.

Know you?

He doesn't know you any more than you know him.

Sure, your bodies seem to speak the same language—the way you fit together, how you respond to each other's touch.

But that's all this is.

All it can be.

Nothing more complicated than pure physical attraction.

But you don't feel like getting into that right now. Not when you're both still riding the high of what just happened.

"Tempting," you say instead, drawing the word out. "But we've got a long night ahead, and I'd rather spend it actually sleeping."

He narrows his eyes at you, looking way too pleased with himself.

"My bed seems to be the only place you're actually honest," he says, and how does he always have a comeback ready?

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Was that supposed to be a compliment, Jeon? Getting soft on me already?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, putting on this fake serious face. "Can't have you thinking I actually enjoy your company or something."

"Oh, please. Soft is literally the last word I'd use to describe you." You can't help but smirk at the double meaning.

A yawn catches you off guard—not because you're tired (okay, maybe a little), but because you're actually kind of... comfortable?

Weird.

"Anyway, time for sleep. That's what we said we'd do, remember?

He literally snorts. "Sleep? After what we just did? You're fucking with me."

"Not anymore, I'm not," you shoot back, and the look on his face is actually priceless.

"Come on," he tries again. "Round two? I promise it'll be worth staying up for."

But you're already settling into his stupidly comfortable bed. "Nope. Some of us need actual sleep, thundercloud."

"Fine," he sighs, all dramatic about it. "But just so we're clear—this isn't me giving up. It's a tactical retreat."

You actually snort at that. "A tactical retreat? Is that what we're calling it?"

"Yeah, well." He pulls the covers up, finally accepting defeat. "Pushy ain't sexy."

You both settle comfortably in the quietness of his room.

And you can't help but ponder.

It's weird how easy this feels—being here with him, joking around after what you just did.

Like you're not just teammates or gang members or even fuck buddies.

That thought's definitely more scary than it should be.

goal: 480 notes (also lil reminder to go vote fmu 21 and 22 on wattpad after the mass unvoting to restore them, if you enjoy that story as well! (●’◡’●)ﾉ)

if you’ve enjoyed this chapter please consider buying me a coffee!! ☕️ ♡´･ᴗ･`♡

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joaeriz · 2 months ago

Text

8 LETTERS (Paige Bueckers x Fem!Reader)

📎 inspired by “8 Letters” by Why Don’t We 📖 fluff | slow burn | soft romance | college AU 💌 word count: ~2.8k

summary: When Y/N is assigned to write a feature on UConn’s star player Paige Bueckers, the last thing she expects is late-night FaceTimes, secret hangouts, and catching real feelings. As the line between friendship and something more starts to blur, both girls are left wondering if they’re brave enough to say the eight letters that could change everything.

authors note: (Okay, so before you jump in—I just wanna say I had so much fun writing this. It’s honestly a mix of two of my favorite things ever: Paige Bueckers (who I adore) and “8 Letters” by Why Don’t We (which lives rent-free in my head, always). The idea hit me out of nowhere—like, what if that kind of soft, slow, “I love you but I’m scared to say it” kind of story played out between Y/N and Paige? And it just spiraled from there in the best way. I got way too emotionally invested in these two (not sorry), and writing all the cute moments, the late-night FaceTimes, and the feelings they’re both too scared to admit? Ugh. I loved every second.So if you’re into a little angst, a lot of softness, and some seriously sweet vibes, I hope this gives you butterflies the way it gave me butterflies writing it. Thanks for reading—it means so much. — Jo)

P.s: this is my first fic i have posted on here!! Im not new at writing, but let me know if you guys want more :)

You weren’t supposed to fall in love with your story subject.

That was rule number one of journalism school. No dating your interviewees, no crushes on profile pieces, no getting involved. But rules felt irrelevant the first time Paige Bueckers smiled at you like you were more than another face with a notepad.

Your assignment was simple—write a semester-long feature on the UConn women’s basketball team for the student paper. Paige, naturally, was the center of the piece. A star on and off the court. Already a national name. Every sports journalist dreamed of covering her.

You were supposed to remain objective.

Instead, you were falling for her.

Hard.

—

It started with a dead recorder.

Your first real conversation wasn’t planned—unless you count fate as a planner. You’d been huddled near the sideline at practice, trying to record a quote from one of the assistant coaches when your recorder sputtered out and died mid-sentence. You swore under your breath and slapped it, like that ever helped.

Paige had been walking by, sipping on a water bottle, and stopped. “Need backup?”

You looked up, startled. “Only if you’ve got a time machine.”

She smiled. “Nope. But I’ve got the Voice Memos app.”

She handed over her phone like it was no big deal—like she hadn’t just offered you her lifeline. You blinked. “You trust a random reporter with your phone?”

“You don’t seem like the type to scroll through texts.” She leaned in with a smirk. “Besides, you’ve got an honest face. And a tragic relationship with electronics.”

You laughed, cheeks heating. She stayed next to you for a few minutes, watching as you wrapped up your interview with her phone in hand. When it was over, she texted you the audio file with the message:

“Try not to let your technology trauma ruin your career.”

You responded with a lame thank-you and a joke about threatening your recorder with a hammer. You didn’t expect her to reply.

But she did.

“Violence is rarely the answer, but I’ll allow it.”

From there, it snowballed. Texts turned into full-blown threads. Threads into daily check-ins. She started sending random memes between practices—some sports-related, some completely unhinged—and you’d match her energy with cursed TikToks and sarcastic commentary.

Then came the first FaceTime.

You were editing audio at 11:47 p.m. when her name lit up your screen. Paige Bueckers is FaceTiming you.

You stared at it for a second. Then answered.

She was wrapped in a hoodie with damp hair and tired eyes, lying in bed. “Hey,” she said softly. “Didn’t wanna be alone tonight.”

That first call lasted three hours.

You talked about everything: your major, her injuries, your complicated relationship with your hometown, her fear of letting people down. She confessed that sometimes, the pressure made her want to run away to a place where no one knew her name.

You said you understood.

After that, it became routine. Late-night FaceTimes. Morning Snapchats. Study breaks where she'd call and say, “Tell me something random,” and you’d ramble about your day while she half-listened, half-dozed.

—

The first time you hung out outside of school was under the guise of an interview follow-up.

She invited you to a local coffee shop—some cozy little place with plants in every window and tables just slightly too small. You showed up with your laptop and pages of notes. Paige showed up in a hoodie and beanie, no makeup, looking infuriatingly good.

You talked for two hours.

Only twenty minutes was about basketball.

She paid for your drink when you weren’t looking.

“I’ll Venmo you,” you said, pretending to dig for your phone.

She just shrugged. “Nah. Call it a reporter’s hazard fee.”

After that came more not-quite-dates. Study sessions in the campus library where she never actually studied. Walks through the trail behind the dorms where she'd kick pebbles and talk about life like it was something she hadn’t quite figured out yet.

One night, she invited you to “movie night” with the team.

You showed up with snacks and nerves, expecting a whole crowd.

But it was just her.

Two mugs of hot chocolate already on the table. A blanket tossed casually over the couch. She tried to play it off. “The others bailed,” she claimed with a sheepish shrug.

She was a terrible liar.

You stayed anyway.

She fell asleep halfway through the second movie with her head on your shoulder, and you didn’t dare move.

After that night, everything shifted.

—

There were moments. God, there were moments.

The way her hand would brush yours when she passed you something and linger—just a second too long. The way she’d light up when you walked into a room, like you were the only one she’d been waiting for. How she’d say things like:

“Sometimes I forget how to breathe around you.”

And then immediately pretend it was a joke.

You wanted to say it.

You almost did—on Valentine’s Day, when she left a note in your dorm mailbox with a chocolate bar and the words “you’re my favorite notification.”

But you chickened out.

Because if she didn’t feel the same way, you’d lose her. And that possibility was more terrifying than staying quiet.

But then came the silence.

She started pulling away. Fewer texts. Missed calls. Short replies like:

“Practice ran late.” “Sorry, just tired.” “Talk soon?”

And soon became never.

Until the day it broke.

—

It was cold. Rainy. The kind of day that made everything feel heavier. You were walking past the practice facility, hood up, heart aching, when you saw her.

Paige. Alone. Leaning against the wall like she was waiting for something—or someone.

You slowed. She looked up.

“I think we should stop,” she said.

Your stomach dropped. “Stop…?”

“This. Us. I don’t know what this is to you, and I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with not knowing.”

You blinked, throat closing.

“I’m not asking you to guess,” you managed to say.

“Well, then tell me,” she whispered. “Because I think about you all the time, and I don’t know how to make it stop. And it hurts, Y/N. It hurts not knowing if I’m just another story to you.”

And finally—finally—you said the words.

“You asked what love looks like to me.”

She held her breath.

“It looks like you. Like FaceTime calls at midnight and cold coffee on a Sunday morning. It’s how you fight through everything and still smile like you’re not carrying the weight of the world. I didn’t say it before because I was scared, but I’m more scared of losing you.”

Her eyes glossed. She stepped closer.

“You love me?” she asked, barely a whisper.

“I do.”

And when she kissed you, it was soft and shaky and real. Like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

—

That night, your article sat unfinished.

She lay beside you on your tiny dorm bed, her hand brushing yours under the covers, the silence between you humming with peace.

“Say it again,” she murmured.

You smiled.

“I love you.”

Eight letters.

—

It had been twenty-six days since you told Paige you loved her.

Twenty-six days since she kissed you in the rain like her world had just started spinning again.

Twenty-six days since things finally became real.

And every single one of those days had felt like waking up in the softest dream.

Being with Paige wasn’t loud or flashy—not most of the time. It was slow mornings in bed, tangled limbs and quiet whispers. It was FaceTiming just to sit in silence while you both worked. It was warm hoodies borrowed without asking, and her stealing your socks because “they’re the soft ones.”

It was peace.

One Sunday morning, you found her asleep on your couch, wearing your crewneck and hugging your stuffed animal. She’d crashed the night before after watching movies in your room, the two of you curled together on your tiny dorm bed until she got too warm and rolled onto the floor, dramatically sighing, “This is why we need a queen-sized mattress and a lease.”

You’d laughed, thinking she was joking.

Then she blinked up at you and said, totally serious, “Like… a place. You and me. Off campus. Someday.”

Your heart soared, and you tucked the idea away like a wish on a star.

Later, she sleepily mumbled, “I want you in my mornings and my nights.”

And you knew she meant it.

—

Dating Paige came with little adventures.

Like the time she surprised you with a picnic—on a Tuesday.

You’d been having the worst week: deadlines, papers, zero sleep. Paige texted you in the middle of class: “Be ready at 6. Trust me.”

You met her behind the student union, expecting takeout and a movie.

Instead, she’d laid out a blanket under a canopy of fairy lights she somehow got from the volleyball team’s gear closet. There was music playing from a Bluetooth speaker, a thermos of your favorite hot cocoa, and a little box of cupcakes from the bakery you once mentioned you liked.

“I know you’re overwhelmed,” she said, pulling you into a hug. “So I’m forcing you to pause. Just for tonight.”

You nearly cried.

“I don’t deserve you,” you whispered.

She kissed your forehead and grinned. “Nah. We deserve each other.”

—

Her love came in a thousand small ways.

When your period hit hard, she showed up with snacks, heating pads, and the world’s ugliest cartoon pajamas she said were “scientifically proven to improve moods.” (They did.)

When she won a game, she didn’t go out with the team—she came to your place and danced with you barefoot in the kitchen to 2000s R&B.

When you got a bad grade on a paper and spiraled about being “not good enough,” she held your face in her hands and said, “You’re brilliant. One grade doesn’t get to rewrite the story.”

She never let you forget your worth—even when you did.

—

Your favorite tradition was Sunday mornings.

You’d wake up slow—her arm slung lazily around your waist, her cheek against your shoulder. She always looked soft in the mornings, voice scratchy, hair messy, face unfiltered.

“Don’t look at me,” she’d mumble, burying her face in the pillow.

You always did anyway.

You’d take turns making breakfast—read: burning toast and debating whether Pop-Tarts counted as a real meal. You’d play records on your vintage player, dance around the room in socks, kiss in the doorway like it was a scene from a movie.

She called you “home” once.

You didn’t say anything in return.

You just pulled her into your chest and held her tighter than words could manage.

—

There were no more secrets now.

People knew. Slowly, sure. But Paige had started holding your hand in public. At first on quieter streets, where no one looked. Then at campus parties. Then at a game.

After a home win, she ran over to the bleachers—where you were waiting—and kissed you in front of a thousand fans and a dozen cameras.

“I love you,” she said breathlessly. “Needed you to know before anything else.”

The video went viral. The team teased her endlessly.

She didn’t care.

Neither did you.

—

One night, lying in bed with your laptop open on your stomach and Paige half-asleep beside you, you said, “This is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

She looked up. “Because of me?”

You smiled. “Because of us.”

She kissed your shoulder and whispered, “Let’s stay like this forever.”

And maybe the future held more challenges—graduation, jobs, long-distance talks if things got complicated.

But for now, you had everything you needed.

Her heartbeat beside yours. Her laughter echoing in your chest. And the words you once feared to say now lived freely between you.

