#week twenty-two: memory | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

incognit0slut · 1 month ago

Text

Room for three

Nobody knows about the contract you signed to be your boss’s sub until Spencer finds the document. Aaron proposes a deal in exchange for his silence.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 4.8k Content: threesome, sub/dom dynamic, female and male oral, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, creampie(s) a/n: kinktober in may because it’s @lavenderspence birthday who helped me brainstorm this fic months ago but hey it’s never too late so here is the long awaited fic that i’m dedicating to the birthday girl. ily<333

The wordless creed of submission was a scripture you could never decipher.

That is, until you met Aaron Hotchner. Five years of sterile professionalism, save for one fateful night with too high adrenaline and a sex drive you hadn’t even known you possessed. He’s disturbingly good at coaxing it too (pinning you against his office door, bending you over his desk, binding your wrists to the headrest in the back of his car), and soon a new normal of three sexy times a week for two breathless months doesn’t seem quite enough.

Surprising, for someone too independent to ever trust a man so completely. But twenty-four-seven isn’t ideal, was what he’d pointed out with a wry little smile when he realized there was no sign of jest as you offered — no, begged — to be cinched to his hip every single day. Tempting, but some ground rules still had to be laid down.

That’s when the negotiation starts.

Night after night you find yourselves talking, and suddenly your vocabulary is filled with terms you’d never imagined discussing outside bureau protocol. Hard limits and soft boundaries. Carefully planned visits. He even tested a few daring suggestions you’d never imagined yourself fantasizing about, intriguing you as much as they embarrass you.

Although mortification isn’t the problem. You’re a born profiler with an inconvenient instinct to study every new stimulus; curiosity is your ruin, so to speak. If shame were meant to deter you, it should’ve chosen a less enticing disguise.

Granted, you’re not exactly surprised when you slip into Aaron’s motel room and spot another presence waiting. You find Spencer like that, standing warily at the foot of the bed, looking strangely out of place despite the fact your knees had brushed in the SUV only an hour ago.

But your heart does a little somersault. A silly patter that spreads through your chest with the dizzy certainty that an idea you’ve only read in ink is about to be written in flesh.

The clause was tucked near the end of the contract — “the introduction of a third participant at the discretion of the primary.” You’d half-skimmed those last few pages, disbelief blurring the words when you couldn’t quite fathom that your fantasies had been printed and bound like actual paperwork.

It’s one thing to discuss it verbally, another thing entirely to see it embodied in your hands like an actual scripture.

“I just want you to feel safe,” Aaron had said, which struck you as almost redundant. You already felt safe without having these stipulations spelled out in twelve-point font. Still, you picked up the pen, humored his need for formalities, and wrote your name in deliberate strokes.

And with Spencer hovering a few unsure steps from the bed tonight, that small flourish of ink seems to glow on the page in your memory.

“You’re late,” Aaron greets from the other side of the room, and closes the space between you in three easy strides.

“Emily cornered me in the hallway," you say, meeting him halfway for a kiss before nudging back, a wry smile on your lips. “So I’m guessing he knows about us?”

His gaze flicks to Spencer before settling back on you. “He found our contract.”

Your brows curve into a frown. “You mean… he found the thing just lying around?”

“Not exactly." He gives a curt shake of his head. "It was on my desk. Didn’t think he’d come in without knocking.”

"Aaron."

“It was an oversight," he tries to defend himself. He spares you the detail that Spencer apparently read enough to memorize every clause and condition. You’re already eyeing him dubiously.

“And why is he here now?”

The same logic that led Aaron to keeping him here.

“For his silence.”

"You’re blackmailing him?”

The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Of course not. I’d call it leveraging a situation for mutual understanding."

“That is the prettiest way I’ve ever heard someone describe blackmail.”

A soft shuffle of shoes answers you from behind.

“It isn’t blackmail,” Spencer interjects. “He didn’t force me into anything. I wanted to understand what was going on and—” He falters at the subtle, expectant tilt of Aaron’s head, then clears his throat and finishes, “—and now I do.”

Aaron’s hand finds its way to your waist. “Are you okay with this?”

Are you?

You don’t answer immediately. It isn’t indecision that holds your tongue to the roof of your mouth, rather the slow crawl of anticipation that coils low in your belly. Skittering around your hips.

Oddly enough, the prospect doesn’t rattle you the way it once did when you first traced those lines in the contract. You’d just never thought the day would actually arrive, and certainly not today, with Spencer, of all people.

You can almost hear the flutter of his pulse from here, see the quiet calculations ticking behind lowered lashes as he tries to stand perfectly still. He’s cinched into his cardigan that's smoothed flat over narrow shoulders, and you’d be lying if you claimed you’d never wondered what hid beneath all those layers of neatly pressed wool.

Pure curiosity, you reason. Curiosity fed by the sparks you’ve caught in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking. A sweep of hazel that dips down your neckline, or by the restless twitch of his fingers whenever your perfume drifts too close. And you’ve idly speculated, maybe more than once, whether those fidgeting hands would feel rough on your skin or as soft as the flush rising in his cheeks.

You let the quiet stretch for one more heartbeat, watching his gaze snag on the top of your blouse before darting back up.

Heat coils languid and sweet inside you.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’m okay. I think.”

“Need you to be sure, sweetheart.”

“I’m okay,” you repeat, trying to smooth out your voice. Maybe saying it once more will solidify your confidence. “I’m really okay.”

Aaron’s palm tightens at your waist. “Color?”

It takes you a while to understand what he means, but when you do, you feel the answer rise with the next breath you take.

“Green.”

“Good, if at any point it changes, you tell me.”

You give him a slight dip of your head.

"Reid, come here."

Spencer obeys before he seems aware he’s moving. One cautious step, then another, until you can feel the anxious energy rippling off him. He’s close enough now that the crease of your knee nearly grazes the front of his slacks. Close enough you can catch the soft quiver in his limbs.

Your own chest tightens at the sheer proximity, but whatever butterflies flit through you aren’t half as fierce as the ones etched across his tense shoulders and downturned gaze.

“Spence, it’s okay, you can touch me," you offer.

He curls his fingers into fists, chords of tendon shifting under skin gone too pale.

He’s overthinking, of course. Mental gears grinding loud enough to drown out his own pulse. It’s his nature to second-guess and dissect unfamiliar situations from every angle. He did it when he first spotted the contract on Aaron’s desk, when Aaron quietly invited him here, even when he agreed to come of his own free will. But standing in front of you knots those gears tighter.

Enumerate risks, assign probability, choose the safest option.

The safest option, though, he realizes, is the most dangerous one.

But the real danger isn’t the touch itself. It’s how a single brush of fingertips will shatter his neatly ordered rules.

Consent redraws the margins while he continues to study. You give him an expectant look, Aaron seals it with a nod, and suddenly the universe has shrunk to three conspirators orbiting a single point of contact.

So he closes the last inch between you. Pulls in the same measured breath he’s perfected on the firing line. One, two, three — on four his fingertips drift forward, brushing the sleeve of your blouse. The cotton vibrates under his knuckles, yet even through the fabric he can feel the pliant warmth of your skin. He coaxes higher along your arm, sliding past the cuff and onto the bare flesh of your shoulder.

You’re warmer here, silken, and the softness doubles when his hand cups the delicate column of your neck, thumb resting in the hollow below your jaw. Softest of all, though, is the sight that meets him when he finally lifts his gaze. Plump, glossy petals of dewy lips.

Gone is every ounce of hesitation.

He steel himself for the question hanging on his lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

Useless, of course, when you’re already leaning in.

So he does, carrying the bite of burnt motel coffee and a trace of whatever dessert he demolished tonight. You also catch the tang of his nerves on your tongue. He’s a jumble of sensations — confused, curious, ravenous, and that ripple of hunger makes itself known as he nudges his cock against your hip. The pressure loosens your knees, and just as you begin to sync with the eager pull of his mouth, another hard pressure claims the space behind.

Aaron’s obvious bulge slots perfectly between your ass, as well as the way his mouth latches along the spot where your pulse flutters the most.

It’s nearly impossible to keep your heartbeat steady when attention comes in perfect pairs.

Two mouths tracing heat.

Two cocks hemming you in.

Two sets of hands shaping your body — a pair cupping your breasts firmly, another holding your hip while the last hand dips over the fabric covering your mound.

It takes a drowsy, blinking inhale before you realize it’s Spencer coaxing pleasure through the damp cloth. A new type of pleasure that comes with new territory as his fingers slide in patient circles, translating curiosity into confidence with every slow stroke. It’s a novel kind of surrender that eclipses the rules you thought you understood with Aaron alone.

This is a submission refracted through two different types of needs. Circumstances might look like you’re completely helpless with two men manhandling you, but somehow you've never felt more powerful.

And that power consumes you, bleeding warmth into your skin until it feels like you’re burning from the inside out. Flooding every nerve, soaking through your pores until even the hum of the air conditioner feels weak against the sweat beading at the small of your back.

Aaron feels the tremor beneath his palm.

“Too hot?”

You manage a weak nod. “Mhm.”

He quickly moves to remedy it. He won’t have his sweet girl suffering for even a second longer than necessary. His fingers skim down your blouse, carefully slipping buttons through holes before Spencer’s eager hands join him — unhooking, unbuttoning, and sliding the rest of your clothes off until there’s nothing left between you and the open air.

Your lungs finally fill without the last scrap of fabric, though each inhale stays shallow. The stark contrast between your bare skin and the layers of their tailored shirts and pressed slacks only sharpens the ache gathering low in your belly. You’re so wound up that a slow, insistent throb of liquid seeps between the snug folds of your cunt.

Aaron is quick to notice, too. He’s already attuned to your body by now, the way gooseflesh ripples up your thighs the moment you try to squeeze them together for relief. Before you’ve even fully registered it, his arm loops around your waist, guiding you a step back toward the bed.

In one smooth pull you’re lifted, settled astride his lap. “I think we should show him how wet you are.”

You lean back, heart hammering in your chest.

In another life, shame would color your cheeks, but in this one, you’re too keenly aware of your own arousal as his hands hook under your thighs, spreading your legs apart.

Spencer falls to his knees. And wets his bottom lip, eyes fixed on the sheen glistening between your legs — pretty and glossy without a single touch from either of them, and he wonders how much more of a mess he can make of you. That thought sends two fingers pressing against the swollen outer lips, gently stretching them for a better view of your anatomy as he breathes in your musky scent.

God, you smell delicious.

He bets you taste just as good too.

As if drown to a magnetic pull, he leans in and lets the tip of his tongue flick against the tender spot of your clit.

You’re not sure if the gasp that escapes your lips is louder than the rush of blood pounding in your ears. Spencer hears it, feels it, and takes it as permission. He lingers, gently at first, tracing delicate circles that coax your clit into a throbbing fullness until the once shy nub swells under the next pass of his tongue.

The hammering behind your eyes barrels down your veins, skimming collarbones and ribcage, rushing through your gut before pooling right where his mouth is working. Broad laps that drag from your slick entrance to the tip. Sucks a plush fold of your labia into his mouth, testing delicate skin with gentle tugs.

Your next exhale comes out as a moan, and Aaron marvels at the sound. “Feels good?”

Good is an anemic word — barely a quarter of what’s sluicing through you when Spencer curls his tongue inside your tight walls. Pleasure radiates in hot pulses, and language dissolves on your tongue as your head lolls helplessly against Aaron’s shoulder.

He tries to press you again. Hooks a finger beneath your jaw to tilt your chin up, leaving a ghost of space that tempts you to close your mouth around him. He pulls away when you lean in.

“Good, sweetheart?”

He clearly wants an answer. So you give him one — stretch your voice into the space he’s carved for you.

“S’good.”

“Yeah?”

Your hips stutter into Spencer’s mouth. “Yes—yes. Good.”

You're finally rewarded with a kiss and a groan between your legs.

Shame really has nothing on you. Your body is on fire, and the only thing that matters is the taste of his lips plastered against yours while Spencer’s mouth devours you in greedy lungfuls. Drags his tongue slow and heavy across the entire span of your cunt as the faint rasp of his jaw scrapes against your inner thighs.

You’re hardly surprised by how your orgasm coils fast. Starts as a scatter of static in your toes, slithers up your calves and welds the muscles of your thighs as Spencer’s mouth seals around you, lips locking, tongue pressing. Instinct has your legs snapping shut around his head, but a low disapproving sound from Aaron vibrates on your mouth, cuts through your blinding haze.

“No, no—spread them open,” he tuts, prying your legs wider. “Let him take care of you.”

You can only whine in response.

Your thoughts knot and unravel in the same breath, slipping through your grasp the moment they begin to form. Words dissolve. Time warps. You're reduced to pure reaction — tiny, involuntary gasps that stutter out between parted lips. You can't keep still. Can't breathe deep. Every inhale shudders. Heat blooms at the base of your skull, racing along nerve paths until your toes curl in suspended air.

Then it hits again. But his mouth doesn’t stop the mess he's made of you. Slick glistens down his chin, streaking into the shallow hollows of his cheeks, pooling in the groove where his jaw meets his neck. He tilts his head, adjusting just enough to keep you pinned with legs spread wide and twitching as he slurps you up with intense hunger.

A keening cry rips free before you can swallow it.

Aaron notices it. Sees the way you nearly go cross-eyed towards the ceiling, jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose.

“Reid,” he warns.

Spencer barely blinks.

“Reid.”

His voice continues to fall on deaf ears.

“Reid.”

It isn’t until Aaron firmly pushes his head away that Spencer finally snaps out of it. His eyes dart up to meet Aaron’s, then to you, chest rising and falling as though suddenly realizing the state he’s left you in.

“Oh—I’m sorry,” there’s an edge of guilt in his voice. His gaze drops back to your swollen clit, overly sensitive from his relentless attention, and moves in to press a soft, almost apologetic kiss to it. “I’m sorry.”

Your hips jerk at the contact.

Aaron rests a hand over your thigh, “Let’s give her a minute.”

You finally manage to clamp your mouth shut.

It does seem wise to wait until your heartbeat evens out, let your pulse crawl back down from its wild pitch. Yet the space they leave empty aches just as sharply. All you can feel is emptiness and the gnawing urge to be filled, so you shift in Aaron’s lap, sliding forward until your hips brush the sharply pressed crease of his slacks.

“I’m fine,” you blurt out. “I can keep going.”

Aaron’s palm spans your stomach. “I don’t want to push you too far.”

“You're not,” you insist, and with desperation digging its claws way too deep in your chest, you add, “Please?"

His lips curl into a knowing smile. You're practically bleating, and he’s absolutely smitten. "You're begging already."

You are, and you'd gladly do it again. Say it sweeter, say it filthier. You’ve learned to like begging, learned how easy it sits on your tongue when it earns you that look.

"Need you, Aaron."

He looks absolutely pleased.

“You need me?" His gaze slips towards Spencer, still crouched between your thighs, wetting his lips. "Or do you need him?”

Your mouth opens before you can think—

“Need you both.”

Which, after years spent of working alongside them, is something you never expected to admit.

But the honesty on your tongue tastes absolutely sweet.

Everything then unravels in a blur of impatient hands. Buttons pop, zippers slip, fabric rustles to the floor in a blur of motion you’ll replay later but can’t quite track now. Your own senses tunnel to the snap of Spencer’s belt, the soft thud of Aaron’s shoes hitting carpet, the sigh of crisp cotton sliding from skin.

By the time the last scrap of fabric has hit the floor, you’re stretched on your side atop the cool sheets with Aaron’s solid heat pressed along your back. He braces your leg up, while the blunt crown of his cock teases the slick seam of your cunt. You’re already dripping, so incredibly wet that one firm push has the soft flesh of your hole bulging around his girth when he sinks all the way.

It doesn’t dull the shock of intrusion, though. Aaron is all all weight and pulsing veins, and no matter how many times he’s fucked you senseless, you never quite get used to how he stretches you open. The burn hits sharp, then dissolves into a syrupy ache you drink down willingly.

You also swallow around the thick head of Spencer’s cock pressing to your mouth, feeling the bitter tang dissolve on your tongue as he pauses to gauge your reaction. Your first instinct is disbelief. It boggles your mind how someone built so lanky and lithe can carry such surprising weight, but instead you let a tiny, encouraging nod.

It's all it takes for him to nudge forward.

He lets out a tiny gasp, hips stuttering as your warmth envelopes the only part your mouth can comfortably take. A shiver races through his frame, and before he can stop himself, one hand threads into your hair with a desperate grip. He’s trying so hard to be gentle, but his pelvis gives a needy push.

You choke around the force punching your throat.

Aaron immediately slows his own rhythm behind you. “Reid, control yourself,” he warns. “Won’t have you hurting her.”

You pull back just enough to steal a breath.

“No—” You swallow, eyes darting up to meet Spencer’s wide, worried gaze. “It’s okay. Do it again.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I like it,” you manage, and Aaron’s brows lift slightly. He’s never taken you too roughly. Binding you with his tie is an exercise in restraint, a blindfold a test of trust, and when it comes to edging, his patience is almost cruel in its tenderness. He likes to think his dominance is a careful thing.

But clearly he underestimated you. Especially when you lift your gaze to Spencer with glassy, luminous eyes.

“You can use my mouth,” you say softly, a little bashfully. “I want you to.”

The confession snaps something loose in Aaron. He grunts, hikes your leg higher and plunges into you with reckless speed. “You should’ve told me sooner,” he grits out. “Didn’t know you liked it so rough.”

Your clammy back slides against his chest every time he drives into you. “I-I did, you’re just a big softie.”

He gives you another grunt against your bare shoulder while Spencer tries to catch your attention again, brushing a damp strand of hair clinging to your cheek.

“Are you sure?”

You don’t think you’ve ever been this certain.

Confidence has never felt so visceral when you know what you want, and the idea someone as awkward as Spencer surrendering to hunger enough to use your mouth only slicks you further around Aaron’s cock.

So you tilt your head back shamelessly, tongue slipping out in a languid sweep over your lower lip.

And how can he possibly resist?

He wraps his hand around the back of your skull, palm splayed wide and fingers tangling in your hair as he thrusts forward. Sets a smooth languid pace, slow enough you can feel every rigid vein drag across your tongue. Most times he glides in with practiced care, more often than not, the bulbous tip of his cock bumps up against discomfort that lingers just the shy of pain.

Tears prick your lashes, a throbbing ache begins to set in your jaw, but you force your muscles to relax. Concentrate on the rush of air through your nose.

Inhale, exhale.

Gag.

Swallow.

Soft wiry curls brush the sensitive curve of your nose with each thrust as you continue to let him mold your throat into his own perfect fit. He fills your mouth with the same certainty Aaron fills your cunt, so that no inch of you remains untouched.

You’re a mess of body fluids. Spit runs from the corners of your mouth, sweat paints your bruising skin. But it’s your pussy that bears the most, swollen and slick beyond reason, you’re so thoroughly fucked that every plunge punches a shameless squelch into the air. Bounces off the faded wallpaper and the brittle plaster of an old building that has seen better days. Decades, even.

This place couldn’t be further from luxury. It’s a simple nondescript motel on the edge of this town that’s only available where the stench of cheap detergent and stale air barely masks the lingering scent of old cigarettes. Though the sagging mattress is more than enough to cradle you between two bodies in a sweaty, desperate mess.

And desperation thickens the air, thick as summer humidity. Aaron’s thrusts grow sloppy, grip bruising your skin as he pants against your ear, “Not gonna last long, sweetheart.”

You don’t think you’re going to last any longer either. Not when the sheer force of his pace makes it impossible to focus on anything else. It’s becoming too much, and Spencer seems to notice your fractured gasps muffled around his shaft. He looks at you through heavy lids and takes pity on your predicament, pulls himself out of your mouth and sits back on his heels.

You still catch the sight of him fisting his cock through the mist clouding your eyes, but even that melts away when Aaron’s lips find the shell of your ear, whispering all the filthy things that ruins what’s left of your fragile composure.

Always so good to me.

That’s it, taking me so well.

—my sweet, sweet girl.

But it isn’t until his voice drops lower that your body responds without permission.

“Gonna fill you up, yeah?” His teeth graze your earlobe. “You'll let me do that?”

Your cunt squeezes him so fiercely that he chokes on a grunt. Slides a heavy palm right at the supple flesh of your belly.

“Or you gonna let both of us fill you up?”

You feel your muscles tensing—

“Let him fuck my cum back into you?"

And moan unabashedly.

The sounds spilling from your throat hardly seem like your own. You try to marshal a proper syllable, but it simply melts on your tongue before it can crawl past your lips. What comes instead is an automatic stutter of nods, frantic little jerks of your head because he’s your boss, isn’t he? And good subordinates follow orders dutifully.

“That’s right,” Aaron croons. “Knew you’d take it. Such a good girl for me, aren't you?"

You nod even harder, grinding back against his ruthless thrusts while he keeps spinning those filthy words.

“Gonna be so full, sweetheart. Mess dripping out this pretty pussy."

The picture he paints is enough to tip you over the edge.

Pleasure snaps bright and violent. Your vision splinters into shards of glittering light as your cunt clamps down around him, walls fluttering in rapid spasms that slowly jerk his own release.

Aaron groans, fingers biting into the soft give of your skin while he keeps you chained. Holds you still as he floods your insides, heavy spurts that seem to pool deep in your belly before trickling down every fold of your flesh. Trickles weave along your swollen lips, mars the plush curve of your ass — stains your already wet thighs as he gently slips free.

You’re in no state to protest when he drags your limp body across tangled sheets. You don’t even have the strength to lift your head as he tucks you effortlessly under his chin, back to his chest, letting yourself dissolve between thick thighs. Your skin is burning fresh from the tremor clinging in your core.

Your lungs still stutter, but your pulse is clamoring for more.

Seldom have you seen Spencer move with such quiet certainty. He sinks to his knees between your quivering thighs, and the dim lamplight silvers the slick shine on his cock as he guides it through the creamy mess clinging to your folds. Quite repulsive, but nothing less than a wicked kind of fascination.

Clearly he sees the appeal — why else would he press the rounded crown against your hole, only to have you seize around him even after being stretched so thoroughly? Mesmerized is a better way to put it as he tries to rut deeper, and with every inch your pretty cunt swallows, he wonders why he’s wasted years fussing over germs when raw pleasure like this exists.

When you simply exist.

He lets out a pleased sigh when you finally stretch around him (takes a moment of more slow rocking and a hissed curse you’ve never heard from his lips) as your eyes hone in on the spot where your bodies merge. Hips flushed, pelvis snug, coarse hair pressed against your puffy clit, and you feel a stab of fullness that spirals straight into your spine.

It doesn’t take long for him to fuck you then.

Like a man possessed, too.

Your nails bite into Aaron’s thighs. Claws sinking into warm flesh as you brace yourself for every brutal thrust Spencer rams into you. The force sends your tits bouncing with each snap of his hips, and Aaron’s hands are there in an instant — rough palms claiming the soft weight, wicked thumbs skating over taut peaks. Rolls them between calloused fingers with just enough pressure to sting your eyes.

The rapture on your face is barely recognizable anymore. Pinched and overwhelmed, you don’t notice him abandoning your perky nipples to skim down your torso until the pruny pads of his fingertips find your soaking clit.

Your back arches off his chest.

“Fuuuck—” you wail, “gonna c-come.”

He can see that. It’s painfully, beautifully obvious to anyone with eyes that you’re right on the edge again for what must be the hundredth time tonight. And Aaron doesn’t think of himself as cruel. Far from it, really. But watching your body almost folded in half has him feeling absolutely wicked.

His voice is toothy sweet as he rubs firm circles against your poor, overstimulated clit. “I know, sweetheart. Gonna come again from being used?”

“Ah, ah—baby—p-please—”

“Gonna soak his cock for me? Show him how good my girl is?”

“Aaron—!”

“Mmm? What’s that?” He hums lazily. “You want me to stop?”

A desperate whine tears from your throat, and your shaking fingers clutch at the coarse hair on his forearm. His muscles flex beneath your grip, then loosen, then tighten. All it earns you is an amused laugh and an open-mouthed kiss to your cheek.

“Oh, my pretty girl. Greedy little thing can’t even decide, can you?”

“I— I can— I want—”

“Shh,” he soothes, though his touch only grows faster. Rubs your tight little bud as your hips buck shamelessly into the twofold stimulation. “No need to think, sweetheart, that’s my job. Yours is to take it, isn’t it?”

Your words slur into a quiet sob—

“You can take it, I know you can—yes—yes, that’s it, sweetie, give it to us. Come on, just like that—”

—before it blares into the stale air.

The back of your heels kick the mattress the moment you come around his word.

Spencer does too, lungs pummeled when your cunt squeeze around his length, gripping him like a steel vise.

He feels it all the way down to his bones, feels the ache radiating from his groin to his thighs and into the small of his back with every pulse of cum that hammers into you. His hips jerk in a frantic rhythm that no amount of bliss can slow, even when the swollen head of his cock nudges the soft resistance of your cervical lip, seeking a depth that simply doesn’t exist.

Still, he grinds deeper, crushing the distance until you’re stuffed full with an ironclad grip on your thighs.

“S-Spence…”

“A bit more,” he rasps. “Promise. Just a little more.”

That little fills you to the absolute brim.

It feels like his own pulse is tangled in the tight press of your walls.

And you’ve never known the smell of sex this strong. The air all but congeals when he finally pulls out, a slow, sticky slide that draws silken filaments of white from your used, swollen hole as three pairs of eyes lock onto the streak.

Yours is a little bleary. You can’t tell which milky ribbon belongs to whom, whose thick release is swirling with the gloss of your own slick, or which heartbeat drums the loudest in the tight space between your bodies. Breath, heat, and sweat fold together until the three of you feel like a single organism with too many limbs and just one shared lung.

Not that it matters. None of you seem particularly bothered by the lack of space. Aaron reclines against the creaky headboard, cradling most of your weight across his chest while Spencer draws lazy patterns over your sated thighs.

You don’t mind in the least. In fact, you bask in them both, drifting in the strange yet comforting irony that it took a misplaced contract for you to realize intimacy could be plural. You never expected it to multiply so neatly.

Some connections, it seems, don’t fit into singular terms at all.

Later that night, when the two men almost twice your size crowd you in the cramped bathroom, you realize your thoughts are already rewriting the contract. You wonder if Aaron would let you make a slight revision, scribble the third-participant clause into something more permanent.

You really hope he does.

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bowtiepasta · 3 months ago

Text

toji starts buying two of everything without realizing. two drinks, two sets of tableware, two seats on the plane. when you point it out, he simply shrugs. “it makes sense, since you’re always around.”

and it does. you are. somewhere along the way, yours and his stopped being two separate categories. things blended. bled. one toothbrush became two. one key became a spare. he didn’t assign you a drawer, but your clothes take up more space than his do.

now he’s sitting by the kitchen counter, lights dimmed, papers spread out in an unruly mess that makes sense only to him. his hair’s grayer at the temples and there’s a softness to his face that wasn’t there before — age, maybe. peace, possibly. or both.

you laugh and pad over barefoot, press a kiss to the faded scar on his mouth. his hand finds your waist like muscle memory, and you slide into his lap without thinking twice (pun intended).

he lets out a quiet “hnn” but doesn’t complain.

you sip your wine, let your head rest against his shoulder. “so,” you fix his glasses, perched on his nose like he’s fighting the idea of needing them.

“when do you plan on finally asking me out?”

he’s getting pudgy in the middle — not fat, just soft in the way you get when you find your person.

toji doesn’t look up. “it’s been twenty years.”

“and?”

“I do your taxes.”

there’s a candle burning, the cinnamon one you buy every fall. you don’t remember lighting it today. he often does it on his own these days, anyway.

you smile. “quite the romantic, aren’t you?”

“you want a title now or something?” he asks. grumbles, really. “after all this time?”

you fix his shirt. “I just think it’s funny. we’ve got a mortgage, joint bank account, and last week we agreed on baby names if it ends up looking like you.”

he grunts. “poor kid.”

“she’ll be cute. dumb, probably. but cute.”

“he.” “she.”

he chuckles, traces your ring finger between his thumbs. “you’re not getting a promposal, if that’s what you’re waiting on.”

you lean in, nosing his cheek in the way that makes his knees weak. “there goes my big dream.”

you set your glass on the table beside his calculator. he’s warm, and he smells like soap and laundry and that one cologne he pretends not to like.

“you don’t even ask me for my logins anymore.”

he rolls his eyes. “don’t need to. you keep your passwords stupid.”

“they’re not stupid. they’re nostalgic.”

“TojiFan69 is not nostalgic.”

you squish his face between your hands, laughing when he scrunches it up in faux protest. “made that in high school before I even met you.”

“then it was prophetic. still fuckin’ stupid.”

now he’s muttering, something about deductions and charitable donations, and you slot yourself between his knees, hands resting on his shoulders. he doesn’t flinch. nor does he pause. only adjusts so you fit better against him, pecking you on the forehead in the way that makes your nose scrunch. revenge.

the calculator’s still blinking beside you, some half-finished total waiting for his attention, yet neither of you move. he glances down at you - now asleep - then back at the receipts, the gears turning.

in his mind, he’s already adding a third drink, a third set of tableware, and a third seat on the plane.

#romy is 5km away and lonely :(#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk scenarios #jjk #jjk imagines #toji x reader #toji zenin #toji fushiguro #fushiguro toji x reader #toji shaped

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draconym · 6 months ago

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Since you all had so many kind things to say about my spouse on this post, I will provide you with ten Spouse Facts:

He has a pet rabbit that we found as a stray, which he has clicker trained to do various tricks. He also wrote the rabbit a theme song which he frequently sings to him (when he is not baby talking at him). The rabbit loves this.

He plays the guitar, piano, and dizi (Chinese transverse flute). When I got very sick a few months ago, he wrote a song for me and has sung it to me nearly every day since. He also wrote a (beautiful, heartbreaking) song for his mother who has dementia and whom he visits every day, because music is retained much longer than other kinds of memories.

He doesn't have a car. He is anti-car. He has two bicycles: a Raleigh Record Ace (with a custom paint job featuring a rabbit) and a Lightspeed. He has a lot of biking gear that makes him look like a Pokemon trainer.

He eats raw onions whole like they are apples.

He got serious about baking as a hobby a few years ago, when he was irritated by the imprecision of bread recipes for not stating the optimal temperature of warm water to proof yeast. He created a gas displacement chamber out of jars and aquarium tubing and ran a series of experiments to find out the answer himself. We ate a lot of bread that month.

He taught himself tablet weaving in an afternoon. He also knits, and one time he sewed himself an entire ballroom gown for a Halloween costume because they don't make ballroom gowns in his size.

He's conversational in Spanish, French, Japanese, and Mandarin.

He learned to beatbox in his college a cappella group. (I also beatboxed for my college a cappella group, but my parrot prefers his beatboxing over mine.)

The first time we met in-person was at a Humans vs. Zombies nerf gun LARP. I asked him out to dinner a few weeks later and at the end of the evening I said "let me know if you want to do this again" and before I even finished the sentence he said "I want to do this again."

The last time he ate eggs was about twenty years ago, when he ruined a batch of chocolate merengues and then tried to recombine them with the yolks, creating Chocolate Scrambled Eggs. Apparently it was terrible.

#adoubtifitbeus #decaf-capuccino #feeling wife guy energy this morning

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freedomfireflies · 11 months ago

Text

You Again*

Summary: The one where Harry is your sister's ex-boyfriend and you finally get to see him again after 5 years.

Word Count: 11.4k

Content Warning: 18+, smut, age gap (6 years), sir kink, choking, use of a toy, exhibitionism if you squint!

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

Your eyes widen as you look up toward the man making his way into the diner. You'd recognize him anywhere. The dark curly hair. The tattoos that bleed through the fabric of his light shirt. The rings on his fingers.

Just like that, years' worth of memories come flooding back to you all at once.

"Harry," you shriek, sliding off the stool before practically flinging yourself into his arms.

He smells exactly the same. Like teakwood and spearmint. A rather odd mix, yet subtle enough to remind you of home.

Of him.

His chest vibrates with a deep laugh as his arms wrap around your frame to keep you against him, prolonging the hug a minute or two longer than socially acceptable.

And when you finally lean back to see him, your cheeks begin to warm.

It's been...four years? Five? Since you last saw him? Just days before he and your sister broke up, effectively removing him from your life for good.

It had been a hard time. You wanted to be there for your sister. To comfort her through the grief of losing such a long and meaningful relationship.

But you wanted to be there for him, too. After all, he was one of your best friends, age difference or not. He had always been the comforting, influential figure in your life that you relied on. That you counted on to get through different hardships in your life.

He had picked you up after your first day at your new job. Had held you in his arms as you cried over your first break-up. He had even listened to you talk about the boy you had fallen in love with.

Losing him felt like losing a part of yourself.

And now, five years later...that part of you has come home.

"Hi, Dot," he beams, reaching out to take hold of your chin and squeeze. "Shit, look at you. When did this happen?"

His eyes rake over your figure and you feel your skin grown hot under his appreciative gaze. "Stop, it hasn't been that long."

"The last time I saw you, I was helping you move into your new apartment across town,” he recalls, arms crossing in thought. "And now...now what? You’re still at your job, I assume?"

"I am. I just got a promotion, actually. I’m an assistant editor now.”

His eyes seem to light up, that soft green sending chills up the back of your neck as you glance down at your feet. "Dot...that's amazing. I'm so proud of you."

You wave the compliment away. "Thanks."

"Really," he insists before following you back to the counter where you'd previously been sitting. "I know how badly you wanted to pursue a career in publishing, and this...this is really amazing. Do you like it?"

"I do," you tell him as you settle back onto your stool. "Yeah, it's really nice. The people are great, the work is fun. Plus, the promotion came with a raise."

"That's amazing," he sighs, head shaking like he can't believe it. "Really, that's so...I honestly can't believe it. I can't believe it’s been so long. You’re so…adult now.”

You snort to yourself as you twirl your straw around your milkshake. "Yeah, I know. Though I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or not.”

"You should." He smiles, and it's big and beautiful. "You’ve always been grown up. Even before, you were mature for your age.”

“Well…yeah. I was twenty-three. That does make me an adult.”

“And now you’re twenty-eight.” He shakes his head again. “I can’t fucking believe it.”

You glance down at the rim of your glass. He’s right, it almost doesn’t seem possible. It feels like only last week that you were following him and your sister around town, begging to be included. Traipsing after them to bars, the mini golf course, and to any and all dates. Even though you knew your sister couldn’t stand it.

But Harry was nice and always inclusive. After all, he was your friend before he was your sister’s boyfriend. And he was determined to make sure that didn’t change, no matter how many times Atta rolled her eyes.

"I don't know how you put up with me," you finally admit. "God, I was so annoying. Atta used to get so mad at me for never leaving you alone."

He shrugs one shoulder up. "You weren't annoying to me. I liked it. I mean, I liked that you still felt so...safe? Around me? I guess?"

