#the air is wrong. the light is wrong. nothing makes sense. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

werezmastarbucks · 19 hours ago

Text

U N17

U N7 masterlist 12/14

word count: 7708

music: life goes on by agust d

warnings: stalker stalking, violence, Yoongi's pov present. how y/n goes about handling a stalker is the WRONG way bc she's delulu

author's note: enter deus ex machina. if anybody knows how to write it avoiding the trope, hit me (with a shovel)

you don't wear the green tea perfume anymore; switched to something sweeter, fruitier and bolder. you like expensive perfumes that last on you, so that you can sense them yourself; otherwise, what's the point? Yoongi doesn't seem to be smelling different these days, at least not the last few times you've seen him. it's the same home-yanking woody citrus smell. he is very steady.

you leave the window open checking if the mosquito net is stuck tightly. the late June air is so sweet it makes your heart want to sing. Yoongi and Jungkook think alike, sending you messages at the same time. but they are of very different nature. you haven't seen him since May and don't have the impulse, the stay in Seoul was overwhelming and uncomfortable. the sex hit too close to home, and you even got a nasty feeling like he was crumbling a little. every time the train crosses the fine narrow line at the border of Busan, it's like a mechanic voice in your head says,

you're safe now. you're in the safety zone.

and all Seoul troubles fade away. you're strong. you're responsible for your life. you don't need anyone. the light is soft and mellow, sun is shining at the right angle, and the green streets lined up with fruit trees welcome you home. this is you. a hundred years of exhaustion and heartache slip off of you and leak down the drain taking the nightmares with it. all is well and if this was a book ending, it would be short and sweet. all is well in Busan, no zombie apocalypse for now, days long and sunny in the summer, seagulls yelling in the skies and people walk the streets smiling, breezy, their kerchiefs flying away slowly in the wind from the strait.

so no, you don't want to see him. you don't want the darkness that he brings to your mind nowadays. don't want to engage in the exhausting business of trying to find the balance between loving him and coming undone at the seams. you don't want the burden. he is too pretty to look at without getting tired. because he is the closed chapter that you lost the key to. he is the chapter that never belonged to you and yet you are burdened by the weight of a finished relationship that never transpired.

Jungkook says that something big's about to go down. your hands start sweating. it's been in the air for a while.

you pour yourself some lemonade and look around your shoulder at the pear trees outside. they stand in the glimmering evening mist like a picture from a book of tales. you think you're going to be okay now.

you turn on the live where Jungkook is sitting with his hair in the knot on the back of his head and counting until ten.

"you gotta hurry", he laughs, "let's make it ten million before i say ten. run, beautiful, you gotta run".

he is having a lot of fun lately in his fan interactions. he has always been confident and funny, but these days it's like nothing can hurt him. it's a dangerous notion, bordering a delusion, but he has this foundation under him. without having his experiences, you have no idea what it feels like to be this invincible. you think ten million in ten seconds is a bit of a stretch even for him, and he only makes four and pouts, chuckles, embarrassed. people keep coming. he begins with the usual muttering about nothing.

"kind of forgetting how i used to do this thing".

his eyes are reading comments attentively. they are opaque black with the lack of light.

"what i've been doing? this is what i wanted to talk to you about".

he stretches, then rubs his face, the smile not leaving his lips. he is nervous. still has time to change his mind. you are worried, too, but you have natural paranoia that's been riding you all your life, so you usually try not to overpress people with your concerns.

he talks a little more, comments on others' projects, yaps about the city and Jimin, gets distracted, zones out, giggles, goes to pour himself some alcohol. "Yoongi hyung doesn't drink anymore", he cheers the air. you are surprised. people still keep coming, the chat is as usual, a running waterfall of words.

"this is very important to me", he gets serious, "i want to tell you guys because you are my closest people. i know you understand what i mean", he's all business, as serious as he is with the people in his life. Jungkook is very sincere about the fans and always means what he says. in turn, they respect him and fight for him. it's unlike Yoongi who treats them a little like children. a little like loony siblings.

"i think you get that i am not just a boy from Busan anymore. by the way", he gets very close to the screen, making his funny face, brows together, as he checks the viewers.

"anyway, we have been talking with the hyungs about it for the longest time, and we all see how grown we are now, we're like, adults. i actually have been an adult for a while, and our dynamic is a bit different..."

his eyes get concerned as they move quickly, reading.

"we're not disbanding!" he cries out, "we're not disbanding. just... don't jump to conclusions. we're not disbanding. we will be together for a long time. but..."

he sighs, clearly not knowing how to put it. how do you tell that? twenty million people are catching his every word on live. now, twenty-two. he has broken his own record from back when he was even more famous than now. life getting quieter your ass. you realize you're not breathing like he's about to jump off the cliff.

"well, anyway, two years ago my son was born", he just says, simply. and goes quiet for a second, pressing his lips closed too late. there's still a smile in his eyes, a happy smile that is there when he is sharing something important.

"and i am so in love with him. i have a family. my son's name is Taeyang. i want you guys to call him Tae like we do", he bursts in chuckle. the chat becomes the volcanic vent. messages come so quickly it starts glitching and eventually breaks down.

"oh".

his phone buzzes. your shaking hand is lying on the table as you watch him intently.

"oh, my English teacher has texted", his face lights up in a smile. "Kookie Pookie, you're doing great".

he facepalms at himself at reading it out loud.

"oh, wait, you were never my English teacher".

he is having a bit of a breakdown, giggling, his head deep in his hand. his body is shaking with laughter. once the chat is fixed, it's full of pink and purple hearts.

this sends ripples over the internet. half of the world at least is shaken to its core. Taeyang is a June baby, a Gemini. Jungkook tells the fans about it the next day after his second birthday. and it creates a chasm between the past and now. someone leaves. for months, it's unreal being on the internet. some people are having meltdowns, others have parties. all in all, it goes better than expected. for bts, it means a completely new chapter. they have been free for a while now. ever since Hybe started needing them more than they, it, they have been slowly breaking down the stigmas. at first their clawing for the success was desperate and unrelenting. now their journey to independence has been slow, methodical and calculated. a little money on the side here and there, collaborations with artists from other studios, a little bit of disobedience to test the waters, middle fingers from the stage. the stronger ones were in the avant-garde and the others perching them up in the backs. stronger ones meaning Yoongi, Jungkook and Taehyung. now they are the first ones to relax and finally start enjoying their lives the way they want. buying houses with their own money. changing hair the way they want to. date people. you hear Taehyung has a permanent boyfriend he's been dating for almost a year. and yes, he does look a little like Jungkook, but he's way more feisty.

Jungkook is the impatient one when it comes to the parasocial aspect of it. he wants people to accept it and move on. he wants to not lose them over this, and the real ones don't get lost. that's all he cares about. he doesn't show Yuri or Taeyang but only mentions his name, and that's enough to breathe a little deeper. life hasn't been as beautiful for him as it is now, and that is considering he has always thought he was lucky. long story short, Jungkook is very happy. he feels fulfillment. and he definitely doesn't regret grabbing you by the hips on a rainy night in Prague almost ten years ago. he must think of that night a lot. you know you do. you feel connected to him like he is your biological brother.

Yoongi keeps the iced Americano between his knees and removes it as soon as the glass starts warming up. sunglasses keep the hair away from his eyes as he balances things in his hands: bag, coffee, cap, his phone. he checks the calendar and his eyes scan for the empty spots. no need for more than five hours. he's getting restless. summer has been making him jumpy. plane takes only one hour, he can be done in another three hours and drive to the airport and be back in Seoul by three in the morning. he doesn't usually text hi or what's up, just sends the info like you're a colleague:

"29th Friday, 1st of July, 7th of July, 15th of July".

he gets an almost immediate reply. looks at the watch: Jungkook has started his live. by the time he gets out of this car at the store, the world will be a little different for them all. he will probably be met by the long, screaming faces. demanding: and you???

"i'm busy". "i can move things around". "don't".

he must have fucked up by being alive again. sometimes you look at him like you wish he were dead. not in a mean way, but in a regretful way. that's new, and it's a bad sign.

the car trudges down the wide street and he can see the store doors open for him. people neatly lined up behind the purple ribbons stretched up to the entrance. he throws the cap aside and ruffles and grooms his hair to an agreeable shape. he would have cut it all off but he knows you like it this way. so, it's simple.

"you're busy all four evenings?" "yes". "why?" "because i'm fucking busy".

he leaves the car and puts his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. slides the glasses down onto his face and the smile plasters itself, working for him. you might never love him again and he needs to come to terms with it. he has to accept - he is waving his hand shyly, as usual, turning right and left, pauses for a second, bows to them - that this might be the end.

as the space around him warps, reforming itself into a new era of bts, his most precious asset, he is getting used to the reality that, he thinks, you must have lived with already. being rejected stings in a new way, not because he's never been rejected before. of course he was. he was rejected in ways that are intricately cruel, by Riko. Riko, Riko. he needs to stop thinking about her. he hears she's getting married for the third time; outran him there, too. she is an old crust that doesn't bother him anymore, a life lesson in being too kind. he has to go on live streams and say that no, he is single now. there's no one occupying his mind. Jungkook's exodus has set the new rules and the new intimacy for them and the fandom. like a rock cascade, Jimin and Namjoon come out about being in relationships as well, and now they have two new lines: taken and single. it's messier than people think. Jin is pathologically not capable to be in a relationship; he is having too much fun with his life and career, and keeps talking about the fruits. he likes to be admired and nobody can admire him well enough. Taehyung is actually taken but isn't ready to go into details of his life. Hoseok is a gentleman fuckboy enjoying his persistent youth. Yoongi is clinically unavailable, cursed. he doesn't text you anymore and you don't text him and he is trying to draw the lines around him limiting his new environment. he knows life goes on even in radio silence.

until all shit storm of circumstances comes together: on a July day, he has to go back to Daegu because his mother's cousin is dead and Holly is sick; expecting the call from the vet, he keeps the phone on sound, and that's why he doesn't miss a message from you when it lights up on the screen. a call, after weeks of absence, in the sea of dry notifications:

"i need you".

this is how quickly it changes. despair replaces hope, then hope overtakes, it must be a draining existence. he is pondering for several seconds, his eyes targeting the words, until, in the next message you send him something that doesn't sound so simple anymore: a geolocation link.

you're getting your evening portion of lemonade. can't do anything about it, for the last year you've been living a lemonade life. bubble teas and coffee are in the past and now it's the citrus era. it's so nice to walk a couple of kilometers from the designated coffeeshop on a late July evening when the sun simply refuses to set down.

the evening crowd is getting more and more evened out, rare couples are having dates at the tables by the windows, and the rest leaves. you wait in line as usual, music in your airpods, picturing how your night is going to unfold: you want a movie, a bath, to sit by the windows and look at the pear trees like they are your pets. the cat is probably walking around the garden right now, he really likes being outside in the summer and sometimes he even leaves for a couple of days. but he always comes back.

always comes back.

you notice the eyes watching you from the end of the line, and don't hold the contact for too long out of habit. but then your brain slowly puts the pieces together, like it starts clicking. it's happening gradually, taking you on the road of past memories where small and insignificant interactions now make more sense.

Kim Seongjun, you now remember. the last time at Hybe, about a month and a half ago, he looked pretty let down when you said you don't recall his name. you found this reaction peculiar. you must have seen him two or three times. but you were wrong.

the guy who you always bumped into in the corridor on the way to a lesson.

the guy who almost always went to the gym at ten in the evening, always third wheeling there. the sound designer, your brain always said. working out quietly by the wall.

the guy who helped you hang up the congratulations poster on the wall of Hobi's studio when they returned from America with a Grammy. heavy breathing at your shoulder.

they guy who kept noticing you although you didn't notice him, distracted by others. by Yoongi. too distracted to see that he's always there, at the lunch time, when you were leaving, in the foyer. you even rode in the elevator once.

Kim Seongjun. sounding so similar to Jin's full name, but he can't be further away from him. high shoulders like a bull's, thick eyebrows and ears placed on uneven level on the sides of his head. he stopped you at the corridor at Hybe in May. he said, oh, y/n, haven't seen you in a while! his smile died as soon as your face turned into an akward expression. you felt a little guilty, now you understand why. he saw you but you didn't see him. he smelt you once. he knows where you used to rent an apartment.

you turn again to make absolutely sure it's him. yes. the same expressive round eyes, like a squirrel's. looking at you from under the cap intently, not the way strangers peek at each other at a coffeeshop. he's keeping the eye contact, so you raise your brow to let him know it's a problem, then you make your order.

he lingers at the end of the queue, letting people through before him, and turns his head to follow your movement as you walk away from the register. he isn't really going to order anything. you see the last light throwing the dark sunrays on top of the roofs across the street. now is the hour of sunset. in five minutes, the streets will become bleak. you sit by the wall, claiming one of the many unoccupied tables and take out your phone.

you can call the police, but there's nothing to tell them. i think my ex-colleague, who i am suddenly realizing just now might be my long-time part-time stalker, has followed me to Busan. yeah that's him, his offense is that he wants to lick my pussy and take me on a date.

you consider people around as well but something stops you. while the brain is thinking, the hand actually already knows. there's no moment of hesitation as you open a chat and text Yoongi. you keep yourself casual, don't rush your movements, keep your head high to be able to see his blurry silhouette at the register. he turns around and pretends to study the menu screen. you cross your legs, sip a little of lemonade. he isn't leaving but isn't approaching either. he is the ink spot against the colorful interior.

"i need you".

you send him your location. it's a strange formulation but you don't feel like screaming help. nothing's happened yet. your paranoia has been your friend and your enemy. your mind is completely not okay in general and you don't always trust yourself. most importantly, the memories kick in. of discomfort and irritation, of vague fear when you found a bunch of flowers right at the door of your apartment. he's only left you messages three times and there was no way to take it seriously. boss definitely didn't.

maybe it's a coincidence. maybe he just looks a lot like Kim Seongjun. but why is he staring again then? you hope your face is not flushed.

as the memories of that time kick in, so does the habit of searching comfort in Yoongi even when he himself isn't aware of it. Seongjun was there actually, while Yoongi was training you the ways to fight him. it's comical. he must have even heard your conversations about him.

"i think it's Kim Seongjun the sound designer. you remember him?"

Yoongi is taking it slow although you see the messages are being read.

with how the messengers are built nowadays you even see him leave the chat for a minute. he must go to the Hybe app for employees and look for him. Yoongi understands everything without extra explanations.

he doesn't say anything snappy, he isn't sore or sulking.

"you're sure?" "55% sure".

you have no idea what you actually want him to do here. it's not like he's going to...

"stay there. i'll be there in 30 minutes". "??" "i'm at my parents' house".

seems impossible. Daegu is a hundred kilometers away. then he adds,

"do NOT provoke him"

if anyone in the world knows how badly you want to punch someone in the face at least once in your life, it's Yoongi the boxing instructor.

you look at the time on your phone and start counting. still trying to keep your face looking like you're scrolling instagram. if that isn't a sign from above, you don't know anymore. it's seventeenth of July, he's been somewhere around two days ago, so what's happening now? it's like shooting blind and accidentally striking the bullseye.

he is approaching now and you act normal because you never know what people actually want.

it's definitely Kim Seongjun though; he's wearing the same shirt as in May and the same buzzcut with shades on the sides. keeps sharp sideburns that make him look like an anime character. you stare because he simply sits himself down at your table.

"remember me now?"

you're silent. the indignation rises in you and you have to clutch your phone, begging yourself not to explode right here. he scartches his temple with the dry working finger. hands unmoisturized, not elegant and with sweet pink knuckles destined for a piano. your own knuckles recall the familiar awesome pain of the heavy punching bag. even if he is a little late, you promise yourself to get a piece of this jerk tonight.

"Seongjun, isn't it?" you ask, cautious. you pretend, only half-way, to be surprised.

"took you long enough to memorize my name", he mutters. looks like he's feeling the eyes of the whole coffeeshop on him. also paranoid. great soil for going crazy. you don't like the hostility and heat in his eyes.

"well, you did scold me last month, so now i remember".

he nods. staring into you intently. his eyes slip down to the phone in your hand and you loosen your clutch.

"Seoul is far away from here".

"yeah, so?"

he raises his eyes to you. there's no doubt about it now.

"you think i can't stand up for myself?"

Seongjun scratches his neck slowly. either he's lost his job or sound designers don't have to see coworkers because he has this bristle on his neck going up to his chin. dark, spotty like he has tried shaving and gave up. a person in a state of mental distress, you realize slowly. suddenly, the coffeeshop doesn't seem so safe anymore.

you look at your phone. it's been five minutes. there are plenty of ways to keep him away. you could simply press the emergency and the siren will shatter even the windows in this place. the street is getting grey outside, marine birds flying low above the ground.

"i don't want to hurt you. but you piss me off so bad".

you're taken aback.

"do you even know my last name?"

he pierces you with his dark, unfriendly eyes. the kind of glance men used to give you back when they were boys and you pissed off everybody. you used to like to piss the boys off because they are usually stupid. grown men are way less irritating, they don't provoke and don't say silly smug shit - at least the men you actively choose to be in your life.

you realise that you have so few friends, and absolutely nobody in Busan. that your only best friend is Yuri and you don't know if you can still count Jimin as your number two, because you are not his number two anymore, and fairly so. somehow every Bangtan boy, once you leave his life, gets better. Taehyung gets himself into a stable relationship with the right gender, Jungkook becomes a father, and Jiminie follows. Hoseok only got richer these last two years and Jin simply got even more attractive, forgetting that people are supposed to age. Namjoon seems happier than ever without worrying about you all the time. and Yoongi is the only one who is a mystery to you. maybe he is the only one who feels your absence.

meanwhile Seongjun pronounces your last name, your birth date and your Seoul address, and then hits you by reciting your Busan address, too. you have no idea how long he's been here. whether he's looked into the windows of your apartment. you lean over the table. the time is crawling slowly. it feels like it has stopped.

"and what exactly did i do, may i ask, to anger you so bad?"

he meets your gaze bravely, eyes open only half-way. there's black circles beneath, he's chewing on his lips and looking at your mouth as he says,

"think you can do much better than me? been ignoring me forever".

"you should've been more intense", you hiss, not without a twisted joke in your words.

"i've been there and you never noticed me".

now he wants to get romantic. you throw yourself back on the chair. Yoongi isn't writing anything else, the phone is dead silent.

"oh, i know how it feels, believe me", you feel jaded. almost sorry for this awkward guy. he's massaging his hands on the table.

"yeah, pretty pathetic. but now we..." his eyes get glassy like he suddenly feels the pills kick in. "both are free, right?"

your brows shoot up.

"i've always been free".

"no", he says simply. like this piece of idiot is now going to be careful with his words to you, offer you the chance at dignity by not stating what he noticed while watching you for how many years?

"four years you worked there".

"i thought it was longer. what took you so long? could've come here and chop me in pieces a while ago", you poke him, then continue sipping your lemonade.

Seongjun shifts in his place.

"you're not the center of the universe".

your hand lies on the table.

"wait, you're telling me i am not even my own stalker's first choice?"

he gets flustered. angry. his brows crawl down to hood his eyes. square jaw gets tense. he didn't like that word. you feel the adrenaline kick you in the head stronger than a shot of vodka would now. you can't stop yourself.

"you're telling me you've been cheating on me with other girls?"

his nostrils flare.

"why aren't you responding to me?"

Seongjun's voice gets down an octave, resembling a rumble. a very different rumble, brutal, with less nuance. he is way too manly. he is way to big for you... you notice this too late. he's a big dude. used to measure people in Jungkooks, he has about 0,9 Jungkooks in him. he doesn't have the strength in his back though, slouching. his neck is exposed nicely. you know you're taking too much upon yourself but there's nothing else to do. it's been twelve minutes.

"don't call me that".

"call you what? a stalker?"

the corner of your mouth twitches.

"what else do you call a guy who leaves pathetic messages on the whiteboard and sends flowers saying he wants to lick my pussy?"

he knows you're mocking him. even his stupid face takes the expression of confusion. like he's saying, are you dumb? you won't even call for help?

he has no idea you have the unhinged inside of you, that's been waiting for its turn your whole life. every girl has that. not every girl is unlucky enough to get a chance to let it loose.

he takes a deep sigh like he is finding his patience.

"let's get to a clean slate".

"oh?"

he nods.

"you won't even choke me or anything?"

Seongjun is taken aback.

"why... why would i choke you?"

"um, because that's what stalkers usually do in movies", you finish you lemonade in one big gulp. the ice clinks inside.

Seongjun chuckles, dropping his chin down.

"i did want to hurt you before. do awful things to you. you were so arrogant".

you literally used to sing little songs to people at Hybe when you were in a good mood. and crash into closed doors. for some reason you hate it when people get the wrong impression of you. it makes you grit your teeth not to let a whole lecture come out of your mouth.

"but i am a better person now".

"honestly you look worse than before".

his eyes rise again. it's a rollercoaster. you don't know what you're doing. the frustration that you felt back then is coming back. the audacity to treat you like a sex object, immature pickup lines circling around, only one thing bothering his imagination. and the tone of voice, like he knows you.

"what? see, i remember you. i remember you used to go to gym with us".

"with you".

"with us, that's what i said".

he crashes his fist on the table, and the glass clinks again. a couple smooching over at the window turns to you and looks. you nod at them and motion to Seongjun.

"crazy stalker".

maybe they will-

the hit comes so quickly the world tilts upside down in a fraction of a second. see, that's the problem, if you do stupid shit, you get hit with a table.

for a moment, you can't breathe. a girl shrieks shortly somewhere; it's bells in your head. you have to come round quickly, your brain is on high alert, so your hands start getting you up before the vision returns. the head hums like a metal tube once and starts working again. face is burning. it's like getting out of bath and cracking your skull all over again.

the sling bag heaved up high on your chest actually saved your nose, pushed onto the table like a tit, and not letting you hit it all the way. instead, you feel the burning cut on your forehead, whether it's actual of perceived. blood is trickling down. suddenly, it's a whole different genre of a scene. your eyes open wide as you jump onto the table. instead of fear, rage kicks in. life has fucked you enough. Yoongi always told you to run away from the fight. to keep your head low. that you need to be smart, not hard. but guess all his advice got punched out of your head because you've had enough with these Korean men. hierarchical, patriarchal, smug, dismissive, condescending. you put your knee on the table and launch yourself at Seongjun who is more than ready for you. the cashier is a small girl, not bigger than you, who is hiding behind the register. the guy who is still in the coffeeshop by this time, together with his girlfriend, is a typical local: doesn't get involved. most people don't. they are too scared to get hit with a lawsuit should the fight be happening between spouses.

Seongjun, instead of catching you, pushes you away and then, as you fall on the floor from the table, laughs, grabbing your neck. but now there's finally a window for action: you're at his feet. you punch him in the nuts as hard as you can and, once his hand drops, you get yourself up and start running. phone is left on the table.

"call the police!" the girl by the window screams at her boyfriend. you sway from side to side, the blow on the head still clutching you violently. push the door and yank yourself into the empty, dark street. this is the household district and all action is happening at the center of the city. this is why you like this coffeeshop. there's nobody here at this time.

step by step, the blood is loud in your ears, adrenaline shaking the eyeballs, only keeping you dizzy instead of giving you energy to run. Seongjun is right behind you, slamming the door shut and following you.

sometimes running away seems hard. you run away often. metaphorically mostly. maybe you should've invested into running on the treadmill instead of just walking at the elevation. your feet carry you as best as they can, but Seongjun doesn't have a concussion so he can walk a straight line. the blood is sipping into your eyes and drops from the tip of the nose. his hand on your shoulder, pushing you aside and banging you into the metal surfacing of the shop closed for the night. your foot gives out and the ankle twists, knee bending onto the asphalt and of course catching your body from falling face down, but it scrapes the skin badly. it's like he is not a real human but a scripted villain; but then again you are not surprised because cheesy villains always have the real life prototypes.

it's getting pretty sticky, you think. the street is quiet and beautiful, the lights already lit and giving the illumination to the purple wisteria trees on the sides. you don't wanna die here. you shake your head, hands on the ground, as you steady yourself. Seongjun's hand is on the back of your neck possessively, and your nasty character kicks in again. one thing you probably value more than your life is your pride. it's an unpleasant and persistent instict that always complicates things when they need to be simple. nobody has the right to grab you by the neck unless you want them to. your arm flies up to grab him, but he slaps it away, and you play submissive for a moment, trying to open a window for escape. you can hear him breathe heavily, like he did during the waiting at the Grammy party. seems like you should've known, but it's an illusion of retrospective. you can taste the asphalt even though your face is not on the ground; thick, sweet and salty air of Busan summer is making you stronger, keeping you in an adequate mood, not letting you panic just yet. you fall on your stomach to startle him a little and he can't really see you well as he's bowing above you.

"look what you are doing", Seongjun murmurs. his voice drops a tad, he squats and his grip on the neck loosens. you don't think about Yoongi, can't let your brain lose the focus even for a second; you know he's far away, and it's somewhat a relief because you don't actually want him to get caught up in this. you behaved incredibly stupidly just now, letting your anger disproportional to your skill take over. let him mourn your stupid ass and move on.

as Seongjun bends his knees to squat, he loses about 50% of his balance, and you kick. he almost falls forward, catching himself on the ground, and you crawl violently, scraping your skin on the rough asphalt, from under him. burning sensation kicks you awake and you jump up and start running again, but get blinded by the lights. you can hear him rush after you immediately and head for the car, because it's better to be run over now. it gets a little windy, easier on your burning face. you fly towards the light like a moth, taking a little to the left to circle around it, and your heart drops to quiet when you see Yoongi emerge from a dark green Hyundai. your eyes adjust to the contrast of light and darkness. you move on, crashing into the side of it, the metal door meeting you as another hard, unwelcoming surface, and finally fall on the ground in a lump. Yoongi steps around you, eyes focused on Seongjun behind your back, as he raises his arm. heavy, cracking blow follows, and Seongjun gasps breathlessly, collapses on the road like a cardboard copy of himself. Yoongi ouches quietly, shakes his whole arm like he got zipped.

you pant so hard that everything is doubled. hands clutching your knees, palm dirty and stinging over the open cut, you feel the nasty pain but your brain fails to register what exactly is bothering you. people finally come out from the coffeeshop, and a scared female voice calls:

"i called the police".

"great", Yoongi replies breathlessly, "they can revoke my license right away".

he really did make it in thirty minutes. roads were empty, and he was going two hundred, he said. in a 120 maximum zone. his hand is rubbing his neck absent-mindedly. you force it to make your way to the police first to be done with Seongjun and make sure they won't let him walk in two hours after you leave. you can see Yoongi through the open door behind the officer's back, sitting by the wall on the hard iron chair, phone hanging from his other hand. no idea what he's thinking about. he's pretty. he's getting prettier by the minute since he knocked Seongjun out with one punch an hour ago. your head aches like hell, the spot at the roots of the hair pulsating where it hit the table. all things considered, you look worse than you feel. scraped knees hurt much worse now, plus, the shock starts kicking in. not even the scare that Seongjun gave you, but the strange vulnerability at being manhandled so aggressively. being pushed and punched like that, you like your whole self and feel sorry for yourself for being hurt. you keep answering the same questions over and over, almost automatically, stealing glances at Yoongi to keep you calm. his phone rings, and he starts staring somewhere away, in the direction of the reception. he gets angry. they did warn that, without extra evidence that Seongjun had stalked you like, years ago, in a different city, he will be let go until further notice, depending on how this case develops, if it even does. Yoongi's words ring in your ears, and you have to bite on your lips, thinking of the tone of his voice as he said,

"you know i can murder someone and pay my way out of it?"

you hate that you totally forget to not care about him now. now he is the safest, pushing his hair back in a familiar motion, sighing with his cheeks, knees spread apart, the assaulting fist working open and closed. he had said, fighting should hurt. you move your eyes to the officer's face mouthing words at you. you're finally done. suddenly tired, you feel like you have no capacity to argue, pressing the folded cloth a nice lady had given you, wet with cold water, to your head.

"home".

he sniffs, irritated.

"you might have a concussion".

"home", is all you can muster. adrenaline is gone, and pain reigns all over your body. you can't handle another couple of hours in a brightly-lit hospital, surrounded by more people asking questions, administering injections or whatever, you don't want it.

he opens the door of his car with a swing, this is the angriest you've seen Yoongi, ever. his jaw actually moves sideways like Namjoon's. he looks away, doesn't press it further. incredible how, when you're in the presence of an adult, he lets you choose, actually.

"what are you mad about?"

he tilts his head forward and pouts angrily. your leg is shaking, the little nasty pain in the cut is worse than the dull big pain in your head. Yoongi makes you take two pills of a strong painkiller. he keeps blowing on the knee that he's cleaning; no idea how you scraped it that bad and managed to get so much dust into. it must be the dry, rainless street and all that crawling around.

"nothing".

you hiss and notice tragically that he reacts every time; dabs become lighter. he dabs and rubs the cut the way people usually work on his face. it's fun noticing things like that, where he learnt them.

"you'll just tell me i am victim blaming you".

you chuckle through another huff.

"i did provoke him. hard".

"why'd you do it?"

"i don't know, maybe i am dumb".

his eyes study your face for a while, somber.

"or something worse".

he leaves the knee to rest for a while and gets to your hand. the inside of the palm is less injured, but also grey with dirt.

"and shoulder?"

"stop fussing", you ask. his brows shoot up. you see he takes it as an opportunity to release a little frustration.

"you think i'm overreacting? you're bleeding from your head".

"still?"

you raise your other hand to the head and touch the pained spot. a little bump starts forming and you reach for the bag with ice resting on the mirror shelf.

Yoongi suddenly sighs. he lets go of your palm midway, clutching the pad in his fist as his elbows rest on your knees. he drops his head on them. this is him finally exhaling for the first time tonight. hiding his face in your knees, his shoulders go up and down with deep regret. you want to apologize out of habit but you know there's nothing to apologize for. you're just glad he was there on time. your injured hand lies on the back of his head you used to know so well. remember every instance when he had dyed strands of hair peeking out here, now it's all natural black-brown. it's nice against the scraped skin. you still can't take what happened worse than the physical damage; you know the ptsd will kick in later, and the fright of being stalked might never settle. maybe it's just how you are; you've felt so cosy and protected while living in Seoul, you were surrounded by such loving people that you completely lost your caution. take this one: teleported from another city and ended the fight just at the right moment. and you are more concerned now about how his hair feels under your hand than about the concussion. you've had concussions before. you've never fallen in love with the same person twice.

Yoongi helps you into the bath where your body relaxes and the small abrasions sting, fresh, burning you, and keep you awake. the uneven ache at the top of your head is lulled down by painkillers. you think you're hearing the baby pears ring in the yard and tell him about it.

"pears?" he asks, eyes wide open, "ringing like bells?"

you give a small grin,

"it's probably just in my head".

Yoongi puts one hand on the edge of the tub, and his pink knuckles tense. they are slightly redder from the punch. he gets in your face.

"look to the side. now to the left. do you feel sick?"

you feel sick of his care. you don't mind him near, quite enjoy it, but his voice is too concerned. he lost his usual cool, and you know if the roles were reversed, you'd be even less collected, fretting around him. you shake your head no, something in his hand keeps drawing your glance. his phone rings and you can see it's his mother.

"Holly's sick", he says suddenly.

"how bad?"

"he's old", Yoongi replies, serious. he wipes one hand on the towel, still clutching the edge of the tub like it can slowly drift away from him. you sink deeper into the water, gritting your teeth, flinch with pain. he speaks with his mother quietly and you keep looking at his hand. it makes you angry. but more powerfully, it knocks the ground from under your feet. you'd rather still be in Seongjun's clutch than realize this now. it takes a specific life and death circumstance to shake the whole snow mountain awake. this is the hand that has the death grip on your throat. you've achieved nothing. nothing has been solved. he jumps out and does you a favour, and the timer is kicked back off to zero. all your effort, all the feeling of freedom, the determination to feel happier, gets smothered by this hand. his voice is a low, comforting rumble jumping off the walls of your bathroom. you move and place your forehead to his knuckles, close your eyes as tears release themselves onto his skin. it's all pointless; you love this hand too much and a little break just meant this love has grown and transformed into a deeper feeling. whatever that means. there's no escape, he feels and looks like a husband, sitting with one knee up, silver rings in his ear tugging on the tired earlobe.