“I love you.” Eight letters. Forever on repeat.

#paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers uconn #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #paige bueckers #x reader #college wbb #uconn women’s basketball #Spotify

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gyuswhore · 11 months ago

Text

Grease (the tragedy)

“Careful, those marks on the floor aren’t just oil and paint.”

jeon wonwoo x reader

word count: 5.8k

warnings: smut [minors DNI], fluff, angst, mechanic!wonu, annoyances to lovers, blind date gone wrong but then gone right, kissing, clit stuff, oral (f. rec), thigh fucking (oop), this all happens at a desk LMAO, title is a what I thought was a funny spin on how people say "grease (the musical)"....has nothing to do with the musical though but lots to do with actual grease!!!

synopsis: In which you have to sit through one of the worst dates of your life, followed by the insistent tug of fate and compulsion that lead you straight back to where you'd sworn you'd never go.

[a/n]: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY WIFE CAMOTHY @highvern everyone go say happy birthday to cam or ill appear in your room at night 🔫 anygays HAVE FUN READING THIS I hope this is all the sexy wonu content you wanted, I cant wait for your reaction hehehhehe

and also bigbigbigbig thank you to jessifer @the-boy-meets-evil for proofing this for me!!! ily heh

and and to everyone reading this who is not cam, I hope you enjoy reading mechanic!wonu as much as I liked writing him heheh PLS REMEMBER TO REBLOG AND TELL ME UR THOTS it could be in the tags, replies, an ask literally anything!!!! id love to hear what you guys think!!!!

masterlist

[You]: do you think he died on the way [Liv]: hes still not there??? [You]: what do you think????? [Liv]: let me ask Amelia [You]: dont bother [You]: he can show up whenever he wants im leaving in 5 [Liv]: you promised you’d sit thru this!! [You]: sit thru what? an empty seat across from me???

Liv doesn’t respond immediately, and you immediately know she’s buggered off to ask her cousin why your date still wasn’t here.

It’s not like you couldn’t have asked him yourself, the sparse textbox sitting just under Liv’s contact. You open it to inspect the contents.

[liv’s cousin’s something]: Amelia gave me your number [liv’s cousin’s something]: friday night at the sage&salt at 7 [liv’s cousin’s something]: is that okay [You]: uh hey [You]: yeah that’s fine

Today 7:20 PM

[You]: im here?

The first thread of texts were enough to make you feel like this was some cold business meeting instead of a date, knowing wherever this would lead would be either the city dump or off a cliff. Liv was hearing none of it, taking the guilt tripping route, saying she’d already committed and her cousin was irritating enough even without a scuffle.

So when Friday evening came around you’d pulled on the first dress your fingers could find, took all of ten minutes fighting with your makeup to make it look like you did something and left the house with zero expectations.

Despite that, as you see a man walk into the establishment dressed like he’d gotten into a fight with a squid and a paper shredder, you feel the stone in your chest tank into the abyss. Zero expectations, and he’s somehow managed to strike out anyway.

The jacket looks like he’s put it on as a weak cover for the grime stains on his shirt and trousers, a couple jet black splatters across the outfit to really pull the whole thing together. It’s not like he looked homeless or anything, his face surprisingly handsome with his hair pushed away from his forehead. Although he remains looking like he’d been playing football in some neighbourhood parking lot before remembering he had an adult appointment too.

You’d never seen the man in your life, but your gut told you this was the shit texter who’d kept you waiting for nearly an hour. He seems to notice too, eyes locking from across the restaurant as the waitress leads him to your table.

“Wonwoo,” you greet with a difficult smile, half sure it came out as a grimace. “Right?”

“Yeah,” he huffs as he practically slams back down on the chair, and you wonder for a moment how the legs didn’t give out. He says your name and you nod. “Sorry I’m late, I got a call in the parking lot.”

He’s been in the parking lot this entire time?!

It’s like you’ve been doused in gasoline and lit on fire, yet somehow needing to give him a shaky reply anyway.

“O–oh, I see.”

The waitress saves you from spitting in his face when she asks if you were ready to order.

Dinner was off the table, as you discussed with Liv who forwarded it to her cousin to her–whoever it was that set up this god awful date–and agreed on dessert and perhaps a drink.

“I’ll have the chocolate cake,” you request in an attempt to make this somewhat better. You consider for a moment before asking for a drink as well, “And a dry gin martini, please.”

“Um,” he staggers as he barely skims the menu, ultimately flipping it closed. “I’ll have the same, I guess.”

Deep voice. You might’ve liked that if you weren’t already so peeved.

The waitress disappears with the menus, leaving you two alone for the first time.

“So,” you start with an exhale. “How do you know Amelia?”

“Her husband.”

“I see.”

Silence.

“How do you know her husband?”

He sighs like this is all inconveniencing him, and it irks you to an irrespective degree. Like you wanted to be here either.

“He brings his car to the workshop alot, became friends somewhere along the line.”

“Workshop?”

He looks a little startled, cocking his head to the side. “I’m a mechanic? Did Olivia–was it–not tell you?”

“No, she didn’t.”

It’s silent yet again as the man across from you refuses to elaborate. You curse as you ask him a follow up question. If there was anything you hated more than shouldering a dead conversation, it was sitting through an awkward silence.

One hour. You’d sit through this for one more hour and then you’d leave.

“What kind of cars do you work on?”

“Expensive ones,” he answers. You might’ve kicked yourself if he’d ended it at that, but he continues with a purse of his lips. “Ones that rich people abuse to an inch of the machine’s life and wonder why the dealership gives up on it. Vintage pieces too.”

“Have I heard of it?”

“The cars?”

“No, I mean,” you let out a breath. “Your workshop.”

“Jeon Motors, just a couple streets down actually.”

You did know what he was talking about, not expecting to recognise it through the empty question, passing by it on multiple occasions in this part of the city.

“Oh, I’ve seen it a few times.”

“Yeah, we’ve been there for a while.”

“Family business?”

“Uh–sort of.”

“Okay,” you sigh in an irritated laugh. This was going to be a very difficult hour. “Keep that to yourself too.”

“Is there a problem?”

Just as you lift your eyes to lock with his, a ready yes, there is actually a problem on your tongue, there’s an intrusion.

“Here are your chocolate cakes,” the waitress places the cakes down, and then the drinks. “And your dry gin martinis. Do you guys need anything else?” By the time the waitress is gone you’ve somewhat forced yourself to put that sudden surge of flames out, to a degree at least.

“Okay,” he sighs, grabbing his glass and downing nearly half the contents. He emerges, wiping a bit of a spill from the corner of his mouth. “Let’s get this out of the way.”

“Hm?” He’s speaking to you with a very weird surge of intensity, and it confuses you.

“Neither of us wanna be here. You’re clearly trying to be hospitable but I’d really rather you not, especially when we’re both doing this to get our respective ticks off our hides.”

There isn’t much you can do but stare at him.

“Have I misjudged your advances?” he asks over his glass, sharp eyes piercing.

“No!” you yelp, reaching for your drink yourself, taking big sips only to emerge sputtering and heaving.

Your date looks like he’s rising out of his chair when you raise a hand to stop him.

“No,” you repeat, less jumpy this time. “I guess we could’ve cleared that out from before.”

Did he…snort?

“Sorry.” Dropping his chin to his chest, he composes himself.

“What?” you ask, remaining annoyed as ever.

“Nothing.”

That does it. You slam your now empty glass down on the table, slipping your fork out of the napkin a little forcefully, the metal glinting in the light of the restaurant. You dig into a corner of the cake and shove it in your mouth.

If he was gonna be rude, you could be too.

“I don’t know about hospitable.” You swallow. “But I assumed not being an ass was kind of an unwritten rule for any situation really. Including the ones you’d rather not be in.”

Wonwoo stares at you with a blank face, his cake untouched. “I’m being an ass. My laugh couldn’t have offended you that much.”

“So you did pick that up,” you comment. “With the way this conversation’s going I would’ve thought it flew right over your engine.”

“I’d argue your laugh was the least offensive thing you’ve done tonight.” You plunge your fork into your cake again. “But clearly we’re in different realms of etiquette.”

Your eyes meet the rough stains on his attire, and then his own that bore into yours like a challenge. The cake isn’t too sweet, rich just the right amount and texturally sound. Maybe something good did come out of this fiasco.

“Okay fine,” he announces, sitting up straighter. “I apologise.”

“For laughing?”

“And for being obscenely late.”

“And?”

“And…” he genuinely looks like he’s struggling to figure it out, but catches your eyes flickering to his tattered and stained outfit. “And for my entirely inappropriate dressing sense. You’ll have to forgive me for that one, oil and grime are my spoils of war.”

“Wear it like a badge, mister mechanic, but perhaps somewhere it’s appreciated.”

Wonwoo has already finished his drink, his cake remaining untouched. “You’re quite adamant on disliking me.”

“And you’re quite adamant on being a horrid conversationalist.”

The corners of his mouth lift the slightest bit. Opening his mouth to respond, you cut him off. “Cars don’t talk? Or perhaps, machines are easier to understand?”

“More like I don’t care to be personable.”

“That can’t be good for business.”

“The cars speak for themselves.”

He’s a weird one. Even more so when he offers to pay the entire bill, promising you he wasn’t lying when he said he was good at what he does, and to “make up for lost personality points.” You manage to pay your half anyway, considering the circumstances.

“Can you at least let me drive you home?” Wonwoo asks as you both step out of the establishment soon after.

“Depends.” You fix the strap of your bag. “Will it fall apart on the highway?”

The blaring white of the restaurant's outdoor lights backlight Wonwoo to make him look like some sad angel. He turns to you, the same slight smirk that seems to be plastered on his face. “Why don’t you find out?”

“What do you mean sell it? I got this thing a year ago!”

There isn’t much you can do but sigh loudly as you listen to Olivia talk about the state of her car, the one that cost too much to justify but she seemed to use and abuse like a very replaceable toy truck.

Leaning against the hood of the darn thing, you talk to her. “The dealership is giving you a shit deal to take it off your hands, you might as well try your luck.”

The look on her face is easy to read as she silences. Not convinced in the slightest, waiting for the conversation to end just so she could figure it out on her own. Sighing loudly, you look back to the dark beauty with a crate of issues that make it spit and sputter to a stop every few weeks.

“How much did you say the repairs cost again?”

“Enough to put me on food stamps,” she whines through her frustration, tears pricking against her eyes as they glisten under the neighbourhood streetlights. “Why are you smirking like that?!”

“It’s just,” you pause as you consider your next words, pressing your lips together. “This is a little bit your fault.”

Lies, it was entirely her fault.

Liv stares like you’ve just offended her, which you’re sure you have.

“Care to share how this possible bankruptcy could be my fault?"

“Because you drive the thing like you have a secret reserve buried somewhere in Tenerife.”

“My apologies for making a habit of not being a public nuisance and going forty on a national highway.”

“Your speed-o-metre is not the issue here.”

“Yes, of course, everything’s my fault.”

“Liv, please!” You groan loudly. “Just…let’s try putting up a listing tomorrow. Consider the prospects and you can decide from there.”

Sagging her shoulders and stretching her neck, Liv decides to simply trudge back indoors in silence. You take it as a begrudging yes, and follow her inside.

That very night, when you were at the very cusp of falling into the dark space of sleep, your brain re-awakens before your eyes do. A jolt as the memory comes back to you of the many months ago, sitting in that restaurant across from a man who was too handsome for the personality he seemed to sire.

“Expensive ones,” he had said. “Ones that rich people abuse to an inch of the machine’s life and wonder why the dealership gives up on it.”

How fitting.

“Are you going to explain or should I explode instead?”

You’d mentally prepared for the bombardment of accusations from Liv, her questioning perfectly right as you yourself cringed at the thought of showing your face here of all places. The one last one that’d officially banned her from ever setting you up with an individual of her choosing ever again.

Hearing only silence as her answer, she appeals; “I thought he was the worst date of your life.”

“Nothing to do with his skills as a mechanic,” you mumble, refusing to make eye contact.

“And everything to do with this being a horrible idea anyway!” Liv stares up at the sign on top of the garage. Jeon Motors. “What makes you think this guy can fix my car?”

What did make you think he could fix Liv’s car? If you’d known you might have given her an answer, but as you stare at the giant signboard that you’ve driven past for longer than you can remember, you can’t help but feel this place has been haunting you. Just a little.

You can’t help but feel the tingle of goosebumps rise on your skin, the hairs across the expanse standing up at the thought of walking inside. There was no way you could differentiate the reaction from plain nerves or from the cringing drills that sound all the way outside the establishment. Regardless, you make an attempt to look confident as you make your strides into the pungent of the workshop.

The first thing you note is how…clean everything is. Cleaner than any other workshop you’ve walked into anyway.

The interior is bigger than it looks from the outside, the ginormous hall hosting about a dozen cars within your eyeshot alone. One side of the great hall holds an array of parked cars in different stages of dismantled and deconstructed, while the other side is lined with contraptions that look like stripped and enlarged elevators.