"Yeah, I did.” You smile. “Honestly, I think you were my best friend.”

He laughs as he looks back over. "I better have been.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Cause you were mine.”

"Good."

He smirks. "Remember how you used to fall asleep on my shoulder every time we watched a movie?”

"That's right," you groan, burying your face into the palm of your hand. "See? Annoying."

"Not annoying. Cute."

"It was not cute, it was annoying. And you know she hated it.”

“I don’t care. She fell asleep on my shoulder, too. It was nice.”

You snort. “It was weird, let’s face it. But I swear I've outgrown such habits."

He seems to hesitate for only a moment, eyes flicking between yours. "Too bad."

A beat.

You feel your stomach flip as you look away, breaking you both free of the tension. "So...what, um...what brings you to town? I was a little surprised to hear from you."

He takes the cup of coffee the waitress had poured him and slides it closer. "Oh, yeah, I'm...I'm here on business. And I remembered you lived here, so...I thought I’d reach out.”

"I see."

"Yeah.” He hesitates again. "And...I missed you."

You can’t fight the flutter in your chest. "I missed you, too, Har."

The conversation lulls as the busy diner continues to bustle around you. And despite how glad you are to see him, something feels...off. Different.

You aren't sure what. Can't quite put your finger on it. It almost feels like it used to, but something has changed. He looks like your Harry. He sounds like your Harry. He feels like your Harry. And yet, he feels like a stranger.

Maybe it's because it's been so long since you've seen him. Maybe it's because you aren't twenty-three anymore. Or maybe it’s because now he’s no longer Harry, your sister’s boyfriend.

Now he’s just…Harry. Your old friend.

When you notice the way he’s staring, your eyes narrow. “What?”

"Nothing." He shrugs again before chuckling under his breath. "No, nothing. Sorry, I just...I don't know. It's just...so strange to see you again. Like this."

"Like...this?"

"Yeah. Just us. Alone. No Atta.”

“Ah.” You swallow. “Right.”

“It’s not…weird, is it? I mean, it is weird but it’s not…uncomfortable, right?”

“No,” you rush to assure him. “No, I wanted to meet you. What happened with you two has nothing to do with me.”

He glances down at his lap. “Right.”

There’s an edge to the memory that wasn’t there before, yet despite your curiosity, you bite your tongue.

“What about you?” you say instead. “What have you been up to in the last five years?”

He smirks. “Oh, not much.”

“Uh-huh. You think I’ve grown up, you’re basically an old man now.”

“Yeah, yeah, all right. I’m only 34.”

“That’s still six years older than me, which makes you old.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m serious. You're not that idiot on a motorcycle anymore. Now you say things like, 'I'm in town on business,” and you wear expensive suits, and ridiculous watches."

He glances down at the aforementioned object on his wrist. "In my defense, this was a gift.”

“Sure.”

“It was,” he insists. His eyes flick over your face. “Look, I would have reached out sooner, but…after we broke up, I figured you wouldn’t want me to. I mean, you had just started your new job, and I knew it wouldn’t be fair to ask you to be a side, so…”

“There were no sides,” you argue softly. “You both just…grew apart. You wanted different things.”

“Yeah,” he agrees with a sigh. “But I know it hurt her. It hurt me, too. And it was weird having to say goodbye to all of you. And leave all those memories behind. You were both such a huge part of my life."

"Yeah," you whisper. "You were a huge part of mine, too."

"Does Atta know you're meeting me?"

"No. Didn't really think it was any of her business. This is about us, not her."

His brow raises. "Would she be mad if she did?"

"I don't know,” you admit. “Probably not, but...would it really matter?"

"Of course it would. I'd never want to get in the way of your relationship."

"You aren't," you insist. "Look, she's dating somebody anyway. And I'm sure you are, too. You've both moved on. We're just...old friends catching up, and she'd have to understand that."

He seems to consider this before saying, "Yeah. I'm not, though."

"You're not...what?"

"Seeing anybody," he clarifies, tongue coming out to swipe across his bottom lip. "Haven't really dated anybody since she and I broke up."

"Oh, Harry," you murmur. "I'm...I'm sorry—"

"No. No, don't be," he insists. "It wasn't...I've just been busy. Working at the firm and renovating my house. I've gone on some dates but nothing serious. I just...haven't met the right person, I guess."

"The right person, huh?" you muse teasingly as you take a sip of your drink. "Okay, and what does Harry Styles' right person look like?"

He exhales an amused chuckle. "God, I don't know. I don't really think I'm that picky. Just...anybody I can get along with, I suppose."

"That's it? No, 'They need a fat ass and the ability to make me a sandwich?'"

He grins so big, the corners of his eyes crinkle. "For fuck's sake. No, nothing like that. Look, I don't know. Call me old fashioned, but...I think sometimes you meet somebody, and you can just...tell. You know? There's this energy, this shift. You look at them...and it all just makes sense.”

And as he looks you, waiting for you to consider this…the air shifts.

"Yeah," you agree quietly, allowing your attention to fall down his features and land on his lips. "Yeah, that's...you're right."

He seems to notice the way your focus has wandered because he quickly clears his throat and looks back down at his mug. "What, um...what about you? I'm assuming you're seeing somebody."

You look away as well, willing yourself to calm. "Oh? And why do you assume that?"

"Come on," he nearly snorts, eyebrow cocking. "Look at you. You're beautiful and you're smart and you have this effortless ability to make anyone around you feel good. Who wouldn't want to date you?"

"Well...pretty much every male in the city," you retort. "I don't know. I've tried dating but...there's always something missing. It never really feels quite right."

"Yeah. I know what you mean," he hums. "There's this...disconnect. Like you're forcing something that you know isn't right."

"Exactly! It's not that I don't want to find somebody, I just...haven't. It's not as easy as it is with you."

His head tilts. "With me?"

"Yeah, you know," you sigh, hands waving about the air as you try to explain your point. "I haven't seen you in five years but we still, just...picked right back up, you know? As if no time had passed. We're still just us. We can talk, and we can laugh, and we don't have to force anything."

He nods. "Right."

"I mean, honestly? Sometimes I think it would be easier to date somebody I already know. The problem is that all the guys I know are assholes. And too immature, I guess. They've got no sense of purpose, no drive. And it’s not like I need to be taken care of, but…it’d be nice to know they could. You know?”

"Yeah. You need someone with a good head on their shoulders."

"Exactly. I need someone who feels more like an equal than this thing I need to take care. I want to date a man, not a Tamagotchi."

He laughs again and the sound brings the butterflies back to your stomach. You feel proud to have amused him. And even more proud of the way he casually places a hand on your arm as he takes a deep breath.

When he lets go, you look down at the spot on your skin as if you can still see outline of his fingers.

"You'll find somebody," he tells you, and you do your best to ignore the sparks dancing up the back of your neck. "You will. And they'll be perfect for you. Old enough to know better and wise enough to do it right."

You place your palm over the spot he once touched, squeezing it gently. "Yeah. Hey, and you, too. Anybody would be lucky to have you."

His eyes linger on yours. "Yeah?"

You smile. "Yeah."

The next few minutes are devoted to sharing stories about your families. He asks how your parents are, you ask about his. He tells you about his job and you tell him about your roommate. You recall every detail of the past five years, and once you've finally caught up to today, he pays for your drinks, and offers to walk you home.

You make your way along the busy streets of the city as Harry tells you that he's thinking about getting a cat. You laugh and tell him that he'd make a wonderful cat dad, and he seems to flush.

You wonder why.

Fifteen minutes later, you're walking up the steps to your building, already apologizing for the messy state of your apartment before he's even stepped foot inside.

He snorts the implication away, assuring you that no matter what, it can't be worse than how Atta used to keep her place.

And the mention of your sister breeds an odd feeling in your chest. Unease, and this strange tinge of jealousy. Like you're almost peeved at him for bringing her up. For reminding you that he's seen the inside of her room before.

But you shake it away as you push the door open, refusing to linger on the thought.

"Well...this is it," you declare, stepping aside to let him enter. "Probably looks smaller than you remember, but…it does the trick.”

He takes a moment to glance over your knickknacks and decor before he grins. “I love it.”

"Really?"

"Yeah." He shoves his hands into his expensive coat pockets and nods. "Yeah, really. It feels...fitting."

"What do you mean?"

"I don’t know. It just feels like you.”

Your teeth gnaw on the inside of your cheek as you walk to the kitchen. "Well...thanks. I think."

You offer him a glass of water, to which he declines, before you join him back by the door. You're not sure that you’re quite ready to say goodbye, but you know he can't stay forever.

You wonder if you actually want him to.

You wonder if it would be so bad if you did.

"This was…really nice," he says as he takes a half-step through the doorframe. "Really, Dot. I'm proud of you. And everything you’ve done. And I'm really glad that I can still call you my friend after everything."

Your heart starts to pound a little harder inside your chest. "Yeah, me too. I really missed you, Har. I hope we can catch up again soon."

The side of his mouth curls up as his eyes soften. "I'd like that."

With that, he moves into the hall, and you close the door behind him.

The feeling that follows is...strange. Overwhelming. Like something is wrong. Like something has just been ripped away from you.

Like something is missing.

You feel on edge. Off-balance. Confused and unsure and you have no idea why. There’s a pain in your stomach that wasn’t there before and a hollowness in your heart that didn’t exist before you saw him.

Suddenly, there's a sharp knock on your door. "Dot?"

He's back.

Confused and slightly excited, you swing it back open to find him braced against your frame. He’s quiet as he studies you, brows woven together in what appears to be deep thought before he strides back inside your apartment and begins to pace your floor.

"Okay," he begins. Strained. "Okay, tell me...tell me this isn't just me. Tell me this isn't just in my head."

You shut the door. "What do you mean?”

He looks at you before frantically gesturing between your two bodies. "This. This thing we’ve been doing all afternoon. Tell me it's not just me. Tell me you feel it.”

And you're almost certain you know what he means, but the implication of it scares the shit out of you.

So, you simply tilt your head. "Har...feel what? I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Us.” He stares at you. “Us, there's something...there's something different here. Something that wasn't here before."

"Like...?"

"Like...like the way you look at me," he says, eyes on yours as you feel your heart begin to race. "You never used to look at me that way."

Your lashes flutter, and suddenly, you feel acutely aware of the way you've begun to gawk at him. Have you been looking at him differently?

"And the way you speak to me," he continues. "Talking about needing someone to take care of you. Someone older. Someone...more mature."

You swallow.

He takes a step closer. "And all day, you've just...you’ve found a way to brush your hand against mine. Or your arm. And you laugh at everything I say, even when it isn't funny. And I know you. I know this can't be what I think it is, but...you gotta tell me I'm not going crazy. You have to tell me it's not just...me."

And you realize now that you have an easy way out. You could brush off the accusation and tell him that it is just in his head. That he's your sister's ex-boyfriend, and he's your friend, and that you would never make a pass at him.

But then you say, "…what if it wasn't just you?"

He goes still, lips parting as he leans back. Almost as if struggling to understand what you've just said.

Truth be told, you're struggling to understand it yourself. You hadn't realized just how differently you'd been acting toward him. Or that you’d begun to wonder what would happen if he was your Harry instead of hers.

Because he’s not hers anymore. He’s just a man. A very attractive man. With a job, and a house, and enough emotional maturity not to make a fart joke every three minutes.

And it's not your fault that you're starting to see him in a different light. It's been years. Five whole years since you've spoken to him and you're both adults now. Completely different people, and would it really be the worst thing if you wondered what could have been?

"Dot…" he begins slowly, clearly wrestling with what he wants to say, "…you don't…I don't think you really know what you're doing."

You take a step as well, challenging him. "What am I doing?"

"You're...you're—" His fingers find the bridge of his nose as he squeezes. Hard. "Fuck, Dot. Don't…don't do this—"

"Do what? Flirt with you?"

His palms fly to his ears with a wince. "Stop. No, you didn't...you didn't say that. You're not flirting with me. You're not flirting with me—"

"What if I am?" you retort, following after him with a surge of confidence you didn’t realize you had. "Why would that be so wrong?"

"Because,” he scoffs, shooting a stern look your way. "You’re Atta’s little sister. And we’re friends. And you’re basically a child—"

"I'm not a child," you remind him. "I'm twenty-eight. I've been making capable decisions for quite some time now—"

"But not this," he hisses, the muscles in his neck straining. "Not…shit. You can't do this. You can't—”

"Why not? You said it yourself, there's something different here—"

"But not this—"

"Why not?"

"Because…you're you," he huffs. "You're...you're my best friend, and my ex’s little sister, and I’m…I’m just this big, bad man come to ruin you.”

And somehow, the idea goes straight to your cunt.

"You're not ruining me, Harry," you say, even though you wish he would. "We’re adults. Old friends catching up and realizing that maybe things can be different now."

He takes in a breath. "But they can't be. They can't be different—"

"Why—"

"Because it's not right—"

"What's not right? What?" you argue. "Is it just the age difference? Is it Atta? Is it that you aren't attracted to me, because I know you were flirting with me, too—"

His entire face twists into a grimace as he inhales sharply and presses his hands back over his ears. "God. Don't say that—"

"You were," you insist. "Like it or not, I'm not the little girl you used to know. All right, and there's...there's nothing wrong with us testing the waters—"

He steels himself, arms dropping back to his sides. "We can't."

"Why?" you repeat for what feels like the hundredth time. "Why can't we? Huh? We're not breaking any rules. We're not doing anything illegal. I don't see what's so wrong with just trying—"

"I'd ruin you," he says again, with so much conviction that it makes your stomach drop. "I would ruin any chance you had at a normal relationship—a normal life. All right, being with me...it would complicate everything. And I'd never do that to you—"

"I'm not asking you to marry me. I'm just asking you to try—"

"Try what?"

"Try seeing." You take another step, making sure you have his full attention. "Just…try seeing if what we think is here is actually here. If maybe we were meant to find each other again after all this time. If this is where it all finally makes sense."

He considers this for a moment. Considers you. And you aren't sure when you suddenly became so enamored by the thought of Harry, but you’re here now. And he’s here. And there’s a shift.

And it feels right.

Then, his head begins to shake. "No. No, I know better. I have to know better. I have to do better than this. I can't...God, I can't believe I'm even...no. No, you mean too much to me for me to ruin this."

You feel your chest deflate as your lips press into a thin line. And you stare at him. You stare and you see the indecision and anguish on his face. You see the way he wrestles with the idea you've given him. The way he wrestles with himself.

The way he wrestles with you.

You don't want to push him. Because you know this is something you can never take back. And maybe there's just too much adrenaline in your veins right now. Maybe you aren't thinking straight, and once he leaves and the moment passes, you’ll wonder what you were so worked up about anyway.

But right now, all you feel is disappointment.

"Fine," you whisper, and his eyes soften. "No, fine. You're right. You're right, this is...I never should have said anything. I was…confused. I was just happy to see you again and I thought it was something else, but…you're right. It's nothing. And I don't wanna be your mid-life crisis. I just want us to be friends again.”

Your tiny apartment falls silent as you both settle onto this conclusion. As you let your heartbreak dangle in the air.

Then, his fingers between to flex and his teeth begin to grit, and watch in real time as he starts to change his mind.

Then, he murmurs, “Oh, fuck it.”

Next thing you know, he's closing the gap between you, taking hold of your face and kissing you hard.

You don’t have time to process it. Don’t even care to process it. But you don’t care. Because everything makes sense now.

So, you feel him. Surrender to him. Indulge in the dominate pull of his hands on your jaw as he takes a taste of you on his tongue. As he presses his hips so hard into yours that you feel your knees go weak.

You make a noise in your throat as he goes deeper, and he growls. Like he's fighting himself. Fighting the urge to take as he begins roughly walking you back until you’re slammed against the wall.

He knows exactly what he's doing in a way that younger men never have. He makes you feel both taken care of and somehow, still completely helpless. You don't have to think about anything with him because he does everything.

He presses his strong, tall frame into yours until he practically disappears into you. His large hand grips onto the back of your neck as you whimper, taking control of the moment—of you—until the only thought left in your head is just more.

And you don't doubt that he'd give you more if you asked, but before you can, he pulls back, and puts the moment on pause.

You feel breathless. Dejected. Wilting in his hold as he meets your eye and looks for your reaction.

But he won’t find it. And you bite back a whine as you wait for him to come back.

He sweeps his thumbs along your cheek before sighing to himself. "Dot..."

You feel your stomach turn at the nickname. At the way it comes out raspy and desperate. "Don’t say it."

But he does, anyway. "We shouldn't do this."

"I know," you murmur, fingers disappearing into his hair while he seems to nestle into your touch. "I know, but I want to. I want to, Har. So…please don’t make me lose you again.”

Another beat passes before he groans and presses his forehead to yours. “God,” he nearly growls, and the sound makes your thighs squeeze together. “Dot—”

"I won't tell," you promise while his jaw clenches. "I won't, I swear. I'll be your secret."

Just like that, the hand he placed on your thigh tightens. Squeezing until you're squirming beneath him. He’s losing his conviction and you’re losing your patience.

"This is wrong," he mumbles. "S'wrong, Dot. I can't do this to you. Can't do this with you...I can't...I know better. I have to do better.”

You tug on his hair as you straighten up, whining beneath a strained breath. "I don’t want you to do better. I want you to do me.”

He exhales deeply with this, nose running down the side of your face as his lips travel to your neck. He seems to take refuge there, subtly pressing kisses to your throat as he thinks. "I want to," he tells you softly. "You have no idea how badly I want to. How badly I want to do everything for you. Show you how a real man fucks. Until you see stars.”

"Har," you just about gasp, anxious to have him do just that. "Please...please—"

"Fuck." His thigh slots between the both of yours and you writhe against him, searching for anything you might find. "Be so easy to take you. Be so easy to show you what you're missing. To wreck you until you’re begging for more—"

"So do it," you plead, pulling on him until his mouth meets yours. "Do it, Har. Please. Just once. Just once, and I promise I'll be so good. Be so good for you. Won't ever ask you again—"

His hold on you grows more determined before he's ripping you away from the wall and slinging you toward your bed a few feet away.

He’s on you in seconds, hovering about where you lie as you greedily grab for him. "Promise me," he hisses as his palm slips beneath your shirt, and a needy whimper bleeds from your throat. "Promise me that this is what you want."

"I promise," you repeat quickly, arching into his touch. "Promise—"

"Promise me...that you'll be good," he says next, fingers brushing over the material of your bra. "That you'll behave. That you'll do exactly what I tell you."

"Yes," you breathe, eyes falling shut.

"Fucking promise me..." he continues as he scratches down your chest, "...that you won't tell. That you'll be my dirty little secret. That you'll be mine. That you'll let me ruin you and that you'll fucking thank me for doing it—"

The last domino falls. Crashes to the ground as you tug him down to you so you can kiss him. So, you can prove your loyalty. Prove that this is everything you’ve ever wanted.

You feel him smile.

"You little fucking minx,” he purrs.

Your skin warms as Harry's stunned but unceasingly enthralled gaze lingers on the red lace of your underwear. However, his fingers move instead for your hips. His hauntingly empty touch ghosting across the fabric of your underwear as you anxiously await contact.

But he doesn't give it to you. Not quite, not yet. He just wants to look at you. Wants to drink you in. Allow himself the privilege of seeing what he never has before.

"Did you wear these just for me, little one?" he asks in a gravely drawl, eyes flicking up to yours from where he lays between your thighs.

You swallow as you look across your stomach at him. You're not sure why you picked out this particular set today. Perhaps it was a subconscious choice or perhaps destiny was simply on your side.

"Maybe," you murmur, nails curling into your palm as you work in shallow breaths. God, you need him to touch you. Need him to do something about the mess that's sitting two inches in front of his face.

The very same mess he's pretending he doesn't notice.

Your response encourages a smirk as he hums and glances back down at the little white bow placed delicately in the center. "S'cute, Dot," he says softly, pinching the ribbon between his thumb and forefinger. "Fucking precious, actually. Knowing you got yourself all dolled up. Just to see me."

He pulls his lip between his teeth and glances back over your face. He's amused by the weary and desperate expression you wear and you're two seconds away from groaning.

His touch moves down. Down, down, down until the pad of his finger brushes over your clit.

You tense before releasing a shaky exhale.

Satisfied with this reaction, he moves even lower. Until he finds that growing wet patch that's beginning to hurt.

"What's this?" he coos, looking down toward the darkened red fabric. "Oh, darling...s'this for me, too?"

You're not sure where your quippy attitude from before has gone because now you can do nothing but nod mutely as you shift beneath his hand.

"Yeah?" His eyebrow raises as he grins at you. "Is this what has you so anxious?"

You give him another nod.

He hums. "Think I need to see for myself, hm?" He smirks and pats his palms against your hips. "Take these off for me."

You quickly reach down to hook your fingers around the hem of your underwear and drag them down your thighs. Once they've been pulled from your body, you get ready to toss them onto the other side of the bed. But before they can be flicked from the tips of your fingers, Harry snatches them with his fist.

"Uh-uh," he tuts as he tucks them into his suit's breast pocket. "These are mine now."

You suck in a sharp, eager pant. "Har—"

"Shh." He settles back onto his stomach, hands curling around your thighs to guide them apart and allow him a better visual. "M'busy, little one."

But it’s nearly impossible to stay quiet as his warm breath fans across your pussy, making the mess that much more obvious to you both. In fact, you can practically see the glistening reflection in his eye as he studies your cunt in the most intimate of ways.

You're not sure what he wants. What he's doing or planning or thinking. And you don't know why, but the way he stares at you does more for the apprehensive coil in your gut than him actually touching you has.

Finally, he makes another satisfied noise deep within the back of his throat before he brings his fingers back to you.

Two are placed just above your clit before he teasingly drags them down. However, when your hips buck up, he merely shoves them back down with a tsk.

Once you’re still, he starts again. Easing himself through your folds as he spreads you with the utmost glee. Fascinated by the way your body feels, the way it reacts to him.

His tongue sits between his lips as he ventures down, and the moment he finds the pooling of arousal waiting for him...you see the muscles in his neck contract.

"Darling…" The nickname is whispered across your body as he scoots closer. "Bet this hurts, doesn't it?"

"Yes," you reply instantaneously, straining around the singular word as you resist the urge to whimper.

He circles the tip of his finger around your aching hole, almost as if to test you. "Oh, precious girl...how long, hm? How long have you been in so much pain?"

Truthfully, since you hugged him at the diner.

"All day," you say aloud, hands gripping onto the duvet beneath you. "All day, Har. Been thinking about you all day."

And that is the honest answer. You'd been anxiously awaiting your meeting from the moment you woke up.

But he smiles as if he knows better, despite the way he seems to bask in your response. "All day, hm? And what were you gonna do if I never came back? Were you just gonna sit here and rub your pretty thighs together?"

Your heart skips while your hands gather atop of your stomach.

His brow raises. "No? Well then how were you gonna take care of it, hm?"

For a moment, you think this is simply rhetorical, but the longer the silence stretches, the more obvious it becomes that he expects an answer.

You swallow the odd lump in your throat. "How do you think?"

"Uh-uh," he chastises again. "I wanna hear you say it. Want you to tell me exactly how you were gonna fix this little problem of yours had I not been here."

Your head flops back against the pillows as you glare at the ceiling. He's always been rather infuriating but now he's a menace.

"Dot..." He's warning you. Calling you back. Urging you not to be so bratty.

With a tentative sigh, you look back at him. "My...vibrator."

He perks up. "Yeah?"

You nod faintly.

"Tell me how," he instructs next, jutting his chin toward you. "Better yet...show me. Show me how you've been taking care of yourself all these years."

Feeling rather embarrassed under the spotlight of such an intimate request, you shyly look over toward your nightstand and outstretch a hand. After pulling the drawer open, you slip inside and find the purple wand that's just small enough to fit snugly inside your palm.

And Harry watches with a certain wonder in his eye as you bring the dainty toy closer. Yet, he says nothing while you slowly guide it toward your stomach and down to your thighs.

But he does, however, shift in order to make room, scooting back by a hair to allow you the space you need to place the head right above your aching clit.

For some reason, doing something so private in front of him feels...odd. Strange and almost unsettling. And perhaps that's just nerves, but you can't deny the heat that rushes to your face as he looks between you and the vibrator.

"S'this it, then?" he murmurs, a hint of teasing laced within the remark. "Don't even have to turn it on?"

Your thumb taps against the power button, a nervous tic, although you refrain from switching the toy on just yet. "No..."

His smirk is borderline haughty. "Then what do you do, little one? How do you use it?"

You say nothing. You hold his stare, and you hold a deep breath, and you hold the wand to your glistening cunt.

Then...you flip the switch.

The soft, dainty vibrations echo across the room, across your bodies, and across your clit as it's met with the instant stimulation of the pulsating wand.

You choke on a gasp as you return your eyes to the ceiling, allowing for the feeling to take control of each remaining sense.

And as you do, Harry's hands make themselves known to you as they begin to smooth up your legs, helping guide your thighs further apart once again.

There's an ever-so-slight stretch that follows as your muscles are pulled, and the distinctive burn makes your lashes flutter shut.

"There you go," he whispers. "So pretty, darling. God, could watch you do this all day."

Truthfully, you imagine you’re quite a sight. After all, you’ve watched yourself before. You know how it looks. Know exactly the kind of visual fantasy Harry is witness to right now.

So, you play it up, give him a show. After all...he's got a front row seat.

You rotate the head slowly, circling down and around your hole before retreating and dragging the object back up and through.

And you shiver every time it brushes against that particular sweet spot. Every time the pulses slow just to speed up once more. It's almost torturous the way your body is being bent to such salacious desires. And cruel the way you're forced to do this while he only watches.

A whimper slips free, and you arch off the bed, pressing the toy as tight against your body as you can stand.

You hear Harry chuckle.

"Easy," he warns before you feel his fingers curl around your wrist, encouraging your grip to relax. "Take it slow, Dot. Not in a hurry, are you?"

"No," you breathe, head shaking zealously. "No, m'just...feels good."

"Does it?" He almost sounds surprised. "Hm. Interesting. Seeing as you're doing it wrong."

Your head lifts.

He glances toward the vibrator. "May I?"

You nod.

Pleased, he slips the toy free from between your fingers and clears his throat. Focused eyes landing on your body as he readies the bullet.

Then...he begins.

It meets your clit—an innocent, familiar touch—before it's instantly being dragged down. He's slow with it. Giving you enough time to feel each particular flutter and twitch.

Your soft gasps and grateful sighs carry him further, until the tiny head of the toy is swimming through your arousal. You fall still, attention locked on the man by your knees.

But he’s still focused. Soft, green eyebrows weaving together as his pretty cherry lips stretch into a smile.

Something changes—everything changes—when he slips the head inside. Your entire body ripples from the vibrations as you stumble over his name and squirm across the mattress.

He only laughs before placing his arm overtop your stomach to keep you cemented to the bed. "None of that. Stay still for me."

"Har," you whisper, depleted of any strength. "Please..."

"What, little one? What do you want?"

"I need...please, I'm..."

"What? Does it feel good?"

"Yes. Yes...yes, feels so good. Please..."

"Please what? What do you want, sugar?"

More. Everything. Anything. "Fuck, I'm—don't stop. Please don't stop."

"Oh, darling," he breathes. "I'd never dream of it."

He takes the toy out and moves it back to your clit, circling gently a few times before pressing down hard.

And you almost miss the full feeling it provided as it was eased into you, but before you can dwell for too long...Harry's extending his fingers and slipping them into your cunt.

Not one, but two of those beautiful digits push past your walls and begin to stretch you, ripping a gasp from your throat at the simultaneous stimulation.

"Attagirl," he murmurs from below, and you can hear the smug undertone. "That's what you wanted, hm? Needed something to fill you."

Your chest heaves, the red lace of your bra lifting and falling as you roll your head back. "God, Har—"

"Tell me, darling," he continues, easing himself out just to push back in. "Were you gonna use your own fingers? If I wasn't here? Gonna ride your pretty little hand?"

You can't tell if he already knows the answer or if he just wants to picture your hand between your thighs.

Either way, you pant out, "Mhm."

"Yeah? How many, honey? How many were you gonna use?"

"...two."

He tsks, seemingly disappointed with this answer. "Just two? Hm. And would it have felt like this, darling? Would they be able to do it for you the way mine can?"

To accompany this ask, he curls upward, nearly yanking the pleasure out of you as you choke on a cry and writhe away from him.

"Fuck—" Your teeth tug on your bottom lip. "Shit, Har—"

"Is that a no, then?" He thrusts his fingers out and back in again. "Would you have gotten yourself this wet...with just your own hand?"

The sound of him slipping through your arousal meets your ear as you groan and look down.

"No?" He adds a third finger while making sure to keep the wand of the vibrator exactly where it needs to be. "What about when you thought of me? Would that have done it for you, sugar? Thinking of me while you soaked your sheets? While you dripped down your knuckles as you fucked yourself?"

You've never heard a man talk to you this way. You already knew his experience superseded that of any man you'd been with before but this. None of those other boys ever knew how. But Harry...God. He knows just what to say. Knows exactly what you need to hear, and it overwhelms you.

"Har...Har—"

"Need an answer," he reminds you, but when you refuse to offer him one, he takes himself away. His fingers, the toy, his body. Leaning away completely as your pussy goes completely quiet.

"Harry," you just about moan, pushing up onto your elbows to leverage the playing field. "You...I'm...I was just—"

"Disobeying," he answers for you. "That's what you were doing. And I don't think that's fair, do you?"

You frown. You know this tone he's taking with you. Authoritative and condescending. It makes you huff. "Fine. I'll try again."

"Good girl," he murmurs, nodding at you as if to encourage confidence.

"I...wait, what was the question again?"

He smiles at this, releasing an amused chuckle beneath his breath before crawling back to you. His hands find the mattress beside your hips and he settles between your parted thighs, lips dangerously closer now.

And you can smell him. Smell his cologne, and his aftershave, and his shampoo. Can feel the heat radiating off his body, even through the expensive suit. Can see how much he wants to take care of you—ruin you. As promised.

"Do you get yourself this wet...when I'm not around?" he repeats, and the tip of his nose brushes against yours.

Your breath hitches. "No."

The answer was always obvious, but you know he needed to hear you say it.

"Do you touch yourself...the way I touch you?"

"No."

"Can you make yourself come the way I can?"

"God, no—" you gasp before taking hold of his face and smashing his mouth against yours.

His lips are perfect and his kiss is perfect and the two of you are perfect together. A connection so seamless, so effortless...it's as if you were always meant to be.

A ridiculous notion, you think to yourself, but right now...it's quite nice.

He pulls himself back just enough to meet your eye and offer a devious grin. "Then let’s find out, hm?"

Rough fingertips travel up the length of your inner thigh, forming goosebumps in the wake. You shiver, ready to receive his touch once again before he dances right past your cunt, and up your hip.

He moves for the lace on your chest, tugging on the wire between your breasts with a disappointed tsk.

"I want this gone," he decides, plucking it from your skin. "Need to see all of you, Dot."

And before you can even reach back to undo the hook, he's looping an arm underneath your back, lifting you up, and flicking the clasp free.

Once done, he yanks the bra down your arms and body before flinging it somewhere behind him.

Your eyes shut as your naked chest is revealed to him, heart hammering against your ribcage.

But then, you feel those lips again. He wraps his mouth around your left nipple before you can even whisper his name, sucking on you as though he's determined to make you see stars.

Which you do the moment his teeth pull on the sensitive skin. And you can't help but mewl as his tongue flicks cruel and merciless patterns against before moving for your collarbone.

He groans as he goes, situating his knee between your legs and pressing it directly against your cunt. His other hand gropes at your right breast, kneading at the tender flesh until his mouth reaches your neck. He nips at a vein just below your jaw and you arch up into him, chest knocking into his.

He sucks sweet bruises into the curve of your throat before licking apologies over the newly ruined skin. It's slow and painful and beautifully good.

Everything about him is beautiful and good.

His entire body seems to cater to yours as he cages you to the mattress and easily pulls whimpers from your throat. As he touches you, and pleases you, and knows you in a way nobody else ever has.

You grind yourself against his leg before glancing down. And that’s when you notice the way your arousal has begun to soak through his nice pants. The way a dark little patch seeps into the fancy—and expensive—material. A sight both erotic and humiliating.

Your whimper forces his eyes to where yours reside, and he smirks when he sees your mess.

"What's the matter, little one?" he asks, taking his hand from your tit and using it to grab onto your jaw. "Are you embarrassed?"

You nod, despite his hold.

"Oh, my dirty little girl,” he hums. “I don't mind you soaking my trousers. But I'd rather you soak my cock."

You'd rather that, too, and you're more than grateful when he leans back to undo his belt. You don't know where this will lead you. If you’ll fuck him and then lose contact for another five years.

Or if you’ll fuck him and change everything.

But right now, you don't mind. You'll happily exist in this moment with him. In these bad decisions until you're coming so hard, you forget your own name.

He leans back to begin ridding himself of his clothes and you scramble upward to help him along. Your greedy hands grab at his jacket and his shirt, wrestling them down his arms and off his broad chest. Wanting to see him the way he can see you.

You nearly moan when his inked skin is revealed to you. You knew he'd gotten a few tattoos in college, and even some a bit after. But seeing them now, painted across such a tan, toned canvas makes your head spin.

"Easy," he laughs, reaching out to swipe his thumb beside your mouth to collect the pooling drool. "Save some for me, hm?"

But you can't. Instead, you take his finger between your lips and bury it beside your tongue.

Surprised, his lashes flutter. But once you realize he won’t be able to undo his pants without both hands, you regretfully pop his digit free. Allowing him to slip out of his briefs until his cock springs free.

He’s…perfect. Still. Somehow. Red and swollen and leaking just for you. And you clench from the mere thought of having something so beautiful inside you.

You crawl closer, eager for a taste, but Harry simply grabs hold of your chin.

"Yes, little one?" he murmurs, using his other hand to hold his cock. "Did you want something?"

You nod and lean forward another inch.

"All right," he concedes, pumping himself before subtly tugging you down. "Just a taste, honey. Since you've been so good."

He leads your mouth to him and without a moment's hesitation, you outstretch your tongue, and drag it along the underside.

You revel in the way you feel him twitch. In the way he exhales a deep breath through parted lips while moving his fingers to your hair, guiding you closer but not too close. Just enough to get him on your tastebuds.

You hum when you reach the tip, eager to indulge in the pre-cum already beading in pearly drops. And the vibrations from your eager appreciation make the muscles in his stomach quiver as he curses your name.

However, you barely get the chance to wrap your mouth around him before he's yanking on your hair, and straightening you back up.

"What did I say?" he hisses. "Don't be greedy, Dot."

"I'm sorry," you whisper, swallowing the bit of him still lingering in your mouth. "M'sorry, won't do it again."

"No, you won't. Or I'll go back on my promise."