Yuri snuck away from Jungkook for a moment, wrapped in her wedding dress like in a beautiful, sugary spider web, getting lost in her long veil and the flying sleeves. there's bright youthful blush on her cheeks, she's coming undone in front of him and understandably needs a second to gather herself. your bridesmaid dress is silky and yellow, her favourite colour. the color of Jungkook's voice.

he is striking, effortlessly magnetizing. you rest your eyes on him while Yoongi is a blood spot, making you anxious.

"you think it's fate after all?" you ask her quietly. someone snaps a pic of you two, huddling together, gossiping. Yuri doesn't drink so she has a glass of zero per cent champagne in her hand.

you feel too insecure to admit you acted completely blindly, acting out the delulu until trululu scenario you manifested for each other.

"because i'm starting to believe it".

she sips and nods.

"yea, i believe in fate", she sounds drunk. this is the most deliriously happy you've seen her. all exes are forgotten. all rainy days kicked to the side. "her name is y/n".

the picture of that moment is still in the favourites folder on your phone. the moment when Yuri called you fate. meaning, you are inevitable. you were inevitable in Jungkook's life span. your will to marry your best friend into wealth and exciting life was unavoidable. you always acted like that was the intelligent, highly-calculated plan you've had all along, and not a drunk fluke, a sudden enlightenment and a funny prank. "look who i picked up at the bar, lmao"

now the real fate has smacked you on the teeth. you think it's inexplicable otherwise, other than by fate. life really went on, huh. it released you of the shackles of anxiety about him. look, you withdrew from Yoongi and just continued living, and the parasite of love didn't vanish but retreated into the depths of your mind, like a shadow enemy or a habit. it's a bit tragic and very pretty to think about, how badly you wanted to survive and did it, changing at your own volition. it's such simple words that carry this genius truth: life goes on.

"it's okay", he says. Yoongi thinks you are finally coming to grips with the reality of what happened, finally feel the fright. you move your head slowly on his palm, gathering his little warmth.

"no, it's not okay", you whisper. Komangi the cat enters the bathroom and rubs his body against Yoongi's thigh.

it was never going to be okay, because Yoongi is beyond okay. he is the dream. the looming inevitability of your life.

the sleep hammers you into bed. you can't even move to find a more comfortable position, just switch off almost immediately. the last thing you see is the love of your life drawing the curtains, knowing that the sun will rise in several hours and burn your faces, like it did before.

taglist: @ktownshizzle , @benyhime , @ryryvna , @amarawayne , @mar-lo-pap , @lili-spots , @kiki-zb

#yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine #bts imagine

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st4rdustblogs · 2 days ago

Text

A deal is a deal.

🪔 Bucky Barnes x South Asian! Reader fic

𖥸 With your sister’s wedding on the line and everything needing to be perfect, the last thing you needed was Bucky telling the couple about how you gave him an ear-full when you thought he was one of the staffs not doing their job properly. So, you made a deal: you’ll do anything Bucky asked if he kept his mouth shut. Too bad for you, Bucky had a few ideas in mind—and none of them involve making this easy.

8k words

🏷️Romance, Brief Intimacy, Fluff, Humor, Tension, Kissing in the storage room, Lingering touches, Light hearted, Meet cute, Bickering, Bucky is a flirt, Bucky chokes on ladoo, Reader and Bucky dance to Ishq Wala Love, Reader in a saree, Bucky in a Sherwani, Bucky smooth talking all the auntie-jis, Mention of Bucky’s vibranium arm, No use of y/n.

A/N: Omg once I start writing I actually can’t stop. Idk why it took me so long to write another fic since my last one. I just couldn’t think of anything other than a wedding setting and well, here we are. Read this as if you’re watching a bollywood film cus I think that’s the best way to enjoy itt hehe :3 Have fun!

“Oh-ho beti! If you keep worrying like this, you’ll get wrinkles by the end of the wedding!” Your auntie clicked her tongue, physically dragging you away from the kitchen where mountains of biryani and sweets were being prepared.

You huffed, but resistance was futile—Auntie’s grip was ironclad, her tone the same one that had terrorized you since childhood. The wedding had to be perfect… but at this rate, you’d be gray before the first shaadi drumbeat.

Today was your sister’s wedding and you’d sworn nothing would go wrong. Not on your watch.

From the moment the wedding planning began (or from the moment she’d said "yes"), you’d appointed yourself Chief Protector of Perfection.

Every detail from the decorations, to the food, to the guest list, to the wedding cards, to the make up artist to pretty much everything had to be ran by you and of course, the bride and the groom.

After being unceremoniously shooed away by Auntie, you trudged toward the main wedding venue—each step heavy with the dread of impending aunty interrogation. The scent of rose attar and jasmine garlands hung thick in the air, almost masking the distinct aroma of unsolicited life advice wafting from the gossip circles.

Right on cue, a flock of aunties materialized around you like they had a sixth sense for unpaired bridesmaids.

"Oho, look who’s finally here!" Aunty Meena clapped, her bangles jingling like alarm bells. "Tell me, beta, when will we dance at your wedding?"

Before you could even fake a smile, Aunty Priya swooped in, her grip vice-like on your shoulder. "Such beautiful decorations! You must bookmark this florist for your big day!" She winked like this was subtle.

You clenched your teeth so hard your jewelry rattled. "Actually, Aunty, I’ve decided to become a nun," you deadpanned.

The horrified silence lasted exactly two seconds before they burst into peals of laughter, patting your head like you’d told a joke. "So funny! But seriously, beta, your mother and I were just discussing—"

Your eye caught movement by the floral arch—one of the staff members was meddling with the marigold garlands, and now half of them dangled limply completely messing up the look.

"Just a minute auntie-ji— Areh! Be careful!" You hurried over, holding your saree up trying to be as fast as you could without stepping on it and tripping over. The man in the blue-and-white kurta (matching the catering staff’s uniforms exactly) didn’t even turn around.

You tapped his shoulder. "Excuse me bhai sahab—the guests are waiting, and you’re here rearranging decorations?"

He turned, eyebrows raised. "You talking to me?"

"Nehi, I’m talking to the flowers behind you," you deadpanned, gesturing to the drooping flowers. "This was perfect before. Now it looks like a bhera (goat) chewed on it."

He opened his mouth, but you were already snatching a tray of jalebis from a passing waiter and shoving it into his hands. "Accha bas—take these to Table 4. Nani-ji is sitting there.”

The man stared at the tray, then at you, his expression caught between amusement, disbelief and not understanding half of the words you were saying. "Nani…ji…? You’re really mixing me up with someone."

"And you’re really not helping," you countered, already stepping back. "Ab jaldi! (Now quickly!) Those jalebis won’t serve themselves!"

As you spun away, your braid gently hitting him, you missed his quiet chuckle—and the way he shrugged before obediently heading toward Table 4, tray in hand.

The dhol beats of Bole Chudiyan kicked in, and the dance floor erupted. Aunties in glittery saris, uncles with awkward hip shakes, even the groom’s side had joined in, this was your moment.

You grabbed your sister’s hand, pulling her into the center as the lyrics pulsed: "Bole chudiyan, bole kangana…" Hips swayed, bangles clattered, and you spun under the fairy lights like this was your own Bollywood number.

You spun gracefully, stopping and facing the bride and groom’s stage—there he was.

The "staff" from earlier. Except now, he wasn’t holding a tray or fixing flowers. He was leaning against the groom’s chair, whispering something that made your soon-to-be brother-in-law laugh. And when he caught you staring?

A slow, knowing smirk while taking a sip from the drink in his hand.

Your foot missed the next step. Who the hell was this guy?

What was not helping was that you could have sworn you had seen that face somewhere. Like in the newspaper or an online article.

As the final beats of "Bole Chudiyan" faded, you guided your sister back to her throne-like seat, adjusting her lehenga train with practiced ease.

"Need water? Tissue? Makeup touchup? A taser for Jiju’s third round of Kajra Re?" you muttered, earning a giggle from her—until her gaze flicked over your shoulder. "Oh! I totally forgot to introduce you!"

Before you could react, she gestured beside you. "This is James Barnes."

Your head snapped toward the man in the blue-and-white kurta—the staff imposter—now standing alarmingly close. And that name.

Where did you recognise that name from?

"Call me Bucky," he said, extending his hand with a smirk that screamed Got you. "The groom’s best friend. And, y’know… his best man."

Your fingers froze mid-reach.

Best man.

Groom’s best friend.

BUCKY.

Like Captain America’s friend, Bucky.

The guy you’d ordered to serve jalebi like a catering boy. Quite rudely at that, was THE super soldier, James Buchacan Barnes. The man you read about in the museums.

Your soul briefly left your body.

You prayed at one point today he wouldn’t pull out his metal arm and just choke you to death for the disrespect.

You—the self-appointed guardian of perfection, the overbearing architect of this flawless wedding—had just orchestrated your own downfall.

Bucky’s outstretched hand paused mid-air, then deliberately changed course. His fingers enveloped yours, warm and unyielding, before lifting them to his lips with the practiced grace of a man who’d once charmed his way through a different century.

The kiss he pressed to your knuckles was featherlight, mockingly and maddeningly polite, yet his eyes never wavered from yours—dark with amusement and something far more dangerous.

Your stomach dropped.

The grasp of your saree silk crumpling in your grip was the only sound as your body locked in shock. Every cell screamed: You not only cursed out the groom’s best man. You cursed out an Avenger. You handed him a dessert tray. You embarrassed h—

Bucky’s smirk deepened, thumb tracing a single, searing circle over your pulse point before releasing you.

A shiver raced down your spine, and you couldn’t decipher whether it was from the lingering heat of his lips against your skin—or the sheer terror that he’d tell on you.

He was relishing this.

And you were utterly at his mercy.

Bucky had been at the venue for exactly eleven minutes when he decided south asian weddings were a special kind of warfare.

The groom had warned him—"It’s chaos, but in a fun way!"—but nothing could’ve prepared him for the sensory onslaught of drumbeats, shrieking aunties, and no less than three separate girls "accidentally" dropping their dupattas near him. He’d retreated to the only quiet corner he could find, back pressed against a garland-strung pillar, when you caught his eye.

You had your back to him, hands gesturing sharply as you argued with the older woman in a rapid-fire language he didn’t understand—something about "too much ghee" and "the garland colors." The saree fabric draped over your shoulder shimmered like liquid gold under the lights, and the flower braided into your hair glowed against the dark strands.

Bucky memorized you just in case he ran into you later.

Lucky him—he didn’t have to wait long.

After retreating to a quieter corner (or so he thought), Bucky absently tugged at a marigold strand—just to admire it only to trigger a floral avalanche. Petals rained down like confetti, and before he could curse, there she was.

The mystery woman from earlier, now fully in front of him, eyes blazing.

"Excuse me?"

Up close, you were even more striking—gold earrings (jhumkas) swinging with every sharp gesture, the delicate bindi between her brows furrowed in fury. His gaze almost dipped to your blouse again, but he forced it upward, throat tight.

"You talking to me?" Bucky tried.

"Nehi, I’m talking to the flowers behind you," you snapped, then thrust a tray of jalebi into his hands. Bucky wanted to laugh at the misunderstanding but he was enjoying this too much to tell you his identity.

Bucky did look different.

Out of all the Avengers, he was the least popular. Plus like this—no tactical gear, no metal arm on display, no perpetual scowl (maybe a little). The crisp white kurta and navy sherwani made him blend in with the party, though he’d never admit how long it took him to figure out the damn buttons. Though he had to admit, as fancy as the fit was, it was twice as itchy.

Bucky knew he should be paying attention to your actual words. You were saying something about ruining the wedding decorations, but he kept getting distracted by little things.

Like how your hair kept slipping out of whatever fancy braid you had done, those loose strands bouncing every time you gestured angrily at him. Or the way the colours of your saree made your skin look warmer and glow like some sort of magic. Even the way your necklace caught the light when you moved was weirdly fascinating him.

And your voice—that was the worst part. You could’ve been reading a grocery list and he’d still listen just to hear the way you shaped your words, with a little accent.

Focus, Barnes.

Bucky opened his mouth—"You’re really mixing me up with someone"—but you were already storming off after instructing him to take a tray to table number 4.

Leaning against the groom’s chair, he watched you dance with the bride. Your swift movements, hips swaying in time with the dhol’s accelerating beat, saree flaring as you spun, laughter bright as the fairy lights strung overhead.

“So,” Bucky nudged his best friend, eyes never leaving you. “Who’s that?”

“My fiancée’s little sister,” the groom grinned. “Total firecracker. You know, before the wedding she probably asked her sister about a million times if she was sure about this wedding. Why’d you ask?”

Oh, no reason.

Bucky bit his lower lip, the gears turning. Feisty. Protective. And already predisposed to hate him. Perfect.

Then, as if sensing his plotting, you locked eyes with him mid-spin.

He raised his glass in a silent toast, mischief dripping from every inch of his expression.

Your sister’s worried frown hit you like a ladoo to the face. “Everything alright, sis?”

No. Absolutely not. But you’d be damned if you let this ruin her wedding.

“Yeah, of course!” You forced a laugh, brittle as overcooked jalebi. “I—uh—already met him before. Nice to see you again, Bucky-ji.”

Your handshake was a vise grip, nails just shy of drawing blood. A silent scream in your eyes, pleading: Don’t. Open. Your. Mouth.

Bucky’s tongue clicked, the picture of innocence—except for the devilish glint in his gaze. “Oh yeah, we met. Such a warm welcome—how could I forget?”

He matched your grin, thumb brushing your knuckles just long enough to make your eye twitch. Reveling in the way your nostrils flared.

"Hey, Bucky!" You plastered on a smile so sweet it could’ve curdled the lassi on the nearest tray. "Since you’re jiju’s (brother in law’s) best man, I have some uhh wedding stuff to discuss with you. Why don’t we let these lovebirds be?"

Bucky’s eyebrow arched, but he played along, offering an exaggerated bow. "Sure," His voice dripped with faux innocence, that flirty lilt sending warning bells clanging in your skull.

You barely resisted the urge to yank him by his kurta sleeve—until he disarmed you completely. At the stairs, he extended his hand like some storybook prince, palm upturned. "After you."

You gripped his fingers, your other hand clutching your saree pallu like a lifeline as he guided you down—his thumb brushing your wrist, just once, as if to say:

This isn’t over.

Bucky’s gaze kept snagging on the stray strands of hair caught in your jhumka, the way they glimmered under the fairy lights. It shouldn’t have bothered him. It did. His fingers twitched at his side—fix it, touch it, something—but he clenched his fist.

You, meanwhile, were a woman on a mission.

With a grip that could rival his vibranium arm, you hauled him through the wedding chaos, face carefully neutral for the guests. Bucky stumbled once, just to see if you’d notice (you didn’t), before letting himself be dragged into the shadows beyond the venue.

The second you stopped, the mask cracked.

"Okay, listen—" you began, then froze.

Because now, alone, with Bucky’s full attention on you—those storm-cloud eyes, that infuriating half-smile—your speech that you were mentally preparing evaporated. Your fingers twisted the bangles on your wrist, the clink-clink loud in the quiet.

Bucky crossed his arms, leaning back against a tree.

"What's this about? Wanted some private time with me, or...?" Bucky tilted his head, arms crossed, that infuriating smirk carving dimples into his cheeks.

"Kiya? —NO!" You took a sharp step back, nearly tripping over your own saree. The worst part wasn't his arrogance—it was the traitorous heat crawling up your neck.

Since when did you get flustered by a smooth talking blue-eyed gora with a jawline that belonged on a damn coin?

"I'm...sorry," you muttered through clenched teeth.

Bucky leaned in, close enough that his cologne, something woodsy and expensive, wrapped around you. "What's that? Couldn't hear you—"

"I SAID SORRY—" You caught yourself, lowering your voice to a hiss. "...Sorry. Okay?"

Bucky’s grin widened. "About what, exactly?"

You fantasized about knocking that perfect front tooth loose. "For mistaking you for a staff. And. Being. Rude." Each word tasted like bitter karela.

Bucky’s smirk didn’t waver. He was savoring this. The way your jaw clenched, the frustrated flush on your cheeks.

Bucky hummed, tapping his chin. "Hmm. See, I think I deserve a real apology. Maybe over dinner—"

"OVER MY DEAD BODY—"

Bucky held back from laughing out loud. "You were quite rude. ‘Sorry’ isn’t enough." He tapped his chin, feigning deep thought.

You saw red. This motherfu—

"Listen." Your voice dropped, deadly serious. "Today cannot go wrong. I fucked up, fine. But it’s my sister’s wedding. Stay mad at me, scream at me, I don’t care—just please don’t tell my sister or jiju."

The desperation in your tone startled him. Bucky had been aiming for flirty, but the raw plea in your eyes was… unexpected.

Then, an idea struck.

"I’ll keep my mouth shut," he said slowly, "on one condition."

Your spine straightened. "Fine. Anything."

"Anything?" His grin turned wolfish.

You braced yourself—personal servant for the day? Human shield against overeager aunties?—

"You do everything I say," he purred, "until the last guest leaves."

You searched his face for hints. Was this a trick? A trap? but his expression gave nothing away. Just that infuriating half-smile and eyes like polished steel.

Whatever. The wedding came first.

“Deal.” You thrust out your hand, businesslike.

Bucky stared at it for a beat, then clasped it, his grip warm and deliberate. His thumb brushed your knuckles—once—a silent promise.

“Pleasure doing business, Jaan.”

The moment the word "Jaan" left Bucky’s lips, your serious face crumbled, bursting out laughing so hard you nearly toppled over, gripping his hand for balance.

“Who taught you that?” you wheezed, holding your stomach.

Bucky, who’d been smug and in control just seconds ago, blinked, thrown off guard. “What? Did I pronounce it wrong? What’s so funny?”

“No, no, you said it right,” you managed, clutching your stomach. “It’s just—that’s something you say adoringly. Like ‘Meri Jaan—’ ”

Your voice softened mockingly, elongating the word with dramatic sweetness and Bucky’s brain short-circuited.

The way it rolled off your tongue, languid and honeyed, like a secret. It did something to Bucky.

Bucky cleared his throat, suddenly hyper-aware of his own heartbeat. “I heard your sister and, uh, relatives use it. Thought it was your nickname or something…” His hand rubbed the back of his neck, the tips of his ears turning pink.

“People do call me that,” you grinned, leaning into his space now. “But coming from you? With that face?”

Bucky scowled. “What’s wrong with my face?”

“It’s a murder face, not a ‘mera jaan’ face.”

“I can be adorable,” he muttered, so earnestly offended you almost felt bad.

"You and I need to be in a very different relationship for you to call me Jaan~," you cooed, sashaying past him with a smirk, noticing the way his ears darkened to the shade of laal mirch.

Bucky had never scrambled to recover from anything faster. He caught up in two strides, voice low and gruff: "First task. Be my translator."

"Fine, Jaanu~~" you sing-songed, rolling your eyes without noticing how his jaw clenched every time you weaponized that word.

Somebody help him.

"And stop—" He caught your wrist, then immediately released it like you’d burned him. "Just. Stop saying it like that."

You blinked up at him, all faux innocence. "Like what, Jaanu?"

A muscle in his cheek twitched. This was going to be the longest damn day of his life. He almost pondered whether this deal was a bad decision for him. You wondered the same.

The wedding was a riot of color and chaos, just like you’d planned. But Bucky’s stupid deal had you stuck playing babysitter instead of enjoying it.

"Your Auntie Pammy’s got stamina," Bucky mused, nodding to where the woman was still dancing like the dhol would stop beating if she did. "Think she’d share her secret? I could use that kind of energy."

"Pfft lame super soldier,” You muttered to yourself. “Plus I don’t do small talk," you said, arms crossed.

"Yeah?" He leaned in, "What do you do, then?"

"Definitely not entertain goras who blackmail me at weddings."

Bucky’s grin was all teeth. "Liar. You’re gonna love it."

The music shifted then—Ishq Wala Love—and the dance floor transformed into a sea of swaying couples. Your sister laughed as her husband spun her, her lehenga flaring like a sunrise. You didn’t realize you were smiling ear to ear to yourself while longingly looking at all the couples being all lovey-dovey until Bucky’s voice cut through your thoughts.

"Dance with me."

"What?"

"You heard me." He held out his hand, all false innocence. "Deal’s a deal."

"That’s for couples," you hissed, face burning.

"So pretend I’m your jiju’s really hot cousin." His fingers brushed yours, sending a jolt up your arm. "Or pretend I am your boyfriend. I’m flexible."

You glared, but let him pull you close—too close.

Bucky’s metal hand settled at the small of your back, his fingers brushing the bare skin where your saree’s blouse dipped low. The contact sent a jolt through you—warm, even through his gloves—as he guided you into a slow sway.

"Relax," he murmured, his breath stirring the loose hairs at your temple. "I don’t step on toes."

You scoffed, fingers tightening on his shoulder. "Just on nerves, apparently."

He spun you suddenly, your back now pressed to his chest, his arms loose around your waist. His chin hovered just above your shoulder, close enough that you once again caught the scent of his cologne—that woodsy and expensive scent.

"You’re still stiff," he teased, his thumb tracing idle circles over your hip where the saree’s pleats had shifted. "Scared I’ll drop you?"

"No, but I am scared you’ll talk me to death," you shot back, but your traitorous body leaned into his touch anyway.

Facing him again, Bucky caught your hand and twirled you under his arm—slow, deliberate—before reeling you in closer than before. Your pallu slipped, the silk pooling at your elbow as his fingers found the stray hair tangled in your jhumka.

"This was driving me crazy," he admitted, tucking it behind your ear with a gentleness that didn’t match his smirk.

Your cheeks burned. "Focus on your feet, Barnes."

"Oh, I’m focused." His gaze dropped to your lips. Just for a second.

His palm slid down your arm, fingers threading through yours as he lifted your joined hands. The move forced you to step closer, your saree brushing against his legs.

"Admit it," he said, voice low and playful. "You’re having fun."

You glared. "I’d rather get food poisoning from the buffet."

He laughed, rich and warm, and damn him, it made your stomach flip.

The song swelled, and Bucky dipped you low, one arm secure around your waist. His face hovered inches above yours, eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Say it," he goaded.

"Never."

He hauled you upright, his nose brushing yours as you collided against his chest. "We’ll see."

The music faded, but Bucky’s hands lingered at your waist a beat too long, his grip just firm enough to make your breath hitch. You stepped back quickly, smoothing your crumpled pallu with shaky fingers.

"Wow," Bucky deadpanned, rolling his shoulders like he was the one who’d just survived a trial. "For someone who didn’t want to dance, you’re surprisingly—"

"Don’t." You pointed a warning finger at him. "Finish that sentence and I’ll rip your kurta’s sleeves off."

He grinned, opening his mouth to say something dumb like ‘Bet you’d like to see that view’ —then paused, frowning at his cuff. A bright orange smudge stained on the crisp white fabric.

"The hell…?"

You grabbed his wrist, inspecting the mess. "Oh. Probably happened from Ayana’s mehndi,” You snorted. "Kid’s got good aim."

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. "You dragged me past the kids’ area when you were yelling at me outside."

"And?"

"And now you’re fixing it. That’s your next task." He shoved his sleeve toward you, all false innocence. "Deal’s a deal.”

"Oh come on, you can just wipe it off yourself!" you groaned, throwing your hands up. The jhumka in your hair swung violently with the motion.

Bucky nodded solemnly. "You're right."

Your eyes lit up. Finally—

"But I also wonder where your jiju went..." He craned his neck, pretending to scan the crowd. "Should we go ask him about—"

You inhaled so sharply you could’ve inhaled some of the flower petals in the air. Control. Control. CONTROL—

"FINE!" You snatched his wrist hard enough to make him stumble, dragging him toward the nearest place to get some napkins from. "Chup! Not a single word about jiju."

Bucky let himself be manhandled, grinning like he’d won the lottery. "Knew you’d see it my way."

Deal’s a deal. Just a few more hours. You repeated it like a prayer, nails digging into his sleeve.

You dragged him into the nearest bathroom, slamming the door shut with your hip. The sudden privacy made Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Bit early to get this intimate, don’t you think?” He leaned against the sink, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips. “Unless you’ve got other plans—”

“Shut up,” you hissed, snatching his wrist.

Bucky opened his mouth to retort—but the words died when you stepped closer, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was casual, domestic, and it knocked the air right out of him.

He didn’t even realize he was staring until your fingers brushed his pulse point, your touch feather-light as you dabbed at the stain with a damp cloth.

“Usually,” he murmured, voice rough, “after a dance like that, women aren’t this… pissed at me.”

You didn’t look up. “Usually, men don’t blackmail me at my sister’s wedding.”

Bucky reached up, gently gathering the loose strands of your hair to keep them from falling forward as you worked. His touch was unexpectedly careful—no teasing, just quiet assistance.

You let him.

The mehndi stain was stubborn, but you wiped at it meticulously, your fingers brushing against the intricate embroidery of his sherwani sleeve. "Vibranium arm, huh?" you remarked casually, glancing up just long enough to catch him already looking at you.

"Comes with a century's worth of baggage," he replied, his usual smirk absent. "We'd be here past the, what you guys call, the bidaai, if I got into it."

Something about the way he said it—the quiet resignation—made your fingers still for a moment. "I know the highlights," you admitted before you could stop yourself.

Bucky's eyebrows lifted. "You've read up on me?"

"Don't get excited," you deflected, focusing extra hard on a particularly stubborn spot of dye. "I know all the Avengers' files. Even the... less publicized ones."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "And here I thought I was special."

"You're something," you muttered, but there was no bite to it.

His expression sobered. "Does any of it... bother you?" The question was quieter than you expected from him.

You finally met his gaze squarely. "Should it?"

For a long moment, the sounds of the wedding outside—the music, the laughter—faded to nothing. Then the door handle jiggled violently, making you both jump.

"Occupied!" Bucky said just loud enough for the twisting of the door handle to stop.

Most of the stubborn mehndi stain was already gone. There was no reason to be alone together anymore.

The bathroom had gone too quiet, the sounds of the wedding muffled behind the door.

It was obvious that something in the air had shifted. It had shifted since the dance ended but now, being confined in a small space together made it hard to ignore.

Bucky's fingers were still tangled gently in your hair as you worked on getting the stain off even though there wasn’t much else to take off, his other hand now braced against the sink beside you. Close. Too close.

"You missed a spot," he murmured, voice low. His thumb brushed over your knuckle where you gripped the damp cloth, guiding your hand to a last stubborn fleck of henna. The movement made you look up—and suddenly his face was right there, just inches away, his breath warm against your lips.

You froze. So did he.

For one impossible second, the world narrowed to the space between you. His eyes—usually so sharp and teasing—had gone soft, uncertain. Your fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of his sherwani, whether to push away or pull closer, you weren't sure.

The faucet dripped. Someone outside laughed. The moment stretched, fragile as spun sugar.

Then your phone buzzed violently in your pocket, making you both jerk back.

"Shit—" You fumbled for it, your pulse hammering. The screen showed five missed calls from your Ma. "Ma needs me."

Bucky released your hair like he’d been burned, clearing his throat, just a flustered nod, his fingers flexing at his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

You didn’t dare check your reflection before stepping out. If your saree was crumpled or your lips were bitten red, you didn’t want to know.

The hallway blurred as you hurried toward where your Ma waited, but your body hadn’t forgotten the dizzying realization that you’d wanted him to close that last inch. The contrast of his vibranium fingers cool where they’d brushed your wrist versus the heat of his other hand, rough with calluses.

"And this one is for your jiju, and this— Beti, are you even listening?"

Your Ma’s slap to your arm snapped your attention back—mostly. "Hah? Yes, yes, the ugly vase goes to Auntie Priti—"

"That’s the antique from your nani!" Ma hissed, shoving a glittery gift box into your hands. "Focus! These will break!"

You nodded absently, eyes drifting again to where your cousin Leena stood waaaay too close to Bucky, laughing at something he’d said. His metal arm glinted under the lights as he leaned against the dessert table, that half-smirk on his face.

Not that you cared.

"Hold this string while I— HAYE!" Your Ma gasped as the twine snapped between your white-knuckled grip. "Why did you rip it? This was for the gift boxes!"

"Sorry, sorry!" You snatched the nearest gift boxes, nearly upending a tower of mithai tins in your haste. "I'll wrap them. You go... rest."

Ma eyed you suspiciously but left, muttering about "modern kids and their short tempers."

Not that you were actually angry. Not at all.

Not even when your cousin—that traitor—leaned so close to Bucky her tikli nearly brushed his cheek as she whispered something that made his eyebrows shoot up.

You watched her touch his vibranium arm and gasp, “So cold!”

Relax. It’s just Bucky being Bucky. That’s what you told yourself, anyway. He was known for being a smooth talker and have ways to make any woman swoon.

You stole another glance—just in time to see him laugh at something your cousin said, his fingers carefully working to untangle her dupatta from his watch. All effortless charm and focused attention, made your stomach twist.

Why did it bother you?

You didn’t know. And that pissed you off more.

Grabbing three gift boxes at random, you stalked off before you did something stupid like throwing a box at her and ruin the wedding.

You walked into the storage room, humming "Tere Naina" under your breath as you wrestled your pallu into a hasty tuck. The boxes weren’t going to wrap themselves, and frankly, you needed the distraction—

"HAAHH—!"

A hand clamped onto your shoulder, and you nearly launched a tin of sweets at the intruder’s head.

"It’s just me. Calm down." Bucky’s fingers pressed lightly against your lips to stifle your yelp, his other hand steadying the wobbling gift tower.

That was the problem.

You swatted him away, turning your back to stack boxes with unnecessary force. "Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be with jiju ?" A beat. "Or getting busy with my cousin?"

Bucky froze. Then slowly a grin crept across his face.

"Ah, yes, your cousin," he mused, circling you like a shark. "She’s quite… nice. You should introduce us properly."

Your fingers dented the ribbon you were tying, muttering to yourself, "I’d rather introduce you to a flying chappal."

“What was that?”

You bit the inside of your bottom lip, nostrils flaring at his audacity. Thank God he couldn’t see your face. But the way your shoulders tensed—knuckles whitening around the ribbon you were strangling—betrayed you.

"Oh, is that my next task?" you snapped, voice dripping with faux sweetness. "Be your personal Shaadi.com and introduce you to my cousins? Wow. Lucky me." You yanked another box toward you with unnecessary force. "Plenty of aunties out there who’d love to play matchmaker for Captain America’s bestfriend. No deal required."

Bucky’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it widened—like he’d just won a prize.

"Huh." He stepped closer, his vibranium hand snagging the ribbon you’d just murdered. "Funny. You didn’t seem this pissed when I was fixing flowers earlier."

Your breath hitched. Bastard.

"I wasn’t pissed," you lied.

"Could’ve fooled me." His thumb brushed yours as he pried the ribbon from your grip, “Let me help.”

You snatched your hands away from him, jaw clenched. Silence.

Bucky didn’t take the hint.

He kept working beside you, stacking boxes, adjusting ribbons, like your irritation was just background noise.

The worst part wasn’t his presence. It was the creeping realization that you liked bickering with him. That without his teasing, the air felt too still.

So you waited. Watched. Every flick of his wrist, every shift of his weight—just one misstep, and you’d pounce.

Bucky noticed. Of course he did.

The way your eyes kept darting to him, the way your breath hitched when his arm brushed yours—it was all terribly obvious. And he would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t find it adorable.

Bucky couldn't resist turning the knife.