Once you’ve inhaled a beyond recommended amount of smoke fumes and listened past all of the clanging, banging and sparks, you register the people that are elbow deep in the hoods of the vehicle they’re working on, enough to leave you and Liv standing at the entrance of an establishment that you can barely make sense of.

“Can I help you?” A man in stained beige overalls approaches your wide eyed pair, face half covered in his baseball hat and hands occupied with a rag.

To your slightest dismay, it isn’t the man you’re looking for.

“Uh– is Wonwoo here?” you ask.

“He’s in a meeting right now. Are you a friend?”

No, just a failed love interest.

“He,” you falter. If you weren’t a friend…then what were you? “He gave me his card.”

“Do you need help with your car?”

“Mine, actually,” Liv pipes. “It’s outside if you wanna take a look first.”

With one sweeping look across the warehouse, your eyes land on one of the few doors on the left. You register the plain look of it for barely a moment before joining Liv outside.

By the time her car has been rolled and parked inside for a more thorough inspection, it’s taken you every last grain of your willpower to not stalk back out and wait in your car. For whatever reason, you can’t help but feel a very familiar spasm of irritation spark through you. Here you are, left anxiously waiting for the same man for a second time, merely feet away but remaining occupied with more important things.

At the very least, the multiple hands prodding around the car’s engine were being somewhat of use, attempting to survey the same issues that had been looked at about a dozen times before. You silently promise to be a better person if this trip wouldn’t be for vain.

“Am I late for something again?”

Your throat is suddenly clogged as you open your mouth and no sound graces your presence. The face that meets you has his eyebrows raised as he stares at you in expectation, a ghost of a smile on his face.

“W–Wonwoo, hi, um.” You clear your throat loudly, heat cursing your cheeks. “No, of course not.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure after…four months?” he asks, hands on his hips and his back straightened.

“I…my friend’s car needed to be looked at so…”

“Ah, of course!” He turns to where you’ve motioned, looking at the popped hood of the car his employees are working on. “I’ll take a look at it myself, don’t worry about it.”

He’s already walking away, towards the car and leaving you a ways away from the action. You stare at his back; the overalls tied at the waist and the stained white T-shirt that clings to his form from the humidity.

Wonwoo remains a man of a few words, and you remain at wits end about it all.

A loud honk gives you something to do as you jump at the sound so up close, scrambling to move away from the smack centre as another car pulls into the garage.

“Careful, those marks on the floor aren’t just oil and paint.” Wonwoo snickers from his place hunched over the hood as he cranes his neck to look at you.

You walk over to where he is to get out of the way. “Was that meant to sound like an innuendo?”

“I was talking about the occasional running over someone’s foot,” he answers. “Not sure what you were thinking.”

Ignoring the jab, you note that it was now only you and him crowding the car, “Where’s Olivia?”

“Went to look at spare parts.” You watch him as his gloved hands reach further into the enclave and yank at something hard.

“So you can fix it?”

“The car? It’ll take a couple days but it’s not really an issue.”

Furrowing your brows, you press on, “But the dealership—”

“Dealerships are the spawn of the devil,” he grunts as he finally wrenches out a spare nut or bolt or something that’s covered in oil. “Let me guess, they wanted her to sell it back to them?”

It’s your turn to raise your brows. “Yes. They tried fixing it, but it'd just stop again.”

“Because they’ve been fixing the symptoms.” He raises his eyes to meet yours, hands occupied with rubbing the part in his hands relatively clean with a rag. “They haven’t bothered to do anything about the actual problem.”

“Because that’s gonna cost…?”

“Couple hundred, give or take,” he announces nonchalantly, turning his focus back to the engine.

“But—” That’s it?

“Fifty extra for every question I have to answer after this.” You briefly wonder if Wonwoo’s eyes were always this piercing, boring into your soul like he didn’t need words to know what was going on with you.

“Fine,” you huff, moving to drag a chair over, mostly just so you could have reason to break eye contact, and plop down as you watch him work.

The more you think about it, the more you can find yourself unbothered by his strange behaviour. He wasn’t bleak, but nowhere near one of the more interesting people you’ve met. Taking the opportunity to really scan the man head to toe, you can’t say you find anything truly concrete to be this put off by him.

Not much of a talker, but with the times you’ve prayed for a man that knew when to shut up sometimes, you wonder how much you can actually complain about this boon in particular.

Besides, he was a looker, and you were completely content shutting your trap if it meant you got to shamelessly ogle at him from this close.

“You know, this place looks bigger than it does from the outside.”

Wonwoo stares pointedly.

You raise a shoulder in nonchalance, “Wasn’t a question!”

He simply huffs as he mumbles, “More length than breadth I suppose.”

“What are those things called?” you ask as you watch a sedan get lifted into the on some platform on the other end of the row.

Glancing back, he answers, “Post lift, car lift, whatever you wanna call it.”

“What does it do?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Touché.”

Glancing back at him, you catch sight of his stained shirt once again. “Is that the same thing you wore to our date?”

Chin to chest, he registers what he’s wearing, hands still working on pulling bolts and boxes out of the hood. “Have about twenty of the same shirt, I can never be too sure.”

“You’re impossible.”

He smirks, “Touché.”

You questioned if this was a mistake.

Olivia could pick up her car herself, so why did you insist to be the one that did it? As you pay the taxi driver, you feel your ankles lock for a moment as you move to slip out of the cab. Frozen, you hear the driver ask you if everything was alright, to which your legs seem to work again, finally foot to gravel in front of the dreaded workshop.

The Jeon Motors sign blares the same as it always has in the afternoon light, glinting as it encourages you to walk in and do one of the stupider things you’ve done in life. Other than the ridiculous outfit you’ve put on, of course.

But alas, as you hand over your slip to one of the many mechanics in the workshop, you find yourself praying he wasn’t here after all, that perhaps you could miss him as you leave and never have to see him again.

Somebody yells out his name, and the dream drifts away like smoke.

Finding the courage, you look up to where the man shouted for him, and immediately wish you hadn’t.

Wonwoo remains in his overalls, the same ones that he had tied to his waist the last time you saw him. His undershirt however…

The tank top is revealing too much for you to pretend you don’t care, his hair remaining pushed back and away from his forehead as he walks over to you in what feels like slow motion. He takes the slip that he does not need, smiling at you as he says his hellos.

“Car’s all fixed up, just need some papers that need signing and you’re all set.”

“Oh, but Liv isn’t here today.”

“That’s alright, you can sign them too,” he reassures, motioning for you to walk with him towards the car. “The car was alright in the test drives, revving hasn’t caused any problems either.”

He halts in front of the now (supposedly) fixed black sedan and pats the hood lightly, “If anything happens tell her to bring it straight here, although it shouldn’t have any more problems.”

“What’s your rate of return on customers?” you ask, a slight smirk on your face.

He thinks for a moment, “Pretty crap. But I guess that means I’m doing something right.”

You consider yourself something of a helicopter parent when it comes to your own car, but perhaps you’d change that if it meant you’d get to come here a little more often.

Goodness, what’s gotten into you.

Wonwoo’s smiling too, and for a brief moment the silence is nearly awkward. A pause before he proposes leaving.

“Shall we go to the office then?”

Nodding eagerly, you trail behind him as he leads you towards the other end of the workshop, passing by even more cars in all their stripped or constructed glory. Glancing in front, you catch sight of Wonwoo’s back, ensnared for a moment before you snap your head away, reciting every curse word you know like a mantra.

“It’s less hot in here too, keep the air on all the time.” Wonwoo stands in front of the plain doors, hands on the handle to wrench it open. You recognise it as the same door you had noted a few days ago. “Would you like anything? Coffee, tea?”

“Um, just water is fine, thanks.”

It’s quite plain, beige and leather against cream walls and unfittingly white lights. There’s a desk on one corner that’s beyond cluttered with more papers than you can register, pens and other office supplies mixed into the disorganised chaos of the large tabletop.

“Sorry about the mess, I can never find time to sort through it.” To your surprise, the light tinge of his cheeks suggest he might actually feel a little embarrassed.

Cute.

There’s cabinets that line on one of the far walls, and you watch him take his gloves off to open it and reach for a cup. The white porcelain emerges stained with an ashy grey as his fingers betray him. He looks flustered, glancing at his hands and back up to the cabinet.

You can’t help but laugh a little, moving forward to help. “It’s alright, let me.”

“Sorry,” he apologised again, with a sheepish look on his face. “I’ll, um, wash this off.”

“Go on, I’m here,” you reassure as you move towards the water dispenser in the corner to fill your clean cup.

He returns with significantly cleaner hands and apologises one last time. “Seems all I do around you is apologise.”

You have the good humour to chuckle, “So I’ve noticed.”

He does well to clear out most of the clutter that’s on his desk, leaving enough room to set down a few pieces of paper as you take a seat on the opposite side.

As you scan through the papers, he attempts to make sober conversation. “You should…bring your car around for inspections if you want.”

“Oh? Even if I ask a million questions?”

“I can make an exception or two,” he grins.

“And if you charge me double?”

“Might not charge you at all.”

“Might?” you question as you lift the pen he’d given you to sign the first space.

“Might.”

“And what’re the conditions for that?”

He doesn’t answer as he ponders and you fill in the second blank. “I’ll have to think about that.”

You snort before you can help it, your last signature coming out a little wonky as your hands shake. Turning the papers over to him, you continue, “Well then, let me know when you figure it out.”

He stares pointedly as he accepts the papers before dropping his eyes again, “Can I?”

“Hm?”

“Can I? Let you know?”

It’s like you’ve been frozen over, the typewriter in your mind jamming as it punches out the implications of what he’s saying.

“It seems, at least to me, that we may have gotten off on the wrong foot,” he continues.

You hesitate. “I think so too.”

“I…I don’t want to put anything like pressure on you but–”

“Would you like to try the new gelato place downtown this week?” you ask finally as you save him from his misery. “If…you’d like.”

He looks stunned for a moment before he’s scrambling, “Oh–of course! Yes, anytime is fine with me.”

“Great,” you smile, lifting from your seat. “It’s a date.”

“I’ll promise to wash my hands this time…and my shirt. And I won’t be late.”

“Let’s not make promises we can’t keep,” you tease.

You’re nearing the door as he follows behind, and just as you’re about to pull down on the handle, you hear him say your name.

Turning around, almost too eagerly, you look up at him in expectation. He’s close, almost right behind you as he looks like he’s debating whether opening his mouth is a good idea.

“Are you doing anything else today?”

“Um,” you stutter for a moment. “I don’t have to drop off the car till later tonight, that’s all really.”

He swallows. “Do you wanna stay? Just a little while. We can stay in here, nobody comes in anyway.”

You aren’t entirely sure why you said yes, because you did actually have dinner plans with Liv later tonight, but the teeny tiny voice in your mind egged you on anyway. Besides, Liv wouldn’t mind, not if you were cancelling for this.

This entailed the very friendly contact of Wonwoo’s tongue in your mouth, and the extremely cordial way it seemed to caress your insides. If somebody asked you how it led to this, you don’t think you’d have an answer. Not that you care, especially when his hands are grabbing your waist and hips like that.

He’s already locked the door, reassuring you that nobody would find their boss and client in the smack dab middle of the devil’s tango. You take his word for it, relishing in the way his hot breath hits your skin below your ears, his mouth sucking under your earlobes as you whimper ever so quietly.

Your hands are on his exposed biceps, feeling him up all to your heart's content. “Do you–Do you always wear stuff like this?”

He emerges, wet lipped and eyes trained. “So I wasn’t imagining it.”

“Imagining what?” you ask as you let him unbuckle your trousers.

“Please. Like you weren’t stripping me with your eyes.”

If you were warm before you, you're boiling up now. Were you being so obvious?

“It’s alright,” he reassures as you feel his fingers make contact with the crotch of your panties, pushing in to put pressure on your clit. “Wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t picked up on it.”

You feel his fingers push the dampening fabric away as his fingers make contact with your hole, coating his fingers in the arousal that’s made itself known. It’s hard to not hiss at the way he begins to circle it, thanking the universe that the loud noises of the workshop outside were masking whatever evidence of the heinous crime you were committing inside.

Back against the couch in his office, you settle into the cushions once you feel him rub at your clit, one hand spreading your lips apart as he continues to massage your own wetness onto your throbbing cunt.

When he retreats you almost cry out, but are smothered when he plunges two fingers into your hole instead, curling them almost immediately inside you. The consistent brush of the tips of his fingers on your walls are making it difficult to keep your eyes open, and absolutely impossible to keep your moans at bay.

“Wonwoo, that’s so good, fuck.”

Through your closed eyes, you don’t note when Wonwoo gets on his knees. But you do feel him yank your trousers off entirely, and you definitely feel him place his wet mouth flush on your lower lips, sucking at your clit as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you mercilessly.

That’s all it takes for your noises to become increasingly high pitched, hands buried in his beautiful hair as he continues to pleasure you beyond imagination.

“I’m so close, keep going, please, it feels so–”

He somehow buries his face in deeper, sucking harder, licking faster, and it’s enough for you to finally feel yourself collapsing on the inside, your composure dissolving as you moan so loud you’re sure they can hear it outside, even through all the clanging and revs of cars.