"No," you whine, needy fingers wrapping around his wrist to keep him close. "No, won't do it again. I promise."

You know he’s amused with your desperation, and even though you're slipping fast, he can't help but be entertained. "We'll see, little one."

With a fervent motion of your head, you scramble back to the pillows to lay down, legs spreading as if to invite him in.

He smirks as he strokes his cock a time or two more while settling himself between your thighs. You imagine he could have you in a number of ways, a plethora of positions. But he chooses this. He chooses to see your face this first time. To see every ounce of pleasure etched within your features.

And truth be told, you don't mind. You could stare at him forever.

"Do you have any condoms?" he asks next, dipping down to press his lips to yours for only a second. "Or would you prefer to go without?"

You consider this. You're on birth control and you do have a bit of a creampie kink, so you shake your head.

"Without," you answer quickly before lifting an eyebrow. "Unless you'd like to?"

"No," he chuckles, placing a kiss to your nose this time. "Just wanted to make sure. Promised to take care of you, and that's what I plan to do."

Your heart flutters.

"Okay, gonna need you to be good, honey," he tells you now, large palm landing on your hip to steady you. "Gonna need you to take me and do as I say, all right? And I'll make it worth it."

"I will," you agree quickly, fingers traveling up the dips in his arms, ghosting over each muscle until you reach his shoulders. "Be so good, Har, promise."

"Uh-uh." His hand smacks against your inner thigh in warning before his thick eyebrow cocks up. "S'not my name, darling. Not right now."

Curious as to what he might mean, you study him for only a moment before you realize.

"I'm sorry, Sir."

Just like that, something in his demeanor switches.

Truth be told, the name doesn't do much for you. But you revel in the way he feeds off it. Find absolute euphoria in the way he lights up at your obedience until you want nothing more than to please him again. To call him anything he wants as long as he keeps looking at you like that.

"Good girl," he growls beneath a deep breath before he's bringing his cock closer.

He starts by dragging it along your clit, making you jolt and buck before his hand splays across your stomach to force you back down.

"No," he says simply, eyes fixated on the torture he's currently implementing.

He does it again, letting your swollen, puffy clit jump from the slight brush of his tip while he drags it through your arousal and shifts forward.

"Breathe," he orders next, stealing a quick glance at your puckered lips and wide eyes. “All right?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He slides in slowly, pushing past your tight walls, coaxing the muscles to stretch to his size.

At first, it's nothing more than a soft, easy sensation. Relaxing, in a sense as it aids the ache and fills the void his fingers left behind.

Then...he goes deeper.

And this is what you'd been waiting for. The slight tension and subtle burn as your body is forced to accommodate him. You're thankful he goes slow. Not just because of the pain. But because you both want to watch.

You want to watch the way he pulls your body apart. Wanna watch him disappear into your tight hole that pulls him in. Wanna watch the way you flutter and clench and claim him the way he’s claiming you.

"Oh, that's my fucking girl," he groans to himself. "Fucking hell, Dot. Didn’t think you’d be so tight."

"Yeah, well…never had someone like you before," you tease, gauging your body's reaction by slowly rolling your hips up.

"Yeah?" His hand lands on your throat, smoothing up the sides of your neck until he can squeeze a gasp from your lips. “Never, huh?”

You shake your head and with one quick thrust, he bottoms out, forcing a strangled cry as you arch into him.

“Never had someone stretch this pretty pussy the way it deserves, yeah?” He tsks again. “What a fucking shame.”

He rears back, and the pain and the pleasure that follow him out make your chest cave in.

However, he’s quickly driving himself back in before you can complain, pushing past the fluttering muscles once more as you keen and rake your nails down the blanket.

"Harry," you breathe, his name like a lifeline as you drown in his sin.

But it earns you another firm smack to your outer thigh as he grunts his disapproval into your neck. "No," he warns before nipping just below your jaw. "You know better."

But really…you don’t. "Sir...please," you amend.

"Hm. S'a good girl," he praises. "Knew you'd behave for me, yeah? My perfect little toy—"

A rather debauched moan rips from between your gritted teeth as his hips ram into yours. You can feel him everywhere. In your stomach, in your head, in your heart. His legs against yours, his chest against yours, his entire body against yours until you're almost convinced he's gonna become one with your bloodstream.

Not that you'd mind.

His arm slips beneath you once more in order to lift you up and provide him with a new angle. Then, he thrusts himself into you again as your mouth hangs open in a silent gasp for air.

"There she is, that's what you needed. Yeah, little one?' He does it again, brushing against that one spot that makes your toes curl. "The other boys never did it, did they?"

You whine, knees bending besides his hips as you attempt to follow after him when he pulls back.

But he's quick to tut and knock you back down onto your ass. "No. You don't rush me, darling. We do this my way. On my time. If I wanna stay here and fuck you nice and slow, then you’ll behave, and you’ll fucking take me.”

You’d like to agree, but he’s thrusting himself back in before you can.

"You will thank me for taking my time," he continues in a coarse cadence that seems to reverberate from his chest. "You will thank me...for being so goddamn good to you. And you will thank me…for doing it right."

"Harry, please—" you just about wail, hands finding his arms as you grasp on for dear life.

But the fingers around your throat tighten until the edges of your vision begin to blur.

"There you fucking go again," he growls, stilling his rhythmic attacks as he meets your eye. He seems to enjoy watching your focus go fuzzy. "Starting to think you like to be punished, hm? And here I thought you had a praise kink."

You clutch onto his wrist, nails scratching along the veins in his arm as he pounds into you at a harder pace.

But you don't mind. You enjoy watching him give into the voices inside his head. Enjoy the way his chocolate brown curls sweep across his forehead, the way his eyebrows weave together and the muscles in his jaw constrict.

For a 34-year-old man, he seems to possess quite a bit of stamina. He'd mentioned earlier his enjoyment for running and exercising, detailing his rather excessive and diligent routine.

And you'd smirked because you'd assumed he was showing off or because he was trying to stay ahead of the inevitable "dad-bod" in his future.

But now you understand why he's really so meticulous. He's a long way from looking his age. Apart from some subtle, but soft crinkles near his eyes and a few gray hairs that peek through the auburn waves, he looks rather youthful.

And his body. You swallow another noise as you let your hungry gaze trail over every inch, every muscle, every quiver in his thighs as he braces himself above you.

Sir feels like a more appropriate title to you now. Because he is. He is your superior in this moment A man to be respected and revered. Someone who not only knows better,.but knows you. Knows your body and how to play it like an instrument.

There's something exciting about submitting to him. Something tantalizing about being at his mercy. Most of the other men you've been with have felt more like your equals than anything else. Which you haven't minded in the least bit.

But the way Harry has managed to fit you into the submissive, subservient role so quickly suggests that perhaps...this is where you were always meant to be.

Beneath him.

"Oh, honey," he coos, a mix of condescension and amusement. "Can feel you squeezin' me. Need it so bad, don't you? Need to come, hm?"

"Yes. Yes," you whisper, nuzzling your face into his neck, lips eagerly pressing into the salty skin at your disposal. "Please, Ha—Sir. Please let me come. Can't...can't hold it—"

"You will,” he says before he’s grabbing hold of your wrist and hosting it above your head. Burying into the pillow and preventing you from reaching for your clit. “Forget it, Princess. Told you to take me. So you will. Exactly how I tell you.”

"Sir—"

"I said no. I plan to keep you here for quite some time. Plan to feel you coming around my cock as many times as I see fit. And I expect you to behave for me the way you promised. Can you do that? Or do I need to stop?"

"No," you gasp, tears springing to your eyes at the very thought. "No, no, please—"

"Then what are you going to do?"

You swallow a moan and lift your chin proudly. "Take it."

A pleased smile crawls across his face as he hums and dips down to press his mouth to yours. "There she is," he murmurs, nipping at your bottom lip. "My good girl. Try to remember that, yeah? Or I'll keep you here all day."

However, that’s something else you wouldn't exactly mind, and you shiver as he pushes your knee into your chest.

"Fucking hell, Dot," he mumbles, eyes falling back down to where you're coating his cock. "Oh, my perfect toy. Look at the way you treat me, honey. Treat me so well, fucking soaking me, aren't you—"

"Yes, Yes, please…"

"I know. I know, little one. Feels so good to be filled, yeah? To be fucked the right way—"

"God, yes. More...please—"

"More, huh? Need more? Need me to make it better? Need me to fucking take—"

Suddenly, your phone rings.

The soft, melodic chime cuts through Harry’s vulgar response, bringing the moment to a close as his thrusts falter and he glances over.

God, you hate that stupid, evil, sadistic machine. Right now, you wish you'd never bought it. You wish you could throw it again the wall until it shatters into a thousand fucking pieces so as long as he just keeps going.

Instead, he searches your nightstand for the small device before he's releasing your leg in order to reach for it.

"No, Har," you plead, attempting to grab onto his hand. "Just let it go to voicemail, it's fine—"

"But that wouldn't be very polite, now, would it?" he tuts, glancing over the screen. "And I think you need to take this, darling."

"Harry, please—"

"Shh," he says sharply. “You're gonna take this phone call and you're gonna use your word. And then, and you're gonna come for me."

His thumb hovers over the green button and he guides the phone to your ear.

"And you're not gonna make a fucking sound," he adds, dropping his voice to a threatening hiss before pressing the receiver to your ear. "Or I fucking stop. Do you understand?"

You do your best to nod, and he smiles before tapping the screen.

Through a slight quiver, you say, "Hello?"

"Hey! Long time no talk, babe. How are you?"

Your eyes just about pop out of your head.

Atta.

Her cheerful tone and eager greeting make the blood drain from your face as you look up at the man hovering above you.

"Speak," he mouths with a wicked grin while nodding his chin at you.

But you can't. You physically cannot get the words to come out of your mouth as Harry keeps the device glued to the side of your head.

"H...hi," you stammer, forcing a more confident cadence. "I'm...good. How...how are you?"

"Oh, I'm good. Good, yeah," your sister replies, and you hear a bit of shuffling. "Been working a lot. Got today off, which is nice. God, you'd never believe how much shit we have to go through since we changed our filing system—"

"Mhm," you reply right as Harry rams his hips into yours.

You gasp and quickly turn your head away from the phone in an attempt to keep the excitable noise from making it into the microphone.

However, he uses his other hand to grasp onto your jaw and force you back. "No," he whispers, shooting you a stern look of warning. "You know better."

"—which is wild because we've been using the same program since '08," Atta is saying, although you can hardly hear her over the imminent pleasure rushing through your veins. "But...whatever. Once we're done, it'll make things so much easier. Which will be nice. I can cut back on my hours—"

"Yeah, mhm," you repeat, and it's outrageously strained as Harry pulls himself out, leaving you depraved and so goddamn empty.

You have to fight the urge to cry out for him, glancing down at the string of arousal that follows his cock. And it's almost too much for you to handle as you greedily reach for him once more.

However, he bats your hands away and brings his free fingers from your chin to your clit, rubbing into the sensitive nerves until you arch up.

"—so, yeah. What about you?"

Your eyes squeeze shut as that tightly wound ball of pleasure in your stomach expands. "I'm...I...good. I'm...good. You know, not...not a lot going on. At the moment."

Harry smirks to himself before sinking all the way back in and thrusting up.

Your lip fights its way between your teeth and you writhe beneath his chest while praying for the strength to stay quiet.

"Well...I guess no news is good news, yeah?" she chuckles. "Oh, hey, speaking of which...I heard that Harry's in town."

That's not the only thing he's in.

"Oh?" you squeak, placing a palm on Harry's chest almost as if in retaliation. "He is?"

"Yeah. Saw it on Facebook," she answers, and you hear her move around. "Figured he might try to reach out. I know you guys are still on good terms, right?"

"Me and Harry?" you repeat pointedly, garnering a curious look from the aforementioned man. "Uh...we're...yeah. I guess. But we’re not…that close."

He grins.

"Well...I just thought I'd let you know in case he does," she says, and your lashes flutter shut as the guilt begins to find you.

"Would it be weird...if he did?" you ask before the patterns being traced against your clit make you whimper.

Terrified, you quickly cough in an attempt at burying the sound, but Atta doesn't seem to hear.

"I mean...maybe? I don't know. He and I are fine, I think. And I know you two were friends. I guess you could at least...check on him. Make sure he's doing okay."

"Yeah," you breathe, sneaking a glance up. "I'm...I'm sure he's doing just fine."

Harry smiles once more before moving his palm to your thigh and pressing it into the bed to spread you at a different angle.

"I hope," Atta sighs. "Anyway, I wanted to call and check in. Just to make sure everything is going okay for you—"

"Mhm, yeah. I'm...I'm glad you did," you blubber while attempting to send Harry a pointed look. You're close. So fucking close, and if he keeps going...

"Are you sure you're all right? You sound a bit flustered—"

"Yes. Yes, yes, I'm..." Your head shakes quickly, nails scratching down Harry's chest in warning. He needs to stop. He needs to stop or you won't make it. "I'm fine. I'm...a little under the weather, but I'm—"

Suddenly, he sheathes himself inside your cunt, face burying in your neck with a groan as your entire body shivers.

"Are you sure? You kind of sound like you're in pain—"

"Listen, Atta, I...I gotta go—" you gasp, so close to your orgasm that you can practically taste it. “I’m sorry—”

"Oh, yeah. Hey, text me, okay? Just let me know that you're all right—"

"Mhm, yeah, I will—fuck—"

It happens before you can stop it. Ripping through every muscle and fiber in your body as you rake your fingers down Harry's back and choke on a moan.

Thankfully for you, Harry has already ended the call and thrown the phone to the other side of the room so he can loop his arm beneath your hips and tug you up into his body.

"Go," he breathes. "Give it to me. Come on, little one. Just like that. Good fucking girl, just like that. Let me feel you—"

Your room fills with the sound of his name, dancing effortlessly between the whimpers that follow.

It feels like you've touched heaven. A sensation so overwhelming and euphoric that you don't even realize his hand has returned to your throat. Don't realize he's squeezing your neck in his tight fist as he comes, filling your cunt with everything he has to give you.

You don't even realize you can't breathe, but you love it. Love the way he presses his teeth into your shoulder and presses his body into your chest. Until you're trapped against the mattress while you live through the high.

Every joint in your body aches. Radiating pain and pleasure all at once as you hook your leg over his hip and snake your arms around his neck.

And you keep him inside of you for what feels like hours. Even after you've regained a bit of consciousness. And a bit of common sense.

Perhaps the moment he pulls out, you'll realize the mistake you've made. You’ll realize that this isn't a secret you can keep. Or a choice that you can ever choose again. And maybe he’ll realize it, too.

But until then…

You’re happy to have your Harry back.

~ Masterlist

Taglist: @littlenatilda @prettythingsworld @heartateasee @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @monicaalexandraaa

@cinnamonone @triski73 @lemoncrushh @vamprry @lady-lamb21

@lillefroe @kirstiea05 @ribbonknives @lunaharrygurl @harringtonhundreds

@swiftmendeshoran @sundresstyles @eldahae @becauseheartsgetbroken-hs

@hannahdressedasabanana @sykostyles @lukesaprince @daphnesutton @love-letters-to-uranus

@lovrave @nuggetdean @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @babegoals @lc-fics

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alchemistc · 1 month ago

Text

favors

Tommy's the kind of asshole who checks his phone at the table in the middle of a first date, now.

In his defence, it hasn't been a great first date. And not in any sort of charming way, either.

In his defence, he's been waiting on this text for what feels like longer than it actually has been (four weeks, three days - he feels stupid admitting he's got a rough estimate of the hours too, but the point is he's been waiting. Hoping. Took this invitation to dinner as an attempt to remind himself he was the one who walked out.)

Tommy is absolutely the kind of asshole who glances up from his lap to find his date staring at him with his jaw clenched and doesn't bother to make more of an excuse than "Sorry, family thing, I gotta go."

Tommy's the kind of asshole who drops three twenties on the table and doesn't bother to say goodbye as he winds his way through tables - this place was pretentious as fuck, anyway - and pushes through the rotating door.

He's not even halfway to his truck when his phone displays an incoming call.

The last time he'd seen that name flash across his screen he'd been - well, he'd been a ball of nerves for all of five seconds before a winded voice had asked him to commit some light treason and Tommy had hopped to.

"Evan. Hey."

He remembers Evan had always thought he was so cool, and he sort of wishes Evan could see him now, with sweaty palms and a nervous hitch to his step as he twists around the wire fencing that will lead him to the truck he'd dropped thirty-five bucks to park, in this stupid downtown lot for this stupid date that hadn't distracted him for a minute at the stupid restaurant that only served tapas and hipster whiskey.

His voice is a little tremulous, a little off. "Hi Tommy."

Tommy doesn't waste time. He's done enough of that, and Evan sounds - Jesus he sounds awful. Sad, deep in his bones. Tired. A little out of it. "Everything okay?"

"I did have feelings for you. When I said that. I - It was such a shitty thing to say and I realized I never apologized for it even though I meant to and...and I did. I do, still, really."

It's the kind of opening Tommy couldn't have dreamt up in a million years. It's solid proof that Evan has worked it over in his mind at least half as many times as Tommy, trying to figure out where it all went wrong, how he'd ruined it so quickly when everything he'd been a sad sack about pretending he didn't want had been right there, ready for the taking. When he'd done that devastating bambi-eyed, through the lashes glance up, even though they were the same fucking height, and Tommy had stuck his foot in his mouth so badly he'd knocked out a couple teeth.

"Okay. I -."

Whatever he'd have come up with in that moment escapes his brain a second later when Evan continues.

"Which is why what I wanted to ask you may be, like, super awkward."

Tommy's a little grateful to find his truck is only two spaces from where he is at the moment. Has to bite back the sharp deprecating laugh when he realizes this is another fucking favor, not a goddamn reconciliation. He left a date for this.

A bad one.

But still.

"Okay." Clipped is a good term for the way the word comes out of his mouth. He's already wincing before he's even finished saying it, because if he can tell Evan's hurting from his voice alone, surely Evan can tell from his own tone that he's...annoyed. In pain. Wishing he could rip the memory of Evan Buckley from the spot it's nestled beneath his ribcage, where he can't shake it loose.

Evan's quiet for a long, long moment. They'd been great at getting immediately horny any time there was even a hint of strife. Not so easy to do when they haven't been together now for longer than they ever were. "I was wondering if I could borrow your truck on Tuesday."

And that's - that's a fairly reasonable request, as far as the 118 standard goes. Still makes him want to cry, a little.

"Can I ask why?"

"It's... Uh...?" The pause lasts long enough that Tommy has to check and make sure Evan's still on the line. His next words are quieter, but he can hear the tremble in them. Has to bite down the urge to make himself a shield against whatever it is that has him so emotional. Not his job, anymore. If it ever even had been.

The farther removed he is from all of this, the more he wonders if he really had imagined the connection between them. How the intimate moments felt charged with more than a desire to rip each other's clothes off, how the silly moments had felt like the prologue of a long and happy story.

"It's fine, Evan. I'll, uh - have to check my schedule but I think I can make it work."

He's free Tuesday. He and his truck both are. But maybe... Maybe this has run its course. Maybe Tommy will have to make more of an effort, his next bad first date.

"Eddie's moving back," Evan says, and there's a weird twist to his voice, a quirk around the name Tommy doesn't recognize. He'd always said "Eddie" with the kind of reverence Tommy couldn't fully grasp, a superhero and a confidante all rolled up in the lazy smirk and cow-brown eyes of a man Tommy had no hope of beating out on the Important To Evan Buckley scale. But if Tommy had to put a description to it, Evan kind of spits the name, now. "And until I can figure out a place to stay I need to get a few things in storage quickly. I just thought - it was stupid. Obviously it's short notice, and you shouldn't feel obligated to -."

"My spare room is empty," Tommy says. Tommy lies, more accurately. It's currently storing all the renovation shit he's been accumulating since the breakup turned him into an insane person pretending he knows a damn thing about fixing up a house.

This pause seems to hold a little more weight to it.

"...okay?" And there's - there's something there, in his voice, sun warm and yellow, bacon cooling on a paper towel and eggs still not plated while Evan swallowed and asked the one question Tommy had been hoping he wouldn't ask.

"I just meant - why spend the money on a storage unit, right?"

"Tommy."

"Let me check my schedule. I can get back to you. If Tuesday works, we can just - we can figure it out from there."

"Tommy."

And that's his "you're spiralling" voice. Tommy hadn't heard it often. Too busy trying to be as cool as his shiny new boyfriend thought he was. Too busy choking down the urge to sink a knife into his ribcage and carve out his heart to hand it over.

"I'll let you know by tomorrow morning," Tommy promises, and before he lets his words get away from him he ends the call.

Jesus fuck.

Hell.

What the fuck?

---

Tommy's so frayed with nerves he spends the entire drive slowly wearing a groove into the side of his cheek. By the time he makes it to the quiet street and sees Evan's Jeep parked on the curb, gate open and already stuffed full of boxes Tetris-style, he feels like he might just fucking explode.

It makes the terse, perfunctory head nod from Eddie on his way up the paved path just that much more confusing. That much more frustrating. He's got a set of keys swinging from his fingers, and doesn't even glance behind him as Evan pops the door open with a hip and stacks a box on top of two others already sitting in the porch.

There's clearly more going on here than Tommy is privy to.

"You aren't helping?" It's an innocent question. He doesn't even mean anything by it. Across the yard, Evan goes tense. Halfway down the drive, Eddie goes still, and swivels his gaze to Tommy.

"No one asked me to." By the stoop, Evan tips his gaze down, suddenly incredibly interested in whatever the label on the box he just set down says. He seems small. Not the man who'd guided him backwards up the lawn with so much tongue Tommy hadn't realized where he was until they were already inside. Not the man who'd confidently held a funeral for a long dead cowboy and roped Tommy into it without a care in the world that Tommy didn't believe in ghosts.

"Well, if anyone else was subletting you'd probably have had to give them more than a weeks notice to pack up their shit and leave, so I figured you'd be helping," Tommy says, because whatever the hell is going on with Eddie's face right now has him ready to raise locked wrists to chin height.

Eddie's tongue rolls along the inside of his cheek. "Buck says he's got it."

Knife, meet tension.

Tommy's always been more of a blunt instrument.

"Right."

"Didn't realize 'got it' meant calling in a favor with his ex, but hey, I haven't been around, in a while."

"Do we have a problem, Diaz?"

Eddie levers himself into the driver's seat of a vehicle that very distinctly isn't his truck. "Lot of that going around, at the moment."

That stone-faced look from the funeral is back on Evan's face.

Tommy's fist are clenched. He doesn't have a clue when that happened, or why it takes quite so much effort to shake his fingers loose.

Eddie clocks it. Stares for a long, long moment. Slams the door closed and backs out of the drive a little quicker than advisable, if the glare from the neighbor watering her hydrangeas is anything to go by.

He doesn't quite peel off down the street, but it seems like it takes him some effort to drive like a responsible adult.

Evan doesn't meet his gaze when he lopes across the lawn to meet him at the door.

He's gotta break the silence somehow. "So. Diaz seems pissed at me."

"It's not you."

"Uhuh."

"It's - I said something he -." Evan frowns. Twists a finger up into the slack of the tape along the top of one box. "Same old story. Buck makes it all about himself."

Tommy's missing something.

Tommy absolutely doesn't have the right to pry.

"What the hell does that mean?" Tommy asks, and watches the marble crumble.

---

It takes a day and a half to get everything out of Eddie's. Another half a day to stuff whatever they can into Tommy's bare spare room.

He'd bought a shed and stuffed the contents of his reno-supplies into it indiscriminately two nights earlier, at the ass end of three 24's from hell, and throws up an ironic thanks that Evan hadn't come by nearly often enough to be surprised by the new shed, or the dozen half-finished projects littering the house.

Tommy learns a lot of things that make him want to scream, over the course of the four-day span they squeeze that moving timeframe into.

It takes everything in him not to shoulder-check Eddie on the way out, once the final box is loaded into the bed of Tommy's truck.

He'd given them some privacy, before they left. Hopeful that Eddie would back down from this escalating argument of theirs, hopeful that he'd remember that his best fucking friend had sacrificed a hell of a lot, to allow him to move to El Paso. That he'd lost more since.

Evan hadn't spoken, the entire drive back to Tommy's.

He asks Evan out to coffee a moment before he offers to let him sleep on the couch until he finds something more permanent.

He should be less surprised than he is when they end up naked and sweaty and panting in his bed an hour later.

"We have to stop doing this."

Evan bites a nipple, and Tommy hisses.

"I'm serious, Evan. I can't do casual with you."

That gives him Evan's full attention. "What does that mean?"

"It means when I sleep with you I'm definitely having feelings for you."

He regrets the comment. Evan blows a raspberry into his sternum, and rolls onto his side to take in Tommy's expression. It's gotta be - well, it's gotta be a fucking mess. Just an absolute shit show of terror at having revealed too much. "I deserved that one."

Tommy smooths a hand over his shoulder. "You didn't, actually." After what he's been hearing about his friends and family, lately, Tommy's suddenly very aware of the words coming out of his mouth. "What I was trying to dance around is telling you I want to try again, and I don't want to fuck it up by falling into bed without actually...talking about it."

Evan snorts. Hitches his leg a little higher across Tommy's thigh. Yeah. Too late for that.

"I baked, to stop thinking about you. I baked cookies, and brownies, and three kinds of bread, and a Baked Alaska, and twelve different banana bread recipes, and - and it didn't change the fact that all I wanted to do was talk to you. See your face when you pull that stupidly bitchy look every time I don't know one of your references. Hold your hand and - and just be somewhere with you. Didn't matter where, I just...wanted. And I couldn't have it. So I baked."

"You made a Baked Alaska?"

"Tommy," Evan chides, but there are tears springing to the corner of Tommy's eyes and -

God he'd fucked this up so royally.

"Move in with me," Tommy says, the hysteria bubbling up in his throat, and he swallows it down, and down, and down again, because as the words settle under his skin, he realizes they feel right. What Evan had wanted, all those months ago, he'd wanted it too. He'd just been so fucking sure it would destroy him, in the end.

He's so goddamn tired of denying that what he really wants is for the rest of his life to be storied by memories of the man at his side, right here in this moment.

It's terrible timing. The worst idea. They're both rung out emotionally, grief and anger and insecurities bubbling just under the surface, ready to rise and make their lives miserable the moment they leave this bubble.

They haven't talked about any of it, not really.

"I'm serious. Why be apart, and all that?"

"Tommy."

The way his name curls out of Evan Buckley's mouth is like a favorite song. He never gets tired of hearing it.

Even when it's exasperated and confused. "I'm in love with you," Tommy murmurs, because his streak of insanity clearly hasn't passed. Evan's breath hitches. The worst part is that it's true. In a way he doesn't know how to quantify. He'd do a hell of a lot more than steal government property, for this man. He'd stay, for this man, at the risk of destroying his entire soul.

"Don't ask me because you feel sorry I'm technically homeless." It's an out. Teed up and ready for Tommy to swing. Tommy goes for the bunt.

"Pretty sure that was more of a demand than a question. You can say no."

Evan peeks through his lashes, chin tipped against Tommy's chest. "What if you change your mind?"

Well. That's a sore subject. Should have expected that.

Tommy slips a hand down his side. Gathers up his hand to slide their fingers together. "I won't. Believe me, at this point I've tried."

There's a quirk to Evans smile he hasn't seen in a long time. He's missed it. God, he's missed it.

This doesn't fix anything. Not a damn thing.

But Tommy doesn't want him to spend a single night going forward wondering whether or not he's worth all the trouble the rest of his family seems to have made him feel he is.

They'd been there, before. Right on the edge of something serious. Something permanent.

They can get it back.

"You're being serious," Evan comments, like he needs the confirmation just to make sure he's not hallucinating. Tommy hooks one of his legs, rolls until Evan is half under him.

"Baked Alaska serious," he intones, just to see Evan laugh.

"Where am I gonna put my bike rack?" he asks, after a serious, weighty pause, and Tommy presses in to suck Evans lower lip between his teeth in retaliation.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #tevan fic

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josephquinnswhore · 7 months ago

Text

the consequence of us

dbf! joel miller x female reader

summary: joel broke off your affair two weeks ago, and now he realises he’s made a grave mistake.

word count: 3.4K

content warning: age gap, joel is old enough to be her dad, reader is mid twenties but unspecified. Reader has cellulite, mentions of power play, Joel’s a bit of a creep lmao, possessive, obsessive behaviour, use of baby girl & daddy dynamic. Collaring, male masterbation, p in v, raw fucking, creampie, sorta rough sex, public sex, submission. (no outbreak)

Everyone has felt the eerie sensation once in their lifetime, the paranoid feeling of being stared at; only this time, you know you're being stared at. Everytime you bend down to pick up a discarded beer can off your fathers perfectly mowed lawn, with each soft handed gesture on one of your fathers older friends arms, every laugh that seemed a little too real.

But it was your intention, for him to notice you. Perhaps to show him that you could indeed live without him, despite the fact that two weeks ago, on his front porch you'd been weeping, grasping onto him as you beg him not to break things off with you.

The shameful memory of snot and tears mingling as you sobbed on your knees for another chance, like you’d even done anything wrong. Clinging onto the small silver chain he'd gifted you - a subtle everyday collar, one he’d promised with the intention of making you his, properly.

That someday he would make you his girl officially.

This evening, it seemed as though that girl had never existed, maybe it was all a figment of his imagination, of how he saw you, and wanted you to be. A sweet little girl dependent on him.

Joel had managed with teeth scraping against his bottom lip that this was for the best, that a sweet girl like you didn't need him invading your personal life, or that this was wrong, for a man twenty years older than you–let alone the fact that he was your fathers best friend.

Now as he watches you standing next to your fathers friends, with a middle aged woman on his arm, he feels sick to his stomach. You should be doing this with him, the shameless flirting, touching and sneakily bending over for him when no one else seemed to notice. It's like now, you didn't care who saw. Any attention was yours for the taking, and that repulsed joel.

The sweet girl he knew wasn't some attention starved daddies girl dying to fuck every single one of his colleagues and friends, Joel was special, had been.

What was this then, revenge? An attempt to outshine the woman he had on his arm that was closer to sixty than he was. No doubt, his date–Sue. She was beautiful, but she was too outgoing, too loud, too chatty. She drank too many glasses of wine and clung onto joel like he was some kind of prized show dog. Much like that mangy purse mutt she had at her house. Joel didn't belong with Sue, in her middle class house and aggressive teacup chihuahua.

The only place he had ever felt himself belong was with you, a subservient, submissive and sweet girl, did anything Joel had ever asked, found pleasure in being submissive. Maybe he did ruin you, turned you into some kind of modern day sexually aware woman that knew that she was too good for him anymore.

Once again, you're bending over to reach into the large cooler in your fathers shed not bothering to pull down your dress, Joel's eyes were drawn to the sight like a hound. He felt himself growing stiff at the sight of your asscheeks barely covered by the tight dress, each curve, hill and cellulite dimple could be seen leaving nothing to the imagination besides one thing.

What colour panties were you wearing?

“Excuse me a moment, won't you?” He utters to sue under his breath, prying her clinging arm off of his own and approaching you across the lawn, swerving between guests. Before he could reach you, you've left the shed, three cans of drink in hand as you hand them out to your father and two of his friends.

Joel scowls, snatching a cold can out of the cooler and watching you shamelessly across the front yard. He couldn't stop staring at you, your legs, the way your hips swing with every step. It was a fucking nightmare knowing that he had done this, created this confident vixen hell bent on torturing him. He couldn't grab at you, swiftly text you to steal you away for a few minutes for a quickie in the bathroom.

He had ended this, told you it was for good, for real this time.

You know he hasn't been able to take his eyes off of you, and finding your stomach, you approach his date later on in the evening after she's had a few drinks and is standing by her lonesome. “Hi, we haven't met, have we? You're Susan?”

The older woman greets you with a look of complete indifference, a non subtle judging stare in her olden glassy eyes as she gives you a look up and down. “Sue, actually, and you are?”

You reply with your name, giving her a sickly sweet and fake smile, standing tall and rolling your shoulders backwards, ready to cause some strife for the old hag. “So.. you're Joel’s.. what exactly..?”

The disbelief in your tone had the woman feeling insulted, and the stiff look of her face gave that away. She seemed incredibly insecure, you noticed the way she had clung onto Joel since they got here. “We’ve been talking for a while, I’ve heard he's going to ask me to be his girlfriend soon.”

A small snort escapes your nose, and before the woman could drill into you about your reaction..

“Oh you know.. He's just not that good with relationships you know? Totally a ladies man, he likes ‘em young–or younger than you, anyway. So don't hope too much that Joel even likes you at all..anyway, it was so lovely meeting you.”

You hear the woman huff loudly as you abruptly turn and walk away, knowing that you caused an absolute shit fire for Joel to deal with tonight, but you didn't expect Sue to start screaming at Joel the moment you walked away from her.

He sends a glare to you, across the yard, his eyes dark and furious. You were the cause of this, he knew it. As Sue screams at him, he drags her away, down the street.

It's a while before Joel returns, but he comes back alone, explaining to your father what happened. “She's having a moment, probably menopause or something.”

That was hilarious to you, and Joel catches you laughing, beelining straight to you. He grabs your hand, which you shake off, and he doesn't attempt to make another effort to grab you.

“The hell was that? Are you gonna start causing issues for me now?”

With a faux innocent tilt of your head you shrug your shoulders. “I'm sorry, I was just being honest with her, is honesty a problem now, Mr Miller?”

He shouldn't have gotten hard over such a minor thing, being called Mr Miller instead of Joel, that doe-ish look in your eyes as you look up at him, he cant help the stiffness in his jeans return again. Of course you notice the tension, the way he becomes uncomfortable, but you don't dignify him by looking at the thick bulge in his pants, not bothering to show any interest at all.

That.. is what bothers Joel the most. Your disinterest.

His eyes are glued to your every step as you walk away, he subtly palms himself through his jeans and makes his way inside of the house with the intent to wash his face and try to calm down the raging hardness of his cock, but when he smells your perfume in the bathroom.. He loses any sense of control he thought he had.

It was the same perfume you'd spritzed onto your skin before sneaking out to see him all those times, the floral scent lingering on your warm velvety neck. He locks the bathroom door behind him, looking at himself in the mirror. “Get a grip, Miller. She's done with you, you're done with her.”

He quickly contradicts his hollow whisper as he picks up a pair of used black panties on the top of the laundry basket, ones he knew were yours, the soft lace g-string, with a silver love heart on the front, covered in small diamonds, ones he had pulled to the side more times to fuck your hole than he could remember.

It's a desperate and shameful act, he knows, but doesn’t care. He desperately unzips his jeans and pulls out his thick, weeping cock from his jeans, stroking desperately. The other hand holds your panties and he looks at himself as he brings the lace material to his nose and smells it. They're used, and he pulls his cock faster as he shoves the material further into his face, a wet patch on your panties is all he can feel.