"You're really bad at avoiding me," he murmured, stepping closer under the pretense of reaching for the shelf behind you. His body caged you against towers of mithai boxes, the heady scent of ghee and sugar clinging to the air between you.

You refused to let him win.

"And you're really bad at taking hints." The retort would've landed better if your voice hadn't cracked when his knee brushed between yours, the heat of him searing through your saree.

With infuriating calm, Bucky plucked a ladoo from its box and took a deliberate bite. "Want some?"

"Those weren't meant for—"

"So sweet," he interrupted, rolling the dessert on his tongue. "Almost as sweet as you—"

"I will vomit." You shoved at his chest, the embroidery on his kurta scratching your palms. "That's the worst line I've ever heard."

Bucky laughed around a mouthful of ladoo, crumbs dusting his stupidly perfect lips.

Even his failures were charming, which just pissed you off more.

His mouth-full laugh—half-choked, half-delighted—sent an unexpected giggle bursting from your lips. You watched, torn between concern and amusement, as he struggled to swallow the ladoo without inhaling it.

"My God—are you okay?" You reached out instinctively, patting his back with more force than necessary, your grin mirroring his despite your best efforts.

So much for Bucky's smooth-talking moment. Instead of swoon-worthy charm, he'd nearly been taken out by a sweet ball.

"Wow," you teased, hand lingering between his shoulder blades. "Did I just save an Avenger?"

Bucky coughed out a laugh, wiping crumbs from his lips with the back of his hand. "My saviour," he rasped, voice still rough from near-death-by-dessert.

The shared laughter faded into a quiet, comfortable silence—the kind that felt rare at a bustling wedding. For a moment, it was just the two of you, surrounded by towers of boxes, the air still sweet with sugar and something softer.

A terrifying thought crept in—what if the man you swore you couldn't stand was becoming someone you... liked?

Bucky's hand rested on the shelf behind you, caging you in without touching. Your palm still lingered on his chest, the steady thud of his heartbeat betraying his calm exterior.

"You don't have to help me here," you said softly—no bite, no sarcasm, just warmth. "You should be enjoying the wedding. It's not often you get to experience a desi wedding like this."

Bucky's smile softened, his eyes holding yours. "True." A pause. Then, voice dropping, he leaned in slightly, "But do you want me to go?"

Damn him.

You couldn't answer.

It was impossible to look away—from his storm- blue and gray eyes, from the scent of sandalwood and something uniquely Bucky, from the way his sherwani stretched across his shoulders.

And his lips that you'd only allowed yourself one glance. Any more felt dangerous.

Say yes. He should leave. Let your cousin drag him to the dance floor. Let him charm someone who hadn't spent the entire day pretending not to care.

But your traitorous fingers curled into his sherwani, holding on.

Your silence told him everything.

A low chuckle escaped Bucky’s lips as he watched you struggle—your brows furrowed, your breath uneven, your fingers still fisted in his kurta like you hadn’t decided whether to shove him away or pull him closer.

As if he hadn’t had you wrapped around his finger since the moment you’d yelled at him for "ruining" the floral arrangements.

But Bucky was no better.

From that first glimpse of you—your saree gliding behind you like liquid gold, your voice sharp enough to cut glass—to the way you’d moved on the dance floor, hips swaying to a rhythm only you knew, to the way you shone under the fairy lights like the wedding was just a backdrop for you…

“Mesmerized” didn’t cover it.

Bucky’s vibranium arm slid around your lower back, tugging you flush against him. Your gasp was muffled by the sudden proximity, your palms flattening against his chest like you could steady yourself and your racing heart.

"I—I still have some tasks left," you whispered, the words barely audible.

Bucky’s thumb traced idle circles over the delicate embroidery at your waist. "Lucky for you,"he murmured, "so do I."

The air grew thin, Bucky’s mint-laced breath fanning over your lips.

“Bucky—”

“This can be part of our deal,” he murmured, sealing the words with a kiss.

The taste of ladoo—cardamom and ghee—lingered on his tongue as your lips moved in perfect sync. His vibranium arm banded around your waist, hauling you flush against him until the edge of the table bit into your lower back, the only anchor keeping you upright.

You fisted his kurta, silk crumpling under your grip, then slid your hands up to tangle in the hair at his nape, pulling him deeper. The storage room filled with the sound of ragged breaths and the clink of mithai boxes shifting dangerously.

Bucky broke away first, his voice rough. “Took every ounce of self-control not to do that the second you started yelling at me.” His lips were stained with your smudged lipstick, a light brown streak that made your stomach flip.

“I hate you so much,” you lied—because of course the one thing that could derail your focus tonight was a face like his.

Bucky chuckled, his fingers tracing the edge of your pallu with deliberate slowness. “Y’know, this thing’s been bothering me all night.”

“Pervert.” You swatted his hand away, “Come here.”

You dragged him back into the kiss, fingers threading through his hair—now gloriously disheveled, thanks to you. Bucky groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, but he was painfully careful with your own hair, despite how badly he wanted to ruin the intricate braids.

Later, he promised himself. Somewhere with fewer aunties and more privacy.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

"Beti? You in there?"

You jerked back like you’d been burned, your pallu slipping off one shoulder.

Bucky’s lips were swollen, his pupils blown wide, and the look he shot you—pure frustration—almost made you laugh.

"I— We—" You floundered, panic rising. How to explain being locked in a closet with your brother-in-law’s unfairly attractive best friend?

Bucky pressed a finger to your lips. "Don’t. Say. Anything," he whispered, then kissed you again—deep and desperate—to silence your protests.

The doorknob rattled.

Bucky groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through you. Second time tonight a damn doorknob had ruined the moment. You couldn’t help but smile into the kiss, feeling his annoyance in the way his fingers dug into your hips—like he was tempted to say screw it and keep going.

The rattling finally stopped.

“We should go,” you murmured, arms still looped around his neck, making zero effort to move. “Before someone notices we’ve both gone missing at the same time. Don’t want aunties coming up crazy rumours.”

“We should. I want to hear what they’re saying about us,”Bucky agreed, thumb swiping at the smudged lipstick on the corner of your mouth—his actions directly contradicting his words.

Then, with a slow, wicked grin:

“Next time, we pick a hiding spot where we won't get interrupted by a doorknob." His thumb lingered on your jaw. "I'll break it beforehand if I have to."

"Pagal," you scoffed, pressing a hand to his chest to push him back—but the way your fingers curled into his sherwani betrayed you.

You slipped out first, smoothing your crumpled saree with shaky hands. The hallway was mercifully empty, though the distant sounds of dhol and laughter served as a reminder: The wedding wasn't over yet.

Neither was this.

"Where were yo— Areh ye kiya? Why’s your hair a mess?" Ma blocked your path, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like she could smell the scandal on you.

Because I just had Bucky Barnes’ tongue down my throat in a storage closet.

"Uh, some of the boxes fell on me while I was organizing," you lied, patting your braid—now half-undone, thanks to a certain super-soldier’s fingers.

Ma facepalmed so hard her bangles clattered. "What am I going to do with you?" She shook her head, then brightened. "Go talk to the guests. I heard Raj’s mother is here somewhere."

"Ma!" You groaned. "How many times? Raj has a girlfriend."

She waved a hand, dupatta fluttering. "Girlfriend, shirlfriend. Until there’s a shaadi, it’s nothing." Leaning in, she stage-whispered: "He’s an engineer, beti. Worked on the new Avengers base!"

You tuned out the rest—something about grandchildren and his "very nice salary"—and scanned the crowd for an escape. Or, better yet, a certain smug gora who’d gotten you into this mess.

From the corner of your eye, Bucky emerged—your knight in slightly rumpled sherwani. You cut off Ma mid-"beta, just meet him once!" with a desperate wave. "Bucky!"

His head snapped up like you’d yanked an invisible leash.

Within seconds, he was at your side, all dimples and deceptive innocence. Your Ma blinked up at him, momentarily stunned by his height. "Hello-ji. Are you from the groom’s side?"

"Yes," Bucky said, pressing a hand to his chest and bowing slightly—the picture of old-world courtesy. "Nice to meet you, Auntie."

You rolled your eyes. Century-old super-soldier, my ass. The man had charm dialed up to eleven, and your Ma—usually a steel trap for unsuspecting goras—was blushing.

"I actually needed your daughter for something," Bucky added, flashing a smile so sweet it could’ve curdled lassi.

Just like that, Ma forgot Raj, the Avengers base, and her future engineer grandchildren. "Of course, beta! Go, go!" She shooed you away, then whispered loudly: "He’s very tall."

You gaped. Since when did Bucky Barnes outmaneuver a desi mom?

You let Bucky steer you to an empty table, collapsing into a chair with a huff. "You’re unbelievable. I don’t even think my dad ever made my mother blush like that." You propped your chin on your palm, elbow digging into the tablecloth.

Bucky smirked, stretching his arms along the back of the chairs like a king holding court. "I’m a man of many talents," he boasted. "Back in the ’40s, I had to beat women off with a stick just to get a moment’s peace."

"And here you were, begging me for a dance." You grinned, admiring the way the fairy lights caught the stubble along his jaw. "How the tables have turned."

A chuckle rumbled in his chest, but his eyes darkened with intent. "Can’t take jabs at me yet, beautiful," he murmured, leaning in. "I’ve got one more task for you."

Your smile vanished. "You’re seriously not going to stop until the last baraat leaves?"

Bucky’s thumb brushed your knuckle—a silent promise. "Not a chance."

He shook his head, the picture of innocence. "My shoe’s loose. Need your help fixing it."

"Are you serious?"you deadpanned. Since when did the super-soldier’s shoes magically come undone? But the glint in his eyes—and that infuriating smirk—told you everything. Kuch toh gadbad zaroor hai…

With a huff, you knelt to fix the jutti, only for Bucky to lean down and murmur: "Careful. People might think something else is happening here."

Your head snapped up, eyes wide. "You son of a—"

You slammed your stiletto onto his foot—hard—and launched yourself at him. Bucky bolted like a man who’d just declared war, weaving through tables as you chased him past horrified aunties and cackling uncles.

"You looked good like that!" he called over his shoulder, dodging a waiter carrying rasmalai. "It was a compliment!"

"Compliment? Teri ma ki—!" You hurled a gulab jamun at his head.

It missed.

Bucky winked. "Admit it—you’re having fun."

Bucky skidded to a stop as the dead-end hallway loomed before him. The left turn was a mistake.

He turned just in time to see you step into the corridor, blocking his only exit.

The sound of your payal echoed like tiny bells with each deliberate step. Your jhumkas swung with the rhythm of your movement, your bangles clinking like a countdown to his doom.

Your hair had come undone from the chase—strands cascading over your shoulders, the tikka barely clinging to its place, a few stubborn flowers still tangled in the waves. The saree that had once been perfectly draped now looked like it had survived a storm—his storm.

And he believed he deserved a beating because even now all he could think about was how breathtaking you were.

Bucky’s back pressed against the cold brick wall as you closed the distance. For the first time in his long, long life, the Winter Soldier felt something rare:

Pure, unfiltered fear.

And, if he was being honest, something else too. But it was too inappropriate to even think about in this moment.

"Jaan," he tried, voice rough, hands raised in surrender, praying at least this time he used the word correctly. "Let’s talk about this—"

You didn’t stop.

"You’re even prettier when you’re murderous," Bucky blurted, because apparently his survival instincts had taken a vacation.

You seized his sherwani collar, silk crumpling in your fist as you yanked him down to your eye level. "Say. Sorry."

For a heartbeat, Bucky just grinned—all dimples and defiance—until you tightened your grip.

"...Sorry," he rasped, not sounding sorry at all. His gaze dropped to your lips.

"Not good enough," you hissed, fingers twisting deeper into his sherwani collar. "Say it like you mean it."

Bucky tried for a smirk, but it wavered when you didn’t budge. "Or what?" His hand slid toward your waist—

Smack.

You slapped it away so hard his vibranium fingers clinked. "Or I march straight to jiju," you said, leaning in until your noses almost touched, "and tell him his best friend’s been mingling with his sister-in-law."

Bucky’s bravado evaporated. "You’re bluffing."

"Try me." Your free hand mimed a gun at his chest. “No more deals. No more kisses." You let your thumb drop like a hammer. "No more me."

His throat moved. Finally—real fear.

"I’m sorry," Bucky choked out, palms pressed together in mock prayer. "I’ll behave."

You bit your cheek to stop the laugh threatening to ruin your victory. Pathetic. Adorable. Yours.

Bucky watched your grip loosen, your lips twitching—just a fraction—and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

"You’re terrifying when you’re winning," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair for dramatic effect. He even managed a wounded expression, like he was the victim here.

You rolled your eyes so hard your jhumka swung. "Drop the act, super soldier," you said, tapping the invisible gun against his chest. "I’ve read your files. You’ve survived worse than me."

Bucky’s pout vanished, replaced by that signature smirk. "Yeah, but none of them looked this good threatening me."

His smirk was insufferable—right up until it vanished.

One second, you were glaring. The next, Bucky’s hands framed your face, his mouth crashing into yours. The kiss was all heat, no apology—his teeth catching your lip, his fingers tangling in the loose strands of your hair.

You shoved at his chest, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he walked you backward until your hips hit the wall, his vibranium arm banding around your waist to keep you there.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged. "Tell jiju," he dared, voice rough. "Won’t stop me from feeling you."

Your payal jingled as you swayed forward, chasing his lips.

A/N: I finally finished this holyy shit😭. Sorry to anyone who’s been waiting for me to come out with another desi!reader fic. I scrapped so many ideas cus i just didnt like half of the stuff I wrote. Like i randomly just get writer’s block😐 and plus with my habit of procrastinating, i end up taking forever to write😣. Anyways! Thank you soo much for reading! I had so much fun writing this! As always my asks are open for any requests!

SEE YA IN MY NEXT POST MY BEAUTIFUL DESI GIRLS❣️ — তারা/Taara⭐️

If you enjoyed this, check out my previous desi!reader fic <3

Bucky at the baraat🪔

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inkhornism · 1 day ago

Text

EVERYTHING GOES TERRIBLY WRONG BEFORE HE EVEN HAS THE CHANCE TO REACT. Kinich unleashes Ajaw's power as usual to deal with a bunch of annoying poachers just to watch as he suddenly plummets to the ground in a heap not unlike a hot balloon that's been pierced by something sharp. The loud THUD! noise he makes upon contact with the ground feels surreal. He's not quite bleeding in the normal sense, but it's obvious that something's not right. He's not shrinking back to his 8-bit form either despite the hunter trying to sever the phlogiston flow between them and it's not long before the bracelet on his wrist opens by itself and falls to the ground with such a deafening noise he swears he's still hearing it ring in his ears.

And then Ajaw's just. Gone. Comically very similar to a videogame character dying and ragdolling to the ground, but there's nothing actually funny about this. Only vague, heartbreaking confusion as Kinich stares at the unmoving form of the giant dragon that until merely moments ago was breathing green dendro fire and calling their enemies measly insects.

Now it's just quiet. His wrist feels weirdly light. His chest feels hauntingly empty. Ajaw is gone. The ancient dragon who boasted about taking over his body once he made a fatal mistake and died. He's gone. Kinich will never hear his annoying voice chattering away in his ears, will never have somebody comment on every move he makes, will never hear stories of the long forgotten past. For the second time in his life, he's been freed from the shackles tying him down, but neither this time does he feel any happiness. Just aching loneliness and the pain of the scream that tears itself out of his throat.

The news spread faster than he thinks they would and once he returns to the Scions of Canopy, they all say the same thing; 'congratulations for outlasting the dragonlord', 'it's a good thing that you're as stubborn as you are', 'who knew that he would go and kick the bucket before you?'. They all want to sound genuine in their wishes, in their relief that one of their most skilled persons from their tribe didn't succumb to an untimely death thus handing over his body to a being most dangerous. But Kinich feels nothing every time praise is thrown his way. Ajaw was annoying, yes, and he'd made the pact recognizing that if he were to get out, it would spell nothing, but disaster, especially as he was the only one to make it to the end of the cave where he'd been buried. But now that he's actually gone...

The silence is suffocating, sucking all he air out of his lungs. The loneliness hits him in the gut worse than any punch he's suffered before. He should be feeling the same gratefulness as the others do, but he can't bring himself to do it. Returning home rewards him with naught, but the echo of his voice. Tending to the garden finds him turning his head back to scold a certain lizard for running off with ripe fruits just for the plants to bend under their weight. He goes to shake the bracelet clumsily clamped on his wrist once more in hopes that a disgruntled Ajaw will pop out of it to screech in his ear about treating royalty like this and wishing for a swift demise, but nothing happens. And so night falls and there's no deep purring for him to fall asleep to. And so the sun rises in the morning and there's no weight on his chest and tiny fists batting at his face to wake him up and demand breakfast.

They all thank him for vanquishing such a great foe all on his own, but the reality is that all he feels is the invisible hand of fate crushing his bonecage in its bitter, unloveable hold.

He's just... going through the motions for the following days. Sure, the others from his tribe comment on how quiet he's been lately, especially following such a big achievement, but they all chalk it up to Kinich just being his usual self. He's never been talkative, after all. He hadn't made a big fuss about becoming an ancient hero despite the aspirations he started with and it looks like he's not going to do it either about defeating K'uhul Ajaw. They finally, finally, leave him alone and it works well enough because he never sticks by people anyway. Doing commissions day in, day out has been his modus operandi since he was a little boy, only making weekly appearances in the tribe itself to buy or trade his spoils before disappearing once more.

But that's the thing. Kinich has a way of doing things that now has been thrown into chaos permanently.

Swinging between trees forces him to choose when to disengage the hook more carefully since now he can't rely on Ajaw to keep him in the air. The amount of times he's had to save himself mid-fall from great heights makes him wonder if it's even worth it anymore. He'd always thought that he'd die young regardless of what he did -- the Malipo name would backfire on him, he'd slip and fall to his death while trying extreme sports, Ajaw would finally orchestrate his death. But as he floats in the river he's landed in after failing to pull himself back up in time from the plunge he just took, gaze vaguely watching the clouds high above him, his thoughts turn inwards once more. Natlan doesn't need heroes anymore, the Ode of Resurrection has been disrupted, there's no threat of his body wrecking havoc after his passing. Would his soul even end up in the Night Kingdom? Is there anything left to go there? Ajaw's sudden disappearance ripped something more out of him than just his presence.

Despite having been fully submerged in the freezing water, he finds that his eyes are bone dry. Even if he tries, he can't will himself to shed tears. Because trying would mean admitting that Ajaw is gone and that's just. Not possible. Such a powerful being who's been alive since dragons inhabited Teyvat can't have just been shot down like that. Even as he returns to his empty hut once more in waterlogged clothes, even as the second plate of food goes untouched, even as the juice he prepares exactly how that yellow lizard liked it so much spoils in its cup. He refuses to believe that the one he's made the pact with is just... gone forever.

#📜 my writing #Genshin Impact #ajawnich #Kinich #K'uhul Ajaw #Kinich Genshin Impact #Ajaw Genshin Impact #[ everybody goes 'what if Kinich died and Ajaw actually felt bad?'#but never 'what if Ajaw somehow died and Kinich felt strangely lonely?'#this is less of a fic and more of a prettied brainrot ramble but I'm yeet'ing it out regardless ]

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sai-int · 4 months ago

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TICKET TO PLAY | john price

Sheriff Price has a habit of pulling you over, and you have a habit of seeing how far you can push him. It’s a game you've been playing for years—a harmless one, until he gives you exactly what you’ve been asking for.

⤿ based on this | [ AO3 ]

18+ AU, fem!reader, small town vibes, porn with minimal plot, smut, oral (m receiving), dom!john (back and forth between hard and soft), bratty—sort of pathetic reader, fingering, squirting, public sex, smidge of voyeurism, size kink if you really read the fine print, implied slight age gap [ 6.6k words ]

You weren’t going that fast.

Maybe nudging 35 in a 25, but the road was empty—just you and the soft, golden light of a July evening slipping into dusk. The cicadas hummed their lazy symphony, crickets chirping in harmony, while the air carried the scent of fresh-cut grass and summer warmth. It was the kind of night that wrapped around you like a blanket, slow and sweet, the kind that made you want to roll the windows down and let the world drift by.

But then the sirens sliced through the calm, sharp and jarring, shattering the stillness. Red and blue lights flashed in your rearview, splashing the road ahead in a chaotic swirl of color. Your hands tightened on the wheel, that familiar knot twisting in your gut. You didn’t even need to check the mirror to know who it was.

Sheriff John Price.

The small-town Sheriff (asshole) that had a sixth sense for catching you when you weren’t even doing anything wrong. The guy who’d written you up for a rolling stop at an empty intersection, or a right on red at 2 a.m. when the streets were dead silent. Sure, maybe you were five over on a straight stretch of road, but come on—did he really have nothing better to do than hassle you over that? It was starting to feel like he was just looking for excuses to pull you over.

At this point, you figured you were practically on a first-name basis. Hell, you were probably the most frequent flyer on his ticket roster. But that was the trade-off for living in a town where the sheriff knew everyone’s business—and apparently, yours most of all.

You eased the rickety old Nissan Skyline to a crawl, tires screeching softly as you pulled onto the shoulder and shifted into park. Your fingers moved on autopilot, fishing the registration out of the center console before he even asked. If John Price had one talent, it was knowing where you were before you did—and you’d learned the hard way to keep things within arm’s reach.

The music blared for a second longer before you killed the volume, the sudden silence pressing down on the summer night like a weight. You rolled down the window, letting the warm, sticky air flood the cabin, thick with the scent of grass and distant rain. Leaning back in your seat, one hand resting lazily on the wheel, you waited. Same old song and dance.

First came the slam of his cruiser door, sharp and final, like he was already annoyed at the prospect of dealing with you. Then the crunch of his boots on the asphalt—slow, deliberate, each step dragging out the inevitable. It was almost comical, the way he took his time, like he wasn’t the one who’d flipped on the lights and sirens.

The window hissed as it rolled down, the sound jarring in the quiet, and before you could stop yourself, a smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth. You didn’t bother hiding it this time. If you were walking away thirty dollars lighter, you might as well make it entertaining.

"Evenin’, John," you drawl, letting the words hang in the air with a playful edge that makes his jaw tighten.

He leans in, his arms braced against the window frame like he owns the whole damn road. His face is all sharp lines and shadows in the fading light, the faint scent of cigarettes and worn leather wrapping around you, mingling with the heavy, humid air of the summer night.

“Don’t call me John,” he grumbles, his voice rougher than usual, like gravel under tires.

You raise an eyebrow, your lips curling into a grin. “Why not?” you tease, letting your fingers trail lazily along the steering wheel. “Thought we were friends, John.” You bat your lashes, adding a pout for good measure, laying it on thick just to see how far you can push him this time

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. His eyes narrow, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he leans in closer, his presence crowding you. “We aren’t ‘friends,’” he says, his voice low, almost a growl. “You know why I pulled you over?”

It’s not really a question—it’s a challenge, and you can’t help but rise to it. You tilt your head, letting your gaze linger on him, your smirk widening. “Hmm… maybe ‘cause you’re a sucker for a pretty car?” you suggest, your tone dripping with sarcasm, sweet enough to sting.

John’s lips press into a thin line, but the subtle shift in his posture tells you everything you need to know. His gaze is unrelenting, sharp enough to cut through the cool facade you’re trying so hard to maintain. Internally, he’s fighting not to laugh—you can see it in the way his shoulders tense, like he’s holding back a cackle.

“If this—” he steps back, his eyes sweeping over the exterior of your car with deliberate slowness before landing back on you, “—is your idea of a ‘pretty car,’ I might have to issue you a ticket for driving without glasses.”

You lean back in your seat, arms crossing over your chest, your mouth hanging open in mock offense. Just because Fergie was old didn’t mean she was ugly. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an ass?”

He stands there for a moment, just watching you, his expression unreadable. It’s like he’s weighing how much more of this he’s willing to put up with. Finally, he tilts his head, his voice dry as dust. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a brat?”

“Touché.”

You two had been here before. Over and over again. Ever since you’d come back home from college, he’d been hot on your trail—always showing up at the worst possible moments, right when you thought you might’ve gotten away with it.

This was your town. You’d grown up here, knew every road, every corner, every face. It was small, sure, but it was yours. And then John Price showed up. Sparkling, brand new hot-shot sheriff, fresh off the Mayflower. Sworn in by all the touch-starved wives and swooned over by every teenage girl in a fifty-mile radius. Ever since he’d arrived, it was like Elvis all over again

You figured he didn’t have the right to boss the locals around like he owned the place. No shiny badge or gun on his hip was going to earn him any respect from you. This wasn’t some big city where the badge meant everything. Out here? You could be just as stubborn as he was.

Still, he had a knack for showing up when you least expected it, always lurking in the background, keeping an eye on you for reasons you couldn’t quite figure out. No one could explain it, but there he was, always hovering like you were some kind of problem. But you never did anything wrong. Not really.

“I bet you 50 bucks there’s about five disgruntled teens smoking pot under the high school bleachers as we speak,” you say, leaning back in your seat with a grin tugging at your lips. “Surely, they deserve your devotion and attention more than little ol’ me.”

He pauses, clearly weighing your words, and you can see the flicker of recognition in his eyes. “I don’t want your money,” he mutters, his tone dry but with a hint of amusement—and something else you can’t quite place. “Besides, I doubt you’ve got 50 dollars to spare, considering how often you’re in the precinct paying off tickets.” He leans in just a little, his gaze sharp, like he’s daring you to argue.

You shrug, playing the part, even though you know he’s right. “Hey, I’m just saying. You’re wasting your time with me. I’m practically a model citizen. Those kids under the bleachers, though? They could be causing all kinds of trouble.”

You give him a sidelong glance, letting the playful challenge hang in the air between you. “I’m just trying to help you out here, Sheriff.”

Your tone is sweet—too sweet—and you can almost see the gears turning in his head as he tries to figure out whether you’re messing with him or just being your usual self.

He takes a slow breath, clearly trying to keep his composure. His hand pinches the bridge of his nose before he exhales, the sound heavy with exasperation. “Oh, I’m sure you are,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Big help, givin’ me that advice.”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward just enough to close the distance between you, your voice dripping with mock sincerity. “What can I say, Sheriff? Someone’s gotta make your job worthwhile.”

For a moment, the world seems to narrow to just the two of you. The air grows heavy, charged with something you can’t quite name, and the silence stretches taut between you. But then the faint hum of a car engine cuts through the stillness, tires rolling past on the asphalt—a sharp reminder that you’re not alone out here.

“Step out of the car.” His voice is calm, steady, but there’s a flicker of something darker beneath the surface, a low undercurrent that sends a shiver down your spine.

Your jaw tightens, anger flaring hot and sudden in your chest. He’s never asked you to step out of the car before, and the demand catches you off guard. You can’t afford to be arrested—not with a shift at the diner at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning, not with the way your life is already balanced on a knife’s edge. The thought of cuffs, of being hauled into the precinct, makes your stomach churn.

But you don’t move. Not yet. Instead, you meet his gaze, your own sharp and defiant, and for a heartbeat, the two of you are locked in a silent standoff.

You don’t say a word, just reach down to unclick your seatbelt with an indignant sigh, movements slow—like dragging out the inevitable might change the outcome. The latch pops, the sound too loud in the quiet, and you open the door, letting the evening air rush in, cool against the heat prickling at your skin.

You step out, tugging your shorts down where they’ve ridden up, keeping your gaze on the ground, on the cracks in the pavement, anywhere but at him. You try to keep your breathing steady, try to act like this is just another bullshit stop, just another way for him to waste your time and break your wallet. But your heart’s already racing, faster than you want it to.

Then his hand is on your hip.

Firm. Unmoving. Not quite guiding, not quite restraining. Just there. A weight that lingers, like a silent reminder that he’s the one in control here, no matter how much you want to believe otherwise.

For a second, you freeze.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, charged with something you don’t want to name.

You swallow, still refusing to look at him. “Gonna write me a bullshit ticket, John?” Your voice is casual, flippant—too much so. You know it, and so does he.

He doesn’t answer right away, and that makes it worse.

Because the truth is, you’d rather he just do it. Write the damn ticket, hand you the fine, and send you on your merry way. That would be easy. It’d be normal.

But nothing about him has ever been easy. And this? Whatever this is? It sure as hell isn’t normal.

His fingers tighten—just slightly—but it’s enough. Enough for you to catch it, that flicker of something dark and barely restrained. His jaw tightens, his nostrils flare, and you realize he’s at his limit.

Like he’s weighing his options. Like he’s wondering if he should just give you the damn ticket and walk away.

You tilt your chin up, finally meeting his gaze, like a challenge. Would he?

His voice is tight when he finally speaks, low and strained, every word biting through the air.

"You think this is a game?"

You pause, letting the question linger as you ponder. Is it a game? Is that what this has always been? This back-and-forth, this constant chase—where you go about your life, minding your business, and he shows up, lurking, watching, like he’s got nothing better to do than make you his personal problem.

Would he really arrest you? Pin you against his cruiser and throw you in the back? Take you downtown like you’re some criminal? The thought sends a slow, involuntary shiver down your spine, but the more you think about it, the more ridiculous it sounds. If he was going to do it, it would’ve happened already.

He’s just a big softie. A stubborn, gruff, self-righteous pain in the ass who acts like he’s got the whole town in a chokehold but has spent too many years shadowing you for it to be a coincidence.

And deep down, you reckon he must have some sick, weird crush if the only way he can muster up the courage to see you is by stuffing a white slip of paper under your windshield wiper, like he can’t even be bothered to have a conversation without the safety of bureaucracy to hide behind.

You don’t even have to think about it anymore.

This is a game.

You keep your gaze steady, watching him. Watching the way he’s fighting to maintain that authority, to keep control. And through the harsh headlights from his car, it’s almost cute—the way his jaw tightens, the way his nostrils flare ever so slightly, the way his fingers twitch against your hip like he’s waging a war with himself. Like he thinks he can win.

But he can’t.

Not really.

His grip on you tightens, fingers pressing deeper, slipping beneath soft flesh to squeeze the bone. Like he’s trying to ground himself. Like he thinks if he just holds on tight enough, he can remind himself who’s in charge here.

But you see it—the shift in his expression, the cracks forming right in front of you. His eyes are darker now, narrowed with something he’s still pretending isn’t there, and his teeth grit like it physically pains him to keep standing here.

You just can’t resist.

You lean in just enough, close enough that your breath tickles his cheek, and with a slow, knowing smirk, you whisper, “You’ve been dying to get your hands on me, haven’t you, John?”

The words hang between you, sharp and saccharine, and for a moment, it’s like the world holds its breath.

His eyes go dark, that flicker of anger flashing through them like a warning. But it’s not just anger anymore. It’s something else, something raw. For a split second, you’re certain he’s off the deep end.

Before you can even blink, his hand moves. It’s fast, and suddenly, he’s grabbing you by the arm, yanking you toward him with a force that steals the breath from your lungs.

“Get over here,” he growls.

The words are rough, guttural, scraping against his throat like he’s been holding them back for too long.

The next thing you know, he’s dragging you to the hood of his cruiser, his grip tight and bruising as his fingers wrap around your wrist, effortlessly dwarfing it. The cold metal of the hood bites against your skin as he shoves you down, bending you over the car.

And then he’s on you.

His chest is solid heat against your back, his weight pressing you into the hood like he’s making sure you stay there. Your breath catches, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven movements as you try to process just how quickly the shift between you has turned into this.

“Talk so fuckin’ much,” he mutters through clenched teeth, his voice a growl of frustration and something deeper, something rougher. His breath fans against your ear, hot and unsteady, sending a shiver down your spine.

One hand clamps over your wrists, holding them firm against the small of your back, while the other tangles in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to expose the vulnerable line of your throat.

The grip is possessive. Unforgiving, like he’s staking a claim.

“You think you can just keep pushing me? Keep fuckin’ with me like this, hmm?”