There’s no way for you to know how long you lay there slumped against the couch cushions, but when you hear Wonwoo speak to you in your ear, you answer.

“Was that okay?”

“More than okay,” you say as you grab his face and pull his lips to yours, tasting the tang in his mouth from your arousal. “Do you have a condom?”

“I–fuck,” he thinks for a moment. “I don’t think I do.”

You try not to feel too disappointed, but you sigh into his mouth anyway.

“Can I fuck your thighs?” you hear him ask, and you might have just orgasmed again, untouched.

“Fuck, yes you can.”

With a yelp, you feel yourself lifted off the couch as you wrap your arms around Wonwoo’s neck, letting him guide you to his desk. “Wonwoo!”

You hear a loud crash of the desk being stripped of all its inhabitants, and your back hitting the cool of the table top.

Wonwoo unties the arms of his overalls around his waist, letting the legs pool to the floor before slipping his hard cock out of his boxers.

You don’t see it as you feel him lock your knees together and lift both your calves to rest on one of his shoulders. But you do feel it as he pushes the head into the seam of your thighs, watching the indent as the pink of his dick appears before you through the skin of your thighs.

Wonwoo’s face is contorted as he pulls back and pushes back through again, this time brushing against your still sensitive clit. You gasp at contact, and immediately feel him thrusting faster.

“Wonwoo,” you grunt. “Lower.”

He obliges, pushing his dick lower so it can rub flush against your clit as he begins to roughen up his pace.

You moan as you feel his free hand that isn’t holding your legs trail to the ends of your shirt, caressing over your stomach to pull it up and reveal your bra clad tits. He pushes his hands under the nearest cup and begins to grope you so wonderfully with his big, warm hands. Rolling the bud between his fingers, you can only grasp onto his wrists as a handheld to keep you down on earth.

The desk beneath you is rattling with noise, the full drawers making themselves known as Wonwoo pounds into your thighs like he would die if he stopped, mouth coming in contact with whatever skin of your legs he could reach, his breath fanning the side of your knees.

You’re close again, and you know he is too with the way his thrusts are beginning to grow sloppy.

“There,” he pants. “Almost.”

You orgasm for the second time, the throb your clit beyond comprehension as the rough of his dick slides across your clit mercilessly.

“Cum like this, Wonwoo please I need to see you cum.”

And he does, shooting the heft of his load to cover your already wet cunt and thighs, landing on your stomach as he continues to ride out his high between your legs.

The back of your head hits the table as you take in gulps of air through the aftermath of it all. Wonwoo is putting his weight on the back of your thighs, holding onto the table for support.

“Oh, Liv is never gonna let me live this down,” you pant, lolling your head to one side as you register him.

He peers up at you through his hair, the stupid smirk on his face, “Do you care?”

You’re smiling a little too when you answer, “Not really.”

And then your legs are off his shoulders as he nestles between them instead, diving in to lift your head and kiss you.

And you let him, although you wouldn’t really call it too much of a kiss—not when the both of you were smiling like idiots through the clash.

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wbbfannnnnn13 · 6 days ago

Text

Motion Sick // Chapter 13

A/N: So this was crazy, didn't realize i wrote this much, but here we are... so enjoy!! i did a quick read through and didn't see any errors, but i did write this over like 3 days, some of which was written very deliriously so idk let me know if you see anything. appreciate you reading and reacting 💕

WC: 12K+

Warnings: explicit sexy things, Minors DNI

**** Chapter 13 ****

The second week of waiting didn’t feel easier. Just… managed.

Lexi was still in Hawaii, posting golden hour sunsets and snapchats of poolside smoothies like it was the best week of her life. Smiles in every photo. Inside jokes in every caption. The kind of trip where everyone comes back with matching anklets and a stronger group chat.

Azzi double-tapped a few out of instinct, but even that was starting to feel performative. She wasn’t waiting on texts anymore. Didn’t really notice the gaps between them until they were pointed out by the timestamp. And when Lexi did send something—some blurry selfie or beach emoji—Azzi would stare at it for a few seconds too long before swiping it away without answering.

It wasn’t just distance. She was pulling back. Slowly. Quietly. Letting the space stretch a little further every day. And Lexi didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she just wasn’t reaching to close it.

Different time zone. Different team. Different rhythm.

A different life.

Maybe that was unfair. Maybe not.

They hadn’t really defined anything. Not officially. Not out loud. It was still new. Still loose. But Azzi couldn’t help noticing the way she’d started hesitating before answering Lexi’s texts. How her stomach didn’t flip anymore when her name lit up the screen. How easy it was to let hours—sometimes days—go by before she responded to a simple “miss u.”

And the truth was—she didn’t miss her. Not even a little. Not in the way she knew she should. Not in the way that counted.

She felt a little guilty about that. Like she was failing some unspoken test of what it meant to be good at relationships. Lexi had been kind. Supportive. Safe. She deserved more than silence on the other end of a text thread. More than someone who felt herself slipping away and didn’t try all that hard to stop it.

But Azzi couldn’t fake missing someone she didn’t think about when they weren’t right in front of her.

Azzi could go hours without thinking about Lexi. Maybe even days—if Lexi didn’t keep snap-streaking her smoothies like it was a contractual obligation.

She couldn’t make it through a single minute without Paige slipping into the corners of her mind, soft and stubborn, like a song she never meant to memorize.

So she stayed busy instead. Tried to keep her head down and her hands full. Morning lifts. Rehab. Practice. Film. Sleep.

Repeat.

She told herself if she could just keep moving, she wouldn’t have time to unravel.

Azzi was cleared for full practice, which helped. She had a schedule again. A rhythm. Early lifts, afternoon film, full-contact reps. Enough to sweat out some of the chaos still simmering beneath her skin. Enough to keep her from crawling out of hers every time Paige looked at her like that.

The season hadn’t exactly been smooth. Her injury had come at the worst time—just as conference play was heating up. They’d managed a couple solid wins without her, sure. Pulled it together when it counted. But the rhythm was off. The energy. Everyone felt it.

The other girls had stepped up in ways that made Azzi’s chest ache. But the truth was, they needed more than that. They needed Azzi.

And Azzi—God—she needed to be needed. To get back on the court and do something other than watch. Other than feel.

The structure gave her something to grip—like handrails on a staircase that still felt too steep. Something to hold onto while everything underneath stayed unstable. But the second she wasn’t actively busy, the second her body stilled and her mind had room to wander, it always drifted back to the same place.

To Paige. Because Paige was everywhere.

In the locker room, Paige kept stealing her Biofreeze like it was a bit they were both in on. Like she didn’t already have her own. Like using Azzi’s somehow made it hotter.

It started innocently enough. Paige would uncap the tube and squeeze some into her palm, rolling up the leg of her shorts to rub it into her knee, slow and deliberate. Head tilted. Eyes locked on Azzi like she was waiting to be caught.

She never rushed it. Always the same rhythm—long, slow circles, thumbs pressing into the muscle like she was trying to prove something. Like she knew Azzi was watching and wanted to make it worse. Paige would sit on the bench across from her, legs spread, smirking, smug, and infuriatingly pretty. Hair half-damp. Skin flushed from practice. Biting her lip like it was a reflex.

And then—of course—she’d turn the attention to Azzi.

"You want some?" she’d ask, already walking over.

Already behind her.

No room to say no.

Azzi would feel the cool weight of Paige’s hands on her shoulders before she could brace for it. Paige would rub the Biofreeze in like it was foreplay—palms broad, strokes slow. Her knuckles would graze just below Azzi’s collarbone, dangerously close to everything off-limits. Fingers drifting, pressing, dragging like she was sculpting tension out of skin.

Azzi would stiffen. Every time. Breathe through her nose and focus on a scuff mark on the floor like it might anchor her to reality.

This was a training room. With people. Coaches. Consequences. And yet.

She’d feel Paige’s breath at her ear—warm, barely there—and she’d want to lean back into it. Just for a second. Just to see what would happen.

Paige would always finish it the same way: a quick squeeze at the base of her neck and a murmured, “You good?”

And Azzi—still recovering, still furious, still not breathing right—would mutter something like “Fine,” when what she meant was I hate you or please do that again.

She never said it out loud. But Paige always walked away smiling like she’d heard it anyway.

In the gym, she was even worse.

Injured and bored was apparently Paige’s personal brand of menace, because instead of focusing on her own rehab, she hovered. Circled Azzi like it was a game. A routine. A ritual they weren’t allowed to talk about.

Spotting her during lifts even when she didn’t need one. Pretending to check her form, fingers slipping just under the hem of Azzi’s shorts to “adjust” the resistance bands on her hips. Dropping to her knees like it was normal—like it didn’t make Azzi forget how to stand upright.

The mirrors made it worse. Unforgiving. Honest.

Paige, kneeling behind her. Hands on her thighs. Looking up like she was about to pray.

Azzi had to fake a quad cramp once just to walk it off.

And Paige would just hand her a water bottle after like none of it had happened. All casual. All composed.

“Here you go, princess,” she’d say with a smirk that should’ve been illegal. “Don’t say I never take care of you.”

Azzi would shove her, weakly. Or blush. Usually both. And Paige would walk away with her towel slung over one shoulder, already biting back a laugh.

She was so annoying.

So smug. So obvious. So goddamn hot.

And the worst part?

Azzi liked it.

She liked the attention. The teasing. The way Paige was flirting without ever technically crossing a line. Like she was daring Azzi to be the one who broke first.

And every time, Azzi got a little closer to doing it. To crossing that line. To turning around mid-lift and grabbing Paige by the collar just to see what would happen.

She didn’t, of course.

But she thought about it. More than she wanted to admit. Enough that ignoring it started to feel like lying.

And Azzi—fully aware that she was spiraling—started pushing back.

She wore shorter shorts. Took her time stretching, especially when Paige was around—slow, deliberate movements that made eye contact feel dangerous. Sat next to her at team dinners and let her leg rest against Paige’s under the table, warm and unmoving. Started sending her texts that didn’t even try to play innocent anymore.

Sometimes it was just a photo.

A mirror selfie from the locker room, chest gleaming, eyes half-lidded. A snap of her legs stretched out on the recovery table, skin flushed and glistening. Once, a post-shower shot—towel tucked just high enough to stay legal, water dripping from her hair, lips parted like she didn’t mean to look that good.

No context. No warning.

Just vibes.

Paige would open it. Leave her on read for five whole minutes. Then send back the same emoji every time: 😇

And Azzi would stare at her phone like, you are so full of shit.

Eventually, the photos turned into texts. Hotter. Filthier. The kind of things that made her want to throw her phone across the room the second she hit send.

Once, late at night, Azzi texted: if you’re gonna eye fuck me all practice, the least you could do is help me finish.

No selfie. No punctuation. Just chaos.

Paige left her on read again.

And then—two nights later—got her revenge.

Azzi was laying in bed when it happened. Barely paying attention to her screen, hoodie pulled over her face like she was trying to hide from her own decisions.

Her phone buzzed.

It was a selfie.

Just Paige—head tilted, lips parted, eyes low and dangerous. A full smirk pulled across her mouth like she was daring Azzi to react. No makeup. No shirt in frame. Just collarbone. Jawline. Sin.

A text followed: you miss your seat or should I bring it to you?

Azzi audibly choked. Dropped her phone. Had to lie there for a full minute and just breathe.

Because she knew what it meant. There was no room for misinterpretation. Paige had sent that smirking selfie like she wasn’t about to ruin Azzi’s whole life from several floors away. Like she hadn’t just planted the mental image of Azzi on her face and dared her to react.

Azzi stared at the ceiling like it might offer her divine intervention. Or at least temporary amnesia.

She didn’t sleep that night. Didn’t even try.

How could she, when her brain was now running a 24/7 highlight reel titled Things Paige Bueckers Has Done To Emotionally Terrorize Me (And That I Would Absolutely Let Her Do Again)?

Paige

Paige had been enjoying the game. More than she should’ve. More than she admitted to herself most days. It had started out harmless—teasing, pushing buttons, seeing how close she could get without touching flame.

But her mind played dirtier than she meant it to. Filthier by the minute.

What Azzi saw as flirting, Paige was already rewriting in her head into scenes that shouldn’t be happening in a public gym. Or ever, really. And it was getting harder—literally, sometimes—to keep that energy locked behind her teeth and not act on any of it.

She was hanging on by, like, two threads of physical restraint and one very overworked sense of self-control.

So she tested it.

The next day, she “accidentally” brushed her fingers against Azzi’s hip while adjusting her warm-up band, and Azzi jolted like Paige had whispered something filthy instead of just touched her.

Which—fair. Paige probably had that look in her eyes again. The one Azzi pretended not to see. The one Paige didn’t even bother hiding anymore.

They flirted in gym mirrors and whispered in hallways like they weren’t two seconds from getting caught. Stole food off each other’s plates like it was foreplay. Azzi started handing her the Gatorade bottle without a word, just a slow pass, fingers brushing, gaze locked. Paige always drank from it a little too slow. A little too smug. Because she knew.

They both did.

Outside of basketball, it was somehow worse. There were fewer rules. Less structure. Just impulse.

They’d been dumb enough to try spending the night together once. Just to sleep. That was the rule.