The smell of you has him groaning into the lace, desperately fisting his cock faster than he ever had. His knees buckle and he whimpers quietly as he starts sucking on the delicious soaking crotch of your panties as he doubles over the sink and spills a thick load, shooting across the basin.

Joel's sweating, taking one last inhale of your panties, before tossing them back into the laundry hamper, stuffing his softening cock into his jeans before turning on the tap to wash away any evidence of the violating act. He cups his hands under the running water and splashes some onto his face.

As he swings the bathroom door open, you're standing there with a shit eating grin. “All good in there?”

“Fine,” he utters, wondering if you knew, he couldn't meet your gaze after what he’d just done.

Fuck, you were evil for making him like this.

By midnight, everyone had gone home, stumbled off down the cul de sac to their houses, but you don't see Joel leave, which is strange. With your father inside of the house, and the lights shut off, you sneak out of the yard with your phone in hand, texting your friend with the intention of going to her house to drink, walking down the pathway down the street to where your car is parked.

Oblivious, you reach your car and are shocked to see Joel, leaning against the driver's side door. “Where do you think you’re going?” The growl sends a shiver up your spine, a feeling you miss.

“Out,” Joel towers over you as he stands upright, no longer leaning against your car.

“Like hell you are.” There's an edge of possessiveness to his tone, and the way he stands over you. “You need to explain yourself, all that shit you've been doing tonight.”

“I don't have to explain shit–” he cuts you off, his hand shoots out quickly to grab onto your hand. But you react without thinking and slap him.

His eyes snap shut from the force of your hand on his cheek, your hand now stinging from the contact. When he opens his eyes, his gaze is darker than before. He wraps his arms around your waist, grabbing a hold of you as he shoves you roughly against the side of your car door, you wince as your back makes contact with the cold metal. He stands flush against you, whispering in your ear as he cranes his neck downward.

“Careful. You shouldn't start something’ you can't finish baby girl.”

“I’m not your baby girl.”

God-if only you knew how much that struck a nerve within him. “Don't start that.” His voice is harsh, fingers digging tighter into the soft flesh of your chin.

“You're nothing to me.” You insist.

He bit back, his temper flailing. “Yeah? You really tryin’ to convince me that I ain't anythin’ to you, baby girl? That you don't care no more?” His thumb grips your chin harshly, jolting your neck up to look into his eyes.

There's a challenging look in your eyes, defiance, no sign of the devotion or submission he's so used to with you, he really has ruined you.

“Move Joel.”

He knew if he could just manage to get a peep out of you, a small whine or a moan out of you, that he could draw you back into him. His hand trails downward to your nipples, pinching softly, he knew it was such a sensitive area for you, which usually had your back arching.

You should have reacted, whimpered and squirmed or let out a small whine from those pretty lips that he was so used to hearing when he touched you like this. But you gave him nothing, no reaction at all, how did he let this happen? “Why the hell are you bein’ like this? Why are you fightin’’ me so hard?”

“Because I realised something, Joel.” Stepping forward, you bring your hand down to his belt, grabbing onto the buckle.

“And what is it that you think you have figured out?”

“It’s you who needs me.”

He couldn't even deny it, how his stomach felt sick at the thought of you knowing. That somehow you knew that this went beyond physical for him too. When he's silent, you roughly shove him away by the buckle of his belt. Stumbling a few feet back, he hated how weak he felt right now.

“You’re old, Joel. You love how it feels to have someone so much younger to pine over you, that's why things won't last with that old cunt, sue. Part of you needs me, joel, that why you were so fucking insistent on pushing me away.”

He freezes at your observation, words that are sharp, and true. Gritting his teeth, with his chest rising and falling, all he could do was breathe heavily.

“But me? I have options, time too. To find someone who would be proud to show me off. But you won't, you’re scared Joel, and it's because you're insecure.”

He feared this, thinking about you with men your own age, how they threw themselves at you, fit and capable of taking you out and giving you everything you ever wanted. Joel was selfish for wanting you all to himself, for craving you, obsessing and unable to let you move on. Because as long as even a part of you still wanted him, he was worth something. The grey hairs didn't matter, nor did his softening belly or the developing ache in his worn knees.

He hated how much he needed you.

You grip his chin, the salt and pepper scruff tickles your palm. Forcing him to look at you. “Say it Joel.”

His entire body tenses as you try to force the admission out of him, try to cut him open and deflower his tightly wound emotions. “Stop it.” He growls weakly, voice strained.

“Admit it!” You shout at him.

Every part of him begged for him to let go of this stubborn defiance and tell you how he felt, that he felt afraid, even though all he'd known was keeping you at arm's length. “Stop!”

With another harsh shove, you growl. “Just admit it!”

“Admit what? That I'm insecure, that I’m afraid of losing you? That every moment all I can think about is you, how much I fucking love you? What are you tryin’ to get out of me, huh?”

As his chest heaves, he can't help spilling out how he felt now, you broke the dam. “I worry that you'll find some other man to love you, touch you. That you'll come to your senses and realise you need someone your own age who is better able to take care of you.”

“So you broke my heart? That's how you face those fears?”

“The hell was I supposed to do?” With a defensive snap, he hated the weakness he felt now that you’d expelled the truth.

When you don't have an answer Joel is becoming more desperate for you to feel something for him, to let him know that there's still some space in your heart for him after all hed done.”Baby girl..” he whimpers, voice cracking with emotion..

“Don’t,” you protest weakly.

Joel realises that you don’t need him like this, all self doubting, you need your daddy.

He cages your body between his own and the car. “Too damn bad, because I’m touchin you, you ain’t rejectin’ me, you ain't gonna ignore me.” He leans his head down to your level. “And you sure as shit aint ever fucking leavin’ me.”

As he slams his hips against yours, finally a pathetically small whimper leaves your lips.

There it was, you were giving into him, that pretty sound he hadn't heard from you in weeks. “There's my pretty girl,” he whispers against the soft flesh of your neck.

“Don't fight me baby girl..” his lips on your neck have your back arching away from the car, leaning flush against Joel’s chest, but he doesn't want you to have any semblance of control. Roughly, he spins you around and shoves your body against the car, his chest flush against your back.

His hands unzip his jeans, pulling out his thick cock for a second time this evening, lifting your dress up to find you weren't wearing any panties at all, his eyes barely able to process the sight of your bare sopping cunt under the haphazard dim street light. “You knew what you were doin’ to me baby, wearing this tight dress and no panties.”

The palm of his hand smacks your wet lips, using the slick to coat his cock as he pumps it a few times.

His cock is thicker than you remember and you whine at the protrusion, forcing his cock inside of you as he forces you against the side of your car. A yelp leaves your lips and he quickly covers your mouth with his large hand. “Shh baby girl.. Daddy is gonna take you in the middle of the street, as a punishment for your actions. Don't want nobody to hear, do we?”

Frantically, you shake your head no, and he shakily praises you. “That's a good girl.”

Without any warning at all, he slams his cock into you, pushing your face into the car as he rams into you ferociously, fucking into you so deep that your eyesight starts to blur. “Think you can leave me? No body ain’t ever gonna fuck you like I do, baby girl.”

You squeal into his hand as he fucks you harder than he ever had, proving to you and himself that he was worthy of you. As your legs begin to tremble, Joel brings his other hand to pinch your nipple, and the orgasm crashes over you in waves, the feeling is intense and your body is limp between Joel and the car. Tears leave your eyes as your cunt clenches around Joel.

Joel's muttering under his breath. “That's it baby.. Make daddy feel so good. I'll kill anyone if they ever try to take you away.”

His thick cock pushes so deep inside of you for a final time as the tip twitches and he cums inside of you. Growling into your ear as his forehead rests on your shoulder.

Hesitant to pull out, he thrusts a few more times into you, making sure most of his cum stays inside you.

Pulling your dress down, he stuffs his cock back into his jeans and turns you around, wiping the steady tears off your cheeks. “Now go on back inside, alright? We’re going on a date tomorrow, a real one. Take you to a fancy place where we’ll sit down an’ eat. Just us. Daddy ain’t gonna leave you again, so that means you start wearin’ your collar again.”

Numbly, you nod, unable to form coherent words after the encounter. Pleased, he kisses your forehead, then gives your ass a light pat to send you on your way back inside your house. He stalks you down the street, making sure you get home safely, before retreating into his own house.

He watches you from his bedroom window as you turn on the dim lamp, and put on your silver collar just as he’d asked. He had his baby back, hell would freeze over before anything came between you, if your father found out.. Joel would handle him when it came to that.

No matter what that entails.

#joel miller #pedro pascal #the last of us #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller tlou #joel miller x female reader #pedro pascal x you #possessive joel miller #stalker joel miller

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aceecee · 12 days ago

Text

Miseria - Zayne

Synopsis: Six different timelines. In each one you find yourself taking over the life of an extra in the game you had been so smitten with. In each life you’re different, whether it’s a different job, or where you live and even your personality. But only one thing remains constant, you’re determined to avoid them. You’re not in the body of the MC so it’s not like they’ll even notice. Right?

You really shouldn’t have underestimated them.

Alternatively: Local handsome doctor man will keep you locked up!

MC | Caleb | Sylus | Xavier | Rafayel

TW/Tags: MDNI, yandere Zayne, obsession, possessive behaviour, adultery/infidelity (not by reader or Zayne), divorce (reader’s backstory), misogyny, reader used to be a housewife (which I don’t shit on just how they’re taken advantage of), heartbreak, rejection, unrequited love (x2 for Zayne), manipulation, stockholm syndrome (?), dub-con, power dynamics (he’s your superior), workplace relationships, friendship breakups, implied non-consensual pregnancy, birthcontrol tampering, implied forced marriage, stalking (not just by Zayne), break ins, attempted rape (but nothing happens and not by Zayne), trauma bond (idk if it’s the right word), sexual content ( m!masturbation, p in v, semi-public sex, office sex, creampie), probably incorrect medical info and incorrect understanding on how hospitals work since author just searched shit up, fake dating, police bashing, violence, dead dove do not eat

WC: 12.2K

Masterlist

Disclaimer: This is a yandere work. The character's personalities have become dramatised as a result. This is not what I think of them at all even as yanderes, it's just for pure indulgence. MC in the boys chapters is not the same one in her's, she's just generic but she will always be a friend. This is not a safe space for MC haters. If you don't like any of this then don't read.

Zayne is very out of character in this. I cannot emphasise this enough.

Three weeks.

It has been three weeks since you went to bed and woke up the next day inside a fucking game.

Not just any game, the one that had been your comfort when things would get too much. Maybe it was childish or pathetic to rely on fictional men, but then they shouldn’t have been written so beautifully. Their muscles also helped.

The surgeon had quickly wormed his way into your heart and your wallet. You had collected every single memory of his, all his outfits and were well on your way to reaching the highest infinity with him. But one regret stood in your way. When his second myth had been released, your finances weren’t the best so with great control, you didn’t pull. Instead you waited over a year for a re-run. You watched with joy as you got the first memory within twenty pulls. The guarantee resets. Sixty more left.

You worked hard to save up for sixty pulls. It was Sunday, the last day before the banner would end. There are two hours left. You have a fifty-fifty chance. With a gulp, you pull until ten pulls are left. This is it. Sweat runs down your face, you tap your phone. The screen goes gold. It’s too soon to cheer. You quickly tap through all the three stars until your screen blanks. With bated breath, you await for the animation.

It’s green.

You scream as Caleb pops up.

Now you have to wait another year.

With no other choice, you go to sleep and no you’re not crying when you do (you totally are).

Only to wake up in someone else’s bed. You stumble around in a panic, have all those mafia romance books come back to bite you in the ass? They were just a guilty pleasure! You do not want a tall man covered in tattoos named ‘Sergio’ calling you kitten or doll, you cringe just thinking about it.

But then you come across a photo on a desk. It’s of you and an old woman you’ve never met. Oddly enough she looks a lot like you…

That’s when they hit. Not in a gentle way like a mother’s touch caressing as you fall asleep but like you’ve been fucked in the ass by a chainsaw.

Too many memories for you to count. All of you in another life, in this life. The you in these memories laughs the way you do, she moves just like you, it’s clear you’re one and the same. The only difference you can see are the lives you’ve led and the way they’ve shaped you. She’s more…of a pushover and as you live through her memories, she’s been taken advantage of way too many times because of it.

Your original life wasn’t hard, you just had to be independent from a young age and advocating for yourself comes with that because no one else will. You’re too out of it now but later you notice the decay in her apartment, the lack of anything nice and the brutal ache in her chest that has you clawing at the skin desperate to rip your heart out so the suffering can end. All of it is a result of her inability to wish and seek better for herself.

Maybe if she had been a bit like you in that regard, then this wouldn’t be her ending. Thrown away by the one who claimed to love her and abandoned by everyone else.

Your first day is spent in a state of disarray.

The constant barrage of memories leave your head feeling like it’s about to explode. It’s exhausting for your body and mind, you’re oddly dehydrated after. All you can do is lay back down on the bed and sleep.

The second day is spent in a state of anger.

You’ve had time to process her life and you’ve come to one conclusion. Every single person in her (your?) life deserves the pear of anguish. That photo of you with the woman? Smashed into pieces. Not even your own mother was on your side. The ring still on her finger? Gently placed to the side because it’ll fetch a lot of money. You might be angry but you’re not a fool.

The rest of the weeks are spent trying to fix her mistakes.

Your other self was for a lack of better word, brilliant. You feel sick at what she’s been reduced to.

It’s a story you’ve seen countless times: a genius woman meets a man who’s insecure about her brilliance so he manipulates her until she no longer believes in herself and settles for a lifetime as a housewife. And look where that got her.

Discarded. Like. Fucking. Trash.

Her fucking pathetic excuse for a husband gaslit her into accepting the most diabolic pre-nup you’ve ever seen. She was left with nothing in the end, not even the clothes, jewellery or gifts he had bought for her. It’s surprising he still let her keep the ring.

It wasn’t even like her marriage had anything good about it, a cheating scumbag for a husband whose mother hated her. Mrs Choi never failed to remind your other self that you weren’t good enough, born from a poor family and no greater education (like her own son didn’t put a stop to it).

After you throw a pity party for yourself, you spend the week applying to as many jobs as you can. One gets back, a little cashier job in a small grocery mart. The pay isn’t much but it’ll cover your bills and you get a discount. It’ll do for now. It’s hard starting all over again but you’ll work hard to save and go back to school. You’ll do it for your other self, give her the ending she deserved.

But if you do ever come face to face with her, you’ll also give her a slap.

It’ll be a wake up call and also because it’ll be therapeutic for you, you can’t even enjoy the fact that you’re in your favourite game. You’ve been thrust into the deep end when you’ve only just put on the swimwear.

There are no words to describe the realisation that you’re not in the body of the MC but a random background character, one who doesn’t even live in Linkon. It’s like whoever brought you here is telling you not to get your hopes up.

So, you don’t. You accept this is your life now. Maybe you’ll visit Linkon in the future and watch them from the sidelines or maybe you won’t.

That’s how three weeks go by.

In the fourth week, you’re interrupted by your plans to sleep and sleep by your doorbell ringing. A familiar grouchy face filled with wrinkles stares back at you.

“Well?” she demands. “Are you going to invite me in or stand there gawking?”

When you don’t respond, Mrs Choi makes her own way in. She stops and examines your place, her vintage and designer clothing contrasting heavily with the cheap furniture.

“Tch.”

Tch?

TCH???

This fucking b-

“It’s your son’s fault I’m living like this. Go judge him,” you snap. Her eyes widen a little before a smirk settles onto her face. “Finally grew claws?” She doesn’t wait for an answer and makes herself at home on your couch.

“And that’s exactly what I was doing. I was judging him,” she rests her hands on the handle of her cane. “Do sit down, we have a lot to discuss.”

Interested in the direction this conversation was going, you do as she says. Though, a part of you is pissed she’s commanding you in your own home, however disgusting it may be.

“What could we possibly have to discuss?”

“For starters, I’ve never approved of you marrying my son.”

You let out a cold laugh, she doesn’t even blink. “No shit.”

“Because you deserved better.”

Your jaw hangs open.

“I saw it from the start, when he began courting you. You were brilliant and meant for more and he knew. He couldn’t stand it because he’s just like his father,” she looks to the side, shaking her head. “That boy…I tried so hard to teach him better but I failed. I begged him to end the relationship, begged him to leave you alone but he didn’t listen. Then when you got married all I could do was treat you horribly in the childish hopes you would leave on your own,” she looks straight into your eyes, a forlorn expression on her face. “But he had dug too deep into you and you were willing to deal with it. For him. You reminded me so much of myself, I suppose that’s why I was trying so hard to help. Well…in my own way.”

Sitting there on your stained couch, Mrs Choi who had once felt so big when in front of you, was suddenly so small. “It was already too late for me when I began to recognise the cage I built for myself but I’m glad it’s not for you,” that’s when she gives you a smile. The only genuine one you’ve ever seen. How did you not see it before? The anguish in her eyes, the metaphoric stone wall she covered herself in for protection.

This could’ve been your future.

But thank fuck it’s not.

She must’ve seen the relief in your eyes because a small smile makes its way on her face. “But that’s also not the reason I’m here,” she reaches into her purse, pulling out a white envelope. “Here. It’s not even close to the amount you deserve for all the years you put up with my son, for all of your labour he exploited but it should be enough for a new life.”

You open the seal, delicately since you’re not sure what’s in it. Your eyes widen at the amount listed on the account. “The account is in your name and only you have access to it.”

“B-but why…?” You stare at her.

“If I can help just one woman from a fate like mine then I’ll be content.”

“...”

“But there’s one condition.”

You bring the paper in front of you down, replacing it with her face which is looking at you.

“Go back to medical school, [Name]. One far from here. There’s a prestigious one in Linkon city where I have a friend on the board. He’s willing to offer a scholarship, especially after I showed him your unfinished thesis.”

“How did you even find that?”

“I have my ways. Of course, you’ll have to finish that thesis during your time. I suggest packing up and leaving as soon as you can.”

And you do.

The first thing was calling the number she had left, a Mr Xenly answered. He had been eager to talk, asking questions about your thesis and expressed disappointment about it not being finished. You talk over video, he’s bright and cheerful which makes your nerves calm down. Your placement for next year is confirmed and for the rest of the week, the elation you feel never comes down.

Packing up everything you owned was easy. Too easy. It hurt a little to see firsthand how little you own, how little you were left with. It infuriates you how easy it's become to brush off the hurt, the pain, the sting from betrayal. But this is a fresh start, it’s time to leave it all behind.

Mr Xenly is kind enough to find a small and cheap apartment off campus for you, the pictures you received don’t do it justice. It’s small, practically a studio but compared to what you had before, it’s paradise. You have too much money on your hands now, so you reward yourself by sprucing up the place. Comfy blanket throws, cute cushion covers, aesthetic decorations are all over the apartment by the end of the week.

It’s yours and it’s perfect.

Medical school is hard. Which everyone knows but you were still not prepared for how difficult it can be. You have your other self’s intelligence to back you up but you still struggle. Part of you is happy to be challenged so much.

Currently you’re sitting in the lecture hall, listening to your professor drone on. It’s taking everything to not let the boredom win, keeping your eyes open as long as you can. A nudge to your shoulder wakes you up again. You turn to the assailant, it’s Leo. He smirks at your annoyed expression and mouths “focus” at you. With a glare you do as he says.

You met this menace on your first day here, you stuck out amongst the students since you were older and that’s how you got his attention. Unfortunately, he’s never left you alone since then and you have no idea how you’ve made it three years dealing with him.

The lecture thankfully ends ten minutes later but not before the professor reminds you of the special guest lecturer coming in next week. You roll your eyes at the reminder, they’ve been talking about it for weeks, it would be hard not to come across it.

Next week arrives faster than you would’ve thought. It’s on a random Tuesday when your world once again tilts on its axis. You had no idea back then, the chain of events that would happen after.

Leo as usual is waiting for you, quick to throw his arm around your shoulders and usher you in. There’s an exciting buzz in the air, the students are looking forward to something. Or someone.

That’s when you see him, standing tall in pants and a warm shirt. His hair rivals even the darkest obsidian and his eyes…

They are so striking that even you halt a little in the doorway and Leo, completely unaware, ends up pushing you to a seat.

The other students swoon over him and you can’t blame them. While the class settles down and he sets up to prepare, you take the time to watch him again.

You wait for the butterflies but you feel…nothing. He’s everything you’ve ever wanted in a man but your heart doesn’t race, you don’t sweat and you don’t even feel nervous when his gaze meets yours in the crowd.

Did his eyes linger or are you just being delusional?

He starts the lecture, not looking at you again.

Yup, delusional.

You don’t have time to be disappointed in your lack of feelings as you get swept up in his lecture. He’s a genius, the way he weaves his words and presents them have you hanging off the edge of your seat. His findings are revolutionary. This is the man you want to work under, the one you want as a mentor. He’s the only one capable of sending you to great heights.

If only you realised the opposite of that can also be true.

It’s the most you’ve ever seen your class participate, they’re silent as they listen to every word and so many hands are up in the air, each with their own questions. Just like that, three hours pass.

After the lecture is over, you find yourself in a café on campus. Leo is gone to his job so you have plenty of time before you meet again. There's a restaurant that just opened. He wants to take you and you’re always open to trying new food. The cappuccino is a small comfort in your hands, a little defence against the harsh cold.

“Hello.”

The coffee goes all over the table and your clothes as you shriek from the sudden presence and familiar voice. Your hands work fast to use napkins to clean the mess up. Another pair of hands join you. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you hadn’t noticed me,” his melodic voice rings out. “It’s fine, Dr Li. I should’ve been more alert.”

He joins you at the table, all of the coffee has been cleaned up and your clothes can’t be helped. “Please, call me Zayne. I’m not working right now.”

“Okay, Zayne,” you nod.

“Mr Xenly shared your thesis with me. It’s not often he’s so impressed. I was curious to meet the person who had such astonishing results,” he looks you deep in the eyes as he says. The praise out of his mouth on your first meeting leaves you flustered. You might not feel anything for the man but he’s still the man you had once been so smitten with, he still carries with him all his little quirks that you were so taken with. “Your theories on solutions to combat antibiotic resistance leave much to be desired. Like many have already told you, I look forward to when you finish it.”

“Thank you Dr-I mean Zayne. It means a lot coming from you.”

He offers you a gentle smile and takes his leave but not before adding one last thing. “Akso Hospital would be lucky to have you, if you’re considering it for your residency.”

To be honest, you weren’t considering it. You didn’t want to experience his love story with her, you had no desire to see it play out right in front of you but things have changed now. You feel nothing for him, it doesn’t even sting to think of them together so why should you give up the option of working alongside one of the best surgeons designed for this world?

You nod. “I’ll consider it.”

And you don’t see him again after that. Not as you graduate, not as you finish your thesis and not even on your first day at Akso.

Leo follows you to Akso, his interest has always been in paediatrics but you still haven’t made up your mind which makes you glad that you’re expected to rotate around the departments and assist in every single area.

Your first two years will be spent in this rotation, the first as an intern and the second as a resident. When they are over you’ll be able to choose your specialised area. Akso is known for its cardiology and general surgery department, maybe you’ll wind up in one of those.

You meet him again in the second week. His eyes don’t widen as he sees you, there’s no quirk in his eyebrows, he’s just normal as he greets you. Which you’re thankful for and a little embarrassed you had expected a reaction in the first place.

What he does is rightfully yell at you on the first patient you assist him with. A little girl in for a heart transplant, who you were left to watch over after the surgery was done along with four other patients. Between the constant back and forth, you failed to notice a drop in her vitals which led to her being rushed to the emergency room and she survived by the skin of her teeth. You took his words in stride, you had failed and you deserved to hear each one.

Later, Leo finds you tucked into some corner of the hospital. You’re too busy crying to notice him until he throws an arm and pulls you into his side. “You’ve become famous already,” he jokes, which only makes you cry harder. Seeing his joke didn’t land the way he wanted, the boy panics, “I was just kidding, no one else knows [Name]! I only found out from the friendly nurse who thought I could comfort you.” You can’t help laughing at his panicked face, he looks just like a squirrel. He lightly hits you on the shoulder. “Were Dr Li’s words that harsh? I think this is the first time I’ve seen you cry.”

You shake your head. “He was right to yell at me. I’m crying because she’s still alive, because I didn’t kill her,” you bring your head down to your knees. “I know it’s going to happen sooner or later but I’d really like it to be later.”

Leo says nothing else, just letting you cry into his arms.

Neither of you notice the pair of feet around the corner nor as their footsteps walk away.

“Here,” Leo hands you something. It’s banana milk.

“Oh, that’s sweet of you but I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m lactose intolerant.”

You cackle at his dumbfounded expression.

“Wh-a how have I never known this? We’ve been friends for years, [Name]! This is the sort of thing you tell your friends! And I’ve seen you eat dairy before.”

“Yeah cause I had time to constantly go to the toilet before but I can’t do it now, can I?”

With a sulk, he finishes the milk.

The next day, Zayne pulls you aside. “I hope you’re not upset about yesterday,” he calmly asks. It’s not an apology and you don’t deserve one. “I’m alright, Doctor. Please don’t go easy on me.”

His lips quirk. “I’d never.”

Two years don’t go by as quickly as you would’ve liked. You spend each day and many nights at the hospital, doing the grunt work and getting yelled at. A lot. You’ve also lost patients in that time. The first one had been the hardest but you had Leo for comfort. The two of you had become each other’s rock, exchanging stories and information about how to get on the good side of your seniors. You’re just glad he was by your side.

At the end of the two years, you decide to go into cardiology and he sticks by paediatrics. Which meant he wouldn’t be staying at Akso, finding a better program elsewhere.

You’ve always hated airports and they’re no better inside the game. The long wait lines, the amount of people, the sounds of crying children, it’s all so overstimulating. But you pull through and deal with it, for Leo.

“Aww, don’t cry [Name],” the brown-haired man teases you. He wraps his arm around you, securing you both in a tight hug. “I knew you’d miss me.”

“I’m not crying,” you say as you cry. The boy before you gives a small smile, he looks all over your face and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him so nervous. His hand comes up gently to brush away some tears.

“I’ve liked you this entire time, you know?” he whispers. You nod. You did know.

“I don’t expect an answer but I’ll wait for you, [Name],” he leaves but not before placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

The first few months without him were hard, you knew how much you relied on him but you didn’t think it would be this bad. The two of you still talk but it’s at completely odd hours and only lasts for a couple of minutes each time. It’s not enough but you have no choice but to make it enough. You don’t have the right to ask him to come back, to be by your side when you’re not sure you can reciprocate his feelings. Even if by some miracle you do, there will always be that tiny voice in the back of your head telling you to check his phone or that he’s out with another woman and you’ll never be able to fully trust him, not when that voice had once been right.

Greyson waits for you as you clock in for your shift. He too has the deep under bags you sport. He hands you a cup of coffee. “Morning. It has oat milk, don't worry.” You take a sip, savouring the warmth of the liquid. “My saviour,” you grin at him. He shyly smiles back. “Us assistants should stick together, right?” You nod.

Greyson had already been at the hospital a year before you started but you had also been chosen to work as Zayne’s assistant. The man was easy to get along with but anytime you tried to work out the mystery of his age, he would find a way to brush you off but you’re not giving up anytime soon.

As you walk by the receptionist's desk, Yvonne waves you over. The kind nurse had quickly become a friend, especially when you discovered she was the one who sent Leo after you years ago. You stop when you recognise the figure by the desk. Tall with a slender figure, long brown hair with a fringe, fair skin and warm brown eyes, donned in that familiar hunter outfit.

It’s her.

She looks over you with a cheerful yet nervous smile and you give her a warm one back. You didn’t realise that the main story was already underway, you wonder when the two even met. “She’s just here for a check-up,” Yvonne passes you a tablet, her digital chart. You skim through it. “Dr Li is busy with an appointment, he gave permission for you to handle it.” “Okay, thanks Yvonne.”

“Nice to meet you, I’m Dr [L. Name],” you reach a hand out and she eagerly returns your handshake. She introduces herself, her voice exactly like you had customised it. You gesture for her to follow you to a spare examination room. “Just take a seat on the bed,” you say and put on gloves.

“How have you been feeling lately? Any dizziness or nausea?”

She shakes her head.

“I see on your chart and by your clothes that you’re a hunter, has your disease ever gotten in the way?” you ask.

“No.”

She’s lucky. Protocore syndrome is no joke. All you knew from the game was that there was no cure and reading any articles or medical journals on it had produced no further knowledge. It’s a mystery to the people in game as it was to everyone else but if the main character can work as a hunter, backflipping as she fights, then for now she should be okay.

You really hope she gets her happy ending, with one of them or with all of them, hell even by herself because she’s sitting before you now and she looks so young. You think of her several lifetimes, dying or seeing the one she loves die and you feel so much for her.

For a game meant to be a dating sim, they could at least let their main character have a break.

The rest of the check-up goes well, there are no weird results but it doesn’t quell the worry in your heart. You wonder if this is how Zayne feels every time he sees her, does he feel relieved when she’s standing before him?

You can’t help the bitterness in you, she’ll never have to worry about their loyalty, their good, their love, not like you had. They’re designed for her, each of them an anomaly among other men even in their own world. You’ll never have that security. It’s why you don’t think you’ll ever love again. Why you feel like you’re not capable of it anymore.

After the check-up is over, a ping goes off from her phone, when she checks it you notice the familiar charm of a logo dangling from it. “Ah, is that Scattered Adolescents?” you ask innocently. You nearly jumped out of the chair at the speed in which she clasped her hands around yours. Her eyes are wide with joy as they bore right into yours. “I’ve never met anyone else that liked them.”

You laugh. “Are you kidding me? I adore them.”

The two of you blink at the other. “Did we…” she trails off.

“...just become friends? Yeah, I think we did,” you finish with a giggle.

When Zayne finally makes his way to the receptionist’s desk from his meeting, he’s greeted by the sight of you and her giggling. You wave her off as she walks away, a bright smile on your face that he hasn’t seen for months. Not since he left.

“I wasn’t expecting them to become friends so quickly, they seem so different at first glance,” Yvonne comments. He looks at her to show he’s listening but doesn’t respond. “But I’m glad [Name] seems happy, she’s been so down lately. We used to have a bet to see how long until her and Leo would get together but I guess that’s just not happening.” “I see,” he finally says, neither of them notice how his grip on the documents tighten just a little.

Noticing him, you walk up to the two with a smile. It’s not the same carefree one from before, this one is a polite one, like one a person has for a work colleague. A colleague who means nothing more.

“Good morning, Dr Li,” you greet him. He nods at you. Yvonne catches your attention. “Say [Name], are you ever gonna date? I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you look at a person in interest.” Zayne doesn’t let it show but he’s just as curious for your answer. You let out an awkward chuckle but figure it’s best to squash questions like these now before they get worse.

“Love just isn’t as spectacular as people make it out to be.”

It’s a couple of weeks later when you see her again. This time she’s lying on a gurney being wheeled in, knocked out during a wanderer attack. Aside from suffering from a brutal concussion, some bruised ribs and claw mark imprints, the biggest issue is the large rod impaling her abdomen.

Greyson is the one selected to watch over during the surgery, as much as Zayne tries to hide it, you notice how he’d rather be the one present for it all but there are more at risk patients that need him.

It’s hours later that you receive the news that she’s okay, Zayne doesn’t even flinch and just nods but you see the slight tremble in his hands, just before he hides them in his pockets. “Shall we go check-up on her?” you ask him. “I-I know it might not be appropriate but I think seeing her might ease my mind.”

“We can.”

And even though you had pretended to be concerned to give him an out, the sight of her on the bed fills you with a sense of relief you didn’t think would happen. It’s her charm, managing to sneak her way into the very short list of people you cared for, when you had only met twice.

Zayne tries his best to keep it in but his eyes flutter as he tries to keep the tears at bay, you look around noting all the nurses and other staff at work. It would raise questions for him to be so involved with a patient, especially one meant for long-term, so you gently grip his white coat and lead him out the room. “Follow me.” You don’t know why he follows without a fuss but you lead through some corners and bends until you reach a storage room.

“No one really uses this, it’s a forgotten room. Knock on the door when you’d like to leave,” you inform him, closing the door and standing guard outside. It’s not that you particularly care but seeing him try so hard not to cry would tug on anyone’s heartstrings. A few minutes pass and you’re utterly grateful your pager doesn’t go off or that no one comes over to ask what you’re doing. You hear it then, a soft knock on the door.

He opens it himself, from the inside. Standing before you is the Zayne everyone sees at work, there’s no evidence of the dishevelled man you saw not even ten minutes ago. Neither of you say a word, you simply turn around and start walking, another pair of footsteps join you.

“Thank you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you give him a sly grin.

A scenario like that doesn’t occur in the months that pass after, she comes and goes, now having healed and back on her feet. You make sure to chastise her but you still present her with the plushie of her favourite member of the boyband as a thanks for putting her life on the risk. You will never admit how soft you felt at the bone crushing hug she gave you after. No, you’d sooner die.

It’s just…you can’t remember the last time you had been shown affection in such a way.

Lately, you can’t go two minutes without staff murmuring about the annual gala the hospital holds, the one night a year you can dress in extravagant clothing and mingle with rich people. The night is important for gathering donations for the hospital, so only a few people receive invites. As a mere intern, you along with others were not chosen but this year is different.

Despite your normal aversion to events like these, it feels like you’ve been spending every waking moment in this hospital, so a change of pace is welcome. Even if it’s just in another part of said hospital.

The red dress you buy comes with a price that no resident could pay but the hefty amount sitting prettily in your account helps. It’s a nice flowy dress with only the bodice being tight fitting, there’s a slit but what really got your attention was the choker in similar colour that it came with. It has a red flower with two ribbons that decorate your neck nicely. You can’t remember the last time you had ever dressed up like this. Your doctor’s coat nearly became a second skin.

The event is boring, the music is tasteless and the food even more so. You’re practically counting the seconds go by. None of the people present are remotely interesting so you can’t be blamed for slipping out.

The night sky is beautiful. It’s always been one of your favourite things. The swirls of purple in the black sky with hints of blue, the twinkling stars each different and all extraordinary and the moon. You could look at the moon for hours without looking away. You don’t know why but it’s always been your thing, just looking at it for small yet priceless moments of peace.

But peace never sticks with you for long.

“[Name]?”

Even after so many years, your body and mind remember the voice. They remember the promises of love it had spoken once, they remember the hurt it had hurled towards you. How little and alone it had made you feel. How it had lied so easily. You can’t help the tremble in your body as you slowly turn in its direction. You’re so ashamed of yourself for letting it affect you like this. After all your hard work all it took was one word to collapse everything you’ve built.

“It is you,” he breaths, looking mystified. He doesn’t get to look at you that way. His eyes move around your body taking you in with a look that disgusts you. He doesn’t get to look at you that way.