A soft whimper tumbles from your lips, and you bite down hard on your bottom lip, the rest of the sound dying in your throat. His hand pulls on your hair, making your neck arch back, and the sharp tug sends a jolt straight to your cunt. You try to choke back the reaction, but it’s impossible—the way he’s holding you, the way he’s pressing into you with every word, every move.

His body presses into yours, the intensity of it all making your pulse race. Despite everything, despite the situation, a shiver runs down your spine. You can tell he’s holding back by the way his teeth grit, the sharpness in his voice.

You smirk, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze from the side. “By the way John Jr’s more sprung than a rainy day in April, I’d say you like it,” he groans and you chuckle, “You do like it, don’t you, John?”

The words slip from your lips, taunting him, and you can feel the shift in his posture before he even moves. His grip on your hair tightens, pulling you back further, forcing you to arch your neck more as he leans in, his breath hot and heavy against your skin, each exhale brushing over you like a warning.

“Think you’ve got me figured out?” he growls, teeth grazing the curve of your ear, his words a promise and a threat all at once. “Since you’re so fuckin’ knowledgeable, tell me something…”

Your pulse quickens, the anticipation like the loaded gun in his waistband. “Tell you what?” you ask, your voice quiet, almost breathless, but your eyes never leave his.

“Tell me what I do t’dumb girls that don’t know how t’speak only when spoken to,” he murmurs, his grip shifting, pulling you in closer, his body pressing against yours in a way that makes it impossible to ignore the growing bulge in his pants.

You can feel his cock twitch with interest in his jeans, and instinctively, you roll your hips back into his. The firm bulge presses against your pulsating cunt, offering just the smallest bit of reprieve from the ache in your clit and you can’t help but whimper. “You give them a ticket and send them on their way?”

“Nice try, love,” he says, the words dripping with disappointment, like he’s genuinely let down by your guess.

Before you can even react, his hand leaves your hair, and you hear the cold click of the cuffs snapping around your wrists.

You jerk against the restraint, but it’s useless. You turn to look up at him, but the look on his face—hands on his hips, blue eyes locked on you—makes you stop.

No smirk, no joke. Just intensity.

“Get on your knees,” he says, voice low, rough, without hesitation.

You bite your lip, the urge to snap back hitting you. But instead, you swallow it down and push yourself up, kneeling before him on the pavement. The roughness of it bites into your skin, the cuffs digging into your wrists, each pull reminding you of just how much control he has in this situation.

His boot taps lightly against your thigh, the sound sharp in the quiet air, a silent demand for your attention. You glance up, meeting his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes makes your breath catch. It’s a look that makes your pulse quicken, as if he can see right through you, into everything you’re trying to shovel deep..

“Sit,” he commands, the word simple, authoritative.

It takes you a second to realize what he means, but when his boot nudges against your clothed cunt, you get it.

You lift your hips slow, like you’re not sure but can’t help it, settling atop his boot. The sensation makes a shiver run up your spine. His fingers find your hair again, firm, enough to tilt your head back and make you look up at him.

“This’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it, dove?” His voice is quiet, almost a whisper, like he’s savoring the sight of you—knees to the ground, wrists bound, eyes wide as you stare up at him. He can’t help but palm himself at the sight.

Your heart pounds against your ribs, heat simmering in your cheeks with anticipation. “I’m not gonna beg,” you sneer, defiant like your cunt isn’t already drooling for him. The lie sits thick on your tongue, heavy enough to choke on.

He smirks—slow like he’s amused, but there’s something else there, like he’s already decided how he’ll play with you.

“That’s cute,” his fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head back just a little further. Your lips part on instinct, a quiet, pained mewl slipping out before you can stop it.

“but you will,” he hums with a smile so saccharine, it makes you want to smack it off his face. His free hand reaches for his belt, fumbling with the leather as he pulls it out of the buckle. You can feel your body buzzing with anticipation, the tension building in every nerve of your body. Everything in your mind is screaming at you, telling you how wrong this is, how this can’t happen. But deep down, you know he’s right. This has been a long time coming.

But fuck, he’s a literal cop, the Sheriff. This has to fall under some public indecency law.

But despite everything, despite all the warnings your mind throws at you, the pull is stronger, too real to ignore. And you can’t stop yourself from leaning into it.

He peels down the zipper of his blue slacks and the sound echoes in your ears. You’re on your knees on the shoulder of a road, the last vestiges of daylight fading, and God help you, your mouth waters when you see the outline of his solid cock through his boxers.

He doesn't break eye contact, his other hand still tight in your hair, daring you to even try to look away. The recklessness, the sheer audacity of him whipping out his cock in the middle of a traffic stop. It’s all so palpable, like a stack of weights on your chest. He tugs down his boxers in one fluid movement, his cock springing free, and you can’t help but try to back away at the sight.

He's massive in every sense of the word. Dark curls trail from his navel to the base of him, thick but neatly kept. His cock hangs low and heavy between his legs, thick and long with a few veins and just the softest blush of pink at his tip. There’s no way you can take him all, let alone in your mouth.

He could see the shift in your eyes, the sudden apprehension in your demeanor, and the hand in your hair loosened. He trailed his fingers from your scalp to your cheek, his thumb wandering to the plump flesh of your parted lips.

“You can say no, dove. I won’t hold it against you,” he says softly, giving you an out. His blue eyes soften as they meet yours, and you know he wouldn’t force you. But the way the hard leather of his boot presses through your shorts, firm against your clit, has you fighting the urge to grind against him. You want—No, need him. Badly.

You bow your head to meet his cock, tongue darting out, hungrily swiping up the drop of precum dangling from his tip. He automatically groans and his hands find their way back to your scalp, feeding his cock into your mouth. Your lips tighten around him immediately, suckling as he presses in and stretches you out.

“Fuck— that’s it, love, so fuckin’ tight,” he babbles as he watches his length disappear in your mouth over and over. His eyes flutter shut as he tips his head back—he knew if he looked at you any longer he’d blow his load too soon. Your tongue is just so hot. He hadn’t expected it to be ice, but God you were sweltering. He nestled himself in the back of your throat so nicely, tickling and toying with your gag reflex each time you bobbed your head. You coat his length with slick spit, the sounds of your gags subconsciously making him push your head down even further.

You focus on steady breaths through your nose as his grip tightens. Your hands strain against the cuffs, aching to touch, to feel, to at least stroke where your mouth can’t reach. So pretty like this, he thinks. The way you look up at him, defiant yet desperate. The way your breath catches and your throat flutters around his mushroomed tip.

It drives him crazy—how much he wants to break that control, to make you lose it completely. His groans only spur you on further, your tongue moving with purpose, tracing the prominent vein along his underside.

Your hips jerk against his boot as spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, knees grinding into the asphalt, but you barely notice the sting. All you can think about is the way it makes heat pool in your cunt—sends sparks up your spine.

You can’t help it—your hips keep moving, grinding against his boot, the rough leather driving you wild, and you’re sure you’re leaving a wet spot. The friction is delicious, and you’re so lost in it that you almost miss when he speaks.

“Look at you,” he says, smirking despite how badly he needs to cum. “Can’t even help yourself, can you? Just a needy little mutt, humpin’ my boot.”

His hand tugs your strands, not rough but firm, just enough to make you gasp. “Just need your pretty pussy touched, that right?” he tuts softly, pulling you off him, a thin strand of saliva connecting your glistening lips to the tip of his cock. “On your feet, come on.” He guides you up, your legs shaky and chest heaving but his grip steadies you. “There you go, sweetheart.”

The sky’s a deep blue now, the sun long gone, the cruiser’s headlights casting faint shadows. He shoves you back against the hood, the metal cool against the backs of your thighs. His hands are on you immediately, rough and demanding, squeezing your thighs, your tits, like he’s marking his territory.

You bite your lip, trying to steady your breathing, but it’s useless. His fingers dig into your flesh, and your hips jerk instinctively, craving more. “So quiet now, hm?” he hums, his face centimeters from yours. “What happened to that smart little mouth of yours?”

The way he switches from caring to being so dominant, it makes your head spin. You glare at him, but he doesn’t care. His hand slides under the waistband of your shorts, fingers dancing over your soaked panties, and you can’t stop the way your hips roll into his hand, desperate for any touch he’ll give. “All this for me, sweet girl?” he mutters, middle finger slowly circling your sensitive clit, “All wound up, yeah? Need me to set you straight?”

“Fuck—,” you whine, your hips bucking into his hand, you can feel his breath against your lips as he chuckles. He deftly pulls your panties to the side, groaning when his fingers slide through your folds. His lips find your neck and he mouths at the sensitive patch of skin above your pulse, sucking a dark, red splotch into your skin as if you’re his.

You instinctively toss your head back, letting him lick hot, wet stripes from your clavicle to your jaw. He slips a single finger into you and your cunt squelches embarrassingly.

“Feels so good, John—,” you whine into the evening breeze as he pumps his finger in you, curling to hit your g-spot with precision you’ve never experienced. He smiles against your skin before enveloping your lips with his.

It’s hungry, messy, and desperate. His tongue crowds your mouth trying to drink you whole, like he’s been parched, waiting for you to quench his thirst since he first met you. He swallows your whines and pleas for more as he works you open, grinning when he slips in his ring finger alongside the middle and you gasp.

It’s a pathetic attempt, really, to kiss him back—to try to match his fervor. He has you at his mercy and you’re near collapsing into him as he finger fucks you, low heat pooling in your belly as the coil tightens, as you claw at the hood of the car, wishing the cuffs weren’t there—wishing you could claw at him instead.

“Feel you gettin’ all tight ‘round me, dove. Gonna cum? Gonna soak my fingers, doll?” He questions against your lips. Your walls are squeezing him so tight, sucking him in and keeping them there. So greedy, he thinks.

You nod vehemently, biting your lip so you don’t scream—or sob, you aren’t sure how to feel—into the air. He grinds the heel of his palm against your clit, and that’s all you need to finally break. You near black out when you cum, sparks shooting up your spine and making your vision go black for a moment, his fingers lazily working you through your orgasm as your legs shake and your walls damn near break his fingers.

“That’s my girl, knew you could do it,” he hums against your temple, wiping away tears you hadn’t known fallen.

You hadn’t cum that hard in your life. Not by yourself, and most certainly not by any of the lame frat boys you fucked in your college days.

But John isn’t in a frat.

And he certainly isn’t just a boy.

He gently slips his hand out of your pants, bringing his fingers up to his lips before popping them into his mouth. The way his eyes flutter shut, eyebrows pulling together softly as he groans at the taste of you on his tongue, it’s all fucking sinful. You watch him, mesmerized as he pulls the glistening digits out of his mouth with a pop.

He dips his head to yours, kissing you again, but much softer this time, less hungry, more savoring. You can taste the subtle tang of your own juices on his tongue, and you’d be a liar if you said it didn’t turn you on further.

John subtly tugs your shorts and panties down, the fabric whispering against your skin. He fishes for a small key in his pocket, before using them on the cuffs. They open, releasing your raw wrists with a near-silent snick. You feel the moment the cuffs fall away, and your hands move as if drawn by an invisible force, reaching for him, clutching at his jaw, pulling him closer with urgency. Your fingers roam his shoulders, his neck, tracing the hard lines of his body as he spreads your legs, tossing your discarded shorts aside. He settles between them, lazily pumping his cock with his free hand.

“You want this, love?” he whispers against your lips.

You nod almost imperceptibly before crashing your lips back to his, like you just can’t get enough.

He kisses you back like a magnet, but just as quickly, he pulls away again.

“Words,” he says sternly.

You huff, ever the impatient brat. “Put your fucking cock in me or I swear to God, I'll get in my car and drive right out of here.”

“That right?” he scoffs, "You gonna drive off?" He brings his angry red tip to your sodden folds, teasing your sensitive clit with each brush, making you jolt, “You want t’act like a brat,” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Then we can do this the hard way.” He leans in, his lips brushing against yours. “Unless,” he murmurs, ghosting the head of his cock into your hole, “you'd like to ask nicely.”

You bite your lip as you watch him tease you, fighting a groan at the way your cunt squelches and stretches around just his tip.

“She’s so greedy, already tryin’ to suck me in,” he coos, “don’t want to deprive her, now do we?”

You whine as he notches just the head in. He pauses, waiting for you to speak before he moves any further. You open your mouth and your voice just breaks as you leak and drip around him and onto the hood of the car.

“Please, John, Please, I need you—Please, I’ll be so good,” You break and claw at his shoulders and back, desperate to pull him closer to you, to have you flush against him, chest to chest and full of his cock.

“See how gorgeous you sound when you’re nice? See where that gets you, love?” He coos as he inches his cock into you. Your walls are already fluttering, still all worked up from your last orgasm. He has to fight the urge to cum right then and there, gritting his teeth as his grip tightens on your thighs, fingers dimpling the fat as he spears you open.

You’re slack jawed, eyes glassy as he bottoms out. You’ve never been so full and stretched in your life. You can feel him in every orifice of your body, you feel him in the pits of your stomach, in the hollows of your lungs, in the cavern of your throat. His tip nudges against your cervix and all you can manage is a strangled sob.

“Oh none of that, lovie, none of that,” he hums, pecking your lips and wiping the tears from your eyes with the pads of his thumbs.

“Gonna fuck you real nice,” the thumb he used to wipe your tears away travels south, finding your clit and drawing soft, slow circles that have you gushing and relaxing around him, “Just be a good pet and take it.”

You nod as he cradles your head in his hand. He gently moves his hips, inching his cock out of your cunt before sliding back in, squeezing the air out of you like a fucking balloon.

Gasps fall from your lips with each stroke, not entirely from discomfort, but from the sheer intensity of the feeling. He repeats the motion, a slow, deliberate push and pull that sends shivers down your spine. He keeps his thumb on your clit steady, making your legs shake, a burning heat already blossoming low in your belly. You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his clothed frame as you try to anchor yourself against the rising tide of sensation.

He continues, his movements becoming more insistent, more demanding. Each thrust is deeper, faster, steady plaps from where his hips repeatedly meet yours. He knocks the breath out of you, each stroke forcing a soft mewl from your lips, your body trembling with anticipation. The world narrows, focusing on the rhythmic movements of his hips, the feel of his skin against yours, the sound of your ragged breaths mingling with his.

He leans, his lips brushing against your own. “That's it, doll,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “Take it all.”

His words ignite a fire within you, a raw, primal need that surges through your veins. You arch your back, meeting his thrusts with a ferocity that surprises even yourself. His pace quickens, his movements becoming more urgent, more erratic, and you know he’s getting close. The burning in your abdomen intensifies, spreading outwards, and throughout your body.

His name falls from your lips in a litany—John, John, John, john—a prayer, both a plea and a demand as his cock plows into you with staggering precision. Your cunt clenches around him, milking every ounce of pleasure from each stroke. He groans, cursing as his grip tightens on your hips, until you wail, toes curling and clawing at his back, your voice hoarse as you squirt all over him. He continues to move, his rhythm relentless, until he too reaches his peak, groaning as his body shudders, as he spurts hot ropes of cum deep inside your cunt.

You’re breathless, spent, your limbs heavy and relaxed. The dampness of sweat cooled on your skin, a pleasant contrast to the lingering heat between your legs. The world slowly comes back into focus and a soft smile plays on your lips as you trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips.

“That was…” you murmur, your voice still rough.

He nuzzles your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “A lot,” he finishes for you, his voice low.

You hum in agreement, tightening your grip on his jaw just slightly. You don't need to say more. The silence that settles between you is comfortable. He shifts slightly, and it reminds you he's still there, sheathed inside you.

You close your eyes, savoring the warmth of his body against yours, a comforting heat that seeps into your skin. Every nerve ending still fires, buzzing with aftershocks.

Slowly, he inches out of you. It feels weird to not be full of him, a sudden emptiness that makes you instinctively clench. He's out, and the cool air against your skin is a stark reminder of the reality of the situation. Of the fact that you’re literally on the side of the road. John reaches for your discarded clothes, picking them up with a casualness that borders on audacious.

He starts with your panties, briefly bending down in front of you as you step into them. He pulls them up your legs, snapping the elastic against your hip. “Sheriff’s discretion,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with amusement as he fastens your shorts too. “Wouldn't want you getting a ticket for indecent exposure.” Fucking knew it.

You raise an eyebrow, a smirk playing on your lips. “You were just as indecent as I was, if I recall.”

He shrugs as he tugs up his own pants, a picture of nonchalant authority. “Evidence suggests otherwise, doll,” he counters, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Besides,” he adds, his voice dropping to a low rumble, “I'm the one writing the tickets.” He finishes buttoning your shorts, his fingers lingering against your skin.

The world sways for a moment, your legs still a little shaky. He steadies you, his arm around your waist. He walks you back to your car, the silence between you comfortable, filled with unspoken understanding. He stops just short of the driver's side door, his hand resting comfortably on your back.

“Drive safe,” he says, his voice softer than you've ever heard it.

You nod, your eyes meeting his. You stand on your tip toes and kiss him, a soft, lingering peck on his lips that’s got him feeling like a teenager again.. He responds in kind, other hand moving to cup your cheek. Judging by how he holds you close, he’s reluctant to pull away.

But he does, and he turns and walks back to his cruiser. Eventually, You watch his car fade away, a strange mix of emotions swirling within you. Then, with a deep breath, you turn and get into your car. The door shuts and you just exhale, replaying everything that just happened.

You reach to crank the keys sitting in the ignition and your eyes fall on a small white rectangle tucked under the windshield wiper. You get back out of the car and pull it free.

It's a ticket. For speeding.

Asshole.

9K notes · View notes

rafesbimbo · 23 days ago

Note

Hiii!! Can I request gynecologist rafe x fem reader that can’t orgasm and he helps her (some smut)

Tysm, love your stories!! <3

warnings: smut, taboo, age gap (19/29), medical kink, orgasm therapy, fingering, dirty talk, dominant!rafe, nervous!reader, lowercase

pairing: gynecologist!rafe cameron x fem!reader

you’re not sure what’s worse—the paper gown, the stirrups, or the fact that the man standing between your knees is painfully attractive.

dr. rafe cameron.

“first time?”

he asks, voice low and smooth. he doesn’t look like any doctor you’ve ever seen. slicked-back hair, perfect teeth, sleeves rolled up to show strong, veiny forearms. his gold watch catches the light.

you nod. “yeah.”

his eyes flick down to your trembling knees. “nervous?”

“a little,” you whisper, even though your heart’s beating so hard it’s making your chest ache.

he hums, scribbling something on the clipboard.

“you’re nineteen. no birth control. no active partners. but you made this appointment yourself. so what’s goin’ on, baby?”

your cheeks burn.

god.

this is so embarrassing.

you look down at your hands, fingers fidgeting in your lap.

“i… i can’t finish.”

his brow lifts. “what do you mean?”

you hesitate. then, in a small voice, “i’ve never had an orgasm. not with someone. not by myself.”

he doesn’t laugh. doesn’t make a face. he just stares at you for a second like he’s reading you.

“how long you been tryin’?”

you shrug. “a couple of years.. i thought something was wrong with me.”

he steps closer. “nothing’s wrong with you.” a pause. “some girls just need a little help.”

your breath catches. “you mean…?”

his voice drops. “i mean, if you’re open to it, i can do an internal evaluation. a hands-on assessment. we’ll go slow. see if we can figure out what’s keepin’ you from letting go.”

you blink up at him, wide-eyed. “that’s… allowed?”

he smiles. “with your consent? yeah, baby. i’m licensed to make you feel good.”

you shiver.

he helps you lie back on the table, spreading your legs gently into the stirrups. the gown falls open. you’re bare under it. skin prickles as the cool air hits your center.

his eyes drag down your body, hungry. “pretty little thing,” he mutters, almost to himself. then louder, “i’ll start with just one finger.”

you nod, breath shaky.

he gloves up, squirts a little lube onto his fingers, and presses one thick finger inside you. slow. smooth. your body clenches around the intrusion, and he pauses.

“tight,” he murmurs. “you ever use toys?”

you shake your head. “just fingers.”

“makes sense.” he pushes deeper, his other hand resting on your thigh to keep you still. “gonna feel around a little. let me know if anything feels good.”

you can’t speak—you’re already panting. he curls his finger upward, and your hips jolt.

he smirks. “there she is.”

he presses again. and again. and each time your back arches a little more. you’re gasping now, whimpering when he adds a second finger, stretching you wider.

his thumb brushes your clit, slow and steady. “you’ve been waitin’ for this, huh?”

“y-yeah,” you breathe.

“just needed someone to show you how your body works. someone who knows how to make you cum.”

his fingers speed up, thumb rubbing harder. your thighs shake, breath ragged.

“rafe—i—”

he mumbles low. “that’s dr. cameron to you, baby. say it.”

“dr. cameron,” you whine.

“that’s right. say it again when you come.”

your whole body is burning. your hands clutch the paper beneath you, hips grinding into his palm. it builds so fast you almost don’t believe it—your first real orgasm crashing through you like lightning, loud and hot and blinding.

you moan his name as you fall apart, legs trembling. he doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering, too sensitive to take it.

he finally pulls out, fingers glistening. he watches the way your pussy flutters, still clenching around nothing.

“fuck,” he mutters. “we’re definitely gonna need a follow-up appointment.”

2K notes · View notes

solxamber · 3 months ago

Text

"Let's Break Up" with: Vice-Housewardens + Ruggie

more hurt/comfort for the soul

Other parts: Housewardens ; First Years ; Cater, Floyd, Silver

Trey Clover

The words slip out in frustration, sharp and final.

"Let's break up."

The mug in Trey's hand shatters.

The crack of breaking porcelain jolts you, the sound cutting through the tense silence like a gunshot. Shards spill across the floor, tea splattering everywhere, but Trey doesn’t even flinch.

Before you can react, before you can take back what you didn’t mean, he’s there—crossing the space between you in an instant, his uninjured hand cupping your face, warm and trembling.

His chest rises and falls too fast, his breath unsteady. His eyes search yours desperately, raw emotion flickering in their depths. “Please,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Reconsider.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. His grip tightens, just enough to ground himself, just enough to keep you here, with him.

“Take it back,” he pleads, his forehead nearly pressing against yours. “Tell me you didn’t mean it.”

Your heart is racing, but all you can focus on is his other hand—the one that had been holding the mug. Blood is pooling in the creases of his palm, little crimson beads welling up where porcelain had cut into his skin.

You inhale sharply. “Trey, your hand—”

“I don’t care,” he says, and he means it. He would let it bleed if it meant keeping you here for another second. “Please.”

Something inside you cracks.

Your anger, your frustration—none of it matters when you see the way he’s looking at you. When you hear the break in his voice. When you realize how much he loves you, enough to throw away every bit of his usual calm, enough to bleed for you if it meant making you stay.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice tight with guilt. “I didn’t mean it. I—of course I didn’t mean it.”

His shoulders sag with relief, a shaky breath escaping him as he presses his forehead against yours. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Your fingers curl around his wrist, pulling his injured hand between both of yours. “We need to take care of this.”

He exhales, his body finally catching up to the pain now that the panic has subsided. “Yeah,” he says, but instead of letting you go, he pulls you into his arms, wrapping you in a firm, desperate embrace.

“I’m sorry too,” he murmurs against your hair. “I didn’t mean for things to get like this. I should’ve listened more. I should’ve—” He swallows hard. “I’ll do better.”

You squeeze him back just as tightly, breathing in the scent of him, the warmth of him, the realness of him. “We both will.”

For a long moment, neither of you move, holding onto each other as if letting go would undo everything. Eventually, you tug him toward the sink, already fussing over his hand.

Trey watches you, still catching his breath, still feeling the lingering ghost of fear in his chest. But for now, you’re here. He's still yours.

And that’s all that matters.

Ruggie Bucchi

The words slip out before you can stop them.

“Let’s break up.”

Ruggie freezes.

For a second, there’s just silence—heavy, suffocating. Then he lets out a laugh, but it’s wrong. It’s forced, brittle, a sound that cracks at the edges.

“That’s a joke, right?” His voice is light, playful—too playful—but his hands reach for yours, gripping them tight. “Your sense of humor sucks.”

His fingers are trembling.

You feel something deep in your chest twist at the sight of him, trying so hard to brush it off, to act like you didn’t just rip the ground out from under him. His tail is stiff behind him, his ears twitching with every unsteady breath he takes.

You want to say something, to take it back, but the argument still lingers in the air between you—frustration, hurt feelings, words neither of you should have said.

He swallows hard, staring at you like he’s willing you to laugh, to say just kidding, to let him believe this isn’t real.

But you don’t.

And in that moment, something in him wavers. His ears droop, and his fingers tighten around yours like he’s scared you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on.

His voice is smaller this time.

“…You didn’t mean that.”

You inhale shakily, stepping closer.

“No,” you whisper. “I didn’t.”

He exhales a shaky breath, and before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you into his arms, holding you so tightly it almost knocks the air from your lungs.

His face presses into your neck, his whole body going slack as if he’s only now realizing just how much those words had broken him. You can feel his breath against your skin, uneven, like he’s trying to keep it together, like he doesn’t want you to see how much it hurt.

You hold him just as tightly, one hand coming up to thread through his hair, the other rubbing circles into his back.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against you. “I shouldn’t’ve—I didn’t mean—”

You shake your head, cutting him off gently. “Me too.”

His arms tighten around you.

For a long time, neither of you speak. He just holds you, pressed close, his tail weakly brushing against your hand in a silent plea—stay.

When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are misty, his lip caught between his teeth.

“Don’t say that again.” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not even as a joke."

You cup his cheek, wiping away the dampness there with your thumb.

“I won’t.”

Ruggie exhales shakily, leans into your touch, and this time, when he lets out a breathy laugh, it’s real.

“…Guess we both suck at fighting, huh?”

You let out a weak chuckle, pressing your forehead against his.

“Yeah.”

And for now, that’s enough.

Jade Leech

The words slip out before you can stop them.

"Let’s break up."

Silence.

Jade just stares at you. The ever-present amusement in his eyes is gone, leaving them bare, unguarded in a way that makes your stomach twist. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t scoff, doesn’t even tilt his head in that condescending way he does when he’s about to say something cutting.

He just looks at you, frozen in place.

You don’t know what you expected—maybe anger, maybe something cruel and sharp to push you further away, to give you an excuse to slam the door behind you. Instead, there’s nothing. Just the way his eyes widen ever so slightly, like you’ve said something impossible.

Your chest feels tight, but you force yourself to turn away. You don’t get more than two steps before a hand grips your wrist—firm, but not forceful. You barely have time to react before he pulls you back, arms wrapping around you from behind, his face pressing into the crook of your neck.

"Don’t go."

It’s a whisper, but it shatters something inside you.

You tense, your breath catching in your throat. And then—you feel it. The faintest, almost imperceptible wetness against your skin.

Jade is crying.

A cold wave of fear crashes over you. You’ve never seen him cry before, never even imagined him capable of it. He’s always so composed, always in control, always one step ahead. But right now, he’s shaking.

Your frustration dissolves instantly, replaced by something heavier, something unbearable.

“I didn’t mean it,” you say, barely able to get the words out. “Jade, I didn’t mean it.”

His grip tightens around you, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers. His breath is uneven, ragged in a way that makes your heart ache.

You turn in his hold, reaching to cradle his face in your hands. His eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, his expression raw in a way you’ve never seen before. He looks lost.

“I—” His voice breaks, and he swallows hard, trying to compose himself. “I didn’t think… you would ever say that.”

You shake your head, your own eyes stinging. “I was angry. I didn’t mean it.”

For a moment, he just stares at you. Then, with a quiet, shaky exhale, he presses his forehead against yours.

“I pushed you too far,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse.

You close your eyes, fingers curling into his shirt. “And I let it get to me.”

Neither of you say anything after that. You just stand there, holding each other, breathing in the quiet between you. The storm of emotions still lingers, but it’s softer now, no longer a force trying to tear you apart.

Jade exhales slowly, his hands settling on your back, grounding himself. When he finally speaks again, his voice is steadier—but there’s still a fragility to it, something uncertain.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispers.

You nod, wiping a stray tear from his cheek with your thumb.

“I won’t,” you promise.

He doesn’t let go for a long, long time.

Jamil Viper

The words leave your lips before you can stop them. Sharp, impulsive, thrown like a dagger meant to wound.

“Let’s break up.”

The room falls into an unnatural silence.

Jamil stands frozen, his expression unreadable—no anger, no sadness, just… blank. It’s unsettling. You almost wish he’d lash out, argue, anything but this suffocating stillness.

Then, he laughs.

It’s soft, bitter—nothing like the amused chuckles you love hearing from him.

“…Okay,” he says.

Two syllables. Two syllables and he sounds so distant, so removed, like he’s already walking away from this, from you. Like it doesn’t matter.

But it does. It does, you can see it in the way his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, in the way his breath shudders ever so slightly, like he’s forcing himself to stay composed. Like he’s holding himself together by sheer will alone.

“If that’s how little this meant to you…” His voice is calm, even. A practiced neutrality. But you hear it—the smallest break, a splinter of something raw and aching beneath the surface. “Then fine.”

And he turns away.

And you see them.

The tears in his eyes.

He turns too late to hide them from you, but he still tries, tilting his head just enough that you almost don’t catch it. The effort, the control, the desperate attempt to maintain his composure even now.

Your stomach twists violently.

“Jamil.”

You reach for him without thinking, grabbing his wrist, tugging him back. His skin is warm beneath your touch, but his body is stiff, unyielding. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look at you.

You don’t let go.

“I didn’t mean it,” you breathe, voice shaking. You’re already shifting closer, hands moving from his wrist to his arm, to his shoulders, to his face, desperate to get him to look at you. “I didn’t mean it, I swear.”

His breath catches. He still won’t meet your eyes.

“You can’t just say things like that.” His voice cracks, and your heart breaks into pieces. “You can’t.”

The weight of what you’ve done crashes down on you. You had wanted to make him feel the frustration, the anger, the helplessness you’d felt in the heat of the argument. But not like this. Never like this.

His shoulders shake.

“Jamil…” Your hands cradle his face now, fingers trembling as you wipe at the tears streaking his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

For a moment, he stays frozen beneath your touch.

Then, with a shuddering breath, he moves.

His hands grasp at the fabric of your clothes, clutching onto you as if you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tightly enough. The tension that’s held him rigid for so long crumbles, and he presses his forehead against your shoulder, his entire body trembling.

“I don’t want to fight,” he whispers. “I don’t—” A breath, uneven, desperate. “I don’t want to lose you.”

The sheer vulnerability in his voice threatens to unravel you.

“You won’t,” you swear, voice raw with emotion. “You won’t.”

He lets out something like a laugh, but it’s broken, strained, wet with the remnants of unshed tears.

Then, his legs give out beneath him, and you both sink to the floor, tangled together, arms wrapped around each other like lifelines.

Neither of you let go.

Rook Hunt

"Let's break up."

The words barely leave your lips before Rook is on you.

One second, he’s standing before you, the next, he’s grasping at your arms, pulling you close, desperate. His hands tremble as they cradle your face, and his voice—normally so composed, so theatrical in its beauty—is breaking apart at the seams.

"Non, mon amour, non, non, non—tu ne peux pas—please, don’t do this." His words spill out in frantic, overlapping murmurs, a tangled mix of languages, as if one language alone isn’t enough to hold the depth of his despair. His breath is uneven, his hold almost frantic. "Je t’en supplie, tell me this is but a cruel jest. Tell me you do not mean it!"

You’ve never seen Rook like this before.

You've seen Rook in many states—amused, playful, reverent, even solemn—but never like this. Never so utterly shattered. His eyes, always gleaming with some unreadable mystery, are bare now, stripped of all their usual playfulness. He looks at you like a man standing at the gallows, waiting for the final blow.