It had been a long day—Paige was sore from treatment, mentally fried from sitting through two hours of film with the freshmen who still didn’t know how to defend a stagger screen, and Azzi hadn’t wanted to walk back to her dorm after sticking around late from a movie. They were both tired. Delirious.

So when Paige said, “You can just crash here if you want,” it felt harmless. Practical, even. They were adults.

They could handle a twin XL and one shared blanket.

Obviously.

They set rules. Boundaries. Two feet apart. No funny business. No breathing weird. No “accidental” touching. And absolutely no mid-sleep spooning.

For a while, it worked.

Sort of.

Azzi lay on her side, back to Paige, motionless but not asleep. Paige mirrored her—flat on her back, eyes wide open, tracking every sound in the room like it might save her from herself. The hum of the mini fridge. The rustle of sheets. The shallow rise and fall of Azzi’s breath.

They weren’t touching. But they were close. Too close.

Every inch of Paige’s body felt aware of her. Like Azzi had become a gravitational field Paige couldn’t fully step out of. And the worst part? She didn’t want to.

Azzi shifted slightly. Paige felt the blanket tug. One of Azzi’s knees brushed her calf—barely—but Paige’s brain short-circuited anyway. Everything went very still. Very quiet. The kind of quiet that buzzed in your chest.

And then—breathing. Not loud. Not sharp. Just... different.

Slower. Thicker. Like Azzi felt it too.

Paige’s hand twitched in the dark. She thought about reaching out. Just once. Just to see.

Not to start anything. Not really. But maybe a little.

She wanted to touch her. Wanted to trace the curve of Azzi’s spine just to feel it, to prove she still could. She wanted to press her fingers into the soft place behind her knee, the one she used to kiss for no reason at all. She wanted to hear the sound Azzi made when she lost her breath—not just because of her body, but because of her.

It wasn’t just about wanting her. It was about missing her. It was about still knowing her in ways that made her hands ache with the need to remember.

She didn’t move. She didn’t reach.

Because as much as she wanted to—God, she wanted to—this wasn’t the moment. Not yet. Not when there was still mess hanging in the air that didn’t belong to them. Not when Azzi still had someone else’s name on her texts.

They’d waited this long. They could wait a little longer.

Because when it happened—when they let it happen—she wanted it clean. Honest. Theirs.

And right now, it wasn’t.

Not yet.

And then—just a little—Azzi shifted her hips.

Nothing major. Just a small shift—enough to get comfortable. But Paige’s brain short-circuited anyway. She let out the softest, stupidest breath against the back of Azzi’s neck. A dead giveaway.

Azzi didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But then—so quiet it barely counted as sound:

“I miss you.”

Paige went still. Every breath caught halfway. Every muscle braced like she'd been hit in the chest. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was everything.

Then, barely a whisper, like it hurt to say it:

“I miss you too.”

The space between them felt full. Like maybe they could stay there forever if they didn’t say anything else. If they just let the wanting settle and stayed very, very still.

But Paige knew better.

Instead, she sat up too fast. Her heart was pounding. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes like that would make it stop. Like it would undo what was already happening.

Azzi didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move. Just watched her with that unreadable expression Paige could barely look at.

Paige shifted awkwardly. “I’m gonna—” Her voice caught, too rough. “I’ll be back.”

Azzi’s brows pulled together, just slightly. “You don’t have to.”

Paige hesitated. “I know.”

Azzi nodded, like that answer was enough. Like she already knew why Paige needed to leave.

So Paige grabbed her hoodie off the chair and left before she could change her mind.

The hallway was cold. The stairwell was worse. She took them two at a time.

Because the truth was? Azzi had been in her room. But Paige needed the distance. Needed to breathe.

So she went to Azzi’s instead.

Same building. Just one floor down. Completely empty. Still smelled like her lotion and her shampoo and everything that made Paige feel unsteady.

She curled up on Azzi’s bed, pulled the extra blanket over her head, and stared at the ceiling in the dark.

She didn’t sleep.

Not even close.

****

She woke up to someone poking her in the forehead.

“Paige.”

Poke.

“Paige.”

Poke.

“Why are you in Azzi’s bed without Azzi?”

Paige groaned and rolled onto her side, face half-smushed into the pillow. “Go away.”

Caroline did not go away.

She stood at the foot of the bed, staring like Paige was a science experiment gone mildly wrong. “No, seriously. You’re in Azzi’s bed. And Azzi is... not. So unless she sleep-parachuted out the window, I’m gonna need answers.”

Paige blinked. Sat up slowly. Her hair was a disaster. Her hoodie was on backwards. One of her socks had somehow migrated to the floor.

“She’s not here,” Paige said, voice flat and hoarse. “Because she’s in my bed.”

Caroline raised both eyebrows. “Well, that raises exactly a million more questions.”

Paige sighed and held up a hand. “We were watching a movie. It got late. She didn’t want to walk back to her room, so I said she could crash.”

“Okay, sure. Still not explaining why you’re the one playing Goldilocks in her bed.”

Paige groaned. “We tried to sleep. Like, actually sleep. But then it got all quiet and weird and... tense. Like the kind of tense where breathing starts to feel like a crime? And I just— I didn’t trust myself not to do something reckless, so I bailed. Came here to cool off.”

Caroline blinked. “So your grand solution was to flee your own bed and emotionally pace in hers.”

“I didn’t pace.”

“You are mentally pacing, Bueckers.”

Paige flopped back dramatically onto the mattress. “When the hell does Lexi get back?”

“Not soon enough. I’m getting sick watching you two eye-fuck each other in public like it’s a team bonding activity.”

“I’m hanging on by a thread,” Paige mumbled into the pillow.

“A fraying thread. On fire. Wrapped around a bomb.”

****

The hallway was still quiet when Paige made it back upstairs, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands, her heart pacing at the dumbest speed for someone who technically hadn’t done anything last night.

She pushed open the door to her room—their room, for the night—and felt the breath knock out of her.

Azzi was still there.

Curled up on Paige’s bed like she’d been planted there on purpose. Hair sprawled across the pillow, one arm tucked under her cheek, the other resting on her stomach like she’d drifted off mid-thought. Her hoodie had slipped slightly off one shoulder. The same shoulder Paige had kissed once in the dark when things were simpler. Or maybe just more confusing.

Paige stood in the doorway for too long.

She wasn’t even trying to be subtle anymore.

Because this? It wasn’t fair. But God, it was beautiful. It was Azzi. Soft in a way that didn’t show up on game tape. Quiet in a way that made Paige ache.

She crossed the room slowly, like one wrong move might wake her or ruin the moment.

God, she looked peaceful.

And Paige wanted to be that peace. For her. She wanted to be the thing Azzi reached for when everything else felt too loud. Not the complication. Not the mess.

Just… hers.

She crouched down next to the bed and reached out—gentle, like she didn’t want to disturb whatever dream Azzi was lost in. She brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, let her thumb ghost along the side of her face, down to the sharp line of her jaw, lingering just a second longer than she probably should have.

Azzi stirred. Eyes blinking open, soft and unfocused at first.

Then—Paige.

And that smile.

Sleepy. Real. Like she was happy Paige was the first thing she saw.

“You came back,” Azzi whispered.

Paige smiled too, something tight and fluttery pressing against her ribs. “Of course I came back.”

Azzi shifted a little, making space for her. Paige sat on the edge of the bed, their knees brushing. Azzi’s blanket slipped slightly, and Paige didn’t know if it was the morning light or her own brain short-circuiting, but she swore she could feel the warmth radiating off her skin like gravity.

“I’m sorry I left,” Paige said, voice lower now, softer. “I just… I didn’t trust myself.”

Azzi gave a tiny shake of her head. “Thank you for leaving.” Her voice was still thick from sleep, but her eyes were clear. Honest. “Because if you hadn’t... I wouldn’t have stopped you. There’s no way.”

Paige let that sit between them for a second. Let herself believe it. Because she’d known—felt—how close they were to the edge. One shift. One sigh. One hand in the wrong place.

And it would’ve been over.

Or worse—it wouldn’t have been enough.

Azzi reached under the blanket and laced their fingers together, casual like it was muscle memory. Paige let her.

God, she wanted to be reckless. She wanted to lie down next to her and press her mouth to that dimple on Azzi’s left cheek—the one that only showed up when she was really smiling, the one Paige could never look at without wanting more.

But she also wanted to do right. For once. For both of them.

Azzi’s thumb moved over Paige’s knuckles under the blanket, slow and thoughtful. Neither of them said anything for a moment, like speaking might shatter the delicate calm they'd built between them.

Then Azzi exhaled. “This week is going to suck.”

Paige let out a soft, dry laugh. “Understatement of the century.”

Azzi looked up at her, a tired half-smile tugging at her lips. “We made it this far, though.”

“Barely.”

“Your fault,” Azzi said, nudging her knee against Paige’s. “With your smug little water bottle stunt and your gym mirror thirst traps.”

Paige gasped—dramatically. “My fault? You were the one sending post-shower selfies and stretching like a menace in spandex.”

Azzi grinned. “Allegedly.”

They both laughed—quiet, breathless, the kind of laugh that felt like relief.

Then silence again. But this time, not heavy.

Paige’s eyes drifted toward her desk.

And there it was.

The bracelet.

Still sitting where she left it. Unworn. Untouched.

Pink and purple beads. The word purpose spelled out in white block letters. Azzi had made it herself. Not a replacement for the one Paige had given her last year—but something new. Something that came out of the silence. Something chosen.

Paige nodded toward it. “That bracelet… I think I need to start wearing it.”

Azzi followed her gaze, then back at Paige, her voice soft but slightly teasing. “Why now? I was starting to think you didn’t even like it.”

Paige let out a quiet laugh, almost sheepish. “I liked it too much, maybe. I wasn’t ready to wear something that actually meant something.”

She looked down, then back at Azzi, her voice quieter now. “But I think I am. I think I need it. Just to remind me to hold on a little longer.”

Azzi didn’t say anything right away. But the shift in her face was instant—gentler, steadier. Like something in her had finally unclenched.

“I want this,” Paige said, voice barely above a whisper. “Like—really want this. But if we’re gonna do it… I want to do it right. No guilt. No mess. No baggage hanging on us like a shadow.”

Azzi nodded, eyes shining just a little. “I want that too.”

“Then we wait,” Paige said, her fingers tightening slightly around Azzi’s. “Even if it’s hell.”

Azzi smiled—small and sweet and real. “Purpose,” she repeated, like the word itself could steady her heartbeat.

Paige reached forward and picked up the bracelet. She slid it over her wrist slowly—it caught slightly on her knuckles, the elastic tugging before settling snug against her skin. Pink and purple beads pressed gently into her pulse, warm from the light and the moment. Like armor. Like hope.

Azzi

The trip to Omaha was cursed. That was the only logical explanation.

Creighton was no joke. Easily one of their hardest conference games. They were tough. Disciplined. Sharp from the perimeter. And the gym always had that weird haunted-church energy—like even the bleachers wanted them to lose.

Azzi wasn’t dreading the game, though. She liked games like this. High stakes. Real strategy. A good excuse to hit the reset button and drown her feelings in defense. And more than anything, she was playing. Not fully cleared, not a full workload—but she was back in the rotation. Back in the warmups, back in the pregame huddles, back on the scout report. Even if it was just restricted minutes, it meant something. Her name would be called again. She could feel the itch in her chest—that wired, buzzing anticipation that only came from knowing she’d get to make an impact, even if it was only a handful of possessions.

No, what she was dreading was the rest of it.

The travel. The hotel. The Paige of it all.

They’d cleared the air—well, as much as two people could while still pretending they weren’t seconds away from combusting. Set some rules. Drew the line in something thicker than sand.

She’d meant it.

She wanted to mean it.

Because the truth was, she liked what they were building. The slow, careful stitching of something real. Not just heat and habit, but trust. She’d seen the bracelet on Paige’s wrist that morning—Purpose, snug against her pulse like a promise—and something had settled in her chest. Like maybe they could actually hold on long enough to make it count.

But that didn’t mean this trip wasn’t going to suck.

Because wanting the right thing didn’t make the wrong thing stop pulsing under her skin every time Paige so much as looked at her.

And Nebraska.

God, Nebraska.

Omaha at least had a few redeeming qualities—like that steakhouse the team always went to. The one with the cowboy-themed menus and the baked potatoes the size of her face. She still remembered her first trip freshman year, sitting across from Nika and Caroline, trying not to moan over a bone-in ribeye. Seriously. Some of the best steak she’d ever had. Nebraska knew how to do cows. That was probably it, though.

This time, nothing had gone right.

Flight delay. Broken kiosk. Paige’s carry-on got pulled for extra screening because of an “unidentified cylindrical object” that turned out to be her foam roller.

Caroline nearly had a meltdown when she realized that she forgot her neck pillow back in her room.

“I need to lean on something or I’ll spiral,” she declared, completely straight-faced.

“You could lean on Jesus,” Aubrey deadpanned.

Caroline just flipped her off and stole Aubrey’s Sour Patch Kids as punishment.

By the time they landed, everyone was cranky. And then Coach handed out the rooming list.

Azzi glanced down at the paper in her hand.