“What do you want?” It takes everything you have to keep a solid tone, empathetic of any emotion. Your face follows the same way, he doesn’t deserve anything from you. Especially your emotions.

“I just wanted to say hi.” He’s acting like you’re the one insane for being so vicious, like you have no reason to be. Your hand curls at your side. He’d sure look pretty with a large bruise on that face. That’s when your eyes drift to the woman by his side, she’s got her hand tightly clutched in his like you’re going to try and steal him. Her hand goes down to rub her stomach, by the size of it she should be about three months pregnant. She doesn’t meet your eyes, at least she has the decency to look ashamed.

He takes a step towards you. “You look…” he trails off.

“Better than I ever did by your side? Yeah, I do. It’s amazing what not having a cheating scumbag husband in your life can do for your complexion,” you bite. “You’ve said hi, now leave.”

“It’s been years and you still haven’t gotten over it?”

Red, hot white anger flashes through you but before you can open your mouth to fire back, you’re taken off guard by the feel of a warm coat over your shoulders. “There you are, honey. I’ve been looking all over for you,” a warm voice speaks through the silence.

Unlike the voice before, Zayne’s voice calms you down. It’s like a soothing and warm blanket in a room filled with bitter cold. Your hand reaches up the coat, tugging it over you properly. His hand sneaks its way around your waist, pulling you closer. His other hand makes its way to yours, covering it with a gentle squeeze, you didn’t realise it was still shaking.

“Should we head home?” he asks you. His eyes don’t leave yours, they don’t even glance the other way. “Please,” you whisper. He immediately turns you around so you don’t see them and you both start walking away. You don’t hear what Ha-yoon responds with and for that you’re glad.

Zayne leads you to his car. “I’ll drive you home.” The car ride is silent, you’re so plagued by your thoughts you don’t realise to ask how he knew where you live.

Ever the gentleman, he walks you to the entrance of your apartment building. “Will you be okay?” he gently asks. For a few seconds you just look at him. “Are you hungry, Dr Li?”

Your question is unexpected. You let out a small laugh at his face. It’s nice to laugh after all that. “Because I am. The food at the gala was horrible but I know a place not far from here that’s still open.”

He understands your unspoken question. “Let’s go then.”

The two of you receive many looks as you’re seated. You don’t blame them, you both stand out in your current attire.

The small restaurant has become a comfort place for you, it specializes in the local cuisine of your country, a reminder of what once had been home.

“I always find myself here when things get hard. When I had to take my first medical exams, after my first day at the hospital,” you explain as you both put away the plastic menus after ordering. “And now after your ex-husband appeared,” he finishes for you. You nod. “Yup.”

“You helped me out that day so I thought to return the favour,” he continued. “You don’t have to tell me anymore but I’m here if you do.”

You bring your hands to your lap, clutching them tightly against each other. “I…I think I need to just tell someone.”

He leans back in the chair, making himself comfortable. He gives you that slight smile, warmth flooding his eyes.

“We met when we were fifteen. He was everything I never was. Rich, popular and he had a sinful way with words. He could charm anyone and he did it to me. I was too young and foolish to realise his true intentions and face. That underneath it all he was just an insecure boy that couldn’t stand anyone better than him. He worked hard to chip away all the good things I had. We got married straight after we graduated. I completed my bachelor and confided my dream to go to medical school,” you start. Zayne doesn’t say a word, only watching.

“That’s when he started chaining me down. It was small things at first, ‘How can you be a doctor if you can’t even do this?’. But it was enough to stick with me and suddenly I’m a housewife who once had a dream.”

Your food arrives, you thank the waitress but neither of you make a move to eat. He’s still watching and you’re not finished.

“She was his childhood friend, who moved away when they were young. She comes back and suddenly he’s spending any free time with her. She became his first priority and I was a third wheel in my own marriage. He made me feel like I was crazy for even thinking something was wrong. Then I walk in on the two of them,” you can’t help the shakiness of your voice, your eyes brimming with unshed tears.

“I didn’t even realise that the pre-nup had a clause about cheating but only for me. He claimed that I was the one who had an affair with his bodyguard. My own mother stood under oath and lied that it was true, later I found that she was paid a lot of money.”

“He’s a dick.”

You let out the ugliest cackle at the way Zayne said those words. He says them through a straight face, voice monotone but his expression breaks at your laughter, chuckling along with you.

Things change after that. The biggest one you notice is how much he watches you, even when you catch him he’s not in a particular hurry to look away.

“Hey,” Yvonne pulls you aside one day. “There’s a Ha-yoon Choi here for a check-up. Says he’ll only do it if you’re the doctor.” She notices the slight way your eyes widen. “But I can tell him you’re busy and have no time, don’t worry. Should I involve security?”

“No. I’ll do it,” Zayne snatches the tablet from her hand before you can tell no. You didn’t even notice him walk up to you two.

You don’t even have the time to ask what happened as your responsibilities call you away. A hand roughly tightens its grip around your wrist just seconds before you get in your car. “Are you really dating that guy?”

You flick him off. “Yeah I am, what’s it to you?” He scoffs. “Seriously [Name]? He’s your superior, what were you thinking?”

“Are you kidding me,” you try to shove him. “Are you seriously trying to lecture me on appropriate relationships?”

Your voice picks up, gathering the attention of those littering in the car park. Your colleagues stop and watch the altercation. You can’t let him destroy your reputation so you try to get into your car and drive off but Ha-yoon’s never had you disobey him before.

“Have you not even considered the consequences of dating Dr Li,” he yells. You glance around, everyone else has heard him.

“Not here, Ha-yoon. Leave me alone,” you growl out before getting in the car and leaving.

But the damage is done.

Whispers and side eyes follow you everywhere you go. You’ve gone from a reputable doctor to a whore who seduced her superior for better surgeries and for special treatment. There’s no point in even denying the rumours, it doesn’t even matter that none of it is true. None of them blame Zayne, it’s all on you.

It’s been another two months since your altercation with your ex, and the whispers have yet to die down. You can’t even look at Zayne’s direction without hearing something about it.

You’re lying down in your bed, a little sanctuary you’ve made recently, with your phone in your hands. You stare at Leo’s contact, debating whether to bother him with your problems. He’s been silent for months, at first you chalked it up to a doctor’s hectic schedule but his socials show him enjoying time with new friends. You don’t want to call him since there’s a chance he’s working so you settle for a message.

[Name]:

Hey, can we talk?

Leo:

Not now. I’m with my girlfriend.

[Name]:

Girlfriend? When did that happen?

Leo:

When you started dating Dr Li.

[Name]:

I see. Have fun.

The phone drops down next to you. For all his hefty claims of love and how he would wait, he couldn’t even think to hear it from your mouth first. From all the years he had known you, did it seriously never occur for him to realise how out of character it is for you to date your superior?

Or maybe he never really saw you, only the parts he wanted to notice. This is why you’re never falling in love, they’re all the same.

You cry yourself to sleep that night.

Ha-yoon hasn’t left you alone since the altercation, you have no idea how he managed to get your number but blocking him does nothing, he just messages from a new phone. You’re not even safe in your own home. Every night when you come home, there’s a package waiting for you. The items range from designer clothing to expensive jewellery, all of which you sell.

The police practically escort you off their premises when you try to lodge a complaint, they see you as someone delusional because why would a man belonging to a prominent family stalk you?

Even in the game they’re incompetent.

In an odd turn of events, the only one you can turn to for comfort has been Zayne himself. Like you said, things have been different between you two. You’re softer around him, he’s become something akin to a friend. He had apologised for the vitriol you’ve been receiving, blaming himself since but you had told him not to. It was neither of your faults.

You confided in him about Ha-yoon’s new stalkerish methods and the failure of the police, in turn he helped you install cameras in your home and told you to always record any conversations with him. “It would be extremely helpful for your case if you managed to get him to admit to it,” he had told you.

“Stalkers tend to escalate, especially when they’re not being received well. He already knows where you live, it won’t be long until he makes his way inside. I suggest leaving your home pin with someone you trust,” his ears had gone red when you informed him that person was him. You feel a little better knowing he’s looking out for you.

“Check your windows are locked,” Zayne’s soft voice commands through the phone.

You do as he says. It’s become a routine between you two, you call him before you go to sleep and he answers. Then, he goes through a checklist you came up with before you say goodnight. It’s the only way you can sleep these days. The only way you feel safe. And you have Zayne to thank for that.

“That’s everything, good-” your words are cut off by a sudden pounding on your front door.

“What’s that?” Zayne asks, concern laced in his voice.

“Someone’s at my door,” you respond.

“[Name], I know you’re in there!”

“Find a hiding spot, I’m calling the police,” you don’t register Zayne’s voice. You remain frozen. As a doctor one of the most important things is to never freeze yet here you are. Your breath picks up as fear runs rampant inside you, your skin covered in goosebumps whether from the cold or the uncertainty of your future, you have no idea.

Your mind screams dozens of sentences at you but all you can do is gasp for the air you’ve suddenly forgotten how to breathe. God, I’m so pathetic.

“[Name], listen to me. You need to hide, find a weapon and a safe spot,” Zayne’s voice finally makes it way through the buzzing accumulating in your ears. “I’m on my way, stay calm.”

All previous sentiments of finding your little apartment small and cozy are gone as you curse yourself for the lack of good hiding spots. All you have is under the bed or the closet. It feels like you’re going to puke your heart up as you find the biggest knife you have and hide in the closet.

Under the bed is the first place he would look, giving you time to sneak up behind him and catch him off guard.

“I’m coming in,” those three dreaded words are followed by the beeping as he inputs your code. There’s no time to wonder how he even knew it in the first place, your body quickly manoeuvring itself in your wardrobe, hiding yourself under the clothes.

“I’m going to stay quiet now,” in your frenzy you’d forgotten you were still on the phone. “Hurry,” you whimper. He doesn’t respond but something tells you he heard.

The air feels thick as you hear the creak of your front door open. For a second you wonder if he can hear the thundering of your heart in the chilling silence. Your ears pick up every footstep, the creak of the floorboards with it, tears run down your face and you force your hand tight against your mouth to block off any whimpers. You don’t even breathe.

It’s when the footsteps go silent that you worry but you don’t get to linger on that worry for long as the closet door is yanked open. A hand wraps itself around your wrist with such a strong grip it feels like your shoulder might dislocate. Another hand grabs the knife and tosses it across the room before you can even react. Your body is thrown on the floor so roughly that your head bangs hard against the floor.

You’re not sure how long you’re out but judging by the current situation, it wasn’t more than a few seconds. But the view around you is blurry and tilting as you can’t concentrate, you can barely hear the words out of his mouth. Ha-yoon hovers above you with a crazed expression, he brings his face closer to you, an action that only has you sob.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he coos, caressing your face. You try to move your head away but the throbbing in the back of your head has you disorientated. “This is why you should’ve just listened to me, [Name],” he chastises. “We could’ve avoided all this,” he brings his hands down to your pyjama shirt, lingering around the buttons.

“I have to remind you who you belong to,” he pops one. “Doesn’t matter if we’re still together or not, you don’t get to move on,” another one opens. You don’t even realise your sobs getting louder until he presses his hand against your mouth. “Shut up and just take it,” he slams your head down again.

Maybe that’s what snaps you out of it, maybe it’s the anger his audacity brings or maybe your brain registers that you’re not going to be conscious for long but with newfound strength you bring your legs up and kick right at his chest with a sudden rush of adrenaline. Even in that state, you aim right for where his heart is.

The last thing your eyes see before they close is the bastard hunched over the floor, clutching desperately at his chest and gasping for air. It’s a beautiful sight. One that you painted.

You awake to the sound of similar beeping of hospital machines. You don’t register anything, only the memories of what happened before you passed out, your body moves itself up in a panic to get away. The sudden move only has you clutch your head in pain as it throbs, your eyes sting with tears. A warm hand rests on your shoulder, guiding you back on the bed.

Yvonne tries to smile at you but her eyes brim with tears. “Don’t move, you’re just going to agitate it even more. I’ll get you some painkillers later, okay?”

You try to nod but even that brings pain. “You’re safe, he’s not here,” she holds your hands in hers. “I’ll get the doctor on schedule,” she tries to leave but you stop her. “What happened,” your voice comes out croaky, Yvonne moves to hand you a glass of water.

She tells you everything. It’s not the first time you’ve woken up, you had been conscious when help had arrived at the scene, but you were so out of it, you still don’t remember. It’s a good thing, if you had been out for longer than a few minutes it would’ve indicated severe head trauma. You don’t even want to imagine what that could’ve entailed.

You were given a sedative by the paramedics since you had been in too much pain hence why you’re waking up now, only a few hours later. They placed you in a private room, all paid for by the hospital. A CT scan had been done while you were out, showing no major concerns but you’ll be monitored for a while just in case. You don’t need to feel it but the affected area on your head has massive bruising and swelling which is why it hurts so much.

You want to tell her that this wasn’t what you wanted to know, that you needed answers about what happened with Ha-yoon but the room keeps spinning and it hurts to keep your eyes open. “Sleep, I’ll be here,” Yvonne gently says as you doze off.

The next time you wake up, Zayne is in the room with you. He’s sitting on the chair by your side, dressed in normal attire and reading a book. His attention is instantly on you when you groan, he’s by your side faster than you can realise. The soft behaviour usually distributed to his patients is now presented to you. He asks a bunch of questions while looking over your vitals. He masks it well but you can see his concern shining through. It’s oddly comforting.

You open your mouth to ask but he cuts you off. “I know you’re curious but you’re in no state to process anything. I’ll answer everything when you’re doing better, okay?” You just nod, you can tell by his tone that there’s no convincing him.

She visits you too, plopping a plushie on your favourite member from the group. “Thought I’d return the favour,” she gave you a strained smile and her hold on your hand lingered for a long time before her duties called her away. She leaves her warmth behind.

Everyday, the staff fight off the police officers that drop by, all of them advocating that you’re not okay to answer their questions, something you’re grateful for. You’re in no shape to be scrutinized and judged.

Zayne concludes that you’re ready for the whole story one afternoon when you finally walk in a straight line before him. He does more tests to be safe, seeing how well your arms and legs hold up against his grip and whether it’s still difficult to move your head around. You get through it all with no issue.

“I got there seconds after you passed out, he was on the floor beside you so I froze his hands together,” he said like it wasn’t a big deal. “He deserved it,” Zayne countered. “It’s not him I’m worried about, what if it landed you in trouble?”

Your question has his posture relaxed a little. “You should be more worried about yourself,” he flicks you on the head, smiling when you glare in offence. “The police were right behind me, he tried to claim I just attacked out of nowhere but we had all the evidence from the cameras in your apartment. It showed everything, him breaking in and assaulting you. I gave them a witness testimony since I was on the phone with you.”

Your lips tremble as you try not to imagine what would've happened had Zayne never been on the phone with you. How can you even begin to pay him back?

Before you can thank him, your heads snap towards the door sliding open. Yvonne steps through, flashing you a guilty look. “I tried to stop them but they’re no longer taking no for an answer. Said they’ll drop the case without your testimony,” she whispers something else, you can’t be sure but you think she was cursing them out.

“It’s okay, I’ll talk to them,” you respond before turning to Zayne. “Can you stay?”

“Of course.”

To your terrible luck, one of the police officers is the same one that hadn’t taken your complaint seriously. You can’t hide the displeasure or anger, you’re lucky to be still here, had they done their job none of this would’ve happened.

The police fill in the gaps that Zayne didn’t get to, Ha-yoon’s facing charges of assault and attempted rape. With your phone call with Zayne, his testimony to the whole thing, the video evidence and Ha-yoon admitting everything on it, it should stick. They leave after hours of questioning, putting you under a microscope and dissecting every part of you. It leaves you in desperate need of a shower to wash it all off.

The warm rays of the sun offer no solace as you look out the window. Mindlessly, your hands trace over your skin. The media has already picked up the story, your face and name has long been released to the public. One look through your socials confirmed you’ve been thrown to the wolves. People are accusing you of trying to break up a loving family, they’re saying you’re trying to get money out of him, the normal vitriol a victim faces but it gets to you.

The only good thing about this whole thing is that the entire hospital now knows that you and Zayne never dated, that it was a ruse in an attempt to keep Ha-yoon away.

Two days later, you’re only a day away from being discharged when there’s a knock on your door. It means the person on the other end is not anyone that’s visited you so far. You tell them to enter. Leo walks in, a sheepish smile adorning his face, he’s doing the same habit of his, fiddling with his hands. Something he does when he’s nervous.

“Can I sit,” he gestures to the chair, growing more nervous when your face remains impassive. You nod.

“I’m sorry,” he starts. “I should’ve been here, you were trying to tell me before, weren’t you?” You look away from the guilt shining on his face. It makes you waver and you can’t let that happen. “Yeah, I was.”

You don’t see him move from the chair, only noticing when he settles on your bed with you. “I came as soon as I heard. Are you okay?” He tries to caress your face but you move it out the way. His face drops but he honours your request. “I am, you can leave now.”

“Wait,” he lurches forward and grasps your hands together, not caring that he’s crossed your boundary. “Why didn’t you tell me your relationship with Dr Li was fake?” You give him a baffled look. “Are you kidding me? That’s what you’re more concerned about?” you’re practically yelling, all the pent up emotion from the last week finally making its way out. Some part of you feels bad, no matter how selfish he’s being, Leo doesn’t deserve the brunt of all your feelings but the other…the other is happy for a release.

“You couldn’t even be bothered to ask if it was true in the first place, you don’t get to come back and ask for apologies. Get out, I never want to see you again,” by now your voice captures the attention of those outside. Zayne himself enters, confused at first before comprehending the situation. Your current state has him by your side, only the feel of his hands on you calms you down. The nurses usher Leo out of the room and you don’t even spare him a second glance, your attention is on Zayne. You see it then, a quick flash in his eyes. A glint of something.

Almost like satisfaction.

You’ve always had his attention.

Even when he had yet to meet you.

All it took was a meeting with an old friend who passed on your unfinished thesis. He read all twenty pages in one day, your words had him in a trance and he wanted to meet the person with such a fascinating mind.

He cheated by looking at your socials. You didn’t have much of an online presence nor did you post often, none of the photos you posted had your picture in them, all he could settle on was your profile picture. A simple photo of you bundled up under covers, smiling softly at the camera. He didn’t know then why he saved it, or why he found himself looking at it from time to time.

It’s when he sees you for the first time in that lecture room that he makes sense of it. You notice him too, not just because he’s the guest lecturer, but because you know him or maybe he’s just being deluded. He doesn’t affect you in the same way, he wished it didn’t hurt or that he was used to it or even that it was the first time. He allows himself one look at you, you stare at him mystified and it leaves him smug. He’s not above feeling in such a way, you might not look at him in the same way but he’ll take this. He’ll make it enough.

But he didn’t realise that there would be a time where it won’t be enough.

The first time he spoke to you didn’t go in the way he wanted, he was glad none of the coffee burnt you but a sick part of him was glad, you won’t forget him so easily with a first meeting like this. He makes an off hand comment about you joining him at Akso and he knows he has you with the way you light up at his praise.

A whole year goes by without seeing you and he’s never been so restless.

It’s funny, he went years not seeing her, meeting her again by chance and yet he’s barely holding it together now. Looking back, he should’ve realised sooner his infatuation with you, he’s better than that. Perhaps he just didn’t want to admit it.

Loving her had been a constant throughout his entire life, he knew her since they were kids, he knew her. Well enough to know she’d never feel the same way for him but that was okay with him. As long as she remained by his side, he’d have her in any capacity, as a patient or a friend. Maybe that’s why he didn’t see you, you weren’t familiar, what you were was unknown. He should’ve realised that the unknown was what he specialized in, that sooner or later he would want to discover you.

Maybe he could’ve warned himself then, to keep his distance through all the years he’s known you because it’s too late now. There’s only one role you can have is by his side. And it’s not as a friend or a colleague.

He makes sure not to give anything away when you start at the hospital, not even his voice betrays the fact that he’d been keeping an eye on you. Zayne expected you to cry when he yelled at you, he’s not proud of it but he’s raised his voice on several occasions when patients' lives are put at risk by the very people meant to help them and in each occasion they cry but you take it. You don’t flinch, your eyes meet his and all he sees is regret.

You have two special areas in the hospital, one of them is a corner far away where you go to cry. He hears you cry for the little girl, apologising to her in the silence. You’ll make a good doctor.

Two years pass by, you’ve decided to specialise in cardiology with him. A lot has changed in these two years and a lot hasn’t. He’s become somewhat of a mentor to you, you’re not afraid to seek him out and ask for help. Zayne doesn’t think you even realise that the other residents have also started doing the same. He’s not sure why they’re all so afraid of him, all he wants is for them to succeed and he’s thankful you helped them see that in your own way.

You part ways with your friend, Leo. Zayne shouldn’t be happy about it, it clearly affects you. He shouldn’t be happy. He shouldn’t.

But he is.

The first time he saw you together with her, he couldn’t help but compare you two. Yvonne was right, the two of you couldn’t be any different. She was younger or brighter in a sense. It showed in the kindness she held for everyone, her openness pulling in everyone. You were older and not dull but…silent. It was your silence that captured attention, made you a mystery in a way. Which is why you seemed to shine in those little moments where you held warmth for others around you, you were loyal to a fault. Even the way you both laugh are polar opposites, she laughs loud and with force, folding over and holding her stomach or lightly hitting someone around her. You laugh quietly with your hand over your mouth, politely but also a way to restrain yourself.

Zayne still doesn’t realise until he’s in that room and she’s hooked to several machines, unconscious and unable to respond and you’re pulling him to your second comfort area in the hospital. The storage closet you kept a secret from everyone, yet were willing to share it with him. He’s inside the room, the slight crack through the door allows him to see your feet and all he can do is lightly trace where your figure must be on the door. He’s flushed bright red and you have no idea what the mess you’ve made him.

One hand remains on the door, where he hopes your heart might be, and the other rubs quickly on his shaft. He’s holding his shirt in his teeth so that no moans slip out as vile images of you play in his mind. What would you think if he was to pull you in this room and show you the sight of your superior needy and wanton all for you? It’s the imagination of you on your knees that does him in, cum spraying all over his hand.

He’s tainted your room with him.

And you have no idea.

Claiming to be your partner in front of that buffoon that threw you away was done without thinking. Protecting you became second nature and it was what gave him an in. He brushed aside the rage directed at your ex because in truth he was a little grateful to the man. Ha-yoon had ruined you for any other men but Zayne would fix you just for himself.

Because you don’t love him, not now and certainly not after his plan is put in motion. He can’t handle it, he was fine with her not returning his feelings but you’re not allowed to. You don’t love him but he can make you think you do and by the time you realise, it’ll be too late.

He’ll start with Ha-yoon.

“No, I’ll do it,” the idiot had no idea how predictable he truly was. Zayne saw the way man looked at you at the gala, Ha-yoon saw you as property and discarded or not, the moron still saw you as his.

He tries not to delight in the way Ha-yoon’s face drops when Zayne steps through the door but it must show on his face as the other man glares. “Where’s [Name]?”

“She’s busy.”

Too busy for you.

“What brings you here today, Mr Choi?”

“Cut the crap, we both know why I’m here,” Ha-yoon snaps. “I want her back.”

“And you thought harassing her at her work was the way to do it,” Zayne raises an eyebrow, he has a unique way of making anyone feel inferior and the way Ha-yoon shrinks, it’s currently working. “I saw your wife, in what world did you think [Name] would enter a relationship with a man willing to leave his pregnant wife? Do you even know her?”

“I miss her. I never realised how much she did for me until she was gone. She knew me inside and out, how I like my coffee, or how my suit should be ironed and all the things I like. I love her and she loved me once, she can do it again.”

Zayne lets out a cold laugh, the other man involuntarily shivers as the temperature in the room drops. “You claim to love her when all the reasons listed are just the labour she did for you. What you should’ve said is that you miss how she throws her head just a little when she laughs, how mesmerising her smile is that imprints itself into your mind or how no matter how hard you try, her scent will always linger,” he walks closer to the man. Zayne is taller, he’s just…better than this scumbag in every way. “Face it, you left her penniless and broken and it backfired. She fixed herself better than you ever thought possible, she’s too good for you. You knew that from the moment you met her, that’s why you worked so hard to make her into something she’s not.”

With that he walks away and opens the door, looking back at the man. “We’re done here. Show up again and I’ll call security.”

He’s an idiot, Zayne thinks for the tenth time that day as he watches Ha-yoon confront you from the safety of his office. The man had done exactly what Zayne wanted. Ha-yoon’s ego and pride were too big to sustain being damaged, so he would gladly ruin you in response.

And Zayne will be there to comfort you every step of the way.

Zayne likes to see himself as the lesser evil of the two. He’s not so deluded to think himself as a knight in shining armour, no he knows exactly what he is. But that’s the issue with knights in shining armour, they save everyone, they’re willing to sacrifice the one they love for the world. You don’t need that, you need someone who’ll always love you first.

You think no one else realises, Zayne thinks you might not see it yourself, but you’re starved for attention. He noticed the way you lean into hugs, you never initiate affection but you’re always the last one to let go.

It makes him laugh how much Ha-yoon doesn’t see his actions only push you closer to Zayne. He now has access to the cameras installed in your house, he knows your code, the password to your phone just in case, Zayne’s become your safety. Just the way he wanted.

In a twist even he didn’t see coming, Leo takes himself out of the equation and you try to keep in how you’re grieving the loss of friendship but you fold with some soft prodding, right into his arms once again.

The only thing he’s sorry for, the only thing he regrets is how Zayne failed to see that Ha-yoon was pushed too far. His heart dropped when he heard the man banging on your door, his panic and worry were all real as he raced to your apartment. Zayne would’ve killed him, he should have killed him but the police were right behind so he shifted his attention to you. The guilt that manifests upon seeing your state crumpled on the floor, reduced once again to that once small figure Ha-yoon had made of you, Zayne thinks for the first time he might’ve taken things too far.

But the regret doesn’t last long. You don’t leave him alone after. Your hold on his wrist tightens whenever he informs you that he needs to leave, you text him first and you call even more. You need him more than ever and he’s drunk off the feeling.

So, he leaks the story to the press. All he has to do is sit back and watch as your face and name get released. As your address becomes public knowledge and you have nowhere to go. He slyly offers up his guest bedroom before anyone else can.

It’s torture sleeping in the room next to yours, knowing you’re right there but he can’t do anything. He settles on reading a book to pass the time. Except he never realised how unpredictable you can be when his bedroom door opens and you walk in. You don’t say a word as you crawl on his bed and sit right on his lap.

You bring your head closer to his, close enough for your hair to fall on his face. “Do you like me, Dr Li?” you whisper. “Yes,” he confirms, keeping eye contact with you. His eyes fall on your lips, which curl up into a smirk as you notice. “You have no idea how much,” he whispers back, his gaze falling back into your eyes letting you see his devotion.

You bring your lips closer, almost about to kiss him but he blocks it by lightly touching your mouth with his palm. You look at him in confusion but he’s not budging. Because you’re testing him, to see if he’s like the other men in your life. He’s not so disillusioned to think otherwise. But he is cruel enough to make you believe otherwise.

“I didn’t bring you here for this,” his hand moves and his thumb traces over your top lip. “I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

Seeing that he’s not going to give you what you want, you make the first move. Your hand clutches the hand near your mouth, bringing it in and pressing a kiss in the middle of his palm. You hear his breath hitch when you do. “I think I like you, Zayne,” you smile teasingly and gently roll your hips right against his, eliciting a small groan from him. “What if I want you to take advantage?”

His hands settle on the side of your hips, stopping you in place. “You little minx,” he growls. He’s quick to shove you over, nudging your legs to open with his thighs. “You don’t get to take it back,” he whispers against your lips.

He has you now.

Your hands scramble for purchase on the desk but each move only has the man pound harder into you from behind.

The fast movement from his hips leaves you mindless and draped over his desk, your body pliant for his bidding. You bite your lips hard to prevent any sound from leaking, to the displeasure of the man currently bringing you, well…pleasure.

“Zayne,” he says, making you look at him in confusion. “That’s the name of the man making you feel like this,” he brings his mouth to your ear. “Say it, moan it or scream it. Pick one,” his movement stills, pulling a whine out of you.

He’s not going to continue until you adhere, so you give in. “Please Z-zayne,” you tug at his shirt. “Faster,” you whine. He moves his entire body on top of yours, kissing your cheek and nuzzling into your neck. “Good girl,” he praises, smirking as you tighten around him in response.

You let out a moan as he gives you what you want, the desk moving with each hard thrust. The new angle allows him to piston even deeper into you, drawing loud moans from you both. It thrills him that you’re so lost in the pleasure that you don’t even care who hears, it could end your career but you’re too busy moaning like a slut to realise. You’re lucky his office is sound-proof but where's the fun in telling you that?

You can feel the pressure building inside you, you’re close and judging from how his speed picks up as his movements get sloppy, so is he. A sudden thrust has him landing even deeper and it’s your undoing as you cum around his cock with a grunt he cums too. He holds you on his desk for a few minutes, both of you just taking the time to breathe and come down from the high.

His hand comes up to your chin and pulls it to him, bringing you into a kiss. It’s been a few months since you started dating and not a day has gone by where he hasn’t had his way with you. The man is insatiable, needy even when he’s so tired he can’t even move. With how much he’s come inside you, you’re wondering if your birth control can even put up a fight anymore.

You don’t know that he replaced your pills months ago.

He’s always seen himself having kids after marriage but you would never agree to either so quickly so he’ll have to make you.

A year later you stand before the mirror, examining the ring on your finger and the round bump housing something in your stomach.

This was what you wanted.

Right?

AN: Scattered Adolescents = Stray Kids. I just had to, I found it so funny.

And yes, I included exactly how I lost my 50/50 to Caleb, I don’t care that it's been over a week, I’m still salty.

I felt like out of all of them, Zayne would be the one to be subtle rather than forceful so I hope I did it justice. I thought it would be funny to start with reader judging her other self for falling victim to manipulation and then end up in the same position.

Currently watching Lost in space and why is the robot sexy? Guys, why did they make the robot hot? I yearn for the metal.

Happy Juneleb guys! May you all get the birthday card x4 in one pull.

Tag list: @zeverean @quill-for-glory @smittenlynn @nm4565natty @miuangel @noxus123

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vunblr · 7 months ago

Text

The Memory Remains

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff. Smut. Unprotected sex.

Summary: An unexpected encounter brings Bucky face-to-face with someone from his past, stirring memories he thought were long buried.

Word Count: About 13k.

note: Let’s pretend the incident with Renata in CATWS never happened. Bucky's presence at Pierce’s house is a bit more lenient for the sake of this story.

The Winter Soldier moved through his assignments like a shadow. So, when he was stationed at Pierce's home for a week, he was given explicit instructions: remain masked, both arms concealed under a layer of clothing and stay out of sight as much as possible, but if seen, remain silent, a faceless piece of security.

On his first day, he heard voices down the hall before he saw them, a child’s laughter, paired with a softer, patient tone. The child -a boy around five or six- bounded into view, dragging a toy truck and blissfully oblivious to the stranger cloaked in shadows. But the woman with him was different; she immediately caught sight of him. She looked surprised but quickly cast her eyes down as she guided the boy past.

Pierce’s strict warning echoed in her mind. He explained to her that his guest was part of a high-security detail, trained to avoid all unnecessary contact, just another eccentric demand of his government work.

New to America, she had recently left her home country after a severe burnout as a lawyer and the lingering shadow of an abusive relationship. She managed to pay a year’s rent in advance with her savings, but reality quickly slapped her in the face when she began looking for a job. Now in her late twenties, she had no experience outside a desk or a courtroom with foreign laws.

This job as a nanny was the first real opportunity she’d found, and she took it. The pay was excellent, and the boy’s parents were kind. With an arrangement between Pierce and his son, she spent part of each day with the child at Pierce’s apartment after kindergarten until his parents picked him up after work, which was conveniently close by. In the two months she’d worked for the Pierces, she hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary in the house, so the appearance of a security guard was an unexpected twist.

She understood the "no interaction" rule well enough; her brother had worked in federal law enforcement before he passed, so she knew about the necessity of concealing the asset's identity and the formality of the job. Yet, habit got the best of her. She’d nod or offer a polite “good afternoon” when she arrived and a quiet “see you” when she left. Sometimes she’d even throw out a casual comment about the weather or crack a joke, knowing she wouldn’t get a response. His silence was a constant, and his blue gaze kept drilled into an inexistent point in the horizon. By the third day, she found herself relaxing into the new routine, no longer unnerved by the silent figure lurking in the house. She resumed her usual activities while the child napped: baking small snacks for when he woke up, or sitting at the kitchen table with her crochet project in hand. She even started putting on a playlist mostly with songs from her home country, the soft, lively tunes filling the quiet rooms.

Sometimes, when she baked treats for the boy, she’d make a few extras, placing them on a surface near the man in the shadows. Her brother had told her enough stories about hours on guard, the hunger and thirst that crept in with the silence. This was her small way of saying I know the circumstances -Though she didn’t. Oh, she didn’t even scratch the surface of his circumstances.- “You can take it later when you are alone.” She had offered quietly.

The first time, the food sat untouched for hours, and she thought he’d rejected the gesture entirely. But, just minutes before she had to leave, she found the plate empty, and she could swear the right pocket of his tactical pants looked slightly stuffed. Taking it as a sign, she continued doing it, sometimes offering a simple piece of fruit, or a chocolate if she hadn’t bake. Each time, the plate ended up empty, and his pocket a little bulkier.

Unbeknownst to her, one song in her playlist seemed to provoke a reaction in the stoic custody. Its melody -a blend of mid-1900s music with a modern twist- stirred something faint and unreachable within him, persistent enough to catch his attention. Each time the tune played on shuffle, his gaze would flicker in her direction, his brows knitting slightly as if he were straining to recall a memory just out of reach. And yet, she remained blissfully unaware, humming along.

After a week, he was gone. The masked figure had simply vanished from Pierce’s house as if he’d never been there at all.

-----

Nearly nine years had passed since that afternoon when Bucky threw himself from the helicarrier into the water to rescue Steve, somehow re-emerging as a fugitive from Hydra’s grasp. Since then, there had been one chaotic chapter after another, ending in a shaky kind of freedom and a conditional pardon. He’d been granted the basics of a civilian life -even if he wasn’t sure what to do with it-, a place to live, and the requirement to attend therapy sessions.

One night, after a familiar nightmare left him panting and staring hollow-eyed into the bathroom mirror, his gaze landed on his hair. It hung long and unkempt, framing his face with shadows from another life, a reminder of missions in the dead of night, of orders he’d had no choice but to follow. His reflection stared back, haunted, tethered to the past.