His hands tighten around you, as though afraid you might slip through his fingers. "I will fix it, I swear it! Whatever it is, however I have failed you, tell me, je t'en prie! Let me make amends!" His voice hitches, and when you finally dare to meet his gaze, your breath catches.

His eyes—so often gleaming with mirth, with mischief—are glossy with unshed tears.

Your heart clenches. "Rook—"

His hands cradle your cheeks, thumbs brushing over your skin with a reverence that makes your chest ache. "I love you, mon cœur. I love you more than words can weave, more than poetry can hold." His voice breaks—an unsteady breath, barely a whisper—"Ne me quitte pas."

You reach up, pressing your hands over his, steadying them. "Rook, stop."

He freezes, breath caught in his throat, as if waiting for a verdict that will decide his fate.

You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I didn’t mean it.”

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then, a sharp inhale—a breath of air after near drowning—and suddenly, he’s crushing you against him, arms winding around you with near bruising force.

"Mon dieu," he breathes, his face buried in your shoulder. "Merci, merci, merci—" His grip tightens, as if he still can’t quite believe it, like he needs to feel every inch of you to be sure you’re still here.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper against him, voice thick with emotion.

"Non, mon amour, I'm sorry." He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, shaking his head, remorse etched deep into every line of his face. “I have hurt you, haven’t I? Tell me how, tell me where, and I shall do better, I promise.”

You nod, hands gripping the fabric of his shirt. "Then we’ll both do better."

A breathless laugh escapes him, half relief, half lingering disbelief. And then he's pulling you close again, arms firm around you, his lips pressing against your temple, your hair, your hands—anywhere he can reach as if to assure himself you won’t slip away.

And you let him, because neither of you are willing to let go.

Lilia Vanrouge

"Let's break up."

At first, Lilia laughs.

It’s soft, breathy—almost amused. “Oh, that’s quite the joke,” he chuckles, his usual teasing lilt in place. “You nearly had me for a second.”

You don’t respond. You just look at him, expression unreadable, arms crossed, waiting.

His smile twitches, just barely, but you catch it. His amusement fades as realization sinks in, and something shifts in his eyes.

“…Oh.”

The room feels quieter now, despite the argument that had sparked this in the first place. He tilts his head, as if examining you from another angle will make this not real. Then, slowly, he reaches for you, his movements careful in a way that is deeply uncharacteristic of him. His fingers hover near your face, uncertain, hesitant—like he’s waiting for you to flinch, waiting for you to pull away.

"Come now," he says, softer now, a touch strained. "Don't do this. You don't mean it."

Your lips press into a thin line. You’re still frustrated, still convinced you have a point, but the sight of him—his sharp, knowing eyes turning glassy, the slight tremor in his breath—makes something uneasy settle in your chest.

"Lilia," you say, but you don’t get to finish.

Because he pulls you in.

His grip isn’t suffocating, but it’s desperate. One hand cradles the back of your head while the other clings to your waist, firm and pleading. His breathing is uneven, his usually composed demeanor cracking at the edges.

"I—" He stops, swallows, tries again. "I am sorry. I never meant to make you feel like this." His voice is quiet now, almost fragile. "If you truly wish to leave, I won’t stop you. But please, tell me—tell me this was only spoken in anger."

You exhale, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders, feeling the tension in them. His heartbeat is rapid against your own, and for the first time since knowing him, you think he’s the one who might fall apart first.

"It was," you say at last, barely steady. "I didn’t mean it."

Lilia lets out a breath that shakes, just slightly, before pulling you in impossibly closer. His fingers curl against you, grip tightening for a fraction of a second before he steadies himself.

He exhales a weak laugh against your skin, a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You mustn’t be so cruel to this old heart of mine,” he murmurs, his voice uneven with something too raw to name. “One day, you’ll be the death of me.”

His hold lingers—just a little longer than necessary—before he pulls back, just enough to look you in the eyes. There’s something softer in his gaze now, something fragile and achingly sincere.

"Promise me," he says, and though his voice is gentle, it leaves no room for refusal. "Never again."

You huff softly. "Alright."

Lilia presses his forehead to yours, exhaling slowly. “And I’m sorry for pushing you to that point.” His voice is quieter now, reverent. “I love you.”

You nod, your grip tightening around him. “I love you too.”

Lilia hums, gently swaying as he holds you. “Then let’s stay like this a little longer, hm?”

And you do. You stay, wrapped in his arms, letting the warmth of his embrace soothe the lingering ache.

Masterlist

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blank-potato · 13 days ago

Text

I Love The Girl With Magic Ways

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Witch!Reader

Summary:

He’s there, standing at the foot of your bed, shadows clinging to him like silk. Those eyes, golden and curious, lock onto yours. Not threatening. Not kind. Just... watching. “You dream of me,” he says, not asking. You swallow, and the air thickens. “That's not an invitation to break into my room at night.” He tilts his head, taking a step closer. “You called me. You always do—when your thoughts stray, when your control slips. You think about me more than you care to admit.” You don’t respond. Can’t. Because he’s not wrong. Or When training with Bob goes awry, you come face-to-face with The Void, and he's interested in you; he wants to know what makes you tick.

WC: 2.5k

A/N: Title from Magic Ways by Tatsuro Yamashita (such a good song). I'll probably write a part 2 to this, methinks (linked below). Here's the link to the request here. Enjoy!

Part 2

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ✴︎˚｡⋆ ✴︎˚｡⋆

Training with Bob wasn’t going well. It was frustrating, more for him than you, but still difficult. When you had tried to help him focus, to channel his power, you’d taken a gentle approach, even though gentleness didn’t come naturally to you all the time.

He’d broken the mirrors and the containment shields in the training facility and accidentally thrown you into a wall with his mind.

“I swear, I didn’t mean to.”

“I know…” You groan, brushing dust off your sleeve as you push yourself up.

You make your way back over to him. He’s sitting on the floor, hands in his lap, and anxiety is coming off him in waves.

“It’s okay,” You say softly, sitting beside him. “You’ll get it.”

You don’t know if the look on your face is reassuring or just tired, but judging by the way he won’t meet your eyes, it probably isn’t convincing. He doesn’t seem any more confident.

You sit next to him, trying to think of how to teach him control in a way he’ll actually absorb. You sigh, watching him.

“When I harness my magic, it’s like… holding energy, shifting it from one place to another—like water between cupped hands. Maybe if I show you how I do it, you can follow. How’s that sound?” You sigh, not meaning to sound tired, but you swear you still have a crick in the neck from hitting the wall.

“I’ll give it a shot.”

You nod, the light glowing in your hands, flickering softly like a heartbeat. Bob finds it beautiful, the way you shape it and mould it with such ease. He doesn’t fully understand it himself, not yet, but there’s awe in his eyes.

“Your turn,” You say gently, passing the moment to him.

He tries. Nothing happens at first, just stillness, but then there’s a faint buzzing in the air, a low hum that tickles the edges of your senses. He can feel it. So can you. His eyes glow as he concentrates.

He’s getting there, but—

“Just a little more…”

Your hand hovers next to his, almost touching, and suddenly, there’s a jolt—like a circuit overloading. Lights flicker, then short out, sparks raining from a fixture above. Half the room is thrown into darkness, the other half stuttering with flickering light.

Bob exhales sharply, his face contorting in frustration. “I messed up again,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. It had been at least the tenth mistake in the last thirty minutes, and it was starting to wear him down.

“Control can be hard to learn, but it doesn’t mean it’s impossible…” You say, trying to keep your voice steady, calm, and reassuring.

“I’m hopeless…” Bob murmurs, the words heavy with self-doubt. His chuckle is bitter, empty, and the silence that follows feels louder than any explosion. His eyebrows knit together, and he looks away, shoulders slumping under the weight of his frustration.

You step closer, the glow still dancing faintly in your palms.

“You’re not hopeless. You’re learning. And that’s never a straight line.”

You feel a chill slide down your spine as something shifts, and darkness begins to creep in, curling at the edges of the room like smoke spilling through cracks.

“Bob?” You call again, more urgent now.

The room is fading into a thick, velvet black, seeping into every crevice, swallowing light and colour like a slow tide.

“Bob? Talk to me,” You say, your voice cutting through the dark, a single thread trying to reach him before the void does. It’s too late, though.

He keeps his head down. It’s clear the words aren’t even getting to him anymore. The darkness overtakes him, swallowing him whole. What emerges is a shadowy figure only being illuminated by the faint flickering light of the broken overheads.

You step toward him, slow and cautious, before you meet his gaze.

His golden eyes glint back at you through the dark, sharp and gleaming with something unreadable. A sinister smile works its way onto his face, deliberate, unsettling in its calmness.

“I’m curious about you,” The Void murmurs, voice low and unnervingly calm. “I want to know what you can do.”

“And I want to talk to Bob,” You retort, eyes narrowing.

“You are talking to Bob,” it replies, with a slight twist of amusement, mocking, almost cruel. “...a part of him, at least.”

You smirk, sharp and laced with sarcasm. “Charming.”

He steps closer and invades your space like a cold draft slithering under a door. The air tightens, heavy and bitter. You can feel his presence: not just beside you, but around you, coiling like smoke, probing.

Still, you hold your ground, looking straight into his eyes. You don’t flinch. “How interesting,” he muses, tilting his head. His darkness moves again, tendrils slipping toward you, tasting the air around your magic, your thoughts, your fear.

But they meet resistance. Your magic flares, and the darkness recoils, hissing as it brushes against your glow.

You remain standing, untouched.

“I’m not afraid of you,” You say, voice like steel wrapped in silk. “And Bob isn’t yours to keep.”

He studies you before letting out a low, curious laugh. “No,” he says finally. “Maybe not.”

“Could I keep you instead?” The Void asks, voice low, almost amused, but there’s something sincere beneath it. He reaches out to touch your face, fingers grazing the space between you.

But you grab his hand before he can. You laugh softly, a little disbelieving.

"I think I suit you quite nicely," he murmurs, undeterred.

"I can see what they can't," he continues, his eyes narrowing, glinting with something ancient and knowing. "The anger, power right at your fingertips and yet you try to play the hero. Why?"

“I’m not playing at anything,” You say firmly, voice steady, eyes locked on his.

He leans in, the shadows around him thickening, curling like tendrils reaching out. They’re dark, hungry, trying to pull you closer, to draw you into their world.

But you fight back. Not with every ounce of will you have, pushing against the invisible pull, anchoring yourself.

“I beg to differ,” he murmurs, his breath grazing your skin like a whisper, cold and intoxicating. “Such wasted potential. All for the notion of being good when you could be so much more.”

You reach out, your hand hovering near his temple. Your fingers glow, light pulsing softly, alive. He watches, unblinking, as your magic stirs in the air like smoke catching fire. It’s ethereal, coiling, licking at him, and it has him curious.

You're trying to see into his mind, but—

“I think the real question is…” he interrupts knowingly, tilting his head, “…are we inside your mind or mine?”

The words twist around you like a spell, and suddenly, the weight shifts. The darkness starts to peel away from your limbs, sloughing off like ash in the wind. You blink, feeling the ground under you change, reality sliding sideways.

The Void just smiles.

“I’ll see you soon.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ✴︎˚｡⋆ ✴︎˚｡⋆

You’re still thinking about it… about him.

Every time you’re training with Bob, he’s there, at the edge of your thoughts. You’re not in fear. You’re not scared of the Void, not really. It’s more like a wariness, a flicker of unease that one wrong move, one flare of power, might open the door again. Might bring him back.

It was wrong. And confusing. But a small part of you wanted to see him again.

Your mind drifts when you’re not paying attention—whether it’s during missions, training, or even in bed. He’s in your dreams when you fall asleep, and sometimes, you wake up imagining the ghost of his voice in your ear.

The Void hadn’t tried to hurt you. No, he watched you—studied you. And in some twisted way, he seemed to want you. Not to harm, not to destroy… but to possess, to understand. You just wanted to know why. What did he see in you? What was it about you that drew something like him in?

One night, you’re in bed, the day heavy on your bones, the world finally going quiet around you. You’re slipping closer and closer to sleep…

But you sense it, that shift in the air, a pulse of dark presence curling at the edges of your senses. You feel him before you even open your eyes.

“This is bordering on obsession,” You sigh, eyes still closed.

You hear him laugh, low and amused. The sound crawls down your spine, equal parts unsettling and intimate.

“Not bordering. It is obsession,” he replies, and you can hear the smile in his voice, like he’s proud of it.

Reluctantly, you open your eyes.

He’s there, standing at the foot of your bed, shadows clinging to him like silk. Those eyes, golden and curious, lock onto yours. Not threatening. Not kind. Just... watching.

“You dream of me,” he says, not asking.

You swallow, and the air thickens. “That's not an invitation to break into my room at night.”

He tilts his head, taking a step closer. “You called me. You always do—when your thoughts stray, when your control slips. You think about me more than you care to admit.”

You don’t respond. Can’t.

Because he’s not wrong.

“You’re speechless,” he teases, voice like velvet laced with static. He sits on the edge of your bed, casual, as if he belongs there.

You shift away instinctively, creating space, as if a few more inches could keep him from seeing straight through you.

“Biding my time. There’s a difference,” You reply, keeping your voice even, though your pulse betrays you.

The Void watches you closely, amused by your defiance. Or maybe by the fact that even now, you're still trying to guard yourself. Still playing the game.

His eyes flicker, a faint glow blooming within them like embers. “You may say you don’t want me here, but you keep opening doors.”

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” You bite back, sharper than intended. He smiles, but there’s something beneath it, something hungry. “That’s the best part.”

His hand twitches slightly, not reaching for you, but close. Waiting.

“You’re more than you think. More than they let you be, more than you let yourself be.”

The air thickens again, and you’re feeling him again, his presence threads through the room like smoke.

“What do you want from me?” You ask, tired of circles.

Suddenly, he sounds less teasing, more honest.

“To see you become more than this,” He leans closer as if observing you, “You’re no hero. You’re something else entirely.”

He almost sounds in awe of you.

You want to lie. You want to turn away, pretend you don’t feel it, the weight of his words, the strange reverence in his voice.

But in some weird, completely twisted way…you felt seen.

“Show me what you can do,” he says softly, like a challenge… or a plea.

Against your better judgment, your hands move. Fingers lift with purpose, glowing as your magic rises like a tide. Not to attack. Just to beckon. To draw him in that fraction closer.

And he comes.

He leans in, unflinching, until his lips hover just a breath away from yours. The air between you hums with tension, your power brushing over him.

He doesn’t flinch. He invites it.

He looks at you, eyes gleaming. They weren’t cold, but burning. Goading.

“Do it,” he whispers. “Manipulate me. I want to see you try.”

Your magic coils, crackling faintly between you both, held barely in check. It licks at his skin like fire starved of air. You could push. You could twist something in him, see what bends and what breaks.

That thought strikes sharp and fast, and then you remember.

Bob. Somewhere beyond this darkness, behind the weight of The Void’s presence, he’s there. You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t risk hurting him.

You lower your hands slowly, magic fading from your fingertips. The crackle in the air dies with it, and you feel the release.

The Void sighs dramatically. “What? You don’t want to hurt me? I’m disappointed.”

You vanish from in front of him, slipping through space in a blink, reappearing beside him, your lips by his ear, breath warm and taunting.

“I live to disappoint,” You murmur with biting sarcasm.

He chuckles, low and amused, the sound vibrating in your chest more than your ears.

“So you’re playing with me then?” he asks, a smile curling through his voice, teasing and predatory.

You teleport again, this time behind him, close enough to feel his back press against your body like the edge of a knife.

“Something like that,” You say, voice calm, almost bored.

This little verbal spar you had with him was… addictive. A dangerous dance on a wire stretched taut between temptation and control.

But then he shifts, turning around to face you.

His expression darkens—not angry or violent—but filled with intent. He turns, slowly, deliberately, and starts walking you back with that same quiet pressure in the air that makes your skin prickle.

You don’t step away. You should, but you don’t.

Then, his hand reaches out, and in a second, you’re pinned against the wall. The cold wall meets your spine, and again, before you can blink, he lifts you effortlessly with his mind, sliding you up until your feet leave the ground. His body never touches yours, but his presence crashes over you like a wave.

“I don’t want to play games,” he says, voice low and electric. You meet his eyes, your own burning with something halfway between challenge and adrenaline.

“But this one is so much fun,” you quip back, your tone reckless, like flicking sparks into a powder keg.

His jaw clenches, just slightly. Not in rage. In restraint.

“I came to see you,” he says, eyes scanning your face like a puzzle he hasn’t yet solved. “But all you do is run and hide behind your clever little words.”

“Maybe you need to chase me,” You reply, breath shallow but steady. The Void pauses, his voice surprisingly soft when he answers, “And how long would you make me chase you?”

You meet his gaze, your heart skipping.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you disappear from his hold, reappearing right in front of him, so close you can see the sweep of his eyelashes. You lean in just a little more, the space between you charged.

“Until I think you’ve had enough.”

His eyes widen a little, but he stifles it.

“Until I’ve had enough…” he repeats to himself, quietly, like he’s tasting the words. He searches your eyes, there’s something in you, something he needs. Finally, a slow, dark smirk spreads across his lips.

“We’ll see.”

The energy between you crackles, thick and electric. You both want this; he wants to pull you into the darkness, to make you lose yourself. Sure, you wanted to play with him, but you could kiss him and still keep him at bay.

But just as your eyes flutter shut and you feel the weight of his presence drawing near, then suddenly there’s only air.

You open your eyes, breath catching. You turn and he’s standing by your door, smiling at you again.

“I’ll see you soon.”

With that, he fades away, leaving you standing alone, still in your mind.

Masterlist

#bob reynolds x reader #the void x reader #bob reynolds fanfic #thunderbolts fanfic #the void #x reader #witch!reader #bob thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts #bob thunderbolts #robert reynolds #bob reynolds #mcu fanfiction #marvel fic #marvel fanfic #robert reynolds x reader

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peachesofteal · 2 months ago

Text

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ daddy kink

You’re trying.

Your body language betrays you. The effort and the turbulence beneath, your eyes flicking rapidly through the parking lot, the ramrod straight line of your spine, your quadricep tensing and relaxing under his palm as he works his fingers from your knee up, back and forth.

“What’s wrong?” You sigh. Slump. Turn to face him with an anxious pout.

“I just… I don’t love the restaurant store.” He gives you a chance, and then prompts, pushes just slightly.

“What’s the rule?”

“Tell you when I’m scared, or anxious. Or overwhelmed.” He squeezes approval, and you continue. “It’s chaos, especially on a Sunday, and… it’s like a warehouse so the sound bounces… all of it is really loud.” You latch onto his forearm, hard intake of breath sharp before softening, your fingers applying firm pressure. He doesn’t mind. You’re anchoring yourself to him, with him. It’s all he could ask for.

“It’s okay baby, we’ll get it done and then go home. I’ll be with you.” Your head bobs repeatedly with a nod, but you make no effort to unbuckle your seatbelt or get out of the car. You need a little comfort, a little encouragement, things that are his job to provide, so he’s out of the truck on his side to open the passenger door, reaching over to unbuckle your seatbelt. “Close your eyes and open your mouth.” He works his thumb behind your teeth and rests it on your tongue, a pleased flush rushing through him when you immediately pull and suck on him. “Good girl.” You calm almost immediately, strained muscles and back turning plush, tight corners of your eyes smoothing away. When you lean in, looking for more contact, he decides to test the limits. Your limits. “Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs encouragingly as he presses deeper into your mouth, “there we go.” You try, but when his knuckles meet your lips and his thumb brushes your throat, the back of your tongue, you seize up, trying to swallow, trying to find air, and jerk away, gagging. He follows the movement, width of his hand against your neck with a finger against your pulse, keeping you steady and still through the swift rise and then decline of panic. It crashes like a wave, receding just as quick and leaving something in its place.

You blink rapidly, gears turning, so obviously trying to reconcile something you’re feeling, something he can so easily read. Worry. Shame. Spiral.

“Stop.” He brushes a kiss across your forehead. “Don’t go there. When it’s time, I’ll take care of you. Do you understand?” Your chest loosens.

“Yes daddy.” Music to his ears.

“Does your throat hurt?”

“It’s okay.” He cups the back of your head, guides you into his arms, and place your ear over his heart. You’ve started to tap your fingers with the rhythm, against your skin or his, self soothing, and it makes him whole. It’s not just a sexual dynamic with you, it’s everything, an entire soul under his shelter, a whole human using his heartbeat to ground themselves, and nothing is more fulfilling. “Ready to go?” You tug on him instinctively, hopping from the truck, keeping your grip locked in his.

“Yeah.” He smiles at your resolve, the confidence.

“Brave girl. C’mon.”

It doesn’t bother him that you lock up again, the store is a madhouse. It’s overcrowded, and loud, the metal roof of the warehouse doing nothing to dull the senses, bright lights and too many boxes, bags, things being tossed around.

You’re wide eyed, rooted to the floor, still clutching his arm in a stranglehold and he herds you towards a corner.

“Tell me.” You don’t start immediately, scrounging around for words, and he encourages with a gentle reminder. “Remember your rules baby.” It doesn’t take anymore coaxing after that.

“I’m overwhelmed.” You blurt, wincing, but just as he predicted, hoped, you visibly relax, and he takes your face in his hands. Holds his whole world.

“Proud of you sweetheart.” Tears shine in your eyes, dew drops in the corners, and when one falls he wipes it away. “Do you need me to finish your list?”

“Please, if it’s…” He doesn’t waste time, just moves you to the cart, stations you at the helm so you can steer and he can manage the rest.

“You’ll push the cart, and stay in the middle of the aisles. I’ll get the things you need.” You blow out a breath.

“Okay.”

“When?”

“Dunno. Sometime next week, I think. Wasn’t real clear.” Simon groans, rubs his nose into his palm and then pauses, listening for footfalls in the hall or the adjacent bedroom.

“Well, if they’re goin’ we are too. I’ll see what’s going on, let you know later.” Gaz grunts an affirmative and hangs up. He’s been restless, itchy, just like the others, but Simon’s in no rush.

Not now.

Not when he has you, here in house, with your things in his bedroom, his bathroom, with your toothbrush next to the sink. The slow migration of your stuff has begun and is in full swing, two fuzzy blankets, your switch, your kindle, even that weird pillow you have that you call Pusheen. It’s a stuffed cat of some kind, he thinks, and you use it as a pillow half the time, which means it’s little eyes are sometimes staring at him in bed.

But you love it, and you don’t know yet, but he loves you.

Every sweet piece, even the weird stuffed cat.

Which is why he’s dreading the next mission, the next time he loads onto an airplane and drops into an undisclosed location, the next time he has to turn his mind dark, shutter his heart, forget about anything that could interfere with completing an objective.

For the first time in his life, he doesn’t want it.

And he doesn’t want to dwell on it right now either, so he shoves back from the desk and closes his laptop, opting to find you instead.

You’re in the kitchen. There’s a beater in your hands, something else that’s new to him, and the rich scent of chocolate in the air.

“What’s this?” He tugs you close, holds you against him with your back to his chest, kisses your ear.

“Whipped cream.” You shiver, goosebumps raising the hair on your arms. “It’s for…. I made hot chocolate?”

“Is that a question?” He nips your skin. it’s getting harder to control the instinct, the urge to mark you in every way possible.

“N-no it’s… I made it. You can make whipped cream! I don’t know why anyone buys whipped cream in a can. I mean, I know. It’s because they don’t realize how easy it is. It’s really so simple and so much better. Obviously, people don’t have time to make it by hand, I know that, I’m not trying to make anyone feel bad, but…”

“But?” He squeezes your hip.

“But… it’s so good this way.” The stainless steel bowl glints under the kitchen’s pendant light. “Do you want some?”

“Of course.” You bounce a bit on your toes, the smile he dreams about lighting up your face. “I don’t think I’ve ever had hot chocolate.” You give him a shocked look.

“Wha… what?” He shakes his head and sips. It’s silky and smooth, but not something that would rot your teeth. There’s a hint of decadent bitterness to it, well balanced, a roasted coffee taste of some kind.

“Didn’t get a lot of sweet stuff, ’til you.” Whipped cream dots your upper lip and he tries to tamp down the rushing blood in his veins.

“That’s um… that’s…” He puts the mug down, already half empty.

“It’s what, sweetheart?”

“It’s nice.” You whisper, drifting closer, and he slides his hands up under your hoodie.

“Hmm,” You’re so soft, everything about you, head to toe, and you tremble under his touch, the circles he scrawls into your skin as you try to regulate your breathing. He can’t help himself. “You were such a good girl for me today, weren’t you?”

“Yes daddy, I tried.”

“You were. So good, and so sweet,” he taps your phone and sighs at the glowing numbers on the screen. Tomorrow. “It’s late, and you should be asleep already, go on.” He urges you away from the kitchen with a pat on your ass, even as you try to protest. “Bed, little berry girl.”

“I can clean up-”

“Bed,” he pauses, cocks his head and reaches for the bowl of whipped cream. “Will this still be good in the morning?” Maybe he’ll wake you up with his mouth on your nipples, tongue working circles through cream as he drags his teeth across them, pinching them so he can hear your surprised little squeak. He’d paint you with his own if you were ready, decorate your body with his cum, drag it down to your pussy and then smear it over your clit, working back and forth until you were making your own mess on his hand.

“Um… yes? If it’s left in the fridge.”

Maybe…

“Perfect.”

#peaches writes #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #raspberry girl fic

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rafesangelita · 1 month ago

Text

♡ dbf!rafe and swan!reader’s first time..

warnings: heavy petting, praise, body worship, mentions of insecurities and being overlooked, tit sucking, major size difference, reassurance + comfort, belly bulge, crying squirting, creampie

a/n: read more about dbf!rafe and swan!reader here <3 this fic takes place right after the last paragraph in the au!! also— sooo sorry for writing this in large paragraphs, run-on sentences have me in a chokehold at the moment..

wc: 1.5k

“you don’t care about getting in trouble?” rafe whispered against your lips, your arms wrapped tightly around his neck as you pressed kisses along his jaw. you moaned when you felt his hands grope the globes of your ass, your eyes fluttering closed as his cologne filled your senses. this was wrong on sooo many levels, and while both of you knew it, neither of you could bring yourselves to stop. “i won’t tell if you don’t..” rafe groaned, his palms running over your thighs as he laid you down on his pristine sheets. leaning down, you shuddered as rafe ran the tip of his nose down the valley of your breasts, his lips ghosting over your flesh until he reached the waistband of your leggings.

hooking his fingers into the soft material, you looked away as rafe slowly pulled down the pink spandex, your cheeks growing hot as he admired the sight before him. here you were, left in nothing but a matching lace set, the dim lighting of his room reflecting off of your skin as your hair splayed out beautifully around your face. glancing at the pearl studs peeking out from your earlobes, rafe took in every single detail he could catch. from the delicate curve of your lips, to the way your lashes fluttered up at him the more you grew shy at being underneath his intense gaze. you had never been paid this close attention to, your eyes glossing over as you saw nothing but adoration take over rafe’s features.

touching you as if you were made of glass, goosebumps spread across your skin as he caressed you ever so gently. he marveled at the sight of your tits threatening to spill out of the white lace of your bra, his knuckles skimming your cheek while he stroked your face. “the fact that you could call yourself anything but perfect is beyond my comprehension right now,” rafe whispered in disbelief, “you don’t even look real.” you blinked, his words making something stir in your chest. “i’m not perfect to anyone, rafe. not even myself.” he couldn’t believe he was hearing those words come out of your mouth right now. “you are to me,” rafe shushed you, “i’ve seen you at your lowest points, that has to count for something.”

he was right. he has seen you gasp for air and hyperventilate when you made a mistake on stage so subtle no one even noticed the little mishap. he has seen you with mascara running down your cheeks, your makeup smudged and ruined from all the crying. he has heard you scream in agony when you’ve nearly worked yourself to death, and despite all of that he was still here, looking at you as if you’re the only reason he had to believe that something pure and true can still exist. reaching up for his face, you brought him back down so you could kiss him, your legs wrapping around his waist as you took him between your thighs. he kissed you unlike anyone has ever kissed you before— slow and bruising.

cupping you through your bra, you gasped softly as your hands started working to unbutton his shirt, the tight fitted tee he was wearing underneath making you pull away momentarily to appreciate his biceps in all their toned glory. god, he looked amazing for his age. snaking a hand underneath your back, rafe prompted you to sit up a little bit before he unclasped your bra, discarding it to the side as he wasted no time in taking one of your tits in his mouth. arching into him, you cradled his head as he circled your sensitive bud with his tongue. sliding your panties down your legs next, your thighs closed upon seeing the way he admired your bare cunt, a small shred of insecurity overpowering you in this moment.

“you don’t ever have to hide yourself from me.” rafe reassured you, your stomach flipping as he began sliding off his belt. “you’re absolutely breathtaking like this.” you watched as he stripped himself of any remaining clothing, your eyes traveling down the expanse of his torso until they settled on his length. to say you were intimidated by the sheer size of him would be an understatement, the tip alone looked like it would have you wincing in pain. rafe lifted the back of your thighs and pinned your knees to your chest as his cock rested hot and heavy between your slick folds. “i’m gonna take care of you, sweetheart, don’t worry..” surrendering to the man above you, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

drawing his hips back, rafe made sure his length nudged your clit with each stroke, the sensation making you jolt. it wasn’t until the head of his cock prodded your entrance that you panicked, your walls stretching around the intrusion as a mixture of both pleasure and pain made you cry out. “it hurts!” you moaned, your chest rising and falling as rafe slowly but surely continued sliding into you. rafe watched your face as he stuffed you full, your eyebrows pinching together as tears welled up in your eyes. “you’ll feel better soon, i promise..” rafe’s voice filled your ears but everything sounded muffled with the way he had a bulge poking up from your tummy.

as much as rafe knew he probably should’ve ‘prepped’ you, and engaged in foreplay, he was desperate to feel you wrapped around him, the months of tension between you two finally coming down to this very moment. “are you okay?” he asked, thumbing your bottom lip to watch it bounce back in place. “yes, i just need a second.” you breathed out, looking down at where you two were connected. he might as well have been splitting you open with his cock, the base of his length making you delirious as he bottomed out completely. leaning down, you felt a lot better once you felt rafe’s body weight on your own, your chin tucked in the curve of his neck as he pulled out and thrusted back in slowly.

you squealed upon feeling him hit your cervix, your arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders as his stomach slapped against your clit. you were so full of cock, you couldn’t think straight, your thoughts melting away into a puddle of nothing as he slammed in and out of your tight hole. in all of his years of living, rafe had never felt anything this good before, his jaw falling slack as he groaned and grunted in your ear. “oh, fuckkk—” rafe gritted out in pure astonishment, “you’re killing me here.” tugging at the hair on the nape of his neck, you felt your eyes roll to the back of your head as he continuously hit that sweet spot inside of you, the force of his thrusts knocking you further up his bed.

clinging onto him like your life depended on it, you felt an unfamiliar pressure beginning to build in your core, your whimpers growing hysterical as the band in your stomach threatened to snap at any moment, your orgasm just within arm’s reach as rafe wrapped his fingers around your throat. as if you couldn’t be more full than you already were, rafe angled his hips and managed to plow into you even deeper, the tears in your eyes finally spilling over and running down your cheeks at the overwhelming sensation wracking through your body. “rafe!” you screamed, a broken sob ripping from your throat as you felt a stream of wetness flow out of you and soak rafe’s lower half.

grabbing your hand, rafe pressed your palm over your stomach where he glided underneath your flesh, your orgasm rendering you speechless as he spilled into you, your pussy milking him for everything he had. with you being utterly fucked out, and rafe being pussy drunk, you two moved in slow motion as he brought you down from both of your highs, your shared breaths being the only sound that you could register at the moment. waiting until the aftershocks of your orgasm subsided, both you and rafe hissed as he pulled out, his cum spilling out of you in white dribbles. cursing at the sight, rafe pressed a kiss to your temple, his eyes shutting momentarily before he sighed.