Room 314: Paige Bueckers & Azzi Fudd

Her stomach dropped.

“Oh my God,” Caroline said instantly, too loudly.

Aubrey peered over her shoulder and broke into a grin. “Coach really said slow burn roommates trope.”

“What?” Ines asked, looking up from her phone.

“Nothing,” Caroline chirped, way too quickly. “Inside joke. Super boring. You wouldn’t get it.”

Paige didn’t say a word. Just stared at the list like it might self-destruct. Azzi could feel her vibrating next to her—tight shoulders, clenched jaw, the barest flicker of panic behind her eyes.

Azzi didn’t trust herself to speak. Her pulse was spiking, and the air felt thinner than it should.

Caroline leaned in just close enough, lowering her voice: “Try not to moan her name so loud this time, okay?”

Azzi didn’t flinch. Just grabbed the handle of her suitcase, muttering under her breath, “Oh, fuck off.”

Caroline grinned like she’d won something.

They all shuffled toward the elevator. Paige was quiet, walking just behind her, wheeling her bag like it weighed more than it should.

Azzi didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Because this was already a disaster. And they hadn’t even opened the door yet.

The hotel room door creaked open like something out of a horror movie.

And honestly? It felt that way.

One bed.

One.

Paige’s mouth fell open. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Azzi stepped in behind her, paused, and stared like she could manifest a second bed just by glaring hard enough.

“Who in the actual…” Paige didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to. The sexual tension was already unpacking its suitcase in the corner.

It wasn’t even a queen. It was barely a full.

This was a cosmic joke.

The room felt like a trap. Like the second the door clicked shut, the oxygen changed.

They didn’t say anything.

Paige tossed her phone on the nightstand, but didn’t move otherwise. Azzi stood near the dresser, arms folded tightly across her chest, like she could hold herself back with just the pressure of her own grip.

She didn’t know how it happened. Honestly. One second, they were a room’s length apart. The next, she was on top of Paige, knees straddling her thighs, their foreheads pressed together, the kind of silence between them that wasn’t quiet at all.

They weren’t kissing. Not yet. But their breath was shared, erratic. Azzi could feel Paige’s hands already under her shirt, fingertips grazing skin like they’d never stopped touching. Paige’s eyes were dark, lips parted, her voice gone—completely swallowed by the moment.

Then—

“Shit,” Paige whispered.

Her fingers had caught on something—Azzi’s hair twisted into the pink-and-purple bracelet she had finally put on.

Azzi stilled.

The soft elastic of the bracelet tugged just enough to snap her back into her body.

That stupid little piece of string, sitting between them like a truth they couldn’t pretend didn’t exist.

Purpose.

They had made a promise. To wait. To mean it.

Azzi closed her eyes. Rested her forehead against Paige’s for one more beat.

Then pulled back.

“I’ll shower first,” she said, quiet, not looking at her.

She climbed off the bed before she changed her mind and didn’t let herself check Paige’s face on the way to the bathroom. Didn’t want to see the regret. Or the ache. Or worse—agreement.

The door shut behind her. Loud. Final.

But nothing felt finished.

She stripped fast—almost frantically—trying not to see herself in the mirror, not like this. Not flushed and flustered and shaking like someone had lit a fire in her bloodstream and dared her not to burn.

The water turned on with a screech, too hot on her skin, scalding on purpose. She needed to feel something else. Anything else. The bathroom filled with steam so quickly she couldn’t see the tiles in front of her.

But she wasn’t thinking about the water.

She was thinking about Paige. On the other side of that paper-thin wall. Sitting on that bed they weren’t going to talk about. Shirt probably tugged up just a little. Head tilted back, mouth parted, brows drawn like they always did when she was close.

The image came uninvited and landed hard—heavy and visceral and real.

Azzi’s hand moved lower before she even realized it, like muscle memory. Like instinct.

Slow. Careful. Testing the edge of her own restraint.

She squeezed her eyes shut, let her head fall back against the wall. The tile was slick against her spine. Her other hand found the edge of the shower, bracing. Her fingers moved, slow and steady, but her breathing wasn’t.

She wasn’t just imagining it. She felt Paige. The tension. The pull. The heat that had built between them since the moment that damn door closed.

Then— God. Then she heard it.

Barely at first—a breath. Maybe nothing.

But then again. Louder. A stifled moan. A caught inhale. The kind that rattled in your chest and broke apart as it left you.

Azzi’s hand stilled, her eyes flying open.

No way.

She leaned into the sound. Listened.

And there it was—Paige’s voice, soft and low, her name ghosting through the wall like a secret.

Azzi’s knees nearly buckled.

Because Paige was doing it too.

Paige was touching herself, alone in that bed, just feet away. No shame. No hesitation. Like the promise they made had already unraveled between her fingers. Like Azzi’s hands were still on her, even when they weren’t.

Something inside her cracked clean open.

She exhaled hard and let go—fingers picking up rhythm, her body jerking forward into the heat of the spray. She didn’t hold back. Couldn’t. Not when she knew Paige could hear her too. Not when this—this—was the only thing that could quiet the ache lodged in her chest.

She pressed her forehead to the tile, her breath coming faster now, hips grinding into her hand like she was chasing something she couldn’t name. Her other hand slammed against the wall for leverage, water cascading down her spine, everything in her tight and trembling and dangerously close.

And then—

“Azzi—”

Her name. Again. Clearer this time. Desperate.

Azzi whimpered. Loud. Messy.

The sound bounced off the tile.

She moved faster, chasing the high she hadn’t let herself feel in weeks. Her thighs shook. Her jaw clenched. Her body clenched tighter. The sound of Paige’s voice—ragged, hoarse, broken—pushed her right over the edge.

“Fuck, Paige—”

It tore out of her as she came—body arching, lips parted, a sob catching in her throat. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was too much. It felt like grief and fire and hunger and home, all at once.

When it finally passed, she sagged against the wall, breathless. The water had gone lukewarm. Her legs barely held her upright.

Silence followed.

But it wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t closure.

It was the kind of silence that screamed.

She stepped out ten minutes later, wrapped in a towel, hair wet and curling at the ends. She didn’t look directly at the bed.

“Shower’s free,” she said, voice hoarse, barely there.

Paige didn’t answer. Didn’t look at her either. She was curled under the blanket, screen glowing too bright against her face.

But Azzi could feel her watching.

And even in the dark, she knew—Paige had heard her.

Knew it. Felt it.

Azzi got into bed and rolled over, facing the wall. Her heart wouldn’t slow down. She could still feel Paige’s name on her tongue.

And worse—she could still feel the pulse in her core, low and stubborn, the phantom ache of release still echoing through her body. Her skin was too warm. Her limbs too heavy. The adrenaline hadn’t worn off, not fully. It left her breathless in a way that wasn’t just physical.

She wasn’t sure what kind of silence this was—if it meant too much, or not enough.

But that had happened.

And it meant something.

Even with a wall of steam and restraint and distance between them—it still felt like the most intimate thing they’d shared in months. Maybe longer.

It wasn’t just about getting off. It was about being known. Felt. Heard.

Azzi closed her eyes and let the burn settle in her chest.

No one had ever made her feel like this. And the worst part?

Paige didn’t even touch her.

Not really. And still—Azzi didn’t want to take it back.

She stared into the dark, muscles tense beneath the scratchy hotel blanket, every nerve wired like she was waiting for something else to happen.

But nothing did.

No movement. No words.

Just the quiet.

The room felt thick with it—whatever that had just been. Not just lust. Not just crossing a line. Something deeper. Mutual. Volcanic. Like they’d shared a secret without saying a word.

The mattress shifted.

A quiet rustle of sheets.

Paige got up, wordless. The soft pad of bare feet on carpet. Then the bathroom door opened with a soft click and closed behind her.

Azzi didn’t move.

But she listened to the sound of the fan whirring to life behind the door.

And she knew—Paige was just as wrecked as she was.

Paige

The second she closed the bathroom door behind her, Paige leaned against it like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Her pulse was still slamming.

She could hear the fan buzzing overhead, the fluorescent light buzzing harder. Everything was too bright, too loud, too real.

She hadn’t meant for it to happen like that.

No—scratch that. She hadn’t meant for it to happen at all.

Paige braced her palms on the sink, eyes fixed on the mirror. She looked flushed, hair a mess, lips bitten raw. Like someone who’d lost a fight.

Her reflection didn’t lie.

Because the truth was, the second Azzi shut that bathroom door and turned the lock, Paige knew.

She felt it. In her chest. In her stomach. Between her legs.

She tried not to listen. Tried not to picture Azzi under the spray of that shitty hotel shower, forehead pressed to the tile, breath going ragged. But the walls were too thin, and Paige’s imagination was too fast.

And once she heard her—really heard her—it was over.

Azzi’s voice, breathless and broken. Saying her name like it still meant something.

Paige had never undressed faster in her life.

And it was pathetic, honestly—how fast she’d come, how badly she wanted it, how her fingers didn’t feel like her own. Like her whole body had been holding it in for weeks.

Paige exhaled and splashed cold water on her face, as if that would help. It didn’t. It just made her flinch.

She looked down at her wrist. The bracelet was still there—pink and purple, snug against her skin, a reminder of everything they were trying to build.

Or protect. Or maybe just survive.

She ran a hand through her hair and stared at her reflection one more time.

There was nothing left to say. Not tonight.

She shut the light off before slipping back into the dark.

****

The Creighton game had gone about as well as it could’ve.

UConn won—tight but controlled, the kind of game that looked better in the box score than it felt in the moment. Azzi hit a step-back three in the second quarter that lit up the bench. It was business. Professional. Locked-in.

The rest of the trip passed in a blur of team meals, ice baths, film sessions, and forced small talk. The hotel room had remained Switzerland—neutral territory, boundaries intact.

They didn’t touch. Not really.

But that didn’t stop the long glances. The slow exhales. The moments when Paige’s hand would brush Azzi’s back while sliding past her in the hallway. Or when Azzi would sit on the edge of the bed to lace her shoes and Paige’s gaze would flick down, just once, and linger too long.

It was a silent understanding.

They were waiting.

And it was torture.

Now they were back on campus.

The cold hit like a slap—sharp and sudden, the kind that made your eyes water even if you weren’t crying. Everyone peeled off the bus in a blur of headphones, oversized hoodies, and half-zipped duffels, rushing toward dorms and off-campus apartments like they’d been gone for years instead of three days.

Paige was halfway across the quad, head down, earbuds in, when she nearly collided with someone rounding the path.

Lexi.

“Oh—hey,” she said, blinking like she hadn’t expected to see anyone. “Didn’t think you guys were back yet.”

Paige yanked one earbud out, her breath catching. “Yeah. Early flight.”

Lexi smiled, easy. Familiar. Like she hadn’t been the shadow at the edge of every thought Paige had tried to ignore for the past two weeks. Her hair was still damp—fresh from a shower or the gym—and her sweatshirt was slipping off one shoulder in that effortless, unbothered way that made Paige’s stomach twist.

“I haven’t seen Azzi,” Lexi said, adjusting the strap of her bag. “I texted her when I saw the flight info online, but she hasn’t answered. She’s been kinda... distant lately? I don’t know. Have you noticed that?”

Paige’s mouth went dry. Her heart did something weird in her chest—like it skipped and then panicked to catch up.

“Oh.” She tried to keep her voice light, casual. “Maybe? We’ve all been kind of swamped.”

Lexi nodded slowly. “Yeah. Totally. I just thought—I don’t know. I figured she’d say something if something was wrong.”

Paige nodded too. Too fast. Too much.

“Yeah,” she said again. “I’m sure she will.”

But the guilt was already there, thick and low in her stomach. Hot under her skin.

Because Azzi hadn’t told her yet.

And now Paige had walked straight into it—into her—like the universe was daring her to lie again.

She stood there, blinking against the wind, while Lexi gave a little wave and started walking the opposite direction.

Paige stayed rooted in place. Cold. Quiet. Drowning a little in the knowing.

Paige waited until Lexi was out of sight before pulling out her phone, her heart still beating in that uneven, guilty rhythm.

She didn’t overthink it.

Paige: just saw lex she asked about you

The reply came almost instantly.

Azzi: planning to talk to her this afternoon

Paige stared at the screen, thumb frozen above the keyboard. She didn’t know why she suddenly felt like she could breathe again. Maybe because Azzi had a plan. Maybe because they were so close now—just one conversation away from finally stepping into whatever this was between them.

It made her chest ache in the best and worst way.

She typed slowly.

Paige: okay just wanted you to know

She watched the three dots appear.

Azzi: i know thanks for telling me

Another pause.

Then:

Azzi: we’re almost there

Paige’s breath caught.

Paige: yeah

She hesitated, then added:

Paige: i can’t stop thinking about you

Azzi: same

Paige smiled—quiet, a little wrecked. Her thumb hovered over the screen.

She didn’t say I love you. But God, it lived in the space between the words.

Paige: see you later?

Azzi: of course

And just like that, Paige tucked her phone back in her pocket and started walking again, the cold biting less than it had before.

Azzi

Azzi got there first.