A voice urged inside him, low and insistent. Cut it. Shedding the hair felt like severing the ties that still bind him to memories. His hand moved instinctively, reaching for the familiar weight of his knife, the same one he’d carried for years, an extension of who he’d once been. But he hesitated, hovering his fingers over the blade. If he was serious about moving forward, this had to be more than just an impulsive cut in the dead of night. It had to be his choice, deliberate and clear, reclaiming himself one small step at a time. He’d find a hairdresser, endure the closeness, the touching, the vulnerability of someone holding sharp scissors near him, and let it be a test. A small, tangible proof that he could start anew, piece by piece.

The next morning, he stood outside a shop near his apartment, with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, and wrestling with the urge to turn and walk away.

He lingered on the sidewalk, eyeing the parlor's weathered sign and chipped paint. Its old, familiar look was oddly reassuring as if the place had been untouched by time. That decided it for him. He scratched his beard and stepped forward, and as the door chimed overhead, he knew there was no going back now. Behind the chair, an old man was trimming the hair of a customer nearly as old, both with the unmistakable air of a veteran. The barber gave him a polite nod, but Bucky didn’t miss the shared look between the two: a quick, appraising glance that seemed to mutter, hippie motherfucker.

“Y/n!” the old barber called, his voice rising as he looked toward the back room. “You have a customer.”

The moment Bucky heard a woman’s name, he froze. An image of an elderly lady popped into his mind: chatty, distracted, and maybe with a knack for giving creative haircuts. He could already hear Sam’s laughter echoing in his head if he came out of this with some uneven cut or something worse.

“Well, actually…” he began, trying to backpedal, but his retreat stalled when she appeared in the doorway. She wasn’t old, far from it. And attractive. Very attractive. His mind blanked as he stood there, frozen, just staring.

The old man caught his hesitation and cast a pointed look his way, a touch more disapproving than before. The customer in the chair joined in, nodding in silent agreement.

“Well, young man?” the barber asked, his voice gruffer now. “You gonna stand there or sit?”

Bucky cleared his throat, murmuring, “I… thought you were the barber.” His voice was low, almost defensive, as he looked between the old man and the woman.

Her eyebrow quirked high, clearly amused, while the old barber scoffed. “What? because she’s a woman?” he huffed, crossing his arms. “Kid, I’m pretty sure she can handle that hippie mane of yours better than I ever could.”

The man in the chair gave a quiet chuckle, nodding in agreement, and Bucky’s mouth went dry. This was not the quick, anonymous cut he’d imagined. But there was no turning back now; he could feel three sets of eyes on him, each waiting for his move.

So, with a quick breath, he took off his jacket, walked over, and sank into the chair, stealing a glance at her reflection in the mirror.

She got closer from behind, amused by the fact that he already sat on the chair. “So, what are we doing today?” her tone was professional, though her eyes sparkled with a hint of curiosity.

He cleared his throat, shifting slightly on the seat. “Just… cut it short. Something easy to manage.” He answered gruffly.

She nodded, assessing the length of his hair. “Alright, but I must wash it first since it's this long. Sprinkling it with water won’t be enough.”

He blinked, a hint of tension flashing across his face. The thought of sitting there with his head tilted back, felt almost unbearably vulnerable. He nearly reconsidered, but the not-so-subtly narrowed gazes of the two older men lingering on him kept him in place.

With a quiet sigh, he managed to make a nod. “Fine.” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

She gestured for him to follow, and he found himself standing and trailing behind her to the hair-washing station in the back. Every instinct screamed to keep his guard up, but his need to change this physical marker of his past kept him moving.

As they reached the back, Bucky’s eyes landed on her phone, resting near a small speaker that hummed with soft, melodic tunes. At first, he barely noticed the music since he was too focused on the discomfort of the situation and strengthening his resolve to not get up and leave. His shoulders stayed tense as he sat there, hovering on the edge of the chair, every part of his body coiled with instinctive caution.

Then, the warmth of the water broke over his scalp, and against his will, he felt the tension start to dissolve, just a little. Her touch was gentle, she made no sudden movements, just a calm rhythm as she applied the shampoo, working it through his hair. She didn’t say a word, either; it was as though she understood something of the guarded edge to him, or maybe she sensed that he wouldn’t welcome small talk.

A few beats into the quiet, the song changed. It was still low and unassuming, just background noise. But then the melody drifted in, a tune with an old rhythm and a foreign lyric, hauntingly familiar, and his attention flickered, drawn in by the music without him fully understanding why. His eyes closed briefly, and fragments of memory teased at the edges of his mind: a dim hallway, shadows, the scent of baking, and the quiet hum of a woman’s voice.

Before he could grasp it, the memory slipped away, leaving only the echo of familiarity, a ghost of something he almost remembered.

As she massaged his scalp, the tension that had gripped Bucky’s shoulders melted away. The gentle pressure lulled him into a rare calm, his body betraying him with a warmth that crept over him like a slow wave. For the first time in a long time, he felt close to letting his guard down entirely, since the comfort of her touch drew him into an almost sleepy haze.

Then she reached for the conditioner, moving her hands with the same unhurried rhythm, but this time, she couldn’t quite keep from humming along to the song that played softly from the speaker nearby. Her voice was low, almost shy, as though she hadn’t meant for anyone to hear. But as she sang, each note seemed to tighten a thread in his chest, snapping him out of the drowsy trance.

Then it hit him.

The music and her voice brought him back to Pierce’s household, to those days he spent stationed in the shadows, monitoring everything in silence before the events of his escape. The faint aroma of something sweet drifting through the house, cookies, or bread, something good, something he hadn’t expected to find. He could still feel the strange weight of those illicit traits in his pocket, things she’d left out in silent offering, her small, unspoken kindness filling a gap he hadn’t known was there.

This woman... could it be?

His breathing grew shallow, each breath catching in his chest as a faint tremor ran through his body. His gloved hands twitched against the armrests, fingers curling and uncurling as he fought the urge to reach up, to pull himself upright and turn to look at her. He needed to see her face, study her features and search for that glimpse of familiarity, confirm that this wasn’t just some blurred, mismatched memory dredged up by the lull of her voice and the warmth of her hands. Worse yet, he needed to know this wasn’t some fragment of imagination, a scene conjured by his mind to taunt him with memories he couldn’t piece together. But before he could move, she stopped singing, her hands paused in his hair and he felt her hesitate, as if sensing his restlessness even though he hadn’t said a word.

“The wash is almost done,” she murmured, as if offering reassurance.

She inwardly groaned, mortified. Why on earth did she start singing? Way to scare off a customer, she scolded herself when she sensed his body tense beneath her hands. And of course, it happened with a handsome customer. She could feel the rush of embarrassment creeping up her neck, flooding her cheeks. Taking a breath, she forced herself to refocus, working to rinse the last of the conditioner as quickly as she could, moving her hands just a bit more briskly than before. Okay, finish up and keep it professional, she coached herself, feeling the sting of humiliation all over again.

As she finished rinsing the conditioner from his hair, she reached for a nearby towel. Without a second thought, still reliving the horror of exposing herself like that, she wrapped it around his head, pressing gently to soak up the excess water. “Alright,” she said softly, stepping back. “We’re done here. Just head back to the front, and I’ll set you up for the cut.”

He rose from the chair a bit unsteadily, as though waking from a daze, and started toward the front of the shop, acutely aware of every step. He glanced sideways at her once, catching a hint of embarrassment lingering on her face. As he reached the main area, he caught his reflection in the mirror opposite the chair and froze. Wrapped around his head, neatly turbaned and unmistakably bright, was a fluffy pink towel.

The old barber glanced up from the new customer he was tending to, settling his gaze on Bucky’s reflection with poorly concealed bemusement. "Good lord, Cecil, look how things have changed," he muttered dryly only for the other old man to hear, unaware of Bucky’s enhanced hearing.

The other old man, Cecil, leaned back, shaking his head with a smirk. “Used to be, folks would at least keep that kind of thing under wraps,” he muttered, his voice low but pointed. “Remember Karen’s brother? Now there was a guy who kept things to himself, blended right in,” he muttered with a knowing glance at Bucky.

Bucky gritted his teeth, faintly aware of the heat climbing up his neck, but he forced himself to keep a straight face. He was determined to get through this without snapping. His reflection caught his attention again, and he let out an almost inaudible sigh.

Behind him, she approached, unaware of the old men ranting. She held a bunch of hairpins in one hand and a comb in the other, gesturing toward the chair in front of the mirror. “Whenever you’re ready”.

As he settled into the chair, his gaze drifted to the handful of hairpins she was holding, and cleared his throat, struggling to keep his tone steady. “Uh, I thought I asked for it short,” he murmured, nodding toward the pins and comb with a faint frown.

She didn’t miss a beat, propping a hand on her hip with a half-smile. “And I thought you might like it to look decent,” she quipped, raising a brow in the mirror. “To get it even, I’ve got to section it out first, or you’ll end up with a patchy disaster.”

She worked focused, weaving her fingers through his hair and clipping sections with colorful pins until his head was dotted with bright little half-buns. Bucky’s jaw clenched as his gaze drifted somewhere distant, the rhythmic tug of the comb stirring faint, elusive memories. He barely registered the chime of the door until the soft shuffle of footsteps and murmured greetings filled the air.

Two more elderly men ambled in, one of them clutching a checkers game under his arm. They greeted Frank the old barber, then his client casually, and lastly waved affectionately toward her, who acknowledged them with a smile. As their eyes landed on Bucky, they paused, taking in his partially pinned-up hair and the bright clips dotting his head. They shared a wordless look of faint, unspoken disapproval, the kind only those with a few extra decades under their belts could master.

Bucky tightened his jaw again, pressing his tongue against his inner cheek, as he caught the old men’s exchanged looks. What, was this some kind of veteran association headquarters or something? He’d endured enough stares over the years, but the situation's absurdity hit a new level. If only they knew he was older than all of them. The irony almost made him laugh -or maybe just get up and walk out.- But he forced himself to stay put, keeping his gaze fixed on his reflection as if nothing at all were out of the ordinary, while she worked oblivious to the silent standoff between him and the retirement brigade.

As she started to cut with the scissors, couldn't resist trying to break the tension that clung to him like a second skin. “So, how long did it take you to grow this out?” she ventured, with her eyes focused on his hair.

Bucky made a vague grunt, somewhere between polite acknowledgment and indifference. “Couple years,” he muttered, the words barely escaping his mouth as his gaze flicked to her face again.

Trying not to stare, he let his eyes drift down, but they always found their way back to her. As she carefully moved around him, he observed the cadence of her movements, and the subtle kindness in her tone, and all completed the picture in his mind. The woman from Pierce’s household, he was certain of it now.

She tilted her head thoughtfully as she continued cutting, briefly meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Going short can feel like a fresh start,” she remarked, casual yet reassuring. “Sometimes, it’s about more than just hair, it’s like letting go of whatever it held onto. It happens a lot.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked up, catching her gaze in the mirror before he could stop himself. There was a beat of silence as her words hit a little closer than he’d expected.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice low, almost as if speaking to himself. “That’s… kind of the point.”

She met his gaze again with a glimmer of understanding in her eyes, but she didn’t press him. She just nodded, lifting the corners of her mouth into a gentle smile. “Well,” she said softly, resuming the rhythm of the scissors, “then let’s make sure we do it right.”

Eventually, she paused the trimming, assessing the hair’s new length with a critical eye. “Alright,” she said, lifting the electric clipper with a raised brow. “Any specific style you want, or…?”

Bucky met her gaze in the mirror again, hesitating just for a moment. If he knew anything about styles, he might’ve had an opinion, but all he cared about was the fresh start he’d come here for. “Just… short,” he replied, with a hint of uncertainty.

She nodded with a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Got it,” she said, setting to work. The clippers buzzed to life, and as she deftly worked them through the remaining length, Bucky let himself drift, trusting her to handle the rest. By the time she stepped back to survey her work, he barely recognized his own reflection; shorter, cleaner, a stark shift from the man he’d tried so hard to leave behind.

As she brushed his shoulders for stray hairs, the old men ambled back to the front, their voices rising in a familiar, lively argument about the weapons used in the Vietnam War.

“I’m telling you, the M16 was practically useless in those conditions,” one of them grumbled, shaking his head as if reliving the frustration.

“Oh, don’t start with that again,” the other scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “The M14 was a good rifle but couldn’t match the firepower.”

Bucky couldn’t help himself. “There were issues with both models,” he interjected. The men turned, eyebrows raised as he continued, “M16’s jamming problems, and the M14’s recoil, that didn’t make it any easier in the jungle.”

One of them raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms with a slight smirk. “So, you a collector or something, son? Not many people remember those details.”

Bucky paused, weighing his words. He shot them a sideways glance, with a hint of something unreadable in his expression.

“Nah,” he murmured. “Just... good memory.”

It was all he said, but the weight behind his words was enough to hold their gaze for a moment longer than either man expected.

She watched them leave with a smile tugging at the corner of her lips before she turned back to Bucky, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Well, would you look at that,” she said, amused yet curious. “Didn’t think I’d get to see you join in the shop banters so soon. Well, there you go,” she said, stepping back. “Sharp as ever.” She reached over to grab his jacket from the hook, handing it to him with a small, encouraging smile that held a warmth he hadn’t felt in ages.

Bucky gave her a faint nod and took his jacket, slipping it on. “Thanks,” he muttered, feeling her eyes on him as he reached for the door.

As Bucky left the parlor after his haircut, the chill in the evening air prickled against his skin, grounding him in the present but doing little to quiet the memories that kept surfacing in his mind. Each step felt like shaking off a shadow of something long gone, something buried. He told himself, firmly, that she was just another person from his past, just a woman who once showed him kindness in a place that had none. It shouldn’t mean anything after all these years.

But over the next few days, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d left something unresolved. Her image haunted him not in the sharp, painful fragments of his past but in small, lingering echoes. He remembered the sound of her humming when she thought no one was listening, the soft click of plates, and the surprising warmth of the treats she’d left for him, knowing he might never touch them. She had looked at him, masked and silent, like he was a person, not just a thing covered in shadows.

A few days later, in session, his therapist caught on to his distracted state. She didn’t exactly push, but she revisited the topic they’d been circling for weeks: reconnecting with people, finding his place outside the shadows of his past. Her advice nagged at him as much as it reassured him. Connection. Yeah, right.

Then, one afternoon, his phone buzzed. It was Sam. He was doing outreach work in the neighborhood, trying to connect local veterans with PTSD resources. “Look, I could use a hand with some pamphlets,” Sam said, in a way that didn’t leave much room for negotiation. “Some old-timers hang around that parlor you mentioned. I think they’d be more open to it if you dropped these off.”

Despite his reluctance, Bucky ended up agreeing. Maybe he needed to see her again to put the memories finally to rest.

When Bucky stepped back into the parlor with the pamphlets clutched in his hand, Frank was busy with a client, and she was at the counter, writing something down in a small notebook. She looked up when the door chimed, and her gaze settled on him with a flicker of recognition.

Bucky cleared his throat and handed some pamphlets to Frank, who glanced at them with a barely concealed frown. “What is this, some new-age help group thing?” the old man muttered, though he took them anyway.

Before Bucky could respond, Sam walked in behind him, a wide grin plastered on his face. He slapped Bucky on the shoulder. “Hey, pal, didn’t know you’d actually do it,” he said, casting a friendly nod to the old-timers who regarded him with wary interest.

The veterans, having heard the conversation, perk up. “What’s this?” one of them asked, and Sam jumped in, explaining with his usual charm about the outreach work for veterans, PTSD resources, and community support. Bucky stood back, feeling the walls around him starting to rise, the familiar urge to retreat coming over him. But then he caught her watching him. He returned her gaze, and suddenly it was as if no time had passed. She was the same woman who used to hum softly in a house that held no warmth.

Before he knew it, Frank was muttering about “newfangled therapy and pamphlets” while the veterans grumbled, though one of them eventually accepted a flyer with a shrug. The moment felt absurd, but then, with a quiet laugh, she came to Bucky’s side. “Welcome back,” she said, with a soft voice and a suspicious biting on her bottom lip.

He cleared his throat, barely meeting her gaze. "Hi. Just, uh, helping Sam here with these pamphlets." He gestured awkwardly at the handful still clutched in his grip as if that alone explained his return. But before he could slide into silence, she tilted her head, curious.

"So… were you in the service, too?"

The question caught him off guard. His body stiffened, and for a moment, he considered deflecting. But then he took a short breath, composing himself before speaking.

"Yeah. Sergeant… a long time ago.” The words came out almost hollow like he was not even talking about himself. “Feels like it, anyway.”

Her eyes roamed his face as if she was noticing the wear and ache behind his expression for the first time, but she didn’t press him for more.

Behind them, Frank’s sharp gaze flicked over Bucky, his usual squint softening just a touch. He straightened, nodding with something closer to respect, and his gruffness was replaced by a rare moment of understanding. Bucky felt it, too, the unspoken acknowledgment from one who’s seen their kind wear the years like scars. “Well,” Frank said, his voice a little less brusque, “good on you for helpin’ out.” He didn’t look directly at Bucky as he said it, but the words were meant for him all the same.

He nodded, unsure of what to say.

Her smile grew softer as she met his gaze again “Guess we’ll be seeing you around, then, visiting the boys?”

Bucky shifted, glancing down with a faint nod. “Yeah. Maybe,” he muttered. Then he glanced back at Sam, who was deep in conversation with the veterans, seemingly in no rush to leave. He noticed the way Sam’s gaze occasionally flickered their way and caught the subtle grin playing at the corner of his mouth. To anyone else, it’d seem so, so casual, but he knew better, Sam was doing it on purpose.

Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam kept his focus on the other vets, though his eyes flickered with barely concealed amusement when he glanced back.

The silence stretched a little too long, and she cleared her throat, slipping behind the counter. “You know,” she said lightly, “if you’re waiting on your friend, might as well have a coffee. It’s on the house.”

Bucky’s eyes fell to the floor, and he hesitated just a second before nodding. “Sure. Thanks.”

As she moved to make the coffee, he leaned on the counter, resting his gloved hands awkwardly on its surface as she prepared a mug for him. Then, without warning, she reached under the counter and pulled out a green tupperware, popping the lid to reveal neatly cut slices of pasta frola. The sight caught him off guard, furrowing his brows as a faint but vivid memory flickered to life, the faint smell of jam in the kitchen, the delicate pastry offered to him wrapped in a paper napkin, so his pocket wouldn’t get stained.

She noticed his look and chuckled lightly, misreading his reaction. “Don’t worry, it’s just a family recipe. I swear it’s not poisoned.” She gave him a half-smile, nudging the container closer. “It’s filled with quince jam, it’s tangy but sweet. Hard to come by here in the States, I know. But... it’s worth a try.”

Bucky blinked, as the memory lingered in his mind. “I’ve had it before,” he said quietly, more to himself than her, before reaching over and picking up a slice. The taste was startlingly similar, he didn’t realize how vividly he remembered it. “Pretty good,” he murmured, almost begrudgingly. But before he could stop himself, a flicker of raw emotion tightened in his chest, and he felt the familiar sting of tears prickling at his eyes.

He turned away quickly, bracing himself against the counter, willing for the feeling to pass. He couldn’t explain it if he tried, not to her, not even to himself. A stray laugh reached him from across the room, and he forced himself to breathe, focusing on the sound of Sam’s voice, the distant grunting of the men, anything to distract him.

Her voice broke through his lapsus, warm and light as she cleaned up the counter beside him. “Well, if you like it, there’s plenty more where that came from,” she commented with a playful smile. “The ‘boys’ practically fight over the last slice every time. You should see them, it’s like watching kids in a schoolyard,” she laughed softly, wiping down the counter. “I swear, I’ve had to start hiding an extra plate in the back just to keep up the peace.”

She glanced over at him, still unaware of his reaction, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. “So, no pressure, but if you plan on sticking around here, you’ll have to stake your claim early.” Her voice was so light and easy, almost teasing as if sharing a small, harmless secret.

Bucky managed to make a nod, keeping his face averted until he was sure he was composed. Only then did he turn back, giving her a quick, curt nod. “Thanks. It… brings back memories,” he said, with his voice a little steadier now, though the weight of those memories lingered in his mind.

“Oh?” She tilted her head, eyes bright with curiosity. “I hope good memories?” Her smile was warm, perhaps imagining a grandmother’s kitchen or a friendly neighbor’s table, after all, it was rare for an American to have tried this kind of tart.

Bucky’s mouth curved into a faint, thin smile as he met her gaze for a fleeting moment before looking away again. “Something like that,” he replied, with a carefully neutral tone, edged with something unreadable. He lifted the coffee mug, taking a slow sip, hoping the gesture would gently close the conversation.

Before she could respond, the door chime sounded, and a man in his late thirties strolled into the shop with an air of familiarity. His gaze landed on her, and his expression shifted into something smug and self-assured as he greeted her by name. His eyes lingered a little too long, sliding over her outfit in a way that barely bothered to conceal his interest.

Her posture stiffened, but she managed to smile, nodding his way. “Hey, Brian. Frank will be back in a few if you’d rather wait.”

Brian chuckled dismissively as he made his way to the chair. “Nah, it’s just a maintenance cut. I don’t need Frank for that.” He settled in, leaning back with a casual grin. “Besides, I’d much rather have you take care of me. Your hands are way more skilled.”

“Right…” She gave him a thin smile. Glancing at Bucky, she excused herself from his side and headed over to tend to Brian.

As she set up her tools, Brian leaned back in the chair, angling himself to keep her in his line of sight. “Looking good today,” he praised, dropping his tone slightly as he studied her reflection in the mirror. “Gotta say, it makes my day to come in and see you here.”

She responded with a brief laugh, brushing off his comment as she began trimming his hair. “Just here to make sure you’re looking sharp.”

Bucky stayed a little longer by the counter, pretending to be absorbed in his coffee. But his eyes flicked up occasionally, catching the exchange in the mirror’s reflection.

Watching him quietly eating the last bite of tart at the counter, Brian smirked, leaning back in the chair with a lazy grin. “You know,” he drawled, gazing at her intently, “One of these days, I’ll have to get my mouth on that pie of yours.” The words were laced with an unmistakable undertone, his gaze lingering on her as if testing the waters.

Her hand stopped just for a fraction of a second before she responded, a quick, professional smile in place. “Well, I’ll let you know if I ever start taking special orders.” Her words were smooth and dismissive, sidestepping his implication.

Bucky’s fingers tightened around his mug. Was this modern flirting? He found himself suppressing the urge to remind Brian of a little respect. But with what right exactly? Some possessive urge rooted over a long-ago act of kindness? They’d barely exchanged a handful of words, words that, by the way, he could hardly string. Still, he couldn’t shake a barely contained irritation that crept inside him, a feeling both unfamiliar and too familiar all at once.

Brian’s flirting continued, tone growing bolder as he lounged in the chair with his eyes fixed on her as she tried to maintain her professional composure. Eventually, Bucky’s patience snapped.

He placed his mug down with a soft clink, rising to his full height and striding over, casting a long shadow across the two of them.

With a calm, steely edge to his voice, he focused his gaze on her. “Well, sweetheart, I’ve got some things to take care of with Sam. But I can’t wait to see you in that dress later.”

She blinked, pausing her scissors mid-snip as she processed what he’d just said. Then, catching on to the improvisation, she broke into a warm smile, tilting her head with a look of mock apology toward Brian before turning fully to Bucky.

“Oh, of course! Can’t wait to see you too, handsome,” she replied, adding a playful lilt to her voice. And without missing a beat, she tiptoed up, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s cheek, resting her hand on his shoulder for a bit of extra effect.

Brian’s smile faltered, and his expression shifted to discomfort as he glanced away, and the bravado vanished from his eyes.

Bucky turned smoothly, not sparing Brian a single glance as he made his way over to Sam, calm and unhurried. The entire shop seemed to hold its breath, caught in the aftermath of the exchange. Sam looked at him with a quirked brow, and Frank… just narrowed his gaze. Has something been going on under his nose with this redeemed hippie and he didn’t know about it?

Meanwhile, she could barely keep her thoughts straight. Her heart pounded wildly, and a thousand questions assaulted her mind as she mentally replayed what had just happened. First, the shock that Bucky had stepped in at all, with that calm authority that had left Brian squirming. Then, there was how effortlessly he’d delivered his line, so convincingly she almost believed it herself. And finally... God, the way he smelled when she leaned up to kiss him. Cedar, leather, and masculinity. She could still feel the trace warmth of his lean, muscular shoulder beneath her hand.

Had she overdone it? The kissing, the touching… she wasn’t sure, though part of her almost wished it had been real. She bit her lip, determined to focus on the task at hand as Brian shifted uncomfortably in the chair, with his earlier smugness replaced by an awkward silence.

Bucky reached Sam, who glanced up with a grin as he passed over the stack of pamphlets. “So… all this time you had a girlfriend and didn’t say a word, Tinman? That is low, even for you” he teased under his breath, low enough that only Bucky could hear.

“No, I didn’t,” Bucky muttered with a tight jaw, but the faintest hint of a smirk broke his factions. He didn’t meet Sam’s gaze, keeping his eyes on the pamphlets.

-----

One day, after a month since that unusual afternoon in the shop, she got out in her free time and settled on a park bench, skillfully crocheting yarn into neat, colorful granny squares, fully absorbed in her work.

Life wanted Bucky to pass through the park on his way home, hands stuffed in his pockets, with his troubled mind preoccupied with dark thoughts, a product of a grueling therapy session. But then he saw her, sitting just across the path and he halted. There she was, peaceful and intent on her project, just as she’d been all those years ago. Back then, he’d only dared to steal quick, curious glances, being a silent observer bound by his handler’s whims. But today, seeing her absorbed in those same small stitches, he felt an undeniable urge to bridge the distance between them. It took him a moment to remind himself that he was free to walk over, to break the silence himself. He took a breath, then walked toward her.

When his shadow fell over her work, she looked up, and her eyes widened with recognition. “Oh!” she said, surprised, but quickly smiled, recovering from the initial shock. “Hey, stranger.”

He felt a small, tentative smile come through despite himself. “Hey,” he murmured. His gaze flickered down to the granny squares arranged on her lap. “I’m interrupting? You just looked focused.”

She chuckled, lifting the half-formed square to show him. “Not at all; it’s my therapy, I guess. Helps me unwind.” Then, after a beat, she patted the space beside her. “Want to join me for a bit?”

He hesitated briefly before nodding. “Yeah… yeah, I’d like that.” Then he sat down.

Neither spoke for a while, just content to share the moment under the sun. Then, she glanced over at him. “You know, I never got the chance to thank you properly… for that day at the parlor, it meant a lot.”

He looked up, with a hint of surprise in his expression, then shrugged slightly, as a modest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t need thanking. But… you’re welcome.”

She smiled back, and that gesture eased something tense in his chest. He swallowed, gathering his thoughts, as his fingers traced the line of his glove. The moment felt right, and finally, he broke the silence. “There’s, uh… something I’ve been wanting to tell you.” He glanced down at his hands, stilling his thumb over his gloved palm. “If… if you’ve got some time.”

She paused, looking at him with a hint of curiosity, resting her hands on her project. “Of course.”

He sighed heavily as if exhaling years of hesitation. Slowly, deliberately, he began tugging at the glove on his left hand, peeling it off to reveal the metallic gleam beneath the fabric. The sun's soft light caught on the intricate panels and joints, giving the hand an almost otherworldly sheen.

Her hands stilled, and the yarn was left forgotten in her lap. Her eyes widened briefly as she took it in. At first, she assumed it was just a particularly advanced prosthesis. But then he flexed his fingers, and the subtle, fluid movement was far too precise, too seamless for any ordinary piece of tech. And then everything clicked. She’d seen that hand -arm- before, on news reports and grainy footage, the infamous name whispered in fear, The Winter Soldier. But alongside that news had been another truth: the revelation that he’d been a victim, conditioned to act against his will. A mere puppet of Hydra’s schemes. A human pet trained to secure their darkest ambitions.

Her gaze softened, with a mix of understanding and sorrow replacing her initial shock. She didn’t flinch or retreat. Instead, she studied his face, the way his jaw tensed, and how his shoulders braced as if he expected her to pull away. She hesitated, hovering her hand over his for a moment before gently resting it on his vibranium fingers. “Why are you showing me this?”

He stared at her hand, as if the touch was foreign to him, something he didn’t know how to accept. Finally, he sighed, the weight of the confession was evident in the way his shoulders slumped. “Because,” he began “almost nine years ago, you worked as a nanny for a family that went by Pierce.”

Her brow furrowed, surprised that he’d brought up something from so long ago, also puzzled by how he could possibly know. Only a handful of people had ever been in that apartment, and none of them had been a man with a metal arm.

“How… how do you know that?” she asked, trying to keep her tone neutral, though a thousand questions began to swirl in her mind.

“They told you I was security detail,” he said, watching her closely. “Some faceless bodyguard lurking in the shadows. Except it wasn’t exactly… just that.” His voice softened, with a hint of remorse lacing each word.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she tried to connect the dots. She then remembered the quiet figure who’d kept to the periphery, masked, rigid and composed, an entire presence veiled in secrecy. His silence had unnerved her at first, but soon, it had become as much a part of the background as the furniture in the apartment. “You’re- that was- you were-” The realization dawned slowly, and her hand covered involuntarily her mouth as the pieces slid into place.

He nodded, not breaking eye contact. “I couldn’t say anything back then. Couldn’t even… react on my own accord. But I remember you. I remember the little things you did. The treats you left, the music… your hobby.” His gaze fell briefly to her hands, where her current project lay forgotten. “It was… one of the only kindnesses I knew, back then.”

She stared, absorbing the weight of his confession, piecing together the faint memories of that silent figure in the shadows, the one she’d tried to reach in small, gentle ways. The realization that the man in front of her, the Winter Soldier, was him left her feeling so sad, revealing a hidden, tragic depth.

“So… you were there, but you weren’t allowed to… be you,” she said softly, the words tumbling out as she tried to grasp it all.

“Yeah,” he murmured, almost a sigh. “There’s a lot of shit I’m still sorting through, but… I couldn’t shake the thought of telling you. What you did back then,” he paused, his voice dipping to a whisper, “it meant more to me than you ever know.”

She looked down, and her heart caught at the tone of his words. Before she could respond, he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with a bit of hesitation.

“Look,” he started, and she noticed his ears had turned a faint shade of red. “I, uh… don’t want to scare you off here. I get it if you think I’m coming on too strong, or if this seems… creepy.” He shifted, holding her gaze. “But I wanted to ask if maybe you’d like to… if you’d want to get a coffee sometime… or, I don’t know, maybe dinner?” A hint of nervousness flickered in his blue eyes, and he broke into a self-conscious grin. “Unless that sounds like a terrible idea, in which case, we could also just… feed some ducks in the park or something,” he said, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. ‘Feeding ducks? Do people still even do that?’

Seeing him tripping over his words made her heart skip. Smiling, she let the silence linger for just a moment before nodding. “I’d like that, whatever you’d prefer, coffee, dinner… or even feeding the ducks.”

A noticing relief flooded his face, and his shoulders relaxed. He chuckled, and for the first time, she saw a glimpse of someone who had spent far too long hidden behind walls, someone who was finally allowing himself a chance to live.

-----

Saturday’s sunset hadn’t even fully settled in when Bucky found himself pacing toward the parlor, with the nerves buzzing under his skin. This was his first proper date since 1943, and he felt like a high school boy. An awkward, brooding, traumatized, and scarred high school boy. Great, he thought, glancing up at the swirling clouds that promised rain, thunder echoing faintly from afar. He checked his reflection in a nearby window, adjusting his collar, brushing a hand through his hair. The frown he caught staring back only made him feel more ridiculous.

He stepped into the shop and spotted her immediately, busying herself around the place, her brows knit in concentration. She didn’t notice him at first, but when she finally looked up, her eyes lit up in surprise.

“Oh, hey,” she said, smiling wide as she took him in.

“Hey,” he replied a little awkwardly, realizing he’d arrived early. Clearing his throat, he lifted the small bouquet, feeling hopeful and self-conscious as he handed them over. “Uh… these are for you.”

She blinked, clearly touched. “Bucky… thank you. They’re beautiful.” She inhaled the scent, and he could have sworn he saw a soft glow in her cheeks. Frank, was sitting behind the counter and watched the whole exchange, and Bucky saw how his usual skeptical gaze softened just a little at the sight of the flowers. For a moment, he felt like he’d earned a point of approval from the old man.

Just then, another roll of thunder echoed in the distance, making her glance up at him with a teasing smile. “You think we’ll beat the storm?”

He held out his arm, “Guess we’ll find out,” he said with a lopsided grin, trying to keep his cool despite the nerves.

And with that, they headed out, stepping into the evening together, the storm chasing them as they walked to the nearby bistro.

The rain came down fast and thick, a relentless curtain that left them drenched within seconds. They huddled under a small awning, Bucky grimacing as he realized he hadn’t even thought of bringing an umbrella -not that he owned one, anyway-. He glanced over at her, taking in the way her damp dress clung to her body. He raked a hand through his dripping hair, sighing.

“Didn’t see this coming,” he muttered, half to himself, half to her. “I’m… sorry.”

She blinked up at him, surprised. “Why are you apologizing for the weather?”

He shrugged, as a sheepish look crossed his face. “Guess I feel like I should’ve been prepared.” He shifted uncomfortably, feeling a little foolish for not planning better. “I could… call you a cab? We can try for another night.”

She gave him a tentative smile. “Or… if you want, my place is just upstairs from the parlor. You’re already here, and it’s warm. We could dry off and… watch a movie? Order some dinner?”

Bucky blinked, a bit taken aback. The invitation tugged at something deep and old-fashioned inside him. A woman who lived alone, inviting her date to her house at night... But then again, times had changed and so had he. He could feel the pull, that magnetic urge to spend a little more time in her company, and really, wasn’t that the whole point of tonight?

With a flicker of a smile, he nodded. “Yeah, that sounds nice.” He followed her through the rain-drenched streets, his boots splashing lightly in the shallow puddles until they reached the stairwell beside the parlor that led up to her apartment. She fumbled with her keys, glancing over her shoulder to flash him a quick, almost conspiratorial grin.

As they stepped inside, she chuckled, eyeing his soaked clothes. “I can get you some of Frank’s stuff to change into,” she offered, giving his drenched jacket a sympathetic look. “I do his laundry, so I’m sure we’ll find something that fits you. Just… don’t tell him.” She winked, with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Despite the cold clothes sticking to his skin, Bucky felt a warm chuckle bubble up. “I think I can keep a secret,” he said, playing along, as his gaze lingered on her smile a second longer than he meant to. There, surrounded by warm, mismatched furniture and soft, inviting blankets, he felt welcomed into a place that felt… real, lived on, totally opposite of his apartment.

"Sorry about the mess," she murmured, disappearing toward a small laundry room tucked around the corner.