“look at me,” he lifted your chin, your eyes blinking up at his face, “this changes a lot of things, okay? i don’t know what’s gonna happen with your dad, or what he’s gonna think about this, but i’m certain about one thing; and that’s the fact that you don’t have to put up with any of his shit anymore. i’m gonna be there for you.. in any way you need me to be. how your parents could overlook someone as talented and beautiful as you? i have no idea, but you’re not overlooked anymore, i promise you that.” he whispered, his words mending something you didn’t even know was broken in the first place. “don’t worry about going back home tonight, alright? you can be here for as long as you’d like.”

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daxisyzz · 2 months ago

Note

hi! i’m thinking about some angst with a soft fluff ending where the reader and bucky is in their early stages of their relationship. bucky was s h@rass3d in hydra, he was struggling to make physical contact and interactions with the reader but somehow learned what safe touch is 🫶🏻

here's your fic <3

A kind of brave

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky flinches when you touch him—but you're not in a hurry. Love, in your world, is patient.

Word count: 1.1k+

The writing in italics is a flashback

Warnings and tags: Past trauma and harassment (non-graphic), Flashbacks to Hydra-related abuse, PTSD symptoms (flinching, hypervigilance, difficulty with physical touch), Emotional vulnerability, Hurt/Comfort, Gentle Love, Healing Together, Safe Touch Exploration, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Reader Helps Bucky Heal.

You weren’t expecting anything when it started.

He’d shown up to the Tower quieter than most. Standoffish, unreadable. You'd been assigned as his point of contact—“Ease him in,” they said. “Help him find normal.”

But normal wasn’t easy to come by for someone like Bucky Barnes.

Still, he let you sit with him during shared meals. You’d catch him listening as you told stories about the city or teased Sam across the room. His replies were clipped but thoughtful. He'd nod when you made jokes. Once, you caught him smiling.

Then came the moment that changed things—subtly, but completely.

You were reaching for a mug in the kitchen. He stood beside you. As your fingers brushed his arm—just a touch, featherlight—he flinched.

Not dramatically. Not enough to cause a scene. But enough for your heart to ache.

His shoulders tensed. His breath hitched. He stepped back like the heat of your skin had burned him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, pulling your hand back instantly.

He didn’t speak. Just stared at the floor, ashamed of something that wasn’t his fault.

You didn’t bring it up that day. Just gave him space and offered him coffee like nothing happened.

But that moment stayed with you.

So you started paying closer attention

You noticed it in the way he avoided the couch if someone was already sitting. How he always stood at the far edge of the elevator. How his hands stayed buried in his sleeves, even when the sun was warm.

When he smiled, it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

When he laughed, it was careful—like joy was something borrowed.

You adapted without needing to say it aloud. Stood beside him instead of in front. Sat far enough away that he wouldn’t feel cornered. Asked with your eyes before you ever reached out.

He noticed. You knew he did. Because slowly, inch by inch, he started to linger longer. Sit a little closer. Speak a little more.

Trust takes time.

Especially when you’ve been taught the wrong definition of touch.

It always started with the sound.

A low, mechanical click as the restraints slid into place, followed by the sterile whir of lights flickering to life overhead — harsh, clinical, too white. Too clean. A cruel contrast to the filth he was forced to live in.

The chair was metal, ice-cold against his skin no matter how long he was in it. His breath fogged in the air like a ghost trying to escape. But ghosts were free. He wasn’t.

He stopped fighting it years ago — if years even existed down here. Time was meaningless in a place that never changed. No windows. No sky. No sense of day or night. Just missions, control, silence. Then pain.

A man in a lab coat leaned over him, faceless and featureless in Bucky’s mind now. There had been too many. They all smelled the same — antiseptic and cruelty. A hand gripped his chin, tilting his face roughly upward like he was an object being inspected.

“You're not him anymore,” the voice said, clinical, bored. “You don't flinch. You obey.”

But he did flinch — inside, where no one could see. Where it wouldn't earn him another reset.

Another hand came next — this one pressed over his shoulder, firm and too slow to be casual. They wanted him to feel it. They always wanted him to feel it, in the worst ways. Not just pain, but control. Ownership. Submission.

It wasn’t the physical agony that broke him the most. It was how they taught him to dread touch. How something so human became a punishment. They rewired him — so that warmth became threat, closeness became fear, and skin-on-skin was something to survive rather than savor.

There were nights after a mission when they didn’t even have to touch him. They’d just come close. Breathe behind him. Wait for him to flinch.

He always did.

It was a week after a rough mission. Bucky had barely said a word.

You found him on your couch one night, long after the city had gone to sleep. Hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. Eyes vacant.

You didn’t speak right away. Just offered him tea. Sat beside him—far enough to let him breathe.

Eventually, he said it.

“Do you know what it’s like,” he whispered, “to want to be touched but not know how?”

Your heart cracked. You didn’t rush to fix it.

Instead, you said, “Yeah. I think… I do.”

He turned toward you. “It wasn’t just the fighting. HYDRA—they used touch. Twisted it. Made it mean control. Made me afraid of something I used to love.”

You swallowed. “I’m sorry they did that to you.”

His voice dropped lower. “Sometimes I still feel like a weapon. Even now. When you smile at me. When you sit close. Part of me wants to pull you in. And the other part... is scared I’ll ruin it.”

“You won’t,” you promised. “Not with me."

He asked if he could hold your hand.

His voice shook when he said it.

“Only if you’re sure,” you told him.

“I’m not sure of anything,” he confessed. “But I want to try.”

So you laid your hand between you on the couch. Open. Waiting.

He took it, slow and careful. His fingers hovered before they rested on yours, like he was expecting the world to crack open beneath him.

But it didn’t.

And for the first time, he didn’t flinch.

You squeezed gently. “You’re doing amazing.”

He smiled—small, but real.

He started coming over more.

Sometimes with books. Sometimes with nothing but tired eyes and quiet company.

One night, you found him in the kitchen. He was making tea—two cups. He handed you yours without a word, then hesitated.

“Can I stay tonight?” he asked.

You blinked. “Of course. You want the couch?”

He shook his head. “I want to try… sleeping next to you. If that’s okay.”

You nodded. “It’s more than okay.”

That night, he curled up beside you—nervous but determined. You didn’t reach for him.

But he reached for you.

His fingers brushed yours under the blanket.

Light, hesitant.

You looked over. “This alright?”

He nodded, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. It’s… nice.”

You didn’t need more than that.

And when you woke the next morning, his arm was loosely around your waist. His breathing soft against the back of your neck. No nightmares. No panic.

Just warmth.

Just safety.

Just him.

He still had bad days. Days when the shadows whispered louder than your voice.

But they passed.

And on the good days, you’d catch him reaching for you without thinking—nudging your foot under the table, brushing your hair behind your ear, linking pinkies as you walked side by side.

He was learning.

And he was loving you, in the way only he could—slow, steady, gentle.

Not perfect.

But real.

And more than enough.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel #tw assault #tw harassment #bucky barnes fluff #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes angst #sebastian stan x reader #bucky barnes x you #james buchanan barnes #bucky x reader

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heeluvv · 2 months ago

Text

PERSONAL TRAINING.ᐟ

pairingᝰ.ᐟ personal trainer! jay x client! reader

warningsᝰ.ᐟ mirror sex, fingering, oral (m), rough sex, etc.

word countᝰ.ᐟ 12.174k

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ request, mdni, hate comments will be deleted. (not proofread)

you could feel it—every fiber of your body beginning to tremble beneath the pressure, your legs threatening to give out as your thighs burned from the strain. your breath came in short, shallow pants, each exhale slipping past your lips with a soft whimper you didn’t mean to let out. sweat rolled down the back of your neck, your arms shaking as you tried to keep your posture locked in place, just like he taught you.

“jay… please…” your voice cracked slightly, breathless and small. “how much longer?”

you tilted your head just enough to look up at him, expecting… something. maybe reassurance. maybe a hint of mercy. instead, you were met with that same unreadable expression. cold. composed. his jaw clenched, his eyes unreadable beneath the harsh gym lights—no softness, no pity. he didn’t even blink.

when you signed up for a personal trainer, you thought it’d be simple. someone professional. polite. encouraging in a kind of motivational-poster way. maybe a little strict, sure—but nothing you couldn’t handle. you figured it would be manageable. maybe even boring.

but you were wrong. so wrong.

jay was something else entirely.

he didn’t coddle you. he didn’t give in when you begged, didn’t crack a smile when you stumbled through his grueling routines. he didn’t just push you past your limits—he watched you there, waiting in silence, drinking in the way you squirmed and shook under his command. and it wasn’t just the workouts. it was everything. the way his voice dipped lower when you whined. the way his hands lingered too long on your hips when he corrected your form

“you’ve been doing it for just fifteen minutes. you still have thirty minutes to go.”

his voice cuts through the silence like a blade—sharp, controlled, and utterly void of sympathy. there’s no softness to it, no hint of concern for the way your thighs are shaking or your arms are beginning to tremble beneath the weight of the position he placed you in. the words are a command, not a comfort, and they make your heart pound harder than any rep ever could. you swallow thickly, sweat clinging to the back of your neck, your body trembling with every second that drags by, your legs threatening to give out as the burn in your muscles deepens.

you hear his footsteps before you feel him. heavy, steady, unfaltering. each one thuds softly against the mat-covered floor as he circles behind you again like a predator stalking his prey. you can sense the shift in the air, the sudden warmth of his presence settling behind you before his hands even touch you. and when they do—when his fingers curl around your waist with that same rough precision he always uses—it’s like your entire body locks into place. he adjusts you without asking, without warning, gripping your hips tightly as he guides them into the position he wants. your back straightens under his firm control, the curve of your spine aligning perfectly with the angle he prefers. it’s not just correction. it’s ownership.

his touch lingers longer than it needs to. you feel his palms drift upward, gliding over your sides with slow, deliberate motion. it isn’t the professional, detached touch you expected when you signed up for personal training—it’s slower. warmer. almost indulgent. his fingertips press into your ribs, not hard, but enough to make your breath stutter. they slide higher until his hands settle on your shoulders, the heat of his skin bleeding through the thin fabric of your shirt. your muscles are tense, overworked, and tight, but his thumbs move carefully, deliberately, massaging soft circles into the knots building beneath your skin. it’s meant to relax you—but it only makes your pulse race faster.

“you have to relax,” he murmurs finally, his voice low and smooth, thick with something you can’t quite name. he’s closer now. too close. his chest brushes your back with every inhale, his breath ghosting over your cheek in a way that makes your skin burn. you can hear every word he says like it’s being spoken right into your bloodstream, vibrating through you in waves.

you try to breathe, but it’s impossible with the way he’s looking at you. your gaze shifts up to the mirror in front of you and there he is—towering behind you, eyes dark and locked on your reflection. he’s watching you watch him, his face calm but focused, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth when your eyes meet. and he doesn’t break it. doesn’t look away. doesn’t even blink.

“i’m going easy on you,” he says, and his voice dips even lower, like it’s meant just for you. “and you’re already complaining?”

your throat goes dry. you can’t answer—not with how close he is, not with his hands still gripping your body, not with his breath so hot against your skin. it’s overwhelming. the tension. the heat. the way he doesn’t even need to raise his voice to make your legs tremble more than the exercise ever could. he knows what he’s doing. every movement, every word, every glance—it’s all intentional. calculated.

his hand squeezes your hip, just a little harder this time. not rough, but firm. a warning. and then he leans in, his lips barely brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers, slow and deliberate, “keep your form… or i’ll hold you there myself.”

he stays behind you as you move—up, then down, over and over again, your body falling into the rhythm you’ve been repeating for what feels like forever. your muscles ache, your legs feel heavy, and sweat clings to the curve of your lower back, but none of that is what’s clouding your mind now. it isn’t the time or the repetition that’s making your thoughts blur into heat—it’s him. it’s the way he’s standing so damn close, the way every squat presses your ass just barely against the front of his body.

at first, you thought it was an accident. maybe just proximity, maybe just poor spacing. but now… now you’re not so sure. the contact is subtle, almost ghostlike. just the faintest brush of fabric against fabric, friction that makes your breath catch in your throat and your heart stutter mid-beat. it isn’t enough to be obvious—but it’s enough to make you throb.

you try to shift, just slightly. a soft, awkward attempt to create space. your feet adjust, your hips angle differently, a small, almost embarrassed squirm. but he doesn’t let you go far. his hand comes around your waist, firm but gentle, pulling you back into place without a word of protest—like it’s second nature to handle you like that. his fingers spread across your lower stomach, steadying you, guiding you back to the exact spot he wants you in. you can feel his grip through the thin material of your clothes, warm and deliberate.

“just like that, y/n,” he says, low and measured.

his voice is close again, too close, practically dripping into your ear like syrup. your name rolls off his tongue like it tastes good there, like he enjoys saying it this way—watching you flinch at the sound, at the implication. you catch a glimpse of his face in the mirror, gaze locked onto your reflection, and it sends another wave of heat crawling up your spine.

his eyes are everywhere. tracking the way your thighs quiver, the way your back arches just slightly more with each rep, the way your body presses back into him no matter how hard you try not to. he isn’t pretending to be professional anymore. he’s drinking it in. the strain. the tension. the subtle, desperate edge of discomfort in your expression as you try to hold it together under his watch.

your teeth sink into your bottom lip, an unconscious response to the pressure, the heat, the thick silence that’s wrapped around the two of you like a noose. you pretend it’s focus. you pretend it’s effort. but your thighs are clenching for a different reason now—and you know he can tell.

just as your body rises again, thighs trembling with effort and sweat sliding down your spine, he stops you. not with words—just a single, sudden movement. his hand presses lightly against your lower back, not forceful, but enough to make you freeze mid-motion, your breath hitching in your throat. you don’t know why he’s stopping you. your form was right. your balance was stable. but then you see it—his eyes catching yours in the mirror.

they’re locked. steady. dark.

for a long second, he doesn’t say anything. he just stares, expression unreadable, his gaze pinning you in place like a weight heavier than anything you’ve lifted. it sends a jolt straight through your chest, your stomach twisting as if you’ve been caught doing something wrong—something forbidden. and then, just as quickly, he looks away. his hand lifts. the warmth of him vanishes from your skin, and the space between you fills with something colder, emptier.

he steps back.

you can hear the shift in his breathing, the rustle of his movements as he begins to gather his things. no softness. no goodbye. just a quiet command wrapped in routine.

“that’s all for today, y/n,” he says, his tone even, clipped, like nothing just happened—like he hadn’t been pressed up against you minutes ago, eyes burning into your reflection. “make sure you come back tomorrow. same time.”

you turn slowly, still catching your breath, your body buzzing with leftover heat that has nothing to do with the workout. he’s already slinging his gym bag over his shoulder, muscles flexing beneath his black shirt as he moves. he doesn’t look rushed. if anything, he looks calm. collected. like he’s completely unaffected by the tension he left simmering between you.

but then, right before he turns away, his eyes trail down your body.

not fast. not polite. slow and deliberate—starting at your face, sliding over your chest, dipping lower, lingering at your waist, your thighs, the parts of you still pulsing from where his hands had been. there’s no smirk, no word of praise. just the weight of his gaze as if he’s memorizing it. branding it.

and then he’s gone, leaving you standing there breathless, burning, and already aching.

your mind is a mess. completely clouded, overrun, pulled apart by the memory of him. jay—his voice, his touch, the way his body pressed into yours under the guise of correcting your form. and worst of all, the way he walked away like none of it had meant anything. like he didn’t feel the heat, the tension, the pulse in the silence between you. like he didn’t know exactly what he was doing.

it only made everything worse.

now you’re home, steam rising thick in the bathroom, the hot water cascading over your skin like it’s trying to wash the memory off of you. but it clings—thick and electric—no matter how hard you scrub. you drag the loofah across your skin with slow, distracted movements, cleaning the sweat from your arms, your chest, your stomach. the ache in your thighs is still there, but it’s not just from the squats. it’s from something deeper. something hotter. something he left behind.

your free hand moves without thinking.

it slides up, fingers gliding over the slick warmth of your skin until it reaches your breast. your thumb brushes over your nipple—lightly at first, just a test, a flick of sensation—and you gasp. the water is still running hot, but the way your nipple hardens under your touch has nothing to do with temperature. you rub again, slower this time, then roll the sensitive bud between your fingers. a soft, breathy sound escapes your lips—half-formed, barely-there, but heavy with need.

your eyes flutter shut as the image forms in your mind, uninvited but welcome. his body behind yours. his voice in your ear. the feel of his crotch pressing into your ass, over and over again with every rep, every movement. it hadn’t been subtle. you felt it. the heat. the size. the slow drag of it against you like he was trying to brand the shape of it into your skin. and god—he had. because now, even under the spray of your shower, you can still feel it. still ache for it.

your fingers move lower. your hand keeps going. and your breath catches as your thighs instinctively press together, desperate for friction, for pressure, for anything to satisfy the ache that thought alone is stirring inside you.

the second your fingers make contact with your clit, your breath shatters into a loud, broken moan. it escapes your throat before you can stop it, echoing off the walls of the shower, swallowed up by the sound of the water pouring down your back. your body jolts at the sensation—your legs tightening, your knees threatening to buckle as you start to rub slow, tight circles against the sensitive bud. the pressure sends sparks through your core, but it’s not just the physical touch—it’s the images unraveling in your mind that do it. the way your body remembers his presence, the way your imagination fills in all the blanks he left behind.

you can see it now—so vividly it almost feels real. jay kneeling behind you on the yoga mat, his large hands gripping your hips like you were made to be handled by him. he spreads you open, not gently, not sweetly, but like he’s entitled to it. like your body was always meant to be laid out for him. your skin prickles at the thought of his fingers tracing over the curve of your ass, slow at first, teasing, only to dip lower. you imagine the way he’d drag his fingertips between your thighs, trailing along your slit with a low groan when he finds how wet you are. soaked and dripping—just from thinking about him.

his voice would be so cocky. low and rough with control, smug with the knowledge that you’re falling apart from the slightest touch.

“so wet for me already?” he’d murmur, leaning in close to your ear, his tone dark and taunting.

your breath hitches as you press harder against your clit, circling faster now, chasing the feeling his voice alone could give you. you picture the way he’d touch you—no hesitation, no gentleness—just confident, deliberate strokes. you can practically feel the pads of his fingers rubbing your clit furiously, matching the exact rhythm you’re giving yourself now, only faster, rougher, with more purpose. like he wants to make you come fast, just so he can do it again.

“who knew you were such a slut, hm?” he’d whisper, lips brushing against your neck as you writhe beneath him. “look at you—already falling apart and i haven’t even fucked you yet.”

the words echo through your mind like they’ve been said out loud, and your body responds instantly. a moan slips from your mouth, louder this time, shameless, as your back arches into the pressure of your own hand. your thighs tremble, your body burning from the inside out as the image of jay behind you only sharpens, becomes dirtier, more possessive. and even as your fingers work your clit faster, your mind craves more. his weight. his voice. his cock. him.

your head tips back against the cool tile, mouth parting in a broken gasp as your fingers slip lower, slower, needier. and then you're imagining it again—not just his voice, not just the weight of his body behind yours—but his fingers. those strong, rough, calloused fingers that you know would stretch you open just right. your hand trembles as you mimic the thought of him, plunging two fingers inside with a gasp, curling them upward the way you think he would—like he knows exactly where to touch you, like he’s mapped out every inch of you before you ever gave him permission.

you whimper the moment your fingertips find that soft spot inside, the one that makes your thighs twitch and your breath stutter. in your mind, it’s jay doing it. jay, with his lips curled into a smirk, voice low and taunting as he pushes his fingers deep and pumps them fast, relentless, merciless. you match the pace he’d set—sharp, purposeful thrusts—curling your wrist and fucking yourself on your own hand with desperate, messy need.

loud moans spill from your mouth, one after another, unrestrained, raw. the kind that feel like they’ve been buried inside you all day, waiting to come loose. each sound bounces off the walls, swallowed up by the steam, mixing with the sharp, slick rhythm of your fingers working inside you. the wet, obscene slush of it fills the space around you, loud and needy, and it only makes the coil in your stomach wind tighter, hotter.

you clench around your fingers, vision going hazy, your body squeezing down like it’s reacting to him and not you. and in your mind, it is. it’s jay kneeling between your thighs, watching you fall apart with a satisfied glint in his eye. it’s his breath against your inner thigh, his low chuckle vibrating against your skin as you writhe beneath him. “good girl,” he’d murmur, pushing deeper, harder, fucking you open with nothing but his fingers until you’re crying out for more.

your muscles go tight, your stomach coils, and your moans rise in volume and pitch as you start fucking yourself harder—matching the rhythm he’d use if he were here. he’d be watching you fall apart. he’d make you look at him while he worked his fingers inside you. maybe he’d press his lips to your ear, whispering filth while you writhe beneath him. “gonna cum already, sweetheart? barely touched you and you’re already shaking?”

your head drops back as the pressure snaps.

your orgasm hits you all at once, hard and hot and overwhelming. it punches the air out of your lungs in a guttural, shaking moan. your fingers stay buried inside as your walls clench down around them, fluttering, desperate, squeezing so tightly it nearly hurts. your knees threaten to give out. your thighs tremble uncontrollably. you ride it out with your mouth open, panting his name into the steam, breathless and ruined and soaked in every way.

even as the pleasure pulses through you, wave after wave, your hips keep rolling forward like you’re trying to chase more—greedy for every last drop of it. and when your fingers finally slow, slipping free from your dripping cunt, the mess you’ve made glistens across your knuckles and thighs. your whole body twitches. you’re left breathless, braced against the tiled wall, skin flushed and still pulsing with heat. it’s overwhelming—but not enough. not even close.

because even in the silence that follows, even as you struggle to breathe again, he’s still there. not physically—but in your head. on your skin. in the way your body aches for him now. it wasn’t just a fantasy. it was something real, something that clung to you the second he touched you, something that’s going to live in your skin until he finally does what you’re both pretending not to want.

the air in the private gym is thick with heat and the scent of your own sweat, but there’s something else in it too—something heavier. something you can’t name. you’re bent over the padded edge of the workout bench, palms gripping the sides, your knees slightly bent, back arched at an angle that forces your ass to stick out as you try to steady yourself. your breath comes in short, controlled bursts, chest rising and falling as you focus on the pull in your arms and shoulders. you're doing bent-over rows, or at least trying to, but it’s hard to concentrate when you feel him behind you.

jay.

he’s been there the entire session, watching, adjusting, correcting—always so close it makes your skin prickle. he doesn’t say much. just the occasional murmur of your name, the soft clink of weights, the sound of his breath too close to your ear. and now, as you lower yourself again and pull the weights back with a slight tremble in your arms, you feel him shift behind you. you don’t have to look. you feel him. the heat of his body, the shadow he casts over yours, the way his hand comes to hover just above your lower back—not touching, not yet.

“core tight,” he says, voice smooth and dark like melted honey. “back straighter.”

his palm finally makes contact, pressing down between your shoulder blades, guiding your spine into a deeper arch. you swallow hard. you feel the way his fingers spread slightly, resting there for just a second longer than necessary, his breath brushing over the nape of your neck like static. your body responds before your brain can stop it—hips pushing back slightly, ass brushing up against the space behind you. and then you feel it.

you feel him.

the hard shape of his cock, thick and unforgiving, nestled against your ass through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. your lips part, a soft gasp escaping before you can catch it. your fingers twitch around the edges of the bench. you don't move. neither does he.

he doesn’t apologize. doesn’t retreat. instead, his fingers flex where they rest on your back, sliding lower, tracing the dip of your spine until his palm cups the curve of your ass. he squeezes once—firm, deliberate, like he’s been waiting to do it all day.

“just like that,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself. “you’ve been teasing me for weeks. you know what you’re doing, don’t you?”

you can barely breathe. your mind is foggy, your body hotter than it should be. but you nod. not because you meant to—because your body betrays you. you nod like you’re begging for it.

his touch becomes greedier then, both hands sliding over your hips, gripping them tight as he pulls you back into him. you feel every inch of him now, thick and heavy and so, so hard. it makes your knees weak, your arms shaky as you try to hold yourself up. your pussy pulses between your legs, wetness spreading and soaking into the thin fabric of your leggings.

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice husky. “you feel that? this what you wanted, baby?”

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. your voice is caught in your throat. you can only nod again, hips rolling back into him, seeking more friction. his fingers slide around your waist, dipping between your thighs as his chest presses against your back.

“let’s see how ready you really are,” he says, and then he’s peeling your leggings down slowly—agonizingly slow. they drag over your ass, cling to your thighs, and fall in a soft puddle at your knees. cool air hits your skin, but you barely notice it—too consumed by the burn of his gaze as he steps back for just a moment to take you in.

he groans, low and raw. “fuck. look at you.”

his fingers return, sliding between your legs, spreading you open from behind. he hisses at how wet you are, his touch gliding through the slick pooling there. he doesn’t even need to prep you—your body’s already begging. he circles your clit once, then twice, and your whole body jumps, back arching, a soft cry slipping from your lips.

“you’re dripping,” he growls. “just from this? from me pressing my cock against you?”

you nod, dizzy with need. it’s humiliating how easy it is for him to reduce you to this—how quickly he has you melting under his fingers. you try to say something, but all that comes out is a moan, guttural and broken, as he slides one thick finger inside you.

he pumps it slowly, then adds a second, stretching you open with expert precision. your walls flutter around him, greedy and pulsing, as he scissors you wide. he curves his fingers up just right and your legs almost give out. a whimper rips from your throat, loud and helpless.

“that’s it,” he breathes, fucking you with his hand now, rhythm fast and steady. “so tight around my fingers. you’d take my cock so well, wouldn’t you?”

you don’t even hesitate. “yes—yes, jay—please—”

his other hand returns to your clit, rubbing tight, messy circles that match the motion of his fingers inside you. your hips jerk, trying to keep up with him, trying to match the rhythm, but it’s overwhelming. every nerve is on fire. every touch feels like it’s dragging you closer to the edge.

“you’re gonna cum for me just like this,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “so fucking desperate. didn’t even need my cock. just needed me.”

your body responds before your brain can. you’re gasping, moaning, choking on his name as your orgasm crashes into you. your thighs shake, knees buckling as you cry out, hands scrambling for something to hold onto. your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, pulsing with wave after wave of pleasure. you can’t stop shaking. your vision blurs. you’re soaked—dripping down your legs, onto his hands, the bench beneath you stained with your arousal.

he groans behind you, breath hot and labored.

“fuck, baby,” he says, dragging his soaked fingers down the inside of your thigh. “look what you did. made such a mess for me.”

you can barely think. your body is limp, trembling, twitching with aftershocks. you feel his lips press to your lower back, soft and slow. grounding. almost sweet.

“next time,” he whispers, voice deep and dark and promising, “i’ll make you cum on my cock instead.”

you let out a soft, broken noise in response. you don’t even know what you’re saying anymore. your body is weightless. your skin hums.

but then—

you gasp.

your eyes fly open.

your chest is heaving. the air in your room is cool and dry, completely still. your sheets are damp and tangled around your legs, clinging to your thighs. your heart is pounding in your ears, and your core is throbbing—still clenching around nothing, still dripping from a climax that didn’t really happen. your breath catches in your throat as you look around, as you realize—

you’re alone.

no jay. no weights. no fingers inside you.

just your own body, aching and trembling in the dark.

it was a dream. just a dream.

and yet—your panties are soaked through. your thighs still stick when you move. your clit still throbs from where phantom fingers once were. it all felt so real. so raw.

your hands drag sluggishly across your face, palms rubbing at your bleary, unfocused eyes as you blink against the soft morning light bleeding in through your curtains. your limbs feel heavy, weighed down by the aftermath of last night’s orgasm and the sleep that barely touched you. there’s a faint ache in your thighs and a dull throb low in your belly—remnants of the way you touched yourself, the way you thought about him. about jay. and it’s almost comforting, that slow, sinful burn still lingering under your skin.

you reach lazily for your phone on the nightstand, fingers fumbling against the cool surface until you finally wrap your hand around it. the screen lights up, glowing too bright against your tired eyes, and you squint at the notifications that fill the display. your heart skips when you see them.

five messages.

from jay.

your brows knit together in a sleepy confusion, thumb hovering over the screen before you swipe to read them. your mind is still sluggish, the words not fully registering until you glance at the time in the corner—and then your stomach drops. the haze of sleep evaporates instantly.

you’re an hour late.

your breath stutters in your throat as panic rushes through your chest, sharp and electric. your eyes widen, your body jolting upright as the realization fully sinks in. you were supposed to be at the gym. you were supposed to be with him. right now. and instead, you’re still tangled in your sheets, hair a mess, skin flushed from sleep and the shameful thoughts you let yourself drown in the night before.

“fuck,” you whisper under your breath, voice hoarse as you throw the covers off and scramble out of bed.

your movements are frantic—hands tugging your shirt over your head, fingers yanking your panties down in one harsh motion. they stick to your skin, damp from more than just sweat, and the feeling makes your stomach twist with something guilty and hot. you toss the fabric aside without a second thought, rushing into the bathroom, bare feet slapping against the cool tile.

you don’t even let the water fully heat before you step under the stream, the temperature stinging at first but quickly fading into a scalding comfort. it slides down your skin, washing away the traces of sleep and the filth clinging to your thoughts. you scrub yourself in a frenzy, fingers dragging the loofah over your skin in quick, shaky motions. there’s no time to savor anything, no time to enjoy the warmth or the way the steam curls around your shoulders. all you can think about is jay. his unread messages. the way his face might look when you walk in late. disappointed. unreadable. maybe pissed.

your heart races faster at the thought.

you work shampoo through your hair with trembling fingers, scrubbing hard at your scalp like it’ll clear the fog in your mind. your chest rises and falls too quickly, breath shaky as your pulse pounds in your ears. what if he’s mad? you rinse, let the water beat down on your face, and close your eyes just for a second—only to see his again. the way they stared at you in the mirror. sharp. hungry. like he already knew what you’d do the second you got home.

and fuck, he was right.

you finish the fastest shower of your life, stepping out onto the bath mat with water still dripping down your legs. you barely towel off—just enough to get your skin dry enough to slide into your clothes. your black sports bra clings tight against your damp skin, molding to the curve of your breasts as you hook it behind your back. the biker shorts come next, stretched up over your hips in one swift motion, hugging your body snugly, your cunt still faintly sore underneath them from the way you came against your fingers just hours before.

you grab your socks, your shoes, your gym bag all in one chaotic breath, flinging the strap over your shoulder and nearly tripping over yourself as you rush toward the door. keys in one hand, phone in the other, heart slamming against your ribs with every passing second.

you don’t even look in the mirror before you leave.

don’t check your hair, don’t fix your flushed cheeks, don’t try to calm your nerves. you’re already too far gone, already imagining what you’ll say when you see him. if you say anything. because really—what do you even say to the man you moaned for in the shower? to the man whose name spilled out of your mouth as you came all over your own fingers?

the car ride is a blur. red lights, honking horns, the buzz of your phone vibrating again with one last message you don’t have the courage to open.

and when the gym finally comes into view—cold and familiar under the morning light—you feel your throat tighten. your thighs clench instinctively.

you walk in quickly, your shoes squeaking slightly against the polished floor, the cold air of the gym brushing against your skin and doing nothing to soothe the way your body’s already burning up with nerves. your breath is still uneven from the rush, your pulse racing from the inside out. your hair’s ruined—messy from the fastest shower of your life, tangled and still slightly damp, clinging to your temples and the back of your neck. strands fall across your face with every step, and you don’t even try to push them back.

because the moment your eyes meet his, you forget how to move.

jay is standing a few feet away, tall and silent, arms crossed over his chest like he’s been waiting. and not patiently. his entire body is stiff, still, as if he’s holding something back—something sharp. his jaw is tense, mouth set in a firm line, and it’s not the same look he wore yesterday. there’s no teasing in his expression now. no smirk, no curiosity, no lingering softness beneath the surface. just a hard, cold stare that lands on you and doesn’t move.

your feet stop like they’ve been nailed to the floor.

you suck in a shaky breath, chest rising with the effort, but your lungs feel too tight. your stomach coils on itself, heat flushing down your neck as the weight of his gaze settles heavy on your shoulders. it’s like he’s reading you—picking you apart with just a glance, like he can see every reason you were late, every shameful thought that kept you in bed a little too long, every mark your own fingers left behind.

your hands fumble to unclip your gym bag, fingers unsteady as you drop it onto the bench beside you. the zipper snags a little. you don’t even bother fixing it. everything feels off. too quiet. too tense. and still, jay doesn’t say a word.

you take a careful step closer, trying to find your voice, even though your throat is dry, your tongue heavy, like it’s stuck to the roof of your mouth. you wet your lips without thinking, your eyes flicking up to his once more, searching for something—anything—beneath that unreadable mask he’s wearing.