She picked a small table near the window—tucked far enough away from foot traffic, but close enough to the exit in case she needed to make a fast escape. The student center café was its usual hum of espresso machines, laptop keys, and group projects being half-heartedly argued over at the next table. It was busy, but not loud. Perfect for pretending to be relaxed. Perfect for quietly breaking someone’s heart.

Her coffee sat untouched in front of her, steam curling upward in ghost-thin ribbons. She’d wrapped her hands around the cup for warmth, but her palms were already sweating.

Lexi showed up two minutes later, all sunshine and post-vacation glow. Hair up in a loose bun, tank top tucked into joggers, a hibiscus scrunchie on her wrist like a final souvenir. Her cheeks were pink, like she’d just walked from the gym—or maybe from being somewhere happy.

“Hey!” she said, sliding into the chair across from her. “Sorry if I smell like sunscreen. I swear it’s permanent now.”

Azzi smiled—small, tight. “Hey, it’s good to see you.”

“Yeah you too,” Lexi said, setting her iced drink down and pulling her chair closer. “You look tired.”

Azzi huffed a soft laugh. “That’s because I am.”

“I don’t miss road games,” Lexi said, sipping her drink through a bright green straw. “Hawaii ruined me. I forgot what alarms felt like.”

Azzi nodded, eyes flicking to the condensation dripping down the side of Lexi’s cup. “Trip was good?”

“Honestly? Yeah.” Lexi leaned back, smile still easy. “We went on this insane sunrise hike—like, full 4 a.m. wakeup call, pitch black trail, almost died twice, but the view was worth it. And the food? Unreal. I ate poke like four times a day. Might turn into raw tuna.”

Azzi smiled again, this one more real. “That sounds amazing.”

“It was.” Lexi shrugged, glanced down into her drink. “I kept thinking how much you would’ve loved it.”

Azzi looked down.

“I even brought you something,” Lexi added, reaching into her bag.

Azzi’s stomach turned. Her fingers curled tighter around her coffee cup, already knowing.

Lexi pulled out a small white box with a gold ribbon, holding it out across the table. “Saw it in this little shop on the North Shore. It felt like you.”

Azzi stared at it for a second too long before reaching for it—carefully, like it might explode.

She opened it.

Inside was a delicate gold chain. A tiny wave charm in brushed silver, barely bigger than her fingernail. It shimmered under the overhead lights.

“It’s beautiful,” Azzi said softly. “But I can’t accept it.”

Lexi blinked. “What?”

Azzi looked up, eyes searching. “I mean it. I shouldn’t.”

Lexi froze, her face flickering—confused first, then quiet.

“Why not?” she asked, even though Azzi could tell she already knew.

Azzi exhaled. “Because I didn’t come here to catch up.”

Azzi looked down at her hands, then back up.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this. I didn’t want to do it over text. You deserve more than that.”

Lexi didn’t move. Her face stayed soft, but her shoulders tensed just slightly.

Azzi kept going.

“I care about you. I really do. But I can’t keep pretending like I’m fully in this. It’s not fair to you. Or me.”

Lexi was quiet. Waiting.

Azzi forced the words out, even though they tasted like guilt.

“I have feelings for someone else.”

There. It was out.

The words hung between them like smoke—visible, choking, impossible to pull back.

Lexi didn’t react at first. She just stared, lips slightly parted, like she was still waiting for the punchline.

Then she exhaled. Slow. Her jaw flexed, and her mouth pulled into a tight, practiced line. She nodded once, mechanical. Like she’d rehearsed this exact scenario a dozen times in her head and now that it was happening, she had to stick to the script.

“Okay,” she said, voice even but clipped. “Thanks for being honest.”

Azzi felt her throat close. Her hands were clenched in her lap now, gripping the edge of her sweatshirt like it might keep her from unraveling.

“I never meant to hurt you,” she said, quiet.

Lexi gave a small, breathy laugh. Not kind. Not cruel. Just… exhausted.

“Right,” she said. One word, razor-thin.

Azzi flinched.

But something about the way she said it made her freeze.

Lexi reached for her cup. Her fingers wrapped around it slowly, deliberately. She didn’t sip it. Just held it. Staring down at the lid like she was waiting for permission.

“You know,” she said finally, “I was really hoping I was wrong.”

Azzi blinked. “What do you mean?”

Lexi stood up. Smooth. Graceful. The kind of calm that only meant one thing: something had cracked and she was holding it together with sheer will.

“That it wasn’t her,” she said. Her eyes flicked down, then back up to Azzi’s face. “But it is, isn’t it?”

Azzi opened her mouth. Closed it.

“Lex—”

Too late.

Lexi tossed the drink.

Not violently. Not in a flurry of rage. Just a single, fluid motion, like she was handing off a baton in a relay.

The cup arced forward and the lid popped off mid-air. Iced caramel cold brew splashed across Azzi’s chest and down her front—sharp and sticky, soaking into the gray cotton of her sweatshirt before she could even react.

The cold hit first. Then the sound.

The ice slid down her stomach. She gasped.

A beat of silence dropped over the café like a curtain. Conversations halted. Chairs scraped. Someone sucked in a sharp breath.

But Lexi didn’t flinch...

She didn’t apologize. Didn’t rush out in embarrassment or try to play it off.

She just stepped back and leaned in, voice low, razor-sharp.

“Tell her congratulations.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked out—shoulders back, head high, not looking back even once.

Azzi sat frozen, dripping coffee and disbelief. Her breath caught in her throat. Her hands trembled, still half-raised like she could catch the moment before it shattered.

She stared at the door long after Lexi was gone.

And then—quietly, bitterly—she laughed. Just once. Because of course this was how it ended.

Sticky, cold, and completely unforgettable.

Paige

She was lying sideways on her bed, half-scrolling, half-dozing, still in her hoodie from the flight, when the door creaked open.

“P?” came the voice. Soft. Familiar. Weirdly casual.

Paige looked up and immediately bolted upright.

Azzi was standing in the doorway. Soaked. Fully drenched. Coffee-streaked across her sweatshirt, jeans clinging to her legs, one sneaker making a gross squelch sound with every step. There was literally an ice cube stuck to her shoelace.

And she was smiling.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Paige said, staring like she'd just seen someone crawl out of a flood.

Azzi shut the door behind her and shrugged, somehow both smug and exhausted. “Lexi happened.”

“She did this to you?”

“Technically, yeah.”

Paige launched off the bed, her voice already rising. “Are you serious right now?! I will beat her ass. I’m not even kidding. I’ll walk to the student center right now—”

Azzi reached out, grabbing her wrist before she could make it past the desk. “Paige.”

“No, because what kind of psycho throws a drink on someone during a breakup—”

“Paige.” Azzi said again, this time firmer. Still smiling. “It’s fine.”

Paige blinked at her. “You’re smiling.”

“Because it’s over. Like, actually over.”

Paige opened her mouth. Closed it again. Her pulse hadn’t slowed down yet.

“She brought me a gift,” Azzi continued, like they were debriefing after a particularly chaotic group project. “A necklace. Very sweet. Very ironic. I told her I couldn’t accept it. Told her I had feelings for someone else.”

Paige’s stomach flipped.

Azzi didn’t let go of her wrist.

“She figured out it was you,” she said gently. “Threw her cold brew on me. Called it a day.”

Paige stared at her for a second longer—taking in the damp clothes, the little flecks of caramel syrup on her collarbone, the proud look in her eyes that made her chest ache in a way that wasn’t scary anymore.

Azzi leaned forward slightly, voice softer now.

“So yeah. I think I need a shower.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Azzi smirked. “Wanna supervise?”

Paige pretended to think about it for half a second. “Only to make sure you don’t slip and die.”

“Wow. So chivalrous.”

They didn’t break eye contact.

Paige let her lips twitch into a grin, finally. “You’re really sure about this?”

Azzi’s thumb brushed over the inside of her wrist. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

And that was all it took.

Paige followed her into the bathroom without another word.

The second the door closed behind them, Paige leaned back against it, watching as Azzi peeled off her soaked sweatshirt with one slow, squelching motion. Coffee had soaked clean through the front—staining the fabric, her sports bra, the waistband of her jeans.

It should’ve looked gross.

But somehow it didn’t.

Somehow it made Paige’s throat go dry.

“Jesus,” Paige murmured, stepping closer. “You really took a whole venti to the chest, huh?”

Azzi laughed, eyes soft. “Battle scars.”

Paige reached out slowly, her fingertip dragging along the edge of a sticky trail just beneath Azzi’s collarbone. The caramel had dried slightly—tacky against her skin, warm from body heat. It shimmered under the overhead light, catching in the hollow just above her chest like something sacred.

Paige followed the line with her eyes, then leaned in without thinking.

Her tongue met skin—hot, sweet, a little salty from the residue of sweat and coffee. She flattened it against the spot and licked a slow, deliberate stripe, pausing to press her lips there like punctuation.

Azzi inhaled sharply, breath catching as Paige’s tongue dragged slowly across her collarbone.

Paige smiled against her skin. “Yup. Definitely a little oat milk in there.”

Azzi laughed—short, breathy, slightly dazed. “You’re disgusting.”

But her fingers slid into Paige’s hair anyway, anchoring her there like maybe she didn’t actually want her to stop.

Paige tilted her head up, lips brushing just under Azzi’s jaw. “Tell that to your pulse.”

And she felt it—wild and reckless beneath her mouth.

Azzi’s breath hitched again.

Paige pulled back just enough to look up at her, smirking. “Caramel. Notes of regret. Bold finish.”

Azzi grinned, eyes dark with want. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Mm,” Paige hummed, licking another line, just below her neck. “Guess I’m lucky you’re into assholes.”

Azzi’s hands were already on her hips, tugging at her jeans. “Help me out of the rest?”

Paige didn’t need to be asked twice.

The clothes came off in slow, deliberate layers—like neither of them wanted to rush, like the undressing itself was its own kind of worship.

Azzi’s long sleeve t-shirt peeled off first, sticky and stubborn, catching at her wrists before Paige tugged it free and tossed it somewhere near the sink. Her sports bra followed, damp from both coffee and heat, and Paige paused—just for a moment—to breathe her in.

Then she started kissing.

The curve of Azzi’s shoulder. The dip just beneath her collarbone. The swell of her breast, soft and warm and rising unevenly with every breath. Paige kissed her there, then lower, dragging her lips down the center of her chest, her stomach, leaving a slow trail of heat in her wake.

Azzi didn’t say anything, just watched with parted lips, her fingers grazing the hem of her own jeans like she wasn’t sure if she should help or wait.

Paige knelt and unbuttoned them herself. Slid the denim down Azzi’s hips, slow and smooth, until they pooled around her ankles. Her socks were peeled off next—gentle, almost laughably tender—until Azzi stood fully bare in front of her, flushed and shining under the bathroom lights.

Paige looked up at her like she’d just been handed something sacred.

The steam from the shower started to fog the mirror, and still, Paige hadn’t looked away.

“You’re really gonna stand there fully dressed while I get in?” Azzi asked, stepping into the tub.

“I’m savoring the view,” Paige said. “And also considering how mad I’d be if you slipped and cracked your head open before I get to kiss you properly.”

Azzi reached back, tugged at her hand. “Then come do something about it.”

Paige was out of her clothes in seconds, tossing them somewhere behind her without looking. The moment she stepped into the shower, steam curled around her like breath, the hot water hitting her spine in sharp, rhythmic bursts—and Azzi was already there. Wet and flushed and waiting.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Their bodies collided like tension finally snapping—urgent, electric, mouths crashing together as hands grabbed, pulled, clutched. Azzi’s fingers slid down Paige’s back, digging in, pulling her impossibly close. Paige groaned into the kiss, opening her mouth to let Azzi in—tongues tangling, breaths coming fast.

Azzi’s thigh pressed up between Paige’s legs, deliberate this time, and Paige gasped, her body arching forward like it had been waiting for that exact pressure. She ground down instinctively, chasing it, hands roaming Azzi’s slick skin—shoulders, spine, hips. Her grip landed on Azzi’s ass, squeezing hard enough to draw a hiss from her throat.

Water beat down around them, but it didn’t matter. Paige kissed along Azzi’s jaw, then lower, teeth scraping over the pulse in her neck, and Azzi whimpered—soft and helpless.

“I’ve wanted this,” Paige rasped, dragging her mouth back up to kiss her, slow and filthy, “so fucking bad.”

Azzi leaned in until their foreheads touched, voice barely audible over the water. “Then take me.”

She wrapped a leg around Paige’s waist, guiding her, breath hot and shaky. Paige pinned her gently against the tile, one hand gripping Azzi’s thigh, the other sliding between them, slipping lower until Azzi’s breath hitched and her whole body jolted.

“You’re already mine,” Paige breathed, fingers finding her heat but skimming just shy of where Azzi needed her most—drawing out the want until it was unbearable.

Azzi nodded, trembling. “Then don’t stop.”

And Paige didn’t stop.

The water poured down around them in steady sheets, soaking their hair, cascading over skin already flushed and trembling. Steam curled around their tangled limbs like silk, cloaking them in heat and want. Paige didn’t rush—she took her time, kissing along Azzi’s jaw with slow intent, letting her lips linger against each pulse point, feeling the way Azzi’s breath stuttered against her cheek.