Bucky gave a noncommittal grunt, following her with his gaze despite himself. He tried to focus on anything else, but the soaked dress clung to every inch of her body, tracing her silhouette in a way that made it impossible to look away. He found himself rooted to the spot, too aware of his heartbeat drumming harder than it should. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. Get a grip, he told himself. Standing there in a small puddle, he felt more out of place than ever, and yet, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be anywhere else.

She returned a moment later with a bundle of clothes in her hands: a pair of worn pants that looked like they’d sit loose and just shy of his ankles, along with a white tank top and a blue flannel. “It’ll do for now, though, fair warning, he’s got about half your shoulders, so don’t blame me if the fit’s a bit... weird.”

Bucky accepted the clothes, glancing at the pants with a wry smile. “Weird’s fine,” he mumbled, grateful for anything dry but wondering if he’d end up looking like he’d raided a teenager’s closet.

Her laughter was light as she stepped back. “I’ll give you a minute to get changed,” she said, nodding toward a corner of the room. Then, she grabbed a set of fresh clothes for herself, giving him a quick nod before slipping off to the bathroom.

Once alone, Bucky looked down at the makeshift outfit. It was strange how easy she made things feel, and stranger still how much he found himself wanting to fit, if only for this evening.

Eventually, she emerged from the bathroom with a casual skirt and a matching blouse, feeling more comfortable, until her gaze landed on Bucky. He was leaning against the window, looking out at the rain-soaked street, lost in thought. The borrowed pants hung low on his hips, but it was the white tank top that made her brain stutter. It clung to him in a way that left little to the imagination, stretched taut across his broad chest, outlining every defined line of muscle. She could even make out the slight press of his nipples through the fabric, proof of the strain his frame put on the shirt that was clearly never made for him. She noticed the blue shirt he’d left folded on the table, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “Couldn’t make the flannel work?”

Bucky glanced over, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a self-conscious smirk. “Yeah… tried it,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t quite fit.”

She quickly averted her gaze, trying to mask the impure thoughts racing through her mind as she gestured toward the bulky cabinet under the TV. “So… movie or board game?”

Bucky’s gaze lingered on her for a beat, soaking in the warmth of her place, and the coziness of being alone here with her. He felt a soft pull again, something that made him want to take another step closer, to reach out and-

“Let’s play,” he murmured, a bit roughly. Then, he gave her a slight smile. “Show me what you’ve got.”

They fell into the games as if nothing else existed. The hours slipped by unnoticed, each turn they took erased a little more of the self-consciousness they’d started with. Laughter broke through the usual stillness of her living room, paired with playful jabs and shameless victory dances as they bickered over the rules and accused each other of cheating.

At some point, she stopped worrying about how much she was watching him. It didn’t matter if her gaze lingered on the way his broad shoulders hunched with focus, or if she found herself distracted by a rare, soft chuckle he let slip when she pulled a fast one on him. And Bucky, for his part, began to let go of his usual reservations. Here, in her warm, cluttered living room with mismatched furniture, and board game boxes stacked by the couch, he felt no need to carry the weight of conversation or second-guess every gesture. He didn’t need to measure himself against the usual question of what was “normal” or “appropriate.”

As the night wore on, they were sitting on the floor, engrossed in another game, the coffee table cluttered with pieces and cards. The mood had shifted from playful to fiercely competitive. Both of them were leaning forward, so focused on the game that they barely noticed how close they’d become.

Amid a particularly tense round, she reached forward quickly to snatch one of his pieces. Bucky, acting on pure instinct, grabbed her wrist to stop her. But when doing so, his grip was a little too forceful, and before either of them could react, she lost her balance. She lurched forward, crashing into the coffee table as her hands scrambled for purchase and toppled over, knocking the game pieces everywhere.

Bucky froze, and his eyes went wide with shock as he realized what had happened. His heart raced against his ribs as guilt and embarrassment washed over his body.

“I’m so sorry,” he blurted with panic. His hand hovered near her, unsure whether to touch her or give her space. “I didn’t mean to- I didn’t think- are you okay?”

She sat up, a little dazed but unharmed. She managed to smile softly, trying to ease the tension. “I’m fine, really. Just… caught off guard.”

Bucky didn’t move from his spot, his entire body taut with self-reproach. He ran a hand through his hair, avoiding her gaze as he muttered more apologies. “I shouldn’t have- I didn’t mean to grab you like that.” His words tumbled over each other in a hurried mess.

Her eyes softened, and she quickly tried to reassure him, though she could see the increasing discomfort in his posture. “It’s fine,” she said calmly. “I’m alright, seriously. You didn’t hurt me.”

But Bucky wasn’t listening. The self-reproach was already spiraling in his mind, the usual inner monologue of guilt and doubt taking over. “I’m a fucking mess,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “I can’t even-”

She reached out slowly, touching his arm lightly to calm him. “It’s okay,” she said again, but she saw it happening, his retreat, and it made her heart sink. He was going to pull away. She could see it in his posture, the way his gaze avoided hers, the tension in his shoulders as if he was already preparing to leave.

Without thinking, without any plan, she blurted out the only thing that had been swirling around in her head since the moment they started this strange, unpredictable connection. "I like you."

The words hung in the air, louder than anything she’d ever said before, a sudden bomb dropped in the middle of their awkward standoff. Her breath caught in her throat as soon as they left her mouth, and her heart skipped a beat, the rush of adrenaline almost as strong as the surge of fear. She could already feel her cheeks heating, but she couldn’t take it back now.

Bucky’s head snapped up at her words, and the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly as he looked at her, stunned. For a moment, all he could do was stare at her, as if he were trying to make sense of what she’d just said.

“You- you like me.” he finally managed, his voice barely more than a whisper, slightly skeptical.

She smiled in a way that was both reassuring and a bit teasing. “Well, that was the whole point of accepting going on a date with you, right?” His gaze flickered up, surprised, as she continued, “Why do you think I’d say yes to your invitation in the first place? I was even down to feed ducks with you.” Her smile widened, trying to lighten the mood, and a bit of that earlier sparkle returned to his eyes.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he shook his head, with a mix of relief and amusement in his expression. “I thought maybe- I don’t know. Maybe you’d just be nice, humor me a little.”

She straightened up, putting on her best impression of an old-fashioned debutante. “Excuse you, but I don’t feed ducks with just any man, what kind of woman do you think I am?” The statement had him laughing, a deep, hearty laugh that made his eyes crinkle and his nose wrinkle in an adorable way, making her knees feel like jelly.

He held up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t realize I was asking for such an honor. Guess I’ll have to work my way up to that level of duck-feeding trust.”

Her heart pounded as she met his gaze, and managed to find her voice. “So… if you’re serious about making up for that offense,” she teased, “I might be open to… one little act of apology.”

He paused, and his eyes widened just a fraction as he took in her words. A small, amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and his gaze softened as he reached up, almost on instinct, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear with a featherlight touch.

“I… think I can manage that,” he murmured, in a warm, low tone. His thumb skimmed her cheek, brushing his fingers along her jaw as he leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to stop him. Then, finally, his lips touched hers, in a gentle and chaste gesture. When they broke apart, they stayed close, foreheads nearly touching, neither quite ready to pull away. His hand lingered on her face, grazing his thumb on her cheek as he whispered, “Is that enough to earn back your trust, or do I still have some work to do?”

She laughed softly, “I think… that was a pretty good start.” Then she bit her lip, leaning further into his touch, “Though, maybe…” she whispered, her voice dropping to a daring, playful note, “you might have to put in a bit more effort to repair the affront on my reputation.”

He didn’t need any further invitation. His hand slipped around the back of her head, as he pulled her close, capturing her mouth with a force that made her knees feel weak. This wasn’t the gentle, tentative kiss from before; this was raw, heated, as though he was pouring all the things he couldn’t say into the way his lips moved against hers.

His mouth parted, and his tongue slid against hers, drawing a soft, involuntary moan from her lips. She melted against him, her hands finding his shoulders and gripping tight. He angled his head then, deepening the kiss, brushing the back of her neck with his thumb as he sensually assaulted her mouth.

When he finally broke away, his burning gaze met hers, and he managed a rough, breathless murmur, “Was that… enough effort?”

Her cheeks heated, her voice barely a whisper. “Yeah, that’ll… do.” But the playful smile on her lips told him she wasn’t entirely ready to let go either.

Bucky’s hand slid around her waist, pulling her closer, whispering her name, low and reverent, as he trailed kisses along her jaw and down her neck, each warm breath sending shivers over her skin. Her fingers wove into his hair, her other hand tracing the rough line of stubble along his jaw. Slowly, she tugged him up, and their lips met again in another heated kiss.

The world around them seemed to fade entirely, the patter of rain on the window was the only sound other than their breathless murmurs. His lips were hot and demanding against hers, his hand firm on her waist as he eased them both down to the plush carpet. The scattered board game pieces were forgotten, pressing into their knees and elbows as they moved together, desperate and unrestrained.

Bucky’s vibranium fingers brushed up her side, cool and deliberate, as his other hand still cupped the back of her head to angle her closer. His lips left hers, trailing down her throat, nipping at the sensitive skin just above her collarbone as his hand slid beneath her blouse, fingertips tracing patterns along her skin.

Her hands roamed over his shoulders and his back, as she tugged him closer, her nails grazing just enough to make him hiss. His breathing was uneven “Tell me-,” He rasped, voice thick with need, “Tell me you want this.”

She reached for his face, tracing her fingers along the rough line of stubble in his jaw. “I do.”

Bucky’s lips crashed onto hers, drinking in every soft gasp she gave him. His weight pressed her down against the plush carpet as his hand slid up the curve of her thigh beneath her skirt. The soft fabric bunched under his touch, as his fingers brushed higher until the cool air met her exposed skin. She shivered, but not from the chill. The vibranium hand moved to the buttons of her blouse, steady but reverent. One by one, the delicate closures came undone, and as the fabric fell away, and his knuckles brushed against the warm skin of her chest, drawing a quiet moan from her lips. When the blouse finally opened, he pulled back just enough to look at her, his heavy-lidded eyes dark with desire as his chest heaved with ragged breaths.

“God,” he murmured, his voice rough and full of want. The hand on her thigh squeezed gently, while his other hand grazed her exposed collarbone, slipping beneath the straps of her bra.

Her breath hitched as his fingers teased along the edge of the fabric before slipping it down her shoulder. His lips followed, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses that made her arch beneath him. The scrape of his stubble against her sensitive skin only heightened the sensations. His mouth moved lower, dragging over the curve of her breast until his lips hovered above the thin lace of her bra.

She gasped as he nipped lightly through the fabric, licking promptly to soothe the sting. “Bucky,” she whispered, her voice trembling, filled with need.

His gaze flicked up to hers as his hand came up to cup her other breast, his thumb brushed over her nipple through the lace, drawing a soft, breathy moan from her, and then repeated the motion, this time circling the stiffened peak with a deliberate slowness that had her squirming beneath him.

Her hips shifted instinctively, brushing against his, and that’s when she felt his erection, pressing insistently against her thigh through the loose fabric of his borrowed pants, and she arched into him, slipping her hands beneath his tank top to trace the hard planes of his chest.

“Feel what you do to me?” he rasped, his voice breaking as her fingers trailed lower, tracing the edge of his waistband.

Her answer was a breathless kiss, open and hungry, her teeth tugging lightly at his lower lip before her tongue swept into his mouth. He groaned against her, pressing his hips against hers in a slow, deliberate grind that made them both gasp with want.

The friction between them built as his hand moved from her breast, sliding down her side to grip her hip. He tugged her leg higher around his waist, pressing himself more firmly against her. Her nails scraped lightly down his back as he thrust his hips again, and the pressure of his cock against her clothed clit sent sparks of pleasure through her body.

“Please,” she whispered, a needy, whiney sound.

He stilled for a heartbeat, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes, and his lips curled into a sly smirk. “I need you to use your words, doll,” he murmured, voice gravelly and thick with desire.

Her cheeks heated, and the weight of his tired gaze made her shy for just a moment. But the throbbing between her thighs burned hotter than her embarrassment. She licked her lips and she found her voice, a little bolder now. “I… want you inside me.”

His smirk vanished, replaced by something darker, hungrier. He reached behind his neck to pull off his tank top in one swift motion.

The scars on his shoulder and chest caught the dim light, jagged reminders of everything he’d endured. Her fingers stilled against his chest, breath catching as she took him in. But there wasn’t fear or pity in her gaze, only awe, tenderness, and something that made his throat tighten.

“You’re so handsome,” she murmured, leaning forward to press her lips to his collarbone. Her kisses trailed across his skin, soft and reverent, lingering on the edge of a scar.

The last of his self-consciousness melted away at her touch, and he growled softly, pushing her back down onto the carpet. His vibranium hand wrapped around her wrists, pinning them above her head with just enough pressure to make her breath hitch.

“You’re so pretty, you know that?” he said, brushing his lips on her ear as his free hand slid down her body. He traced the curve of her waist, hooking his fingers into the waistband of her panties. Her breath hitched as his hand dipped beneath the fabric, teasing her, tracing slow circles over her clit with controlled and deliberate movements as if savoring every little sound she made.

“So wet for me,” he murmured, lips ghosting over her jaw before pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “All for me, huh?”

“Bucky,” she gasped, bucking her hips against his hand.

“Patience, doll, I’m a little… rusty.” he whispered, as his fingers slid lower, parting her folds and slipping inside her. Her moan was like music to his ears, her body arching beneath him as he set a slow, maddening rhythm.

She writhed against him, and her breathless gasps and whispered pleas spurred him on. He watched her intently with a dark and focused gaze, seeking each stroke and curl inside her that made her moan, learning what made her gasp his name like a prayer.

Her hands twisted above her head where his metal hand kept them pinned, and her thighs trembled as her body moved instinctively against his. "That's it," he murmured, his lips brushing over her neck. "Let me hear you. Tell me what feels good."

A strangled cry escaped her lips as his fingers found just the right spot, and his thumb brushed over her clit in perfect tandem. Her hips bucked against his hand, chasing the pleasure he gave her. Her voice was breathless, broken as she moaned, "Right there- oh! God, right there."

His tongue traced the shell of her ear “Got you, sweetheart. Just let go for me.”

She shattered beneath him moments later, tipping her head back as the waves of her release washed over her body. Her cries filled the room, mingling with the rhythm of the rain outside. Bucky felt the tight coil of his own restraint loosen at the sight of her release. Any lingering self-doubt evaporated, replaced by the raw satisfaction of knowing he’d done that, that he’d learned her, that he’d given her this.

He slowed his movements, easing her down gently, still stroking her as she trembled beneath him. When her breathing steadied, he brought his hand to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers as he licked his fingers clean, savoring her taste with a low groan.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly under his gaze. “Rusty, huh?” she murmured with a shaky laugh.

With a grin, he shifted, fumbling to rid himself of his pants. But as he pushed up onto his knees, something sharp jabbed into him, and he froze.

“Son of a-“ He hissed, lifting his knee and finding a pointy plastic game piece stuck underneath it. He held it up between two fingers, glaring at the offending object like it had personally insulted him. “Seriously?”

She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh, but the sparkle in her eyes gave her away. “That’s what happens when you’re too eager and don’t clear the battlefield first.”

“A battlefield, huh?” he grumbled, tossing the offending piece aside with a flick of his wrist. Despite his frustration, the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying a suppressed grin.

He stood quickly, tugging his pants down with a low, irritated huff. Her gaze lingered on his body, and her breath caught as her eyes traced every line of his body, every mark that told a story he didn’t always want to remember.

The heat in his expression faltered for just a second, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his gaze, but it was gone as quickly as it came, and his lips twitched in a self-conscious smirk. Climbing back on top of her, he didn’t hesitate as her hands slid up his arms, guiding him closer. Her lips found his pulse point, trailing lower to the curve of his collarbone. When her lips brushed over a jagged scar, he exhaled sharply, and his hand caught her chin, tilting her face toward his.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he rasped.

Her eyes gleamed with mischief as her lips curled into a teasing smile. “I thought we’d already established this was a battlefield,” she whispered.

“Well… I’m not exactly known for doing sloppy jobs while battling sweetheart” he countered, and with one swift movement, he ripped the seams of her panties and guided himself with one hand, pressing lightly the thick tip of his cock against her slick entrance. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged it up and down her folds, catching on her clit with every pass. Her hips jerked against him, and a breathless moan escaped her lips. “You’re so ready for me,” he murmured, as he pressed himself harder against her, the friction almost too much. “Think you can take all of me, doll?”

“Well, I guess we’ll never know if you don’t-”

A satisfied smirk tugged at his lips before he eased into her slowly, inch by thick inch, interrupting her sass with a gasp that turned into a long, broken moan as he filled her completely. He groaned, pressing his forehead to hers as he stilled for a moment, letting her adjust to his size.

He started slow, rolling his hips into hers with a cautious rhythm, his breath hot against her neck as he groaned softly with each thrust. Her body arched beneath him, meeting him as best she could, though the stretch of his cock left her gasping.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he murmured with roughed voice, as his lips brushed her temple.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders, and beneath her, the scattered cards and pieces dug into her back, but the discomfort was barely registered through the haze of pleasure coursing through her body.

“Bucky…” she whimpered, scrapping, her nails lightly against his skin as she clenched around him, lifting her hips to grind them against his.

“Hold on, doll,” he rasped, sliding his hand behind her thigh, lifting her leg higher to hook it around his waist. The new angle sent a lightning bolt of pleasure through her body, and she cried out, throwing back her head as he thrust deeper, harder.

“God, look at you,” he groaned, as his dog tags swayed with each movement. The faint metallic clink added to the symphony of their labored breaths and the rain tapping against the window.

She couldn’t think as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through her body. Her fingers tightened in his hair, and the sharp tug sent a low, primal growl rumbling through his chest. He shifted, sliding his arm beneath her other thigh, resting the back of her knee on his inner elbow, thrusting deeper, harder, making her cry out, arching her back as he drove her closer to the edge. “That’s it,” he rasped, his voice rough and commanding. Her nails scraped against the rug beneath her, trying desperately to find some kind of anchor as her body writhed beneath him. “You feel so damn good,” he muttered, finding her mouth with his in a searing kiss as he continued to take her apart.

Sensing he wouldn’t last much longer, Bucky shifted slightly, sneaking his metal hand between their bodies. The coolness of vibranium against her overheated skin sent a jolt through her hips, and then his fingers found her clit. He circled it with slow, deliberate strokes, pulling a sharp gasp from her lips. But he wasn’t done. Shifting slightly, he slowly pressed his index finger at her entrance, sliding it inside alongside his cock. The new stretch made her gasp again, arching her back at an impossible angle against him.

“Bucky!” she cried, her voice breaking on his name.

He froze for a fraction of a second, giving her time to adjust, before driving his finger in knuckle-deep. The motion coaxed a pleasured cry from her lips as he curled the digit, pressing into that spot deep inside that made her see stars.

His thumb resumed its work on her clit, circling in time with the thrust of his hips and the curling of his finger. Her cries grew louder, and louder, each sound spurring him on.

“You’re so perfect like this,” he muttered, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath hot and uneven on her skin as he continued to work her over. “Falling apart for me.”

Her nails dug into his shoulders and back, the only thing grounding her as she spiraled closer to the edge. The combination of his relentless thrusts, the pressure on her clit, and the maddening stretch inside her finally shattered her. She cried out, and her entire body trembled with pleasure as the climax ripped through her body, blinding and all-consuming.

Unable to hold on any longer, he groaned deeply as he felt her tighten around his shaft, her release dragging him quickly over his own edge. He withdrew his finger, gripping her hip as he buried himself inside her with one final thrust, spilling his hot seed on her welcoming pussy. His breath came in heavy pants against her skin, and his body kept shuddering with the force of his climax.

For a moment, the only sounds in the room were their ragged breathing and the faint patter of rain against the window. He shifted slightly, resting his forehead against hers while their bodies were still entwined.

She let out a soft, contented hum, tracing lazy patterns along his shoulder. “Again, Bucky, you call this being rusty?” she murmured, curling her lips into a smile, but before she could tease him further, his expression shifted slowly, a flicker of self-doubt breaking through the earlier confidence.

He ran a hand through his hair, and a faint blush crept up his neck. “That thing I did,” he started, hesitant, “with y’know, my finger-” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely. “Was that too much? Too… weird?”

Her lips parted in surprise, but then a small, warm smile curved them. “Weird? Bucky…” She leaned in, resting her hand on his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heart beneath her palm. “It wasn’t too much. It was… creative.” She chuckled softly, her cheeks heating at the memory. “Unexpected, yeah. But in the best way.”

His brow furrowed, still caught in his head. “I just didn’t know if- it felt right at the moment, but it’s been so long since I-”

She interrupted him with a light kiss, sliding her hand to cup his jaw. “It was right,” she said firmly, locking her gaze on his. “Don’t overthink it. Just… trust me when I say you don’t have anything to worry about.” Her lips quirked into a teasing smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have pointy things prickling at my ass.”

Bucky blinked, and then his eyes darted to the floor around them, suddenly remembering the scattered game pieces and cards beneath her. “Shit,” he muttered, immediately shifting off her. “Sorry, doll, hold on.”

He backed off her quickly, rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes darted between the scattered cards and her disheveled state.

“Relax. I was a little… preoccupied with other things to notice.” She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow.

Still, he bent to pick up every piece around her, muttering about “pointy plastic landmines.” When he finished, he straightened and extended a hand to her, pulling her gently to her feet.

“I’ll make sure next time is on a battlefield… less hazardous,” he declared, quirking his lips into a small, self-conscious smile.

“Next time, huh?” she teased, brushing her fingers lightly over his chest. “Confident now, are we?”

Bucky’s grin grew, and a flicker of his earlier confidence returned to his factions. “I might be. If you’re not scared off by my… tactics.”

Her fingers continued to trail lightly along his chest, stopping just above his heart. “Not scared. Intrigued.”

Bucky bit his lip, and his eyes darkened with a renewed spark as he slipped his hand around the back of her head. With a gentle yet insistent pull, he drew her closer, capturing her lips in a sensual kiss. Outside, the rain continued with its soft and unrelenting rhythm, a distant soundtrack to the moment they shared, where nothing else mattered but the heat of their kiss.

Just in case someone is interested, this is the song that inspired the story.

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #fatws bucky #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky x curvy!reader #Spotify

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em1989ts · 2 months ago

Text

𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐮𝐦 𝐟𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫

five hargreeves x fem! reader smut

masterlist

word count: 4.2k

warnings: 18+ (reader and five are both 20), sex pollen so dubcon?, unprotected sex, breeding kink, thigh riding, fingering, oral (m recieving), hair pulling

summary: you and five, your best friend, get stuck in the apocalypse together. he's immune to the radiation that lingers in what's left of the world, but not you, so when you find a unique flower that sprays an interesting pollen at you, five is more than happy to help you out with its side affects

author's note: i have been reworking this fic for weeks because i just did not like where i was going with it every time but now i finally sat down and finished it, i think i was trying too hard to make it too detailed plotwise but now i really like it, its not proofread so i'll go back and fix any mistakes if i notice any but i hope you enjoy!

The world was different now, what was left of it at least.

You were holding on tight to your memories of what life was like before the world ended, but your headaches, growing ever more constant, made them gradually slip away.

The more obvious details were easier to remember: green grass, blue skies, animals, breathable air. You missed when nature meant beautiful, thriving life.

Now, the only things growing were spiky weeds and vines, the occasional fungi.

The air was too dry, filled with ash, and the radiation levels were too high for much to grow.

You had your theories about what could’ve happened to the world, so did the only other human still alive: Five Hargreeves.

~~~

Years ago, when you were just 8 years old, your parents believed it would be best to move directly next to the umbrella academy. They cared heavily about your safety, so heavily in fact that they homeschooled you, and almost never let you leave home. It was dreadful, for your curious nature wanted to explore your new surroundings in the city. You often leaned out your window, trying to get a peak at one of those superpowers kids who got to see the world.

One night, as you read by your windowsill that overlooked the alleyway separating your apartment building from the academy, you watched as the children filed one by one out of a bedroom window, down a fire escape, all giggling with sneaky excitement. They snuck out for the first time in their young lives, noticed you and extended an invitation to join them, and the rest was history. You got along well with the Hargreeves children, particularly Number Five.

He shared your love of retaining knowledge and the passion of wanting to explore the world, as well as prove your ability to sustain yourself independently. The two of you used morse code to speak through your windows at night, and you told each other just about everything. He told you all about his father, and how he wanted to prove him wrong about his time travel abilities. You encouraged him to try them out, to go to the future, and he agreed, as long as you came too.

On that November morning in 2002, you were waiting in the alley for him to finish breakfast, and once he ran out and took your hand, your lives had never been the same.

~~~

Now you were about twenty, realizing that spending the rest of your life with your super human best friend may be more difficult than you ever would’ve thought.

Firstly, whatever ended the world resulted in nuclear fallout, which led you to believe a giant explosion abolished the Earth. While Five was genetically immune to the radiation, with the energy that emanated from his spacial jumps, you were a perfectly average human who couldn’t resist the symptoms of radiation poisoning. It was slow, with average headaches interrupting your already rough days and confusion messing up your already decaying memory, but you both knew you couldn’t last forever in this world.

Secondly, being stuck with your childhood best friend who you happened to fall in love with was absolute torture. Somewhere along the way your immature intellectual astonishment turned to adolescent romantic admiration. Being the last two people on Earth made it so tempting for you to just tell him how you felt, but you couldn’t even fathom how’d heartbroken you’d feel if he turned you down as the last girl on Earth, you’d probably toss yourself into nuclear waste just to rid yourself from the embarrassment.

The two of you had gotten quite close over the last ten years. He held you in his arms at night, just to protect you from the cold, he made sure you were the first to eat, just to make sure you don’t starve, and he did his best to make sure your sickness wasn’t worsening, just for your survival, of course. What you didn’t know was that he was constantly worrying about you, not that he didn’t want to be the only person alive but because he couldn’t imagine a world without you. You were the only one that listened to him, that believed in him when no one else would. The only one that made him feel like he was worth something in this world. His worst nightmare had already happened to him, as he had to bury the bodies of his adult siblings, but his new one was losing you. It killed him to watch you slowly but surely grow more sick, and he wanted to defer your inevitable end for as long as possible. He was in a race against time: time travel you both out of here before you took your last breath.

The weather was a sure sign that spring was finally arriving. You believed it to be April, the ten year anniversary of the apocalypse, with the back and forth sunshine and rainstorms. Currently, you and Five were walking down the side of the freeway, dragging along wagons full of your belongings and your apocalypse buddy, Dolores. It was almost dark and you were starting to look for a not too busted up car to take shelter in for the night. The fields looked like death. They were filled with dark, spiky vines and grass that looked permanently dried to a crisp.

You adjusted the bandana over your nose, growing frustrated at its tightness, and pulled it off your face entirely. The air wasn’t as smoky as it used to be, the rain helped clear it out, and you could feel another storm on the way. Your lungs took in the air and whatever microscopic particles were floating about.

“Put it back on, Y/n,” Five scolded, disappointed in your disregard for your health.

“You tied it way too tight, it was getting uncomfortable,” you answered back.

The two of you kept walking side by side until you came across a van that appeared large enough to store your belongings and to allow you both to stretch out comfortably.

You followed this same routine every night: you’d scavenge, find a suitable vehicle or building, then break in.

As Five used a swiss army knife in an attempt to open the back door of the van, you leaned against the side doors, your eyes scanned over the fields to examine to your surroundings, looking out at the vast field of dried up plants, not expecting to see anything different, until your eyes caught on a small, bright plant growing not too far from the road.

Without a word, you immediately pushed off the van, quickly grabbing Five’s attention.

“Y/N, what are you-”

As you ran through the field, you felt the dry plants scratching your shins, creating the tiniest, painful cuts, but you didn’t care. The fluorescent flora became clearer as you got closer, eyes entranced by its glowing color before Five blinked in front of you, causing you to crash into his chest and almost tackle him. He stabilized the two of you, grabbing both your arms and holding you tight to stop you from running off again.

“Wait, Y/N,” Five started, “First of all, don’t run off like that. Second, you don’t know what that is.”

“Oh, please,” you said frustrated, trying to shimmy out of his grasp, “It’s a flower.” “Yes, I know,” he deadpanned, “But there’s no way a normal flower could grow in these conditions.”

You freed yourself and knelt down to admire the beautiful flower. Its petals glowed brightly as its orange pigments had you entranced. Five cautiously stood behind you, ready to pull you away any second, but he wasn’t fast enough.

As you leaned downward to smell the flower, the anther puffed out quickly, spraying a cloud of glowy pollen directly into your face, before the petals closed in on itself and encapsulated the flower.

“Y/N!”

Stunned, you fell onto your back, eyes wide and face burning as the pollen covered your cheeks and infiltrated your nose. Five quickly leaned over you, he had pulled his goggles down and used your bandana to wipe the pollen off your face before he noticed a drop. Then another. Then three more dripping onto your flushed cheeks.

The rain snapped you out of your daze as you sat straight up. Five cautiously held up his hands and waited for you to say something, “You alright?”

“I think?” You didn’t feel any different really, besides an oncoming sneeze.

He helped you stand up and the two of you ran back through the field and to the van, where he continued to pick the lock. Once he got it open, you both worked rather quickly to get settled so as to not get drenched. You gently placed Dolores in while he tossed in any items from your wagons that couldn’t get too wet. The two of you covered them with a small tarp before he tied them together around the tire with a rope. You jumped into the back of the van, Five following suit, and quickly shut the door.

It was dark in there. You tried the overhead light but you knew the battery ran out years ago. Other than that, the van was in good shape, with a couple dusty blankets in the back, a case of water and a small stash of granola bars which the two of you scarfed down rather quickly.

“This might be our best find in a while,” Five said, leaning against the wall, looking down at you as you laid on one of the blankets, trying not to chug the water.

He had been keeping a close eye on you since the flower, worried there was something you weren’t telling him. And he was right.

Ever since you stepped out of the contaminated yet refreshing rain, your body had felt uncomfortably warm. A cold sweat covered your body, which felt like it was almost buzzing, and a growing sensation of desire was settling in your lower stomach. You kept your eyes on the ceiling, not waiting to catch another glimpse at Five, worried about the thoughts he would give you. With the two of you sharing the small space, there was no way to relieve the pressure between your legs. You could feel his eyes burning into you, of course he’d notice if you tried getting any friction.

“Hey, look at me,” he said, breaking the silence.

You still didn’t want to face him, you knew he knew something was off, that the flower did something to you. Instead of turning your head towards him, you faced the opposite wall and closed your eyes.

When he reached over to take your chin in his hand, forcing you to look at him, the action alone dampened your underwear as you stifled a whimper.

He knew something was wrong. Not only were you unusually quiet but you looked flushed and sweaty, and almost like you were in pain. As he started into your eyes, he could see how bloodshot they were, your pupils incredibly dilated.

He kept his hold tight on your face, moving your chin around to inspect every angle before you took hold of his wrist with both hands, trying to pull it away.

“That flower did something to you, I know it,” he stated, as if it weren’t already obvious, “How do you feel?”

How on earth were you supposed to answer that? The pain of not being touched was increasing quickly, and the urge to jump his bones and ride his thighs to relieve the pressure was becoming harder to suppress. You could only hold back so much longer, but you knew if you let go, your friendship would be fucked.

You finally peeled his fingers off your face, holding his hand in front of you, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth to stop yourself from sucking his fingers right then and there – God, what was wrong with you?

Groaning, you released his hand and turned over onto your side, sliding your hands down your face. Thankfully, your clothing was dark, so he couldn’t see the damp spot of your uncontrollable arousal leaking out of you.

Your behavior scared him at first. If that flower was poisonous, and you died a slow agonizing death as your body slowly shut down, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself knowing he could have prevented it, if only he had been more careful with you. But as he analyzed you further, he became much more relieved to piece together what the pollen was really doing to you.

The flush of your skin, the soft gasps you let slip from your throat, the way you indiscreetly squeezed your thighs together, the look of complete and utter desire and desperation swarming your eyes.

He’d seen small glimpses of that look over the years, but he’d always thought it was his increasingly delusional imagination considering you were the only girl alive on Earth, and he was nothing but a hormonal boy. He thought of those years spent feeling ashamed of how his mind could turn you, his closest friend, into an image of his own desire as he would imagine your hand wrapped around him instead of own, as he got himself off while you were dead asleep next to him.

Selfishly, he was glad you were in pain, because he was the lucky last soul on Earth who could relieve you. Although, not without a little more teasing first.

He combed his fingers through his shaggy hair, attempting to hide his smirk before grabbing your arms and sitting you up.

The way he moved you with such ease made you think about how he could move you into whatever position he wanted, and how easily you would let him.

He settled you upright against the wall of the van, you almost teared up at the feeling of his strong hands leaving you, before he started unzipping your sweatshirt.

“Let’s get some layers off you before you overheat,” he explained.

“Okay, that’ll help,” you quietly agreed, trying to keep your composure as if watching his hands undress you wasn’t torture.

“Arms up,” he instructed as he slipped off the next layer, a grey long sleeve shirt, leaving you in a white tank top.

You have to admit, you did feel much cooler, but the moments where his fingers would graze your arms was driving you insane.

He then wrapped one arm around you to lift your hips up slightly off the carpeted floor of the van, so he could remove your cargo pants with his other hand.

You could’ve screeched with excitement, though thankfully you buried your face into his shoulder to contain yourself. You had a layer of boxer shorts before your panties, but you felt exposed compared to him, as he was still fully clothed.

“Any better?” he asked, still in close proximity to you. His face seemingly inching closer to yours.

You nodded.

Not trusting yourself with words.

Not trusting yourself at all.

He knew.

Just from looking up at his face, you knew he knew. He wore the same face he always wore when he was right about something. That smug know-it-all face you’ve grown the desire to completely smother with wet kisses over the years. He knew what you needed and this son of a bitch was daring you by holding it over your head.

“Ready for bed?” he asked with an innocent voice, contrasting from the dark look in his eye.

It felt as if all those years together led up to this moment. The moment where the two of you did nothing but sit next to each other. Inches away from the other’s face. Eyes staring into the other’s, occasionally breaking free to stare down at their lips. Daring the other to be the one to break over a decade of friendship. Once he saw that glowing twinkle in your eyes, amidst the darkness of dilation, he knew you’d break first.

He caught you in his arms as you pounced on him, your last shred of composure was ripped away as soon as your lips met his. Five was the only thing on your mind.

His lips. His hands. His arms. His fingers.

Him.

You wanted it all.

The kiss wasn’t gentle at all. It was harsh and wet. The two of you had no patience, you had the rest of your lives to be gentle and loving. You wanted each other at this very moment. As you made out, he continued to peel off the last of your clothing. He lifted your hips, sliding down both your boxer shorts, tossing them into the passenger seat of the van. Before removing your panties, he moved to feel how damp you got them over the fabric. He almost growled into your mouth as he pulled his slick fingers away, finally pulling the soaked fabric down your legs.