“jay, i—”

your voice cracks. it’s soft, small, far too fragile. you’re not even sure what you were going to say. maybe an apology. maybe an excuse. maybe a desperate plea for him to just look at you the way he did yesterday—like he wanted to tear you open and crawl inside. but you never get the chance.

“save it.”

his voice cuts through you like a blade. low. calm. controlled. and somehow, that’s worse than if he’d shouted.

your mouth shuts immediately, your breath catching as his words hang heavy in the air. you nod before you even think to, the motion instinctive—submissive. your heart pounds in your ears, and your body responds without permission, feet shuffling into motion as you try not to crumble under the weight of everything you want to say but can’t.

he doesn’t move toward you. doesn’t give you even the smallest indication of what he’s thinking. but his eyes—fuck, his eyes—they stay locked on you, following your every step like he’s measuring how far he can push you before you break. he doesn’t look curious. he looks sure. like he already knows.

he tilts his head slightly toward the mat in front of him, chin angled down, gaze sharp.

“get ready to do sit-ups, y/n.”

your name on his tongue sounds clipped. colder than before. professional, almost. but not quite. not when it’s him. not when you’re still reeling from the memory of his voice whispering filth into your ear in your dreams.

you nod again, smaller this time. your legs feel stiff as you walk toward the mat, your breathing still uneven, the air thick and strange. it’s all wrong. this isn’t how things usually go. jay always greets you with at least something. a word. a look. sometimes a smirk. sometimes that condescending little tilt of his head that made your knees wobble more than the workouts ever did.

but today? nothing.

not a single sound passes your lips as you nod once and move toward the mat, your movements quiet and rushed, careful not to make any more mistakes than you already have. your body feels stiff, your heart beating uncomfortably loud in your ears, each thump echoing the shame still curling in your stomach. you drop to your knees before lying back, your spine pressing flat to the floor, cool against your skin even through your clothes.

you know this routine. your muscles remember the order—the placement of your arms, the bend in your knees, the strain in your core—but today it all feels different. heavier. tighter. like you’re performing under a spotlight with no applause at the end. your hands rise to rest near your temples, elbows angled wide as you settle into position. your knees are bent just right, feet planted firmly into the mat, and yet nothing feels stable. not with him so close. not with that unreadable tension still radiating off of him like a silent warning.

you hear his footsteps approach before you see him. slow. measured. unhurried. jay stops at the top of your mat, standing tall above your bent legs. he doesn’t kneel. doesn’t crouch. doesn’t even look like he’s planning to move anytime soon. he’s positioned right in front of your knees, arms still crossed over his chest, gaze heavy as it lingers down your body like he’s sizing you up, but not in the way he used to. not in that lingering, teasing, near-predatory way that made your insides twist with anticipation.

this look is colder. clinical. distant.

“you’re going to do twenty,” he says finally, his tone stripped of emotion, every word firm and clipped like a checklist item. “i want them to be precise.”

you nod again, barely managing to breathe past the knot forming in your throat.

you start your first rep. your body moves instinctively, muscles activating as your core tightens, your shoulders lifting off the mat. you curl up slowly, chest rising until it presses lightly against your thighs. your elbows stay wide, your hands by your face. your breath comes out in soft, controlled exhales. it’s not difficult—not yet—but your body is tense in a different way. not from effort. from him. from the silence. from the way you feel his eyes follow you the entire time, burning into your skin like he’s waiting for you to fail.

when you reach the top of the sit-up, you pause briefly—just long enough to look up at him. your eyes search his face for something. encouragement, maybe. a nod. a sliver of softness. some sign that he doesn’t hate you right now.

but all you’re met with is a blank stare.

his eyes meet yours, but they don’t offer anything. no warmth, no recognition, not even that smug little glint that used to drive you crazy. his expression is unreadable—his jaw tense, his features locked in place like stone. you don’t even know if he’s breathing.

your stomach twists painfully.

you drop back down, your shoulders hitting the mat, and you rise again. a second sit-up. same motion. same ache. and yet, everything about it feels harder now. not because your body can’t handle it—but because his silence is heavier than any weight you’ve ever lifted.

you reach the top again. your chest grazes your thighs. your eyes flick up.

still nothing.

no nod. no flicker of approval. no soft good. no teasing keep going.

he just stares.

you keep going. the reps start to blur together. three. four. five. your breath comes harder, your abs starting to burn slightly, but it’s nothing compared to the ache spreading through your chest. you don’t know why it hurts so much, why the absence of his usual taunts feels worse than anything he could’ve said. it’s the way he keeps watching you without reacting. like he’s above responding. like you don’t even deserve the words.

and maybe you don’t. not after what you did. not after showing up late, flushed and guilty, with the memory of his voice still echoing in your head while your panties stuck to your skin.

you lose count for a moment, mind spinning as you go back down, then lift again, pushing through the tension in your core, your arms still beside your face. every time you come up, you’re right there—face to face with his stare. every time, you search for something. and every time, he gives you nothing.

the silence stretches on.

the tension tightens.

you try to keep going, but your body is no longer cooperating the way it should.

your movements start to falter, your breath quickening in short, desperate bursts as your core burns from the effort. each sit-up becomes harder to complete—your elbows trembling, your back aching slightly with strain—but you don’t stop. you can’t. because even though you reached the twentieth rep—the number he told you to hit—he didn’t say you were finished. he didn’t give you that nod, that small flicker of approval, that quiet good job he sometimes throws your way like a crumb.

no, he just stood there. unmoving. unreadable.

so you push into twenty-one. twenty-two. twenty-three. every time you rise, the burn intensifies, and the sweat collecting at your brow slides down your temple, curling under your jaw. your hair is sticking to your cheeks now, your breathing growing more ragged with every rep, and the fire in your abdomen only twists tighter as you fight to keep your form clean, sharp, controlled.

but it isn’t the physical effort that’s making you tremble now. it’s him.

jay hasn’t looked away once. his arms remain crossed over his chest, his stance still stiff and locked in place, but his eyes—god, his eyes—they never leave your body. they trail after every lift of your chest, every twitch of your arms, every slip in your form. they’re cold, hard, unreadable—but you can feel the storm brewing behind them. something simmering just beneath the surface, like he’s holding back more than just his voice.

he’s angry. you can feel it in the silence. in the way he hasn’t spoken a word since the command he gave you. in the way he’s letting you exhaust yourself, letting you burn, sweat, struggle—just to make a point.

you made him wait. you didn’t show up on time. and now he’s showing you what that costs.

your movements start to stutter more, your knees shifting slightly, your back beginning to curve as the fatigue hits deeper than your muscles. you try to fix it on your own, but it’s too late. he sees it.

and then he finally moves.

his steps are slow, deliberate. you don’t even see him kneel—you just feel him. one second, he’s standing over you like a judgment you can’t escape, and the next, his hands are on you. large, warm, unforgiving. his fingers press into your sides as he adjusts your hips, nudging you back into the position he wants. his touch is firm but not rough—controlled. precise. like he’s sculpting you into the version he prefers.

but he doesn’t stop once the correction is made. not this time.

his hands stay.

his fingers glide slowly along your waist, brushing just under the edge of your sports bra. the touch is barely there—ghostlike, more warmth than pressure—but it lights a fire under your skin. you suck in a sharp breath, body freezing for a second beneath the soft sweep of his fingertips. they trail lower, passing over the curve of your hip, lingering at the edge of your shorts like they might dip inside if you just moved wrong enough.

you gasp—quiet and instinctive. it slips from your lips before you can stop it, and the sound lingers in the air like a confession.

jay hears it. he always does.

his fingers pause, just for a moment, like he’s letting the sound register. then, slowly, he leans forward, his face close enough that his breath ghosts along the side of your cheek. your eyes flutter open to meet his, and the weight of his gaze pins you flat to the mat.

“how many times do i have to correct you?”

his voice is low—soft, almost—but there’s no gentleness in it. it’s cold. calculated. the words slip out like a reprimand and a threat all at once. they don’t rise above a murmur, and yet they feel louder than anything else in the room. his eyes lock onto yours, and the intensity of his stare makes your throat tighten, your lips parting around a shaky breath.

you try to answer, but nothing comes out. your brain is too fogged, your body too hypersensitive, your skin still tingling from where he touched you. and he sees it. he watches the way your mouth opens slightly, how your lashes flutter, how your legs press just a little tighter together even though you’re supposed to be focused on your form.

you think you can hide behind innocence. but you can’t.

not when your body gives you away so easily.

he sees the way your chest rises with every breath, how your gasps get softer, more airy, more needy when he leans too close. he sees the tremble in your thighs, the quiver in your lip, the way you glance away and then right back, like you want to be scolded. want to be touched again.

you sit up fast, body still buzzing, limbs weak beneath you as your shaky hands push against the mat to help you stand. your legs don’t feel steady. your thighs tremble faintly as you move, and your chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven bursts that you can’t quite control. you barely make it to the bench before collapsing onto it, breath spilling out in soft pants as your hand comes up to wipe the sweat clinging to your bare shoulder with the back of your wrist.

your body feels overheated. flushed and overwhelmed. your skin burns everywhere—where his hands touched, where his hips pressed into yours, where his voice dropped too close to your throat. and now, with him still standing there, still watching, it’s like your whole body is on fire.

you try to play it off. to catch your breath, to cool yourself down.

“l-let’s just… take a break,” you mumble, voice unsteady, a little too thin.

you lift your hand in a weak attempt to fan yourself, the motion useless, more of a distraction than anything else. your eyes flick upward, trying to meet his, but they only land on his chest—broad and still rising subtly with each of his slow breaths. then lower, without thinking, and your stomach turns.

he’s still hard.

still tenting his sweats, his cock clearly pressing against the thin fabric like he hasn’t even tried to hide what just happened. your mouth goes dry. your gaze lingers too long before you catch yourself, eyes darting back up to his face, only to find him already watching you.

his expression changes.

just for a second, his mouth twitches—tightening into something sharp, something cold. his eyes narrow slightly, like he’s about to say something you won’t like, and your heart skips. but it disappears just as fast. smoothed over. replaced by that same neutral mask you’ve seen so many times before.

he steps forward.

it’s slow. unhurried. and you feel the air change around you as he closes the distance, his body blocking out the light, casting a shadow over your lap as he stops right in front of where you sit. your eyes trail up to his again—slow, reluctant—and you realize you’re holding your breath.

“you come late,” he says, voice even but firm. “and now you’re needing a break?”

you tense. his tone isn’t angry, but it cuts through you anyway, sharp with disappointment, as if your body betraying you is somehow an inconvenience to him. you want to argue. to snap back. but the way he looks down at you—like you’re something small, like you’ve given him exactly what he expected—keeps your lips pressed tightly together.

his stare remains blank. unreadable. not cold anymore, not exactly. just... calculated. like he’s measuring your reaction, watching you squirm under the weight of his presence. and it’s starting to get under your skin. it always does.

you’ve never been able to crack him. not once.

not when he’s like this. not when he decides to shut you out completely, bury everything under that perfect blankness. it frustrates you. confuses you. especially after what just happened—after the way his hips rolled into yours like he wanted to fuck you through the mat. how could he just shift back into this version of himself like he wasn’t grinding against your soaked core moments ago?

but then your eyes drop again. you can’t help it.

his cock still strains against the fabric of his sweats—thick, hard, unmistakable. it’s there, evidence that whatever he’s pretending doesn’t exist between you? it does. and it has a pulse.

before you can think too hard, a sound breaks the silence.

a soft chuckle.

low. deep. lazy. it rolls from his throat like a slow exhale, not loud, but sharp enough to slice straight through your thoughts. it sends a chill down your spine. not because it’s cruel. but because it’s the first thing he’s given you that feels real.

your head lifts sharply, eyes locking on his face again. and this time, for just a split second, you swear there’s something there. a flicker of amusement. hunger. maybe even pride.

you’re still breathing hard when he steps forward, and even though he’s not touching you, it feels like he might as well be. the space between you evaporates with every inch he closes, and you feel your pulse spike in your throat the moment he casts his shadow over your lap. he towers above you, quiet and controlled, while you sit on the edge of the bench like something wound too tight—flushed, trembling, your inner thighs already sticky with proof of what you’ve let happen.

his expression doesn’t change, not visibly. he still wears that unreadable mask, calm and perfectly in control, but there’s something sharp hiding just beneath the surface. something in the slight tilt of his head, the measured stillness of his breath, the way his eyes trail over you without softening. and you know—without a doubt—that he’s waiting for you to say something. to admit something. to give in.

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. your chest is rising and falling too fast, your hands pressing into the bench beneath you like you're grounding yourself, trying to keep from shaking apart. your lips part again with a breathy start of a word you don’t have the courage to finish, and that’s when he speaks—quiet, almost lazy, like he has all the time in the world to unravel you.

“you keep acting like i did something to you,” he murmurs, voice low and infuriatingly calm, like the truth he’s about to drop won’t leave you completely destroyed. “like i touched you first. like i crossed a line.”

your heart jumps in your chest. your fingers curl tight against the edge of the bench. your eyes lift to his face just in time to see the glint in his eyes—subtle, dangerous, the kind of satisfaction that only comes from knowing he has you exactly where he wants you.

“but we both know who started it,” he continues, stepping just a little closer now, his tone dropping lower, quieter, every syllable drawing out like he’s savoring it. “you remember, don’t you?”

you freeze. your breath catches painfully in your throat. you already know what he’s about to say, but hearing it in his voice—hearing him take it and twist it, throw it back at you—makes your skin burn with something hotter than shame.

“you were the one backing into me,” he says, and there’s a weight behind his words now, a slow pressure like a hand curling tight around your neck. “grinding your ass on my cock during squats like you wanted it there. like you needed it there.”

your whole body tenses, and the heat between your legs only grows worse. you can’t hide it. you don’t even try. his voice is too much—rough and steady, threaded with dark amusement and something far more dangerous. your eyes drop on instinct, landing low—right where he knows they’ll go—and there it is. the outline of his cock, thick and hard through his sweats, no longer something you can pretend not to notice.

“you kept going,” he says. “pushing back on every rep. not pulling away. not saying a word. just letting me feel how turned on you were.”

you inhale sharply, and it’s humiliating how shaky it sounds. your knees try to press together, but it’s too little too late. he’s already seen it. he’s seen everything. your soaked thighs, your trembling hands, the way your eyes keep flicking down to his bulge like it’s gravity pulling them there.

his voice drops lower. darker. quieter.

“and then you let me touch you.”

your lips part, but you can’t form a response. your tongue feels thick, useless, your thoughts spinning out of control as he steps in even closer—still not touching, but close enough now that you feel his body heat bleed into your skin.

“you let me correct your posture. touch your waist. slide my hands over your hips. rub your shoulders like i owned them. and you didn’t stop me. you didn’t even blink.”

he leans down now, just slightly, just enough that his mouth hovers near your ear, and the air in your lungs goes still.

“you fucking wanted it,” he whispers. “and now you’re sitting here acting like you’re tired? like you didn’t spend the last fifteen minutes soaked and desperate for more?”

you shiver beneath his words. your whole body clenches, thighs twitching, breath locked up in your chest as you try and fail to form a single coherent thought. you want to argue. deny it. fight back. but everything in your body betrays you.

before you can even act—before your breath settles, before your mind catches up to your body—he’s already moving.

jay doesn’t give you the chance to speak. doesn’t give you time to change your mind. his hands are at the waistband of his sweatpants, thumbs hooking into the band of his boxers, and he drags both of them down in one fluid motion. the fabric slides low on his hips, past the muscle of his thighs, and then his cock springs free—thick, flushed, hard. it bounces slightly against his abdomen as it’s released, the head glistening wet with precum.

he exhales a low, guttural sound from deep in his throat, not loud, but full of tension. his hand wraps around the base without hesitation, fingers curling around his length like it’s a habit, like he’s been waiting for this all day. his other hand reaches for you, slipping into your hair, threading through the strands with fingers that are both steady and possessive.

he pulls your head closer—not rough, not forceful yet, but enough to make your lips part instinctively as you look up at him, wide-eyed and breathless.

“why don’t you be a good girl for once,” he murmurs, voice heavy with heat, “and show me what you’ve been wanting?”

you barely have time to register the words before the head of his cock taps against your mouth, sticky with precum, smearing it across your lips like he’s marking you. he doesn’t wait for permission. doesn’t wait for consent that’s already written all over your face, in the way you moan softly, lips falling open without hesitation, tongue flicking out just slightly to taste him.

the moment you do, he groans again. rougher this time.

you wrap your lips around the tip, soft and slow, your mouth warm and wet as you suck him in. the taste of him hits your tongue first—salty and bitter, thick with heat—and the reaction it pulls from him is immediate. his hips jerk just slightly, his hand tightens in your hair, and a low “fuck…” slips past his lips like he’s trying to hold it back and failing.

you take him deeper, inch by inch, your mouth stretching to accommodate him. your jaw aches almost instantly, but you push through it, needing more. your tongue slides along the underside, tracing the thick vein that runs the length of him, and the sound he makes above you nearly makes your thighs squeeze together.

you get halfway—maybe a little more—but it’s not enough for him.

not even close.

his hand flexes in your hair again, and suddenly he’s pushing forward, guiding your head down slowly but firmly until the tip of his cock nudges the back of your throat. your nose brushes against the hard plane of his abdomen, your eyes watering instantly from the stretch, from the pressure, from the sheer size of him filling your mouth so completely.

you gag softly, throat tightening around him as your fingers curl against his thighs, and the reaction it pulls from him is pure filth. his teeth sink into his bottom lip, biting down hard as his brows furrow, hips twitching with restraint. he’s breathing heavier now—slow and deliberate—like he’s savoring the way your mouth feels around him, like he’s never going to forget the image of you on your knees, lips stretched wide, cheeks hollowed out with effort as you choke on his cock.

his voice is barely a whisper when it comes.

“fuck… just like that.”

your mouth is stretched wide, your lips swollen and slick, and jay is buried so deep down your throat you can barely breathe. but you don’t want to pull away. you don’t even think about stopping. your knees are starting to ache, your jaw sore from the strain, tears already brimming along your lashes—but none of it matters. not with the way he’s looking down at you like you’re the best fucking thing he’s ever seen.

he starts slow. his hips rock forward just enough to feel the pressure, just enough to make your throat constrict around him with every push. your gag reflex twitches but you breathe through it, fingers curling tight around his thighs for stability, for something to hold on to. your tongue flattens against the underside of his cock, the thick vein pulsing against the back of your tongue with every lazy thrust. your spit coats him already, warm and slippery, and every time he pulls back, it strings between your lips and the flushed tip of his cock.

jay groans low in his chest, one hand still threaded in your hair while the other braces at his side. his jaw is clenched, his breath heavy, but his face stays trained on you—on the way your cheeks hollow when you suck him in, the way your throat tightens and trembles as you take more of him, deeper, sloppier, hungrier with every stroke.

and then, without warning, he shifts. his fingers flex, his grip in your hair tightens, and he pulls your head forward again—not rough, not violent, but firm, like he knows exactly what you can take and exactly how to give it to you. his hips meet the motion, pushing deeper. suddenly his cock is shoved farther down your throat, nudging the tightest part, and your body flinches. your eyes snap open, watering instantly, your nails digging into his thighs.

he doesn’t stop.

his hips begin to move in earnest now. slow, deep thrusts at first, then faster, more rhythm to it. more weight. each time he pushes in, your throat strains around him, your gag reflex fluttering again and again as your spit spills from the corners of your mouth. you’re choking softly with every breath, but fuck—you want to. you want the mess. you want the ache. you want the way he moans your name under his breath like he’s never heard anything sweeter.

“fuck,” he groans, low and rough, eyes dark with lust as he watches your lips stretch around him. “you were made for this—look at you.”

you’re not even sure you hear him at first, not through the thick haze of wet sounds and breathless need, but it lands somewhere deep in your chest. it makes your core clench, makes your thighs press together, makes your entire body react to the filthy praise as he keeps fucking your mouth like it belongs to him.

you gag around him again, this time harder, and the sound makes him groan louder, his hips stuttering just slightly. he pulls back—not all the way, just enough to let you breathe for a second—and his cock glistens with your spit, twitching as another drop of precum beads at the tip and smears across your lip.

you gasp, drawing in air like it’s the first you’ve had in hours, your mouth still open, still ready, tongue peeking out like you’re starving for him.

he hisses, his grip on your hair tightening again as he pushes forward.

“don’t stop now,” he mutters, breath ragged. “not when you’re doing so fucking good.”

and then he’s moving again—faster, harder, thrusting into your mouth with less restraint now, letting the wet slap of skin and the messy, desperate rhythm fill the room. his cock pounds the back of your throat, and you can’t help the whimper that bubbles up from deep inside your chest. spit drips down your chin, thick and glossy, soaking into the collar of your shirt. your eyes blur. your legs tremble. you’re falling apart on your knees, and all he’s doing is watching.

he looks wrecked. sweat beading at his temple, brows furrowed, lips parted as he fucks into your mouth like he’s not going to last much longer.

“shit,” he breathes, voice shaking. “fuck, your throat—feels so good—squeezing me—god, baby, i’m not gonna—”

his hips stutter. his cock twitches. your throat tightens one more time around the weight of him, and he groans, loud and broken and raw as he grabs the back of your head with both hands, holding you there as he buries himself deep.

you gag softly around him, tears spilling over your cheeks as his cock pulses against your tongue.

and then he cums.

hot and thick, the first spurt hits the back of your throat without warning. then another. and another. he grunts low as he holds your head still, forcing you to take it all, his breath shaking, body shuddering with every wave of release. you swallow as best you can, but it’s messy—some of it dripping past your lips, sliding down your chin as you choke softly on the heat of it.

he finally pulls back, just barely, and you suck in air through your nose, blinking through the tears as his cock slips from your mouth with a wet pop. you’re wrecked—drool and cum on your lips, your chest heaving, your throat raw.

jay looks down at you.

and even through the mess, the ruin, the flushed haze of satisfaction on his face—there’s still hunger in his eyes.

you barely have time to catch your breath. your throat’s raw, lips slick with spit and his cum, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven pants. you glance up at him through wet lashes, dazed, thinking maybe—just maybe—he’ll pull back, give you a break, let you recover. but he doesn’t. not even for a second.

his hand grips your jaw, thumb swiping across your cheek like he's wiping his cum from the corner of your mouth, and before you can say a word, he’s grabbing your wrist and yanking you up. your legs barely hold you—unsteady, weak, trembling—but he’s already pulling you forward with him, your body moving on instinct as he drops down onto the bench and tugs you into his lap. his grip on your hips is bruising, his breath heavy with restraint, and the second you straddle him, you feel it—his cock, already hard again, pressed thick and hot between your thighs.

“get on,” he growls, voice deep and wrecked. “you want it? then ride it.”

your mouth parts with a gasp, the sound spilling from your lips before you can stop it. “j-jay…”

your voice trembles, soft and needy, and the second it leaves you, he twitches beneath you. his eyes snap up to yours, his expression shifting—something sharp and dark curling in the corners of his mouth.

“fuck,” he mutters, dragging your soaked shorts down with both hands, baring your cunt in one smooth, practiced motion. “you’re already moaning my name again, huh? didn’t even get my cock inside you yet.”

you shiver, your hands bracing against his shoulders, your pussy slick and throbbing as he lines himself up with your entrance. the swollen tip of his cock slides against your folds, and the sound that slips out of you is pure need—raw, breathless, aching.

“jay, please,” you whimper, your voice cracking as you try to lower yourself onto him, your thighs shaking from the effort.

“yeah?” he taunts, his grip tightening on your hips. “go ahead, sweetheart. take it.”

you do.

you sink down, slow at first, the thick stretch of him forcing a cry from your throat as your cunt swallows inch after inch. the fullness makes your head drop back, your fingers digging into his arms as he groans low against your skin, the sound guttural, almost feral.

“fuck—you feel that?” he grits out, voice right at your ear. “feel how tight you are around me?”

“yes,” you gasp, your voice barely a whisper, your walls fluttering as you bottom out, the tip of his cock buried so deep inside you it feels like you can’t take it. “fuck, jay—feels so good…”

his hands slide up your sides, then back down to your ass, gripping you hard as he starts to move. he thrusts up into you with no patience, setting a rough, unforgiving pace that forces your body to bounce in his lap with every snap of his hips. it’s fast. aggressive. deliberate. like he’s trying to fuck the breath out of your lungs, like he’s trying to fuck his name into the pit of your stomach.

you cry out, loud and messy, your hands scrabbling for something to hold onto as he slams into you again, again, again. each thrust forces a gasp of his name from your lips, your moans dissolving into broken syllables that don’t even sound human.

“jay—fuck—jay, please, i—”

he laughs. dark. breathless.

“god, you sound so fucking pretty like this,” he mutters, eyes locked on your mouth. “moaning my name like you need it just to breathe.”

your head tips forward, your forehead pressing to his as your voice trembles, full of everything you can’t hide anymore. “i do—fuck, i do, jay—don’t stop, please, don’t stop—”

“i’m not fucking stopping,” he growls, fucking up into you harder, faster, his grip bruising now. “not until you scream it. not until you cum all over my cock and say my name like you fuckin’ mean it.”

and when your eyes crack open—wet, wide, desperate—and you meet his in the mirror across the room, what you see undoes you completely.

your mouth is parted, your body bouncing in his lap, his hands bruising your hips as he thrusts up into you with the kind of rhythm that makes your whole body shake. your hair is sticking to your sweat-slick skin, your throat hoarse from crying out, and your pussy’s so soaked, you can hear it—wet and filthy with every slam of his hips into yours.

his voice is in your ear again.

“look at you,” he hisses, snapping his hips up into you so hard your whole body jolts. “so fucked out you can’t even speak, just moaning my name like a good little slut.”

you can’t hold it in anymore.

“*jay—oh my god, jay, please—fuck, i’m gonna—”

“yeah?” he growls. “you gonna cum? right here on my cock, in front of the fuckin’ mirror?”

you nod, whimpering, helpless, hands clawing at his shoulders. “yes—please, let me—need to—need to cum so bad—”

he grabs you by the throat again, not tight, just enough to keep you still, to keep your eyes on the mirror as he fucks into you harder than ever, the bench underneath creaking from the force of it.

“then cum,” he snarls. “cum for me, baby. let me hear you scream my name like you fucking mean it.”

you don’t stand a chance.

not with the way he’s fucking into you—fast and deep, relentless, rough. not with the way your knees are already buckling on either side of his hips, your legs barely holding on. not with the sound of your own moans echoing off the gym walls, getting louder, higher, more desperate every time he thrusts up into your dripping cunt like he’s trying to split you open.

and definitely not with the way he’s holding you—one hand braced on the small of your back, pressing you forward, forcing your spine to curve and your chest to push against his while his other hand curls around your throat again, gentle but firm, controlling your breath and your view and your body all at once.

his mouth is at your ear, hot and ragged, words slipping past his teeth like they’ve been sitting on his tongue for too long.

“you hear yourself?” he growls, hips slamming up into you so hard your breath hitches mid-moan. “fuckin’ crying for it, baby. you gonna cum for me like that?”

your voice breaks—another moan of his name, raw and high and aching. “j-jay—”

he bites down on your shoulder—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who’s in control—and the way your body clenches around him in response makes him groan low against your skin.

“that’s it,” he mutters, voice strained. “say it again. moan my name while i ruin this tight little pussy.”

you do.

you can’t stop. his name keeps falling from your lips like it’s the only word you remember. you’re shaking now, full-body trembles that start in your thighs and travel up your spine, and your nails scrape down his shoulders as you cling to him, cunt fluttering wildly around his cock as the pressure builds too fast.

“jay—please—fuck, i’m gonna cum, i can’t—i can’t—”

you’re sobbing now, voice wrecked and falling apart, your head tipped back, your mouth wide open with a cry that turns into a full scream when he slams into you just right, again and again, never breaking pace. and then it hits.

your orgasm crashes over you like a wave you can’t outrun—violent, pulsing, blinding. your whole body goes stiff for one perfect second, your toes curling, your walls locking down around his cock like you’re trying to keep him inside forever. and then you’re shaking. gasping. your face pressed against his neck as you sob out his name again and again and again.

he growls low in your ear, his thrusts sharp and deep, chasing the clench of your cunt like he’s addicted to it.

“fuck—fuck, that’s it—cum for me, baby, that’s it—jesus, you feel so good—so fucking tight—”

he doesn’t slow down. he fucks you through it, his cock dragging through the aftershocks, making you jerk and twitch in his lap while he breathes hard against your cheek. the wet sound of your cunt swallowing him gets louder, filthier, every time he pushes back in. your slick’s everywhere—on his thighs, the bench, running down the backs of your legs—and you can feel the way his cock twitches inside you with every clench of your pussy.

he’s close.

so fucking close.

“you want it?” he pants, voice sharp with strain. “you want me to cum in this pretty pussy?”

you nod frantically, still gasping, still crying, your voice gone but your body giving him every answer he needs. your hands grab at his back, your nails dragging down hard, and he hisses when you whimper against his jaw.

“yes—jay, please, cum in me—want it—want you to fill me—fuck, please—”

that’s all it takes.

he curses—loud, sharp, filthy—and then he’s coming inside you, hips jerking up in stuttered thrusts as his cock throbs deep in your soaked, clenching cunt. he holds you down on him, buried to the base, one hand gripping your ass, the other still at your throat, and you can feel the way he shudders under your palms. feel the warmth of his release spilling into you, thick and hot, making a mess of your insides.

he breathes your name like it’s the only thing grounding him. like he needs to say it or he’ll lose his mind completely.

your body collapses against him, still shaking, still pulsing around him as he slows—his hips rolling lazily, drawing out the last wave of his orgasm until you’re both panting and soaked, glued together in a mess of sweat and cum and need.

in the mirror, you catch a glimpse of yourself.

your hair is stuck to your forehead. your lips are parted. your thighs are trembling around his. and your pussy is still wrapped tight around his cock, cum already leaking down the inside of your legs.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ okay i want feedback for this, honestly idk how i feel about it >-< but i hoped you all still enjoyed !