She trailed lower, tongue sweeping down the graceful line of Azzi’s throat, tasting sweat and water and something sweeter—something undeniably hers. Azzi tilted her head back, offering more, a breathy moan escaping as Paige kissed down the curve of her neck, her collarbone, each dip and hollow mapped out like a secret trail she was hellbent on memorizing.

Paige’s hands skimmed along Azzi’s waist, gripping her just above the hips to anchor her in place as her mouth moved to her chest. She kissed the swell of her breast first—soft and slow—then opened her mouth wider, tongue circling a nipple already peaked from the heat and anticipation.

When her teeth grazed over it—just a little scrape, just enough—Azzi gasped, her knees threatening to buckle. Paige sucked her in, mouth hot and open, letting her lips drag, tongue flicking and teasing in gentle, maddening patterns until Azzi was panting, her fingers curled tight in Paige’s hair.

Then Paige latched on harder, sucking until she felt Azzi shudder, her breath hitching with every pull. She wanted to leave a mark—something tender and bruised and unmistakably hers. A soft bruise blooming under her mouth, proof of this moment. Of how much she wanted her.

She switched sides with a low groan, worshipful in the way she kissed the other breast—twin trails of fire left in her wake, tongue and teeth working until another deep, purpling mark surfaced beneath her lips. Azzi trembled, head falling back against the tile with a thud, thighs tightening around Paige’s hips as the warmth from her mouth melted straight through her.

Every nerve in her body felt raw and awake, like she’d been lit from the inside out—claimed, adored, marked.

Paige looked up, smirking through the wreckage. “You’re so desperate for me, huh?” she murmured, lips brushing warm against her skin. “All that just from taking my time?”

Azzi nodded, dazed, eyes heavy-lidded. “I—yeah. God, yes.”

Paige smirked, lowering her mouth again. “Then hold on, baby. I’m not even close to done.”

She kissed her way down again, slower this time, savoring the way Azzi’s breath hitched with every inch she moved. Her tongue traced along the curve of Azzi’s waist, then lower, teeth grazing the soft skin of her inner thigh until Azzi whimpered and shifted, trying to get her where she needed her most.

Paige didn’t budge.

Instead, she pressed a kiss just beside her center—close enough to tease, not enough to satisfy. Then another. And another. Lazy, open-mouthed kisses that made Azzi writhe, her hands threading tighter in Paige’s hair.

“Paige,” she whispered, voice cracking, “please.”

“Please what?” Paige asked, her tone maddeningly calm, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “You gotta tell me.”

Azzi looked wrecked—flushed, panting, her thighs trembling where they bracketed Paige’s shoulders. “Touch me. Please, I—need you.”

That earned her a groan, low and wrecked, like Paige had been waiting to hear it.

“Good girl,” she whispered, and finally gave in.

She dragged her tongue up once—slow, flat, indulgent—then eased two fingers inside, deep and unhurried. The stretch was instant, perfect, Azzi’s head falling back against the tile with a gasp as Paige filled her.

Her hand moved with confident rhythm, curling just enough to brush that spot that made Azzi jolt, hips twitching involuntarily. Paige kept the pressure steady, her palm grinding against Azzi’s clit in tight, deliberate circles, coaxing out every stuttered gasp and choked moan like it was her favorite song.

Azzi’s back hit the tile again with a hard thud this time, the coolness of it a shocking contrast to the heat building low and fast inside her. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t care. She was too far gone—too caught in the thick, pulsing wave of sensation to register anything except the way Paige’s fingers filled her, moved inside her, fucked her with a rhythm that felt like possession.

Her breath hitched, hands flying down to tangle in Paige’s hair, gripping tight, like she needed her closer—like she couldn’t take how close she already was. “Fuck,” she gasped, voice cracking. “Paige—”

Paige didn’t stop. She had one hand wrapped firmly around Azzi’s thigh, keeping her steady, while the other slid up to press against her lower stomach, holding her in place as her mouth worked her open—slick, steady, relentless. Azzi clung to her through it, fingers threading deeper into Paige’s soaked hair, her thighs trembling on either side of her head as she tried to ground herself, to survive the slow undoing of her body coming apart, one stroke at a time.

“You gonna come for me just like this?” she murmured, breath brushing sensitive skin. “On my mouth, like you were made for it?”

Azzi whimpered, hips jerking forward. Paige licked her again, slower this time, deliberately messy, before adding, “You taste so fucking good, baby. I could stay down here all night.”

She kissed her clit gently, then sucked—just hard enough to make Azzi cry out again. “Come on,” Paige whispered, voice low and rough. “Give it to me. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

And then her tongue was back—deeper, firmer, devastating—all wicked precision and praise.

Azzi’s head dropped back against the wall with a soft thud, a strangled moan escaping her lips. “Don’t stop,” she begged, the words breaking apart on her tongue.

Paige didn’t answer with words. She just hummed low against her—deep, satisfied, possessive—and the vibration shot straight through Azzi’s core like a lightning strike.

That was it.

Azzi cried out—sharp and breathless—and her whole body arched, legs tightening around Paige’s hips. She was so close, the pressure building too fast, her thighs shaking. Every thrust of Paige’s fingers sent another wave crashing through her, her body rocking between the hard tile and the relentless pleasure of Paige’s touch. Her stomach clenched, breath coming in short, desperate gasps, and her nails raked down Paige’s back, needing something to hold onto—anything to tether her to the moment.

Her vision blurred at the edges, heat coiling tighter with every stroke. “I can’t—Paige, I—” she tried, but the words fell apart as her hips jerked forward again, chasing the inevitable.

Paige gave one last slow lick, then pulled back, her breath hot against Azzi’s inner thigh. She kissed her way upward—soft, lingering trails of heat along her stomach, her ribs, her chest—until they were face to face again, both of them flushed, breathing hard.

She pressed their foreheads together, breath ragged, fingers still deep—but no longer slow. Her pace quickened, thrusts sharper now, more insistent. Each movement hit harder, deeper, sending jolts through Azzi’s entire body. Paige shifted her weight, grounding herself, grinding her palm against Azzi’s clit in tight, deliberate circles that made Azzi gasp and jolt forward.

Her other hand slid around Azzi’s waist, anchoring her against the wall as her fingers curled just right—over and over—relentless now, chasing the tremble in Azzi’s thighs.

“I’ve got you, baby,” Paige whispered, voice low and gutted, her mouth brushing the edge of Azzi’s lips. “Feel how close you are? Don’t fight it.”

Azzi whimpered, breath catching, hips rolling forward into Paige’s hand like she couldn’t help it—like her body had already decided. Paige moved faster, grinding harder, her rhythm precise and punishing in the best way. Their foreheads stayed pressed together, both of them panting, bodies slick and shaking under the spray.

“Just let go for me,” Paige breathed, her thumb flicking against Azzi’s clit with a little more pressure, a little less mercy. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

And Azzi did—hips bucking, mouth falling open as a loud moan tore from her throat, her orgasm crashing through her so hard she nearly slipped. Paige caught her, arm around her waist, holding her upright as she rode it out, crying her name against her mouth. Her entire body shook, legs trembling, nails digging into Paige’s shoulders as wave after wave pulsed through her, blinding and hot and overwhelming. She clung to her like a lifeline, forehead pressed to Paige’s, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts between broken whimpers.

Paige murmured softly against her skin—nonsense words, tender praise, her voice rough with awe—until Azzi finally went limp in her arms, spent and shivering, completely undone.

Azzi was still shaking when she finally looked up, dazed and flushed, lips swollen from kissing. Her cheeks were flushed with heat, her breath still unsteady, but there was a flicker behind her eyes—something hungry, something certain.

“What about you?” she asked, voice low, fingers drifting down the slick lines of Paige’s stomach, tracing her abs with reverence. She paused just above where Paige was already aching, already soaked for her, her touch featherlight—teasing.

Paige’s breath stuttered. “Azzi—”

“Let me,” Azzi said, voice hoarse, raw, and full of want. “I want to taste you.”

There was no resistance.

Paige let herself be guided gently against the tile, the water cascading over her shoulders and down her back. Azzi dropped to her knees in front of her without hesitation, hands sliding along Paige’s thighs, urging them apart as she leaned in. The sight alone stole Paige’s breath—Azzi, bare and dripping, eyes dark with focus, mouth parted like she was starving.

Azzi kissed up the inside of one thigh, slow and open-mouthed, then the other, letting her tongue drag lightly against damp skin. Paige’s head fell back against the wall, a soft moan escaping her as her legs shifted wider, heart pounding with anticipation.

When Azzi finally licked up the center of her—long and slow—Paige gasped, one hand flying to her hair, gripping tight as her hips jolted forward. Azzi groaned low against her, the vibration sending sparks through her core, and then she was fully there—mouth open, tongue working in slow, devastating circles, savoring every sound Paige made.

“Jesus—Azzi,” Paige choked out, her voice dissolving into a moan as Azzi’s tongue slipped lower, deeper, licking into her with intention.

Azzi didn’t rush. She took her time, alternating between slow, languid strokes and sharper flicks that made Paige tremble. She sucked gently at her clit, then flattened her tongue against it, licking steady and sure until Paige’s thighs began to shake and her grip in Azzi’s hair tightened.

“You taste so good,” Azzi murmured between strokes, her voice thick with need, lips brushing sensitive skin as she spoke. The heat of her breath, the rasp in her voice—it sent a fresh shiver straight through Paige’s core.

Then Azzi dove back in, relentless now—mouth open, tongue dragging firm and slow, savoring her like she couldn’t get enough. She moved with purpose, focused and hungry, alternating between deep strokes and sharp, devastating flicks that made Paige’s knees buckle.

Paige was falling apart.

Her legs trembled violently, muscles locking and unlocking as she fought to stay upright. She tried to brace herself, one hand scrambling against the tile behind her, the other buried in Azzi’s soaked curls, anchoring her there like she was afraid she’d float away. Her hips rolled forward helplessly, chasing the rhythm of Azzi’s mouth, unable to stop herself.

Her moans grew louder, raw and unfiltered, each one tumbling from her lips like it had nowhere else to go. The wet sounds of Azzi’s mouth working between her thighs—slick, greedy, obscene—only pushed her closer to the edge, made her pulse pound harder in her throat.

“Fuck—Azzi—” she gasped, voice breaking, high and breathless. Her whole body was coiled so tight it almost hurt. “I’m gonna—Jesus, I’m—”

Azzi didn’t let up. Her hands slid beneath Paige’s thighs, lifting one leg over her shoulder, opening her even more, giving her tongue better access as she pushed in deeper, licked harder. The pressure was unbearable—in the best way. Paige could barely breathe. Her head fell back against the wall with a dull thud as her vision blurred, stars blooming behind her eyelids.

The sound she made when she finally came wasn’t a word—it was a cry, wrecked and involuntary, ripped from somewhere deep. Her body jolted forward, hips grinding into Azzi’s mouth as the orgasm tore through her like fire—hot, pulsing, wave after wave until she was shaking so hard she had to be held up.

And Azzi did. One arm locked around Paige’s thigh, the other steadying her lower back, keeping her from sliding down the wall. Her mouth softened but didn’t pull away, coaxing her through it with slow, tender strokes until Paige finally gasped, “Too much—fuck, baby—too much.”

Azzi let her go with one last kiss, lips slick and swollen, chin shining. She rose slowly, eyes locked on Paige’s, and that look—God. It nearly unraveled her all over again.

Dark, intense, reverent.

Paige was still panting, chest heaving, hand braced against the wall, the other falling to Azzi’s waist to pull her in. Their foreheads touched first, then noses, breath shared between them.

Neither spoke at first.

Then Paige tipped her chin up, eyes searching Azzi’s face. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” she whispered, voice low, ruined.

Azzi smiled, slow and wicked. “That’s the idea.”

She dragged her fingers lightly down Paige’s spine, stopping just above the curve of her ass, and leaned in again, lips brushing Paige’s ear. “You should’ve heard yourself,” she murmured, voice like smoke. “So fucking pretty when you fall apart for me.”

Paige’s breath hitched. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second, trying to catch herself. “Yeah?” she rasped, teeth sinking into her bottom lip as her body pulsed in aftershock.

Azzi nodded, voice darkening. “The way you begged? The way you rode my mouth like you were made for it?” She kissed just under Paige’s jaw. “You were dripping for me before I even touched you.”

Paige barely managed to open her eyes. “You’re unreal,” she whispered, wrapping shaky arms around her and pulling her close.

Azzi kissed her—slow and deep, like she hadn’t just brought her to her knees. Like she’d do it again.

“I missed you,” Azzi whispered into her mouth.

Paige nodded, breath still catching. “Me too.”

They stood there for a while, wrapped in each other, letting the water cool and the silence settle. Paige pressed a kiss to Azzi’s temple, slow and reverent, then looked down at her wrist.

The bracelet was still there. Pink and purple. A little loose from the water.

“Purpose,” she murmured. Azzi smiled, eyes still closed. “Guess we found it.” Paige nodded, her lips brushing Azzi’s jaw. “And I’m not letting go.”

#pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd

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