His arms moved to cage you against him, which felt like absolute heaven, and when his hands lowered to grab your ass, dragging you across his thigh, the moan you let into his mouth was angelic.

That needy feeling between your legs finally being relieved was enough to make tears fall, cooling your flush cheeks, as his tongue continued to dance with yours.

He moved to kiss your jaw, leaving a soft trail of saliva until he moved under your chin, and down your neck, leaving harsh intentional marks.

With your head tilted up, and your mouth free, all you could do was moan as he continued to drag your bare, slick cunt across his clothed leg. You were so sensitive that every time he pulled you across the fabric of his pants, you could’ve come.

As he bit every inch of your neck, he brought his hands to lift up your top, already noticing how you’ve forgone a bra, and grasped your breasts. So engulfed in the pleasure, you’d barely noticed how you had been left to move yourself against his thighs. He swapped his hands for his mouth as he wrapped a hand around your throat and squeezed slightly, while taking a nipple into his mouth.

You gasped, rutting your hips faster against him, with one hand holding onto his hip for dear life while the other was entangled in his hair, pushing his head into your chest. As your gasps and whimpers grew increasingly higher in pitch, you began to hump his thigh with more need, chasing your high that was steadily building up.

You could feel him smiling smugly into your tit, then you realized you’d been moaning his name, begging and pleading for him to let you come.

He moved his mouth back to yours, quieting your desperate pleads as he brought both his hands to your tits, pinching and twisting your nipples, stimulating you enough to finally push you over the edge.

You shuttered against his thigh, your chest arching into his, and your moans losing themselves in his throat, you rode out your orgasm, gradually slowing down the pace of your hips until you were slowly dragging them through the puddle on his leg, sliding your slick across the fabric.

Five buried his face into your neck as you slowly recovered, arms wrapped around your middle, moving you to sit closer to the bulge in the front of his pants.

Instead of feeling relieved from the effects of the pollen, you felt the need rush right back between your legs.

You leaned back in his arms to take him in with your eyes — his messy hair, his swollen lips, flush face. He was still fully clothed, contrasting your completely naked figure.

Five noticed you scanning his jacket, coming to the conclusion that yes, maybe it was a little unfair that you were the only one completely exposed. He lifted you into his arms and brought you over to the other end of the van. Then he shuffled back a few feet and watched you sit there, naked and needy, waiting for his next move.

He then carefully removed everything he was wearing – his jacket, his now stained pants, his two shirts – and before he could remove his boxers, you crawled over and did it yourself.

You kneeled before him as you took him out of his boxers, and into your mouth.

“Fuck-” he groaned as he felt your warm tongue under his cock.

He was big. You almost choked when you tried taking him down your throat as far as you could, you just needed to taste him. He took your hair in his hands as he guided you, not wanting to push you too far, and not wanting to come down your throat just yet.

When he felt the pressure building, he quickly pulled you off him by your hair, taking a second to admire your dazy eyes and the drool dripping down your chin.

Five then tackled you, literally throwing himself on top of you, your head landing on your pile of clothes, as his lips once again crashed into yours. He quickly pinned you down and held your wrists together in his left hand, his other snuck down between your legs, sliding through your folds. You could feel his cock hard against your stomach, practically leaking onto you. His fingers were soaked as they slid back and forth, over and over, until you got fed up with his teasing and started moving your hips to feel more.

“Hold still,” he said, trying to be assertive yet laughing a little at your desperation.

“Please, Five,” you frowned, your neediness was no laughing matter, “Just put them in alread-”

You cut yourself off with a moan as he slid to fingers into you, immediately setting a strong pace, curling them to perfectly hit that spot inside you, making you squirm.

He brought his thumb to your clit, rubbing circles until your eyes rolled back into your head. Your orgasm was sneaking up on you, and he could tell by your more frequent gasps and higher moans, as well as your cunt tightening around his fingers. Before you tipped over the edge and the pleasure could wash over you, he pulled out his fingers, watching intently as the built up pleasure disappointed.

“What- Five!” you whined, your hurt eyes met his as he sarcastically frowned, before he smiled once again, and lined himself up with your entrance.

You’re lucky that you and Five are the only people alive, because that means the two of you can be as loud as possible. When he pushed himself in, the two of you groaned so loud it could’ve been heard from miles away. You both had to hold still for a few moments, as to not come immediately. The two of you were completely engulfed in each other, arms wrapped around the other, pulling them as close as possible. Once he started to move, you felt like nothing you’d ever felt before. Every time he thrusted into you, it sent a wave of pleasure through your whole body, as your cunt tried to suck him in.

Five had never felt so good in his entire life. He’d imagined what you’d feel like before, but you were so much better than he’d ever imagined. So tight, with your wetness drooling everywhere. He buried his face into your shoulder as he rutted into you, appreciating the smell of sex that filled the van. You buried your fingers in his shaggy hair, occasionally giving it a tug that made his dick twitch inside you.

“Ah — I’m close,” Five grunted, his thrusts sloppy.

“Me too,” you whimpered, feeling a familiar pressure that was begging to be let go.

Five reached one of his hands between the two of you to circle your clit once more, giving you the stimulation to come one more time, knowing he’d soon follow.

“Five, ahh – I’m gonna-”

The wave hit you, your body completely let go. Your cunt spasmed around Five, coming harder than you ever have before. You barely registered it, as your brain went fuzzy, but you could feel your come squirt all over your legs, Five’s as well, as he kept thrusting through the sticky mess, moaning loudly before stilling. His body shook as he came inside you, face buried in your chest as he tried to pull himself as close as possible. His come was warm, filling you entirely.

The two of you laid there on the itchy carpet of the van for what seemed like forever before Five slowly pulled out and sat up, hearing a hiss from you that ached him a little, before he watched his come spill out of you, as you laid there, completely fucked out.

He dug through his bag to find the cleanest cloth he owned to clean the both of you up with. He made sure to be as careful as possible with your sensitive areas as he wiped the come off you.

He went through your bag to find new underwear and a tank top to redress you with, before he put new boxers on himself and settled back by your side.

“You better not forget this,” he grumbled playfully as he kissed your forehead.

You smiled lightly with your eyes closed.

“How could I?”

~~~

taglist: @misakiisstupid @lveegsoi @groovydazephantom @tremendoushearttaco @spidermansfangirl @madscamp02 @beanzwritez (send a request in the inbox or comment to be added!)

~~~

#five hargreeves #the umbrella academy #five hargreeves imagine #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreaves x reader #number five #tua five #five hargreeves angst #five hargreeves imagines #five hargreeves smut #five hargreeves x fem!reader #five smut #five tua #sex pollen #smut

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rcmclachlan · 2 months ago

Text

The Least Vulnerable Spot 8x16 spec fic

In which I ask the ultimate questions: under what circumstances would Tommy not attend the memorial procession for Bobby? Also, how silly can I make this?

Buck has never considered himself to be that guy, but when a man hands you the viral antidote he stole for you, kisses you on a rooftop backlit by the sunset while a couple of Sikorsky UH-60s hover threateningly, and whispers "Here's looking at you, kid" before ushering you through the rooftop door so you can save your family while a bunch of stone-faced Army guys advance, you tend to have an expectation or two. Like, that he'll pick up his fucking phone when you call.

He's left so many voicemails and sent so many texts to Tommy's phone over the last four days that he's pretty sure Verizon has his account flagged, but he thinks Petrea, his account rep, would understand if he explained that his ex-but-maybe-not-ex-boyfriend flew in like a superhero and then ghosted him when Buck needed him the most. She might even dig up a Jilted Before Your Father Figure's Funeral discount for his troubles.

It's been a week since they held the procession for Bobby, and not even Buck showing up at Tommy's house the night before and pounding on the door for an hour while shouting that he was yellow-bellied (partly true), a traitor to the 118 name (mostly true), and a lousy lay (bold-faced lie) could make the little coward show his face.

So he's done. He is finished with Tommy Kinard and his massive amounts of baggage that would make even Briggs & Riley close up shop, and he's proving it by leaving one final voicemail that isn't influenced by his sadness over Bobby's death, the stress of the last couple of weeks, or by how much Tommy's abandonment has hurt him. He's going to be a rational adult about this. He's going to be the bigger person.

".... This is all to say that I hope you have an amazing life, Tommy," he says into his phone speaker. "I hope it's filled with love and support, and it's meaningful and fulfills your soul. And I hope you fall in love with a beautiful, kind man who treats you right, and I hope you get married and stay together for fifty blissful years, and then I hope you wake up from the coma to realize it was all a dream and you're all alone, because apparently that's what you really want! And I know you were quoting a movie on the rooftop, and you know what? I'm not going to even look up which movie it was! Look at me, kid, or whatever it was you said!"

Buck misses the days when he could snap his phone shut to hang up, because stabbing end call twenty times until his finger actually taps the button just doesn't give him the same kind of satisfaction.

Panting for a moment, he pushes all his anger and pain into a little lockbox in the back of his mind, shuts the lid, and takes a breath. Then he pockets his phone and looks up to find everyone in the station frozen, staring at him like he just performed a magic trick or saw a bug on the wall and didn't identify it out loud.

"What?!" he snaps at all of their slack-jawed faces. "Never seen a rational adult before?"

Out of nowhere, a hand lands on his shoulder like a jump scare, and he startles back so hard he almost throws an elbow into Acting Captain Henrietta Wilson's wrinkled nose.

"Hey, Buckaroo," Hen coos. The expression on her face would be more at home on someone who's been tasked with single handedly cleaning up a nuclear meltdown. "Maybe we should put our phones in our lockers so we're not distracted by our very confusing situationships. At least until lunch time when I can escape to Rosetti's to get a break from it."

Buck doesn't whine and he definitely doesn't stamp his feet. "Yeah, but what if he calls?"

"You know, he probably would just to tell you the quote is actually Here's looking at you, kid," Hen admits.

"I don't get it. Who's looking at me?" Buck mutters, giving his phone the stink eye before looking up. "What are you doing out here? I thought you were doing paperwork."

Hen shrugs with her entire face. "Well, I was, but when you started wailing I thought another raccoon got caught in the vent fan again, so."

For someone who got the job under the worst set of circumstances imaginable, she looks completely at home in the role, the way she always does. Buck's trying like hell to be happy for her, and he is, deep deep deep down, but he'll be the first to admit he hasn't been handling it well. Yesterday she'd brought in a tiny potted succulent and put it in the upper left corner of what was now her desk where a framed photo of Athena, May, and Harry once sat, and Buck accidentally knocked it onto the floor. And accidentally stepped on it. Twice. Accidentally.

She'd stared at him until he started to sweat, then said flatly, "You're buying me two more."

"Yep," he'd agreed. There's now a bigger succulent on the desk and a bushy lemon lime maranta on the windowsill.

Whatever she sees on his face makes her roll her eyes, but she puts her hand on his shoulder again and says, "Okay. You get thirty seconds. Lay it on me."

Buck blinks. "Really?"

"Twenty-nine now," Hen says.

Damn, that's generous. Eddie only gave him ten before he tapped out.

Squaring his shoulders, Buck lets it all come tumbling out: "I thought this meant something! He threw in with us again and kissed me on the roof and said whatever he said and it was supposed to mean something! You don't just bail after that! He was supposed to be here! He was supposed to support me at the funeral! He was supposed to be there for me at the procession and then fuck the sadness out of me afterward! I had a plug in and everything!"

"Time's up," Hen breaks in, a look of abject horror on her face.

Buck throws his hands up. "That had to only be twenty seconds at most."

Hen's eyes dart down to his hips, then back up to his face. Her glasses magnify them, so they look bigger and wider than usual. She looks like one of those Precious Moments figurines his mom used to collect. "You had a—Buck, that procession went for a full mile."

"Believe me," Buck grumbles, shifting to try and escape the chafed ache that refuses to go away. "I'm well aware. Serves me right for going with the biggest one I own, but, like, I thought Tommy was gonna—"

"Aaaand we're done." Hen executes a perfect about-face and marches in the direction of the admin offices.

Buck calls after her, "Bobby would've heard me out!"

"Bobby would've jammed pencils in his ears!" Hen shouts over her shoulder. "Which is exactly what I'm about to do!"

This is exactly what he means when he tells Dr. Copeland that no one ever listens to him.

He's about to go see if he can corner Chimney somewhere with limited escape routes when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. His heart gets caught up in a dizzying storm of excitement, dread, and grim satisfaction, because he knew Tommy wouldn't be able to deal with the idea of Buck not looking the quote up.

But when he takes his phone out of his pocket, the incoming call isn't from Jaw of Gibraltar ❤️, but Lucy Donato.

Sighing, he takes the call. "Uh, h-hey Lucy—"

She cuts him off immediately with a curt, "Look, don't think I'm not grateful or anything. We all are. Not being forced to listen to sad James Ingram songs day in and day out has been wonderful, but it's been two weeks already and we need our lead pilot back."

"I—what? Lucy, I hate to tell you, but—"

"Tell me precisely zero details about how dick drunk you are, Buckley," Lucy says flatly. "Just tell me when you're letting him go. Cap's getting antsy and Baxter's been on call for so long that his wife is ready to kill him and turn his body into mulch."

Buck stares at Engine 2 until it blurs. "You... are talking about Tommy, right?"

"No, I'm talking about the other dipshit I work with who committed domestic terrorism because your asshole is a Disneyland attraction." Buck makes a face but doesn't correct her. Tommy once likened sex with Buck to riding Big Thunder Mountain for the first time. "He's missed like four shifts. Any more and Cap is gonna have to, like, make some calls. Where the fuck's our pilot, Buckley?"

"He hasn't been in at all?" He echoes faintly, a sinkhole opening in his gut.

Lucy makes a sound of disgust. "Frankly, I can't believe they dropped your charges. You're way too dangerous to be allowed among the general populace."

The Army colonel who swanned into Chim's hospital room like he expected them to scatter like roaches had taken one look at all of them and scoffed. "Every fiber of my being hates what I'm about to say, but I can't handle another phone call from Sergeant Grant, so: on behalf of the United States government, we're dropping all federal charges for everyone in this room. If I see any of you ever again, I will throw you into a hole so deep it'll make the Kola Borehole look like something a kid dug at the beach."

Except not everyone was in the hospital room that day.

Buck squeezes his eyes shut. "Hey, so I need to call you back."

"Wait, Dana wants to talk to you."

With a yelp of pure terror, Buck stabs his phone until the call ends, then immediately calls Jaw of Gibraltar ❤️. It goes right to voicemail, like it's been doing, and now Buck is pretty sure he knows why.

"Heeeeeeeey," he says through a grimace. "So, uh, I need you to ignore all the other voicemails and texts I sent you. Um, it's entirely possible the reason you haven't been picking up my calls might be, uh, sort of my fault, but just think: someday when we've been married for fifty years, we'll probably still be laughing about this whole thing."

Inbox full, the automated voice cheerfully tells him.

Cringing, he calls Athena.

Buck has never actually seen a federal prison—Jamestown was a regular prison, and he didn't have enough time to stop and take it all in—so he's not sure what to expect, but when they fly over Victorville Medium-Security Federal Correctional Institute, he's surprised to see it looks more like an army base than anything.

The pilot who picked him, Athena, and LAFD union lawyer Bernadette Kaine up from Harbor One—and that had sucked, because the entire Harbor crew was standing on the tarmac giving him the evil eye as he boarded, and while Dana didn't physically drag her thumb across her throat he could see the same sentiment in her blank expression—didn't actually introduce himself, but his name was embroidered on the arm of his flight suit.

"Your last name is 'Goodenough'?" Buck had asked, grinning. "'Pilot Goodenough'? Hopefully your flying is a lot better than your name suggests!"

Pilot Goodenough stared stone-faced out the windshield and said, "We might hit turbulence during the flight."

And they did, but oddly only whenever Buck unbuckled his belt. The last time Buck went to get up, Athena threatened to shoot him.

When they land, Colonel Whatshisname is there to greet them, and he looks both exhausted and furious to see him and Athena again.

"Sergeant Grant," the colonel acknowledges through gritted teeth, ignoring Buck entirely. "It's such a pleasure to see you again."

Athena simply crosses her arms and stares him down, which is impressive to watch, considering the guy's like 6'7". He's shriveling under her scrutiny before Buck's very eyes.

"Colonel, it appears you forgot something," Athena says, lightly and terrifyingly.

"Someone," Buck interjects, with nowhere near the same impact.

Colonel Whatshisname sighs, looks heavenward at the departing helicopter as though he'd like nothing more than to flag Pilot Goodenough back down to take him away, then beckons them all inside.

When they get to whoever's office the colonel commandeered, Buck is almost completely distracted from why they're there by the sheer amount of rubber ducks that clutter up every flat surface in the room. No two are the same. There's even a little viking duck, complete with a mace.

"Can I—" Buck starts slowly, inching his hand toward a duck that looks like a firefighter.

Colonel Whatshisname sits down at the desk, hard. "No."

"That's fair."

"Colonel Spade," Bernadette begins, opening her worryingly bulging briefcase. "I'd like to begin by thanking you for your ti—"

"Colonel, you know why we're here," Athena cuts in, taking the seat on the other side of the colonel's desk. She has to clear a path through all the ducks lined up at the edge so she can rest her clasped hands there. "When the charges were dropped for the members of the 118 involved in the incident, LAFD pilot Thomas Kinard's charges should have been included."

At that, Buck moves to stand menacingly at her shoulder like an attack dog, although the colonel doesn't look all that impressed at the display. If anything, he gets a look on his face like he'd just swallowed an assassin bug. Specifically a North American wheel bug.

"Normally, I would agree with you, but Thomas Kinard abused his military rank and previous clearance to gain access to a secure government building, steal proprietary assets from a lab that could have caused great harm to the population of Los Angeles, and physically assaulted personnel on his way out," Colonel Spade snaps at her. "There was no way we were letting any of that go."

"Assaulted?" Athena lifts a brow.

"That's awful," Buck rasps, pressing his thighs together. "Like, how many people and what did he do to them? Like, were there concussions? Broken bones? You can go into detail, I'm not squeamish."

The thought of Tommy fighting his way to get to Buck is so disgustingly hot that he might pop a woody in front of Athena, their lawyer lady, a visibly upset military man, and three thousand ducks. Still not the worst place he's ever been turned on.

"Without Kinard, we never would've gotten the antidote in time to save all those people," Athena says, and yanks her chair forward a little, away from Buck. "The people you deemed collateral damage in the fallout of the release of the CCHF virus."

"No one could have predicted Dr. Blake would go rogue," Colonel Spade says easily, with hate in his eyes. "This is hardly the fault of the—"

Suddenly, Bernadette sits up, and it feels like someone's put a spotlight on her. Buck kind of expects her to break into song or something, but what happens is actually so much better.

"The day Dr. Blake stole the virus, her employment was terminated, effective immediately, and yet security didn't walk her out of the building, which goes against all federal mandated safety protocols," Bernadette says, all smiles, practically glowing. "The lab—property of the U.S. government, if I remember correctly—was entirely unsupervised, which gave Dr. Blake the unfettered opportunity to tamper with the virus, speeding up its incubation period without authorization. Or, perhaps she did have authorization and the government failed to disclose this. Tell me, what else is going on under our noses that the government isn't telling us?"

"Try to disappear the brave people who risk their lives to do the right thing, apparently," Athena answers pointedly.

"I thought you were a union lawyer," Colonel Spade says through a visibly clenched jaw. "What do you know about federal pharmaceutical law?"

Bernadette's smile goes sharp. "I dabble."

Colonel Spade looks, for lack of a better word, murderous. He's probably one smarmy comment from grabbing the nearest rubber duck and bludgeoning Bernadette to death with it.

But Buck has never been able to help himself. "Is this a bad time to mention my ex-girlfriend is an investigative reporter?"

Athena drops her head into her hand. "Buck."

"I'm just saying!" He crosses his arms, trying to puff himself up the way some animals do when they're faced with a predator. "It sure would be a shame if an anonymous tip about all this landed in her lap."

Colonel Spade squints at him. "Are you threatening me, Firefighter Buckley?"

"You're trying to bury Tommy to save your own ass," Buck growls. "Yes, I'm threatening you."

Wordlessly, Bernadette reaches into her briefcase, which looks like it's seriously ready to bust open at the seams, and slides over a packet of paper to Colonel Spade. The colonel snatches it up and starts reading, and the longer he does, the paler he gets.

Finally, he lowers the packet and stabs Bernadette with his eyes. "Where did you get this?"

"I play mahjong with your ex-wife every Sunday," Bernadette says, like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "She sends her regards. Well, she actually sent the tip of her blackmail iceberg. How is your new wife, by the way? She graduate from college yet?"

Eyes wide, Buck looks at the colonel, who's got the swallowing wheel bugs look on his face again.

After the most awkward ten seconds that Buck's had to endure since Eddie crashed his and Tommy's pizza date, the colonel folds like a bad row of mahjong tiles.

"Fine," he says with a sigh, then glares at Bernadette. "And no, she's a junior."

Buck picks up a rubber duck with sharp teeth like a vampire. "Gross."

The colonel washes his hands of them by pushing them onto two enormous guards named Weekes and Kluger, who are basically human trees.

When Kluger gets his orders to take them to cell 58, he droops like a wilting plant. "Hey, you're not here to, like, take Kinard to Gitmo, right? It's just—he's really cool. He's got the wildest stories."

"Dude figured out what was wrong with my car just from listening to a video on my phone." Weekes grins, then leans in to whisper conspiratorially to Buck, "it was the alternator."

"I offered to introduce him to my sister," Kluger says as they board the elevator, and he's either oblivious to Buck's glare searing a hole in his head or is just flat-out ignoring it, because he continues blithely, "but he said he doesn't like girls. Which is cool. I'm down with the rainbow, you know? So I told him about my cousin, Martin."

Buck makes a politely interested noise, but it mostly sounds like he's biting straight through his tongue. Athena elbows him hard enough to bruise his spleen.

"And what did he have to say about Martin?" Buck asks. Meanwhile, every bone in his body is vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear.

Kluger doesn't seem to be aware that the head is going to burst into flames any second now. "He said he was flattered and that Martin was hot, but he's already got his heart pinned on someone on the outside."

Buck relaxes with a pleased smile.

"Yeah, except whoever it is left him in here to rot," Weekes adds.

"T-That's unnecessary and completely untrue," Buck lies, trying to sink into the floor so he won't drown in shame right in front of them.

Thankfully, the elevator comes to a stop at the 5th floor, and Buck pushes his way out to gulp some fresh air.

He's not sure if being on the 5th floor is a good or bad thing. Tommy was charged with domestic terrorism; what if this is the domestic terrorism floor? What if he's neighbors with neo-nazis? What if he'd been jumped by a faction in the shower and took a beating and has spent the last few days pissing blood and breathing through broken ribs and cursing the day he ever picked up Chimney's call about needing a pilot for an unauthorized rescue?

What if he regrets ever meeting Buck?

But before Buck can ask Kluger for a bucket to throw up in, they come to a stop in front of a cell marked with the number 58, and Buck forces himself to look inside.

Apparently the question Buck should've been asking was what if Tommy's lying on his bed playing paddle ball while he mouths along to whatever 80s hip-hop song is playing on a little radio? Because that's exactly what Tommy's doing.

"I gave him the radio," Weekes says proudly, reaching out to knock on the glass door. Tommy looks up without pausing his game. The ball keeps thwacking against the wood.

"He's so good at that," Kluger says, starry-eyed. "He beat Officer Amino last week and that guy's won tournaments."

"Is it Girl Scout cookie season already?" Tommy asks cheerfully, then effortlessly twists the paddle so the cord wraps around it. He tucks the ball in. "Sorry, I don't have my wallet on me."

Buck shoves Kluger aside to practically press his nose to the glass. "We take IOUs."

As soon as he sees Buck, Tommy brightens, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stands, stretching with a groan, and then walks over to the door. Even in the bland blue jumpsuit, he's stupid hot. Helplessly, Buck puts his palm against the glass.

"Nice of you to stop by," Tommy says with a teasing lilt, pressing his own palm to Buck's, and Buck swears he can feel the heat of it through the pane.

"I was in the neighborhood," Buck teases back. "Figured I'd pop in."

"I won't lie, I've been dreaming about you showing up for a conjugal visit." Tommy looks away from Buck's face to squint at everyone else. "Although you guys weren't there."

At that, Athena cracks a smile and says in an odd voice, almost twangy, "You stupid mullet head, he beat you with nothin'."

Tommy perks up and doesn't miss a bit, drawling, "Yeah, well, sometimes nothin' can be a real cool hand."

Before Buck can ask what the hell they're talking about, someone shoves him aside with surprising strength. He's a little surprised to see it's Bernadette, who he kind of forgot about, but she's clearly the only one who remembers why they're here because she raps on the glass and says, "Mr. Kinard, my name is Bernadette Kaine and I'm here to take you home."

"We're here to take you home," Buck amends.

Tommy looks at Bernadette for a long moment, head tilting like a puppy hearing a noise for the first time and gaze narrowed, and then snaps his fingers. "Hey, I know you! I sent my paperwork to you the last time I stole a helicopter."

Sighing, Bernadette nods. "If you do it a third time, I get a free sundae."

"What do I get?" Tommy asks.

"Permanent incarceration and possibly the death penalty."

Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Tommy mulls that one over, then gives a decisive nod. "Sounds about right."

The helicopter ride home is spent mostly with Buck plastered to Tommy's side while he fills him in on everything he missed. Tommy's devastated to hear about Bobby. He offers Athena his condolences over the open mic, then curls his hand around his headset speaker to murmur apologies into Buck's ear.

"I wish I'd been there for you," Tommy says, and the words ease some kinked cable inside Buck he hadn't known was there. "I'm sorry I wasn't."

"I'm sorry I forgot there were consequences to your actions and left you to the mercy of the Army," Buck says, pressing his forehead to the jut of Tommy's jaw. "I just assumed everything was taken care of, and I… kind of thought you were ghosting me."

At that, Tommy snorts, wrapping an arm around Buck to hold him impossibly closer. "Evan, come on. You don't kiss a man like that and quote Humphrey Bogart and then ghost him. I'm an asshole and a coward, but I'm not a monster."

Buck winces. "Uh, yeah, when you have a second, can I see your phone?"

"What for?"

"It's better if you don't know," Buck says. "Completely unrelated, but you don't have a code for your voicemail, do you, and if so, can I have it?"

Tommy snickers and presses a kiss to Buck's temple. "How bad did it get?"

"Well, I taught Chim the word 'motherfuckface', so you tell me," Buck admits, cracking a grin when Tommy laughs out loud, but he has a hell of a time trying to keep it up. Finally, he gives up the ghost and tucks his face against Tommy's, eyes prickling hot with guilt. "I'm so sorry. I should've known. I should've known. Never in a million years would you have bailed on the funeral. It should've been my first clue that something was wrong."

Tommy snugs him in close and says quietly, barely audible over the rotors, "To quote an incredible man who drives me up the wall: 'it seems there's a lot we don't know about each other.' I'm glad you know I wouldn't have left you in the lurch like that, but there's a lot more… there's a lot more about me that you should know. That I… well, not exactly want you to know, but that I will tell you. Willingly. Well, not exactly willingly, but—"

"Y-Yeah?" Sniffling a little, Buck pulls away just enough to be able to look up at him. "What are you doing Saturday?"

It wins him a smile. "Vivisecting myself for you, apparently. And maybe burgers afterwards?"

Grinning, Buck snuggles shamelessly back in. "Actually, I wanted to make Bobby's famous lasagna for you. I think I've finally nailed it down. Then you can nail me down."

But before Tommy can respond, Athena breaks in over the line and takes a baseball bat to the moment. "Change the subject. Now."

Swallowing hard, Buck nods and pastes on a smile that doesn't scream 'I'm chubbed up a little in my jeans and I'm trying not to make it everyone's problem.' He coughs a little. "So, uh, who's Humphrey Bogart? Does he have a podcast or something?"

Tommy turns to Athena. "Actually, thanks, but no thanks. Take me back to prison."

#bucktommy #911 spec fic #911 8x16 #911 spoilers #4400 words of unseriousness #once again written entirely in the tumblr text editor #if you read this and think it's completely unedited and makes little sense.... you're right

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cvntybrat · 20 days ago

Text

stand by me

you and kento aren't too far apart in age. kento being just about three years older than you, you two grew up around the same things–more or less.

something you really valued within your relationship with kento was how much of an old school lover he was. from randomly bringing you flowers when he came home from work, to wanting to make sure you were taken care of in every way, shape and form.

you two are out for some errands? he'll be carrying the bags before you could even touch them. about to walk through a door? don't worry about all the germs on the handle because kento will open it for you. at a restaurant and you're about to pull out your own seat? don't even bother. kento's already pulled the chair out, waiting for you to sit down.

he's the dictionary definition of 'gentleman'.

the point is, nanami kento, is an old school man.

when you first met him, you vividly remembered how much he loved collecting vinyls and record players. they started off as jazz and a bit of classical–soon, they became love songs. he only started collecting vinyls about love songs a few months into your relationship. down the line during the relationship, you remembered asking him a silly question,

"what if you grow old and–like die? would you be afraid?"

and you remember him telling you,

"hm, i'll have to come back to you on that one."

that was eight years ago. now the two of you were in your mid to late twenties.

the two of you had just moved into a new home. a four bedroom house, which the two of you had spent almost two weeks unpacking and you were finally getting to the final stretch of the last few boxes.

you had gotten to your childhood boxes that you haven't seen since you had moved out of your parents' home–when you had spotted something familiar. something you haven't seen in a very long, long time.

"ken, look what i found."

"yes, my love?"

you were holding a vinyl by ben e. king that kento had given you when he asked you to be his girlfriend. it was leaning against all of the other little trinkets and stuffed animals he's given you throughout your teen years. the vinyl case had your name in his writing, and at the bottom it said,

'no i won't be afraid, just as long as you stand by me.'

"would you look at that."

"you think it would play?" you ask, but before you could even get an answer, you stand up abruptly making kento sputter out worries which you, unfortunately, ignore. you place the vinyl down on the record player sitting on a shelf nearby, as kento stands behind you, his grip gentle on your hips, but steady.

eventually, 'stand by me' by ben e. king starts playing. the soft, yet scratchy sound of the music brought back so many memories to the two you. you turn around, his hands loosening, but never letting go of you.

"are you still afraid?" you teased.

"no. you're still beside me," he bends down kissing your heavily pregnant stomach. "and so will they."

notes: oh my god. this lowkey made me feel some type of way im not gonna lie. BROOOOOOOOOO MY CHEST HURTS

update: reread this and this is still gutwrenching im sobbing

⋆cvntybrat 2025. DO NOT repost, copy, translate or steal any of my works.

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cheollollipop · 19 days ago

Text

green sector. | k. mingyu

genre: fluff. angst. smut (18+ MDNI)

wc: 4.7k

content warning(s): fast driving, smutty smut smut. pet names, reader shoves mingyu (out of love), breast play, oral (f! receiving), please lmk if i forgot anything!

🏁 author’s note!

loved f1 mingyu so much i decided to continue. this story takes places two years after pole position . this’ll probably be the end of this story so i wanted to give yall an even more happier ending for mingyu and reader. i hope you enjoy this as much as you all enjoyed the first one! and if you haven’t read it, please check it out <3 happy reading.

The Proposal wasn't subtle.

Not with Mingyu. Never with Mingyu.

He rented out the entire rooftop of the Park Hyatt Tokyo.

I thought we were there for a sponsor dinner. I'd slipped into a navy silk dress, hair swept into a low bun, heels echoing against polished floors as he led me through the hotel like he didn't already have a diamond ring burning a hole in his pocket.

When the elevator doors opened on the 52nd floor, I knew something was off.

No guests. No tables. Just a private pathway of soft lanterns and white roses, a string quartet tucked into the corner playing the instrumental version of my favorite song, and Mingyu grinning, nervous, stunning in a black velvet tux, reaching for my hand like he'd waited his whole life for this moment.

"Is this...?" I asked, voice already trembling.

He nodded. "Yeah."

I stepped onto the rooftop with him, the Tokyo skyline glittering behind us like a million stars had fallen just for us. There were candles everywhere. Soft light. A breeze that caught the hem of my dress.

"I thought about doing this where we first met," he said, slipping his hands into mine. "But we've been through too much. And you deserve the best."

He knelt then.

Right there, on imported Italian tile, with the city holding its breath around us.

"I want every version of you. The brave one. The scared one. The one who holds the world together even when she's breaking," he said, voice shaking. "And if you'll have me, I'll spend the rest of my life proving that forever doesn't have to be terrifying."

The ring was custom. Pear cut. Set in platinum with two tiny stones on either side, one for him, one for me.

I didn't cry. I sobbed.

And when I said yes, the sky lit up behind us, yes, actual fireworks and he kissed me like a man who had something to lose and wasn't willing to risk it.

⸻

The Wedding was in Florence.

Because nothing else would do.

We flew in two weeks early. Took over an entire vineyard estate. Thirty five rooms. Custom menus. A wedding planner who had previously done work for literal royalty. White glove everything.

My dress had a twenty foot train. A cathedral veil. Hand sewn crystals. I walked down the aisle to a string version of Debussy's Clair de Lune, escorted by my mother and the memory of my father.

Mingyu looked like sin in a cream tuxedo with black satin lapels. Hair slicked back. Jaw set.

He cried the second he saw me.

Hell, everyone did. Dokyeom handed Mingyu a tissue. Minghao lost it entirely. Jihoon pretended not to.

Our vows? We had to pause halfway through because I couldn't breathe.

"I've seen every version of you," he said. "The broken one. The furious one. The one too afraid to say she loved me. And I still chose you. I will always choose you."

We kissed under a rain of ivory petals. Doves were released. Champagne poured like waterfalls.

Our reception was candlelit under a grand tent in the olive groves. Seven courses. A live jazz band. Late night espresso martinis served with hand painted macarons that had our initials on them in gold.

And when we had our first dance, it wasn't practiced. It was messy. Clingy. He kept kissing me between spins, and I kept laughing into his shoulder, thinking

This. This is everything.

⸻

The Honeymoon we went straight from Italy to the Maldives.

Private villa. Overwater. Glass floors. Champagne on ice when we landed and a butler who knew not to disturb us unless it was an emergency, or breakfast.

He booked fourteen days. Two were spent outside the villa. The rest?

Let's just say the Do Not Disturb sign didn't come off the door.

The moment we stepped inside, he let go of my hand, only to wrap both arms around my waist from behind.

"Look," he whispered against my neck, chin resting on my shoulder. His voice was low. "The floor."

Glass beneath our feet. Blue water beneath the glass. And beyond that, miles and miles of nothing but ocean and sky, fading into molten gold as the sun began to set.

"It's like we're floating," I murmured.

He kissed the back of my shoulder. "We are."

I stepped forward slowly, hand brushing