#enhypen #enha #enha smut #enha x reader #enhypen x reader #enhypen smut #heeluvv #park jongseong #jongseong x reader #jongseong smut #enhypen jongseong #enhypen jay x you #enhypen jay x reader #enhypen jay #jay smut

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yois2aki · 4 months ago

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wc. 1k

remember when caleb straight up said "what if i told you i was always like this?"... well. this is my take on how high school caleb dealt with his possessiveness. when he still managed to keep some of his rationality leading.

caleb wasn’t used to feeling this way. at least, not when it came to you. he had always been the quiet, composed type, the one who didn’t let his emotions show too much, especially not in public. but now? now, every time he saw you laughing with jayden, the guy from your maths class, something in him twisted uncomfortably.

he tried to brush it off, tried to tell himself he was being ridiculous. but today, watching you and jayden walk down the hallway together, side by side, laughing over some stupid inside joke, caleb felt that familiar knot in his stomach tightening. jayden had his hand on your back, a touch so casual, so natural, and it made caleb’s blood boil.

he leaned against the wall, pretending to check his phone, but his eyes kept flickering to you. you didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong, too caught up in your conversation with jayden, your eyes bright, your laughter filling the air. caleb swallowed hard, trying to calm himself, but he couldn’t. his chest tightened with a possessiveness he wasn’t used to feeling.

he noticed jayden get a little too close to you—too close for caleb’s liking. the way jayden’s shoulder brushed against yours as they walked side by side, the way his hand lingered on your arm when he pointed something out. it was enough to make caleb’s teeth clench, his grip on his phone tightening until his fingers ached.

he wanted to say something. to go up to jayden and shove him away from you, tell him to back off, but he couldn’t. he didn’t have the guts to confront you. he wasn’t sure what was going on inside him, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

instead, he just stood there, feeling the anger building up inside him, a storm he couldn’t control.

when you finally noticed him standing there, watching the two of you, you smiled and waved. “hey, caleb!” you called, your voice light and cheerful, completely unaware of the tension building in him.

he tried to smile back, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “hey,” he muttered, pushing himself off the wall and walking toward you. his steps were deliberate, but his heart was racing.

as he got closer, he could feel the anger in his chest, simmering just below the surface. he couldn’t stop thinking about the way jayden had touched you, the way he had been so comfortable around you. he hated it. hated the way he couldn’t even look at you without feeling like he was losing control.

you, still oblivious, were talking to jayden about something. caleb’s gaze flickered to jayden again, and for a brief moment, he could feel his jaw tightening. jayden had that smug smile on his face, the one that caleb couldn’t stand, and it was directed right at you.

he shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to keep his cool, but it was getting harder and harder. “so, what’s going on?” caleb asked, his tone a little sharper than he intended.

you looked at him, the concern flashing across your face. “oh, nothing. just talking about the math homework,” you said with a smile. “jayden’s been helping me out with it.”

caleb’s lips pressed into a thin line, his fists clenching in his pockets. “yeah, i can see that,” he muttered under his breath.

“what’s wrong?” you asked, the worry in your voice now. you had noticed the change in his demeanor, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet yours, the way he was standing so stiffly.

“nothing,” caleb lied, his eyes flickering to jayden for a moment before he quickly looked away. “it’s fine. just… didn’t know you were spending so much time with him.”

you furrowed your brow, now sensing something was off. “caleb, you’re acting weird.”

caleb’s heart hammered in his chest, but he didn’t know how to explain it. he didn’t want to admit how jealous he was, how angry it made him to see jayden so comfortable with you. he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

instead, he just gave a small shrug, avoiding your gaze. “i’m not acting weird.”

you didn’t buy it. you knew something was wrong, but you didn’t press him, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. jayden, however, seemed to pick up on the tension in the air, and with a small smile, he clapped caleb on the shoulder. “hey, man, you good?”

caleb stiffened at the touch, his whole body going rigid. he didn’t like it. he didn’t like jayden’s casualness, his closeness to you. but he didn’t say anything. he couldn’t. instead, he simply nodded, trying to force a smile.

“yeah, i’m good,” caleb said, his voice tight, his words clipped. “just… just tired.”

you studied his face for a moment, the concern still clear in your expression, but you didn’t push him further. jayden, sensing the discomfort, finally decided to take his leave. “alright, i’ll catch you later,” he said to you, giving you a small wave before walking away.

as soon as jayden was out of earshot, caleb let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.

you turned to caleb, your voice softer now. “caleb, what’s going on? you’ve been acting off all day.”

caleb’s eyes flickered to you, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet your gaze. he didn’t know how to explain the rush of emotions inside him, the jealousy, the possessiveness, the anger he couldn’t control. it was all too much.

“i’m fine,” he said, his voice a little too rough, the words coming out with more frustration than he intended.

you didn’t look convinced, but you didn’t push him. instead, you reached out, placing a hand on his arm, the simple touch grounding him in the moment. “caleb,” you said softly, “you can talk to me, you know.”

he swallowed hard, his throat tight. but he didn’t say anything. he couldn’t. the words were stuck, and the emotions were too overwhelming. instead, he just nodded, letting you pull him into a silence that felt heavy and thick with unspoken words.

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mariasont · 5 months ago

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Older, Wiser, Off-Limits - A.H

summary: sweetheart!reader is the newest member of the team, bright eyed and full of question she doesnt realize she shouldnt be asking. hotch is twice her age, has known her father longer than she's been alive, and when a case discussion turns into a conversation about age gaps, hotch is the one to explain exactly why they're so dangerous

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader

warnings: dbf aaron hotchner (he never met the reader before she came to the BAU), reader has major daddy issues, age gap, suggestive discussion about the power imbalance of age gap relationships, pre-relationship pining but hotch has far too much restraint

wc: 1.2k

Hotch's sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and for the first time, the cabin lighting caught on a scar of his left hand, a thin, pale line etched across his knuckles. You hadn't noticed it before. Not in all the weeks since you joined the team — when he passed you case files, when he handed you a cup of coffee, somehow, the imperfection had eluded you. Some profiler you are. It wasn't fresh, not jagged or angry. How hadn't you noticed it before? You wondered how he got it. An old case? An accident in his childhood?

You blinked, ripping your gaze away and staring down at the case file as if sheer willpower could force the words to make sense. But they didn't. They blurred together, unreadable, because your thoughts had strayed elsewhere. Across from you, your boss sat reclined against the leather seat, one arm draped loosely on the armrest. His tie hung unevenly, just a little off-center, his shirt slightly untucked from a long day of work, the kind of disheveled that came only after a successful case. You should look away, really, but the longer your stared, the harder it became.

It wasn't like you hadn't noticed Hotch before, he was hard not to notice. But this pull, this godforsaken gravitational force that seized you every time he was near, that stole the air from your lungs and replaced it with static. It was all-consuming. Debilitating, one might say. You weren't like this, not with anyone. Not with either of the boyfriends you'd had, not even during those early, naive moments when you were first discovering what it meant to be in love.

Now you were thinking maybe you’d never actually been in love. Maybe every so-called relationship before this had been nothing more than placeholders, distractions. The idea gnawed at you, and you shoved it down, locked it away before it could fester.

Because this was absurd. Illogical. He was nearly twice your age. Your father's college roommate. A man who should be off-limits in every conceivable way and yet —

"Let's go over the case file again."

His voice startled you. You snapped your eyes back to him, pulse kicking up a notch when you realized he was watching you. How long had he been watching? How long had you been staring?

"Uh, right," you said, fumbling for the paper. "The case."

Your fingers brushed over the wrong paper first, and you muttered a half-formed apology as you shuffled through the file. When you finally found the right one, you risked a glance up to find him still looking at you. It wasn't the stern, I'm in charge look you recognized at briefings to your immediate relief, but it softer, a little more patient.

He did this after every case and at this point, you were starting to think he enjoyed this, making you go over every case in excruciating detail, combing through victim statements and behavioral patterns like it was a final exam. If it were anyone else, you might have teased him for it, might have joked about him being a tough grader or something equally harmless. But this was Hotch, and he wasn't exactly being critical, but he was definitely measuring you, gauging just how quickly you were learning.

You cleared your throat.

"Um, okay. The whole case kind of revolved around their relationship, right? The age difference?"

Hotch nodded, flipping to another page in his report. "It was a contributing factor, yes."

You hesitated, pressing your teeth into your lip before speaking again. "I guess I just don't really get it."

Hotch glanced up at you, brow raised. "What don't you get?"

"The way everyone kept saying it like it was inevitable, like, just because there was an age gap, the relationship had to be unhealthy." You frowned, tapping your pen against the margin of the paper. "I get that it's a pattern in a lot of cases, but that doesn't mean every older guy dating a younger woman is some kind of predator, right?"

Hotch didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he set his report aside, lacing his fingers together in front of him.

"It's not always malicious," he said slowly, like he was choosing each word with care. “But even when there’s no bad intent, those relationships can slip into something unbalanced, sometimes without either person realizing it’s happening.”

"Because one person has more experience?" You tilted your head to the side.

"That, and because experience changes what you want."

You hesitated, his certainty catching you off guard. He didn’t say it like an opinion, he said it like a fact. Like something he knew firsthand.

"What do you mean?"

Hotch leaned back, fingers drumming on the table as if he was turning the thought over in his mind before speaking it aloud.

“When you’re younger, your idea of love, of what a relationship should be, is still evolving. You’re figuring out who you are, what you need, what you’re willing to give.” His eyes flicked to yours. "Someone older already knows these things. Which means they know how to steer the relationship in a direction that benefits them.”

"So you think that people in relationships like that are...what? Being manipulated?"

"Not always." His tone was even. "But the dynamic can be hard to navigate. If one person holds more control, whether that's financial, emotional, or just in life experience, it's easy for the other to fall into place around them without realizing it."

That sat uncomfortably in your chest. You didn't think you disagreed with him. But something about it felt... personal.

You weren't naive, you knew how people saw these kinds of relationships. You'd seen it in cases before, in books, in the way people whispered about couples like that. And sure, you understood the bad versions of it. But Hotch was making it sound like an inherent flaw.

"I don't know," you admitted, shaking your head. "I just...I guess I don't see the problem if both people want to be there."

The words felt uncertain, even as you said them. You weren’t sure what you were defending anymore. You’d never been in a relationship with that kind of imbalance, both of your boyfriends had been your age, on equal footing. You’d never had to think about who held more control.

But then there was Hotch. And now, you were thinking about it all the time.

"That's the thing, they might think they do."

Your brows knit together. "And you don't think they actually do?"

He hesitated. Just for a second. But it was the first time in the entire conversation that he did.

"Sometimes," he said, “when you don’t have enough life behind you, it’s easy to mistake infatuation for certainty. To want something before you understand what wanting really means.”

Infatuation.

The word lodged itself in your mind, demanding to be examined. Was that what this was? A temporary fascination wrapped in the illusion of something deeper? Or maybe it was something darker, something tied to the way he made you feel untouchable, safe.

Or maybe it had nothing to do with him it all. Maybe it was about absence. About the gaps in your life, he seemed to fill. The things your father never gave you. And maybe that was the real problem.

"You talk about it like it's a foregone conclusion."

Hotch tilted his head slightly, studying you. "Wouldn't you say most patterns are?"

You didn’t know how to answer that. There was something too final in the way he said it, something that made your throat feel tight. You felt a little warm again.

"So, what do you think happens when the younger person does know what they want."

Hotch’s fingers flexed against the armrest, a barely-there movement, but you caught it. His jaw tightened. "Then it's up to the older one to know better."

You were overthinking this. Reading into nothing. He was just explaining the case, same as always. Same as he would with anyone. Just answering a question, one that you asked. There was no weight to his words beyond the conversation itself. This wasn’t something you needed to think about later. This wasn’t something that meant anything.

Still, you shifted in your seat, stretching your legs out, crossing them at the ankle, uncrossing them again, suddenly restless in a way you couldn’t quite name.

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taglist is closed for now until i can figure out the best way to include more than 50 mentions :(

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pucksandpower · 5 months ago

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chef!Max Verstappen x vegan!Reader

Summary: in which an unstoppable force (the stubborn Michelin-starred chef of a glitzy steakhouse) meets an immovable object (the vegan just looking for something she can actually eat) … and the rest, as they say, is history

The steakhouse is packed, the ambient light just dim enough to cast a flattering glow over everyone at the long wooden table. Glasses clink together in a chorus of celebration, laughter, and conversation filling the air as your friends lean in close to chat. The table is filled with shared appetizers — charred octopus, beef tallow truffle fries, the occasional bacon-wrapped date — but you’re preoccupied with the thick menu in your hand.

“What’s good here?” You ask, keeping your voice casual. But inside, you’re already scanning for the little green leaf symbols that typically offer you some respite. There’s not a single one. It’s all meat, meat, meat.

“Everything,” someone pipes up. “But definitely the steak.”

You give them a polite smile, already sensing the dilemma growing in your chest. You could’ve sworn someone mentioned the place had plant-based options. But this is a Michelin-starred steakhouse — it seems like steak is the only thing anyone’s interested in tonight.

“Anything catching your eye?” You friend across the table asks, eyes bright with excitement.

“Not exactly.” You chew on your lip, setting the menu down. “I’m, uh, vegan.”

A silence falls over your corner of the table, the chatter continuing elsewhere as your friends stare at you. You feel your cheeks heat up, the familiar twinge of anxiety flaring up as you mentally prepare for the usual questions.

“Vegan? Seriously?” One of them finally says, brow furrowing. “You’re in the wrong place for that.”

“Yeah, it’s just ... it’s my thing, you know?” You laugh lightly, hoping to defuse the situation. “I’m sure they can whip something up in the kitchen, right?”

“I don’t know, this place is pretty strict,” another friend comments, glancing towards the kitchen doors as if expecting a sous-chef to pop out and reprimand you. “But you could ask.”

You take a breath, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll ask.”

The waiter approaches, a polished smile on his face as he sets down more drinks and asks if you’ve made any decisions. You tilt your head, giving him a hopeful look.

“I was wondering if the kitchen could prepare something vegan?” You say, your voice steady but polite. “I didn’t see anything on the menu, and-”

“I’ll ask the chef,” he cuts in smoothly, though there’s a slight twitch in his jaw as he scribbles something in his notepad. “One moment.”

As he disappears towards the back, your friends exchange wary glances. You try to brush it off with another easy smile, though your nerves are prickling beneath the surface.

“This could be interesting,” someone says, raising their eyebrows. “Michelin-starred chefs aren’t exactly known for accommodating special requests.”

“Yeah, well, I’m hoping this one’s different,” you say, half-joking, though you can’t shake the knot in your stomach.

The seconds tick by, each one dragging out longer than the last. You sip at your water, making small talk, but your mind is already in the kitchen, imagining what kind of chef you’re dealing with. When the kitchen doors finally swing open, you feel a flutter of anxiety — and maybe a little curiosity.

He’s not what you expect.

Max Verstappen storms out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel with an intensity that makes the air crackle around him. His blue eyes are sharp, his jaw tight, and there’s a heat in his expression that has nothing to do with the stoves behind him. He’s annoyed. No, more than annoyed — he’s furious.

And when he locks eyes with you, you feel like the world narrows down to just the two of you.

“Who asked for vegan?” His voice is clipped, Dutch accent thick, and it’s obvious he’s not here to make friends. Your friends glance between the two of you, sensing the impending storm, but you lift your chin, refusing to be intimidated.

“I did,” you say, matching his intensity with your own steady gaze. “Is that a problem?”

Max narrows his eyes, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “This is a steakhouse,” he says slowly, as if explaining something very simple to a child. “A Michelin-starred steakhouse. I don’t make rabbit food.”

“Then maybe tonight you could make an exception,” you reply, keeping your tone even but firm. “I’m sure a chef of your caliber could whip something up.”

A scoff escapes him, and for a moment, you think he’s about to walk away. But instead, he steps closer, the heat of his presence almost tangible. “You think I’m going to ruin my kitchen with tofu or whatever it is you people eat?”

You blink at him, thrown off balance for a second by the sheer force of his disdain. But you gather yourself quickly, leaning forward slightly. “So you’re saying you can’t do it? That it’s too much for you?”

The challenge hangs in the air between you, thick with tension. Max’s jaw clenches, his eyes sparking with something dangerous. But then, to your surprise, he laughs — a short, harsh sound that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m not making you anything,” he says, finality in his voice. “You should’ve picked a different restaurant.”

“Maybe I would have, if I’d known the chef had such limited skills,” you retort, not backing down.

His eyes darken, and for a moment, you think you’ve gone too far. But then, something shifts. The anger in his expression falters, replaced by something else — something almost amused.

“You’re really pushing it,” he mutters, but there’s a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You feel a strange thrill at that, your pulse quickening. “I’m just asking you to do your job. Isn’t a good chef supposed to cater to all his customers?”

“A good chef is supposed to maintain the integrity of his menu,” he shoots back. “Not cater to every whim that walks through the door.”

“Maybe a great chef can do both,” you say quietly, watching him closely.

For a long moment, he just stares at you, his gaze intense and unreadable. You’re not sure what you expect him to do next — yell, walk away, maybe call security to kick you out — but what happens is the last thing you expect.

He leans in even closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

“Not particularly,” you reply, heart pounding. “I just know what I want.”

Max holds your gaze for a moment longer, then straightens up, tossing the towel over his shoulder. “You’re not going to win this,” he says, but there’s a hint of something in his voice — a challenge, maybe.

“We’ll see about that,” you reply, giving him a small, almost defiant smile.

He doesn’t smile back, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, something that makes your breath catch in your throat. Without another word, he turns on his heel and heads back to the kitchen, the doors swinging shut behind him with a decisive thud.

The table is silent for a moment, everyone exchanging wide-eyed looks as if they can’t believe what just happened. Your heart is still racing, your mind replaying the exchange over and over, analyzing every word, every glance.

“Did you just ...” one of your friends starts, trailing off in disbelief.

“I think I did,” you reply, a bit dazed yourself. But beneath the shock, there’s a strange sense of satisfaction. You’re not sure what it is — maybe the fact that you stood your ground, or maybe it’s something else, something about the way Max looked at you in those final moments.

Whatever it is, it leaves you feeling more alive than you have in a long time.

“Okay, that was intense,” someone else says, still staring at the kitchen doors. “Are you sure you want to keep pushing him?”

You take a breath, letting the adrenaline course through you. “Yeah. I think I do.”

“Good luck with that,” another friend mutters, though there’s a hint of admiration in their voice.

You don’t need luck, though. Not with this. There’s something about Max — something infuriating and fascinating all at once — that makes you want to see how far you can push him, how much he can take before he cracks. You’re not even sure what you’re aiming for — his respect, his irritation, or something else entirely — but you know you’re not backing down.

The minutes pass, and the chatter around the table picks up again, though you can tell everyone’s still on edge, waiting to see if Max will come back. You sip your water, trying to calm the lingering buzz of energy in your veins. Part of you wonders if you’ve made a mistake, if you’ve pushed too far, but another part — a bigger part — knows that this is exactly where you need to be.

When the kitchen doors finally swing open again, the table falls silent once more. Max strides out, his expression unreadable, and heads straight for you. He doesn’t have a plate in his hands, and for a moment, your heart sinks, thinking he’s come out just to reiterate his refusal.

But instead, he stops in front of you, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope,” you say, meeting his gaze steadily. “I’m not.”

He studies you for a long moment, his blue eyes piercing. Then, to your surprise, he sighs — a heavy, resigned sound.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he mutters, shaking his head slightly.

“So I’ve been told,” you reply, lifting an eyebrow.

He lets out a low, frustrated growl, but you can see the ghost of a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. The tension between you is still palpable, but it’s shifted — softened in a way that neither of you acknowledges.

“All right,” he finally says, his tone somewhere between exasperation and something almost like admiration. “I’ll make you something.”

Your friends exchange surprised glances, but you keep your gaze locked on Max, not letting yourself get too excited just yet. “You don’t have to,” you say, though the look in your eyes says otherwise.

“I’m doing this once,” he warns, pointing a finger at you like it’s some kind of punishment. “And if you don’t like it, you’re not getting a refund.”

You bite back a smile. “Deal.”

He narrows his eyes at you one last time before turning on his heel and heading back to the kitchen. The doors swing shut behind him, and this time, the silence at the table is charged with something new — something like disbelief, mingled with anticipation.

“What just happened?” Someone finally asks, breaking the spell.

“I think Max Verstappen just agreed to make a vegan dish,” you say, a touch of incredulity in your own voice.

“That’s got to be a first,” another friend chimes in, shaking their head. “You’ve got some kind of magic power.”

You laugh, the sound lighter than it’s been all night. “I don’t know about that. I think he just likes a challenge.”

“Or maybe he just likes you,” one of them says, waggling their eyebrows suggestively.

You roll your eyes, though a part of you wonders. There was something in the way he looked at you — something beyond just irritation. But you push the thought aside. Whatever this is, it’s not something you can figure out in the middle of a crowded steakhouse.

The minutes tick by, and though the conversation at the table picks up again, you can feel the undercurrent of curiosity running through your friends. They’re all waiting to see what Max will come up with, and honestly, so are you. The anticipation builds, your mind racing with possibilities — what could a Michelin-starred chef possibly make that’s both vegan and up to his standards?

When Max finally reappears, he’s carrying a single plate in his hands. He walks with purpose, his expression serious, but there’s a glint in his eyes that wasn’t there before. As he approaches, the table falls silent again, everyone leaning in to see what he’s brought.

He stops in front of you, holding out the plate with a sort of grudging respect. “Here,” he says simply.

You look down at the dish and feel your breath catch. It’s stunning — an artful arrangement of roasted vegetables, grains, and a vibrant sauce that you can’t quite place. It’s clear that he didn’t just throw something together — he put thought into this. Care, even.

“This looks amazing,” you say, genuine awe in your voice.

Max shrugs, though you can see the faintest hint of pride in his expression. “I told you — just this once. Don’t get used to it.”

You give him a small smile, something warm blooming in your chest. “Thank you.”

He nods, but before he can turn away, you add, “I’m serious. It really means a lot that you did this.”

For a moment, his eyes soften, and you see a flicker of something vulnerable beneath his tough exterior. But then he smirks, the mask slipping back into place. “You’re just lucky I’m in a good mood.”

“Is that what this is?” You tease, raising an eyebrow.

He doesn’t answer, just gives you a look that says more than words ever could. Then, with a final nod, he heads back to the kitchen, leaving you with the dish in front of you and the lingering feeling that something significant just happened.

You take a bite, and it’s even better than it looks. The flavors burst on your tongue, rich and complex, and you can’t help but smile. This is more than just food — it’s a statement, a challenge met and won.

The rest of the meal passes in a blur. Your friends order their steaks, and while they rave about their meals, you’re completely absorbed in your own, savoring every bite. You can’t help but steal glances towards the kitchen every now and then, wondering if Max is watching, if he’s thinking about you as much as you’re thinking about him.

By the time dessert rolls around, you’re almost too full to eat another bite. But when the waiter places a plate in front of you, you freeze.

It’s a small, delicate dessert — something that looks like a cross between a tart and a cake, with a perfectly smooth layer of chocolate ganache on top. But that’s not what catches your attention. Written in dark chocolate sauce across the edge of the plate, in neat, precise handwriting, is a phone number.

You blink, staring at it, your heart skipping a beat. Your friends lean in, catching sight of it as well, and their reactions range from gasps to stifled laughter.

“No way,” someone whispers, eyes wide with disbelief.

You can hardly believe it yourself. But there it is — clear as day, an unmistakable invitation.

You glance towards the kitchen, and just as you do, the doors swing open again. Max steps out, catching your eye from across the room. For a moment, the world seems to narrow down to just the two of you again, the noise and bustle of the restaurant fading into the background.

He gives you a small, almost imperceptible nod — an acknowledgment, a dare. Then, without waiting for a response, he turns and disappears back into the kitchen, leaving you with your friends and the plate in front of you.

“Are you going to call him?” One of them asks, their voice tinged with excitement.

You stare at the number, feeling a rush of adrenaline. “I don’t know,” you admit, though a smile is already spreading across your face.

But deep down, you do know. Because this — this little gesture, this playful challenge — feels like the start of something. Something you’re not quite ready to let go of.

You pick up your fork, take a bite of the dessert, and let the sweetness melt on your tongue. It’s perfect — just like everything else he’s made tonight. And as you savor the taste, you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this is the beginning of something far more interesting than you ever expected.

***

The kitchen is filled with the scent of something sweet and savory, a blend of spices and roasted vegetables that wafts through the house and wraps around you like a warm blanket. You’re perched on a barstool at the kitchen island, one hand absentmindedly resting on your growing belly, the other holding a glass of freshly squeezed juice that Max insisted you drink, despite your protests that you were perfectly fine with water.

“You need the vitamins,” he had said, the Dutch accent that once made you bristle now soothing in its familiarity.

“Max, it’s fine,” you replied, but he had just given you that look — the one that says he’s not backing down — and you relented with a sigh, knowing there was no point in arguing.

Now, you watch as he moves around the kitchen with a practiced ease, his hands deftly chopping, stirring, and seasoning. It’s a sight you’ve grown accustomed to over the years, but it never fails to fill you with a mix of awe and gratitude. He’s changed so much since that night at the steakhouse, when he’d been all sharp edges and stubborn pride. Now, those edges have softened, replaced by a quiet determination to make you happy in every way he can.

“How’s it coming along?” You ask, taking another sip of juice and trying to ignore the flutter of excitement in your stomach that has nothing to do with the baby.

“Almost done,” Max replies, glancing up at you with a smile that makes your heart skip a beat. “Patience, liefje.”

“You know I’m not good at that,” you tease, leaning forward to try and catch a glimpse of what he’s cooking.

He chuckles, shaking his head as he continues to stir the pot on the stove. “I know. That’s why I’m hurrying.”

You can’t help but smile at that, the warmth of his words spreading through you like a comforting embrace. It’s moments like this that make you realize just how lucky you are — how much you’ve both grown together, built a life together. It hasn’t always been easy, but it’s been worth it.

“What are you making, anyway?” You ask, your curiosity getting the better of you.

He gives you a sly look, his lips curling into a smirk. “You’ll see.”

You groan, rolling your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he retorts, his voice full of playful confidence.

“Unfortunately, yes,” you admit with a mock sigh, though the smile on your face gives you away.

He laughs softly, the sound deep and full of affection. “Good thing, too.”

You watch him for a moment longer, your heart swelling with a mixture of love and contentment. He’s wearing an apron over his casual clothes, his hair slightly tousled from the steam rising off the stove. There’s something almost domestic about the whole scene, but it’s more than that—it’s the intimacy of knowing someone so well, of sharing your life with them in all its messy, beautiful complexity.

“Have I told you lately how amazing you are?” You ask, your voice softening.

Max glances at you, his expression tender. “Not today.”

“Well, you are,” you say, feeling a sudden rush of emotion. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He pauses, the spoon in his hand hovering over the pot as he looks at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. “You won’t ever have to find out,” he says quietly, his voice laced with a promise.

For a moment, you just stare at each other, the weight of his words settling over you like a warm blanket. It’s not the first time he’s said something like that, but it never fails to hit you with the same force, the same certainty that you’ve found something rare and precious in each other.

Before you can respond, he turns back to the stove, breaking the moment with a casualness that belies the depth of what was just said. “Besides,” he adds, a hint of mischief creeping into his tone, “I’m pretty sure you’d starve without me.”

You laugh, the sound a little shaky as you try to regain your composure. “You’re probably right. But I’d find a way.”

“Not as well as I do,” he counters, his voice filled with mock arrogance.

“True,” you admit, watching him with a smile. “You’ve ruined me for all other chefs.”

“Good,” he says, the pride in his voice unmistakable. “That was the plan.”

You shake your head, but you can’t help the warmth that spreads through you. He’s always been confident, sometimes to the point of being infuriating, but there’s a sincerity to it now that wasn’t there before—a genuine desire to take care of you, to be there for you in every way.

“Are you going to let me taste whatever masterpiece you’re working on, or do I have to wait until it’s perfect?” You ask, trying to peek over the counter again.

“Patience,” he repeats, though there’s a glint in his eye that tells you he’s enjoying this far too much.

“Max,” you whine, drawing out the syllable in a way that you know he can’t resist.

He sighs dramatically, as if you’ve just asked him to perform some Herculean task, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Fine. But just a taste.”

He picks up a small spoon and dips it into the pot, then turns and walks over to you, holding it out with a flourish. “Here.”

You take the spoon from him, your curiosity piqued. The aroma is intoxicating, and when you bring the spoon to your lips, the flavors explode on your tongue — rich, savory, with a hint of sweetness that lingers just long enough to make you want more.

“Oh my god,” you say around the mouthful, your eyes widening in surprise. “This is amazing.”

“I know,” he says, clearly pleased with himself as he leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. “I had to do something special for my girls.”

You swallow, the warmth of his words spreading through you like a soft, gentle wave. “Girls, huh?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. “So you’re still convinced it’s a girl?”

He shrugs, but there’s a softness in his expression that makes your heart swell. “Just a feeling.”

You smile, resting a hand on your belly. “Well, I’m sure she’ll love whatever you cook for her.”

“She better,” he replies, though his voice is teasing. “Or I’m sending her back.”

You laugh, the sound filling the kitchen and easing the last remnants of tension in the air. “Too late for that.”

“Damn,” he mutters, but there’s a smile on his face as he turns back to the stove, stirring the pot with practiced ease. “Guess we’ll just have to keep trying.”

You watch him for a moment, your heart full to bursting with affection. He’s taken to this whole thing — pregnancy, impending fatherhood — with a kind of devotion that you never expected, but that somehow doesn’t surprise you at all. He’s always been all in, whether it’s in the kitchen or in your relationship. It’s one of the things you love most about him — that relentless drive to be the best, to give his all, no matter what.

“You’re going to be a great dad,” you say softly, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Max pauses, his hand stilling on the spoon. For a moment, he just stands there, his back to you, and you wonder if you’ve said the wrong thing, if maybe it’s too soon, too much. But then he turns, and the look on his face — full of vulnerability and determination — takes your breath away.

“I’m going to try,” he says, his voice low but steady. “I promise.”

You nod, unable to find the words to respond. Instead, you reach out, taking his hand in yours and squeezing it gently. He squeezes back, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a gesture that’s so simple, so familiar, and yet it says everything you need to hear.

“Okay,” he says after a moment, clearing his throat and breaking the spell. “I’ve got something else for you.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “What is it?”

He smirks, pulling his hand away and turning back to the counter. “Just wait.”

You watch as he opens the fridge and pulls out a small tray, carefully covered with a cloth. He sets it on the counter and, with a dramatic flourish, pulls the cloth away to reveal ... a plate of beautifully arranged pastries, each one delicately shaped and glistening with a light dusting of powdered sugar.

“Vegan croissants,” he says, a note of pride in his voice. “Made from scratch.”

Your jaw drops, and you stare at the pastries in disbelief. “You made these?”

“Of course,” he replies, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I told you I’d figure it out.”

You’re speechless, the effort and care he’s put into this gesture rendering you momentarily stunned. You know how much work goes into making croissants, and the fact that he’s done it just to satisfy your cravings — it’s almost too much.

“Max,” you say, your voice thick with emotion, “you didn’t have to do this.”

He shrugs, though there’s a hint of bashfulness in his expression. “I wanted to.”

You reach out, picking up one of the croissants and holding it in your hands like it’s something precious. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“I try,” he says with a smirk, watching as you take a tentative bite of the croissant.

The layers are perfectly flaky, the pastry light and buttery despite being vegan. It melts in your mouth, and you close your eyes, savoring the taste. “This is ... incredible,” you murmur, barely able to believe how good it is.

Max’s smirk softens into a genuine smile. “I’m glad you like it.”

You take another bite, unable to stop yourself from grinning. “I don’t just like it, Max. I love it.”

He chuckles, leaning against the counter with an air of satisfaction. “Good. But don’t go telling anyone, okay? You’re still the only person I’d cook vegan for.”

You laugh, a sound full of love and warmth. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

He winks, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Better be. I’ve got a reputation to uphold, you know.”

You shake your head, your heart full as you look at the man you married — the man who, despite all his bravado, has always made you feel like the most important person in his world. “You’re impossible,” you say fondly.

“And you love it,” he replies, his voice softening as he reaches out to gently cup your cheek.

“I really do,” you whisper, leaning into his touch.

Max leans down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. When he pulls back, there’s a softness in his eyes that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world.

“I love you,” he says, his voice steady and sure.

“I love you too,” you reply, your voice thick with emotion.

And as you sit there together, the scent of freshly baked croissants filling the air, you can’t help but feel a deep sense of contentment. Life might not always be easy, but with Max by your side — cooking for you, joking with you, loving you — you know you’ll always have a reason to smile, no matter what comes your way.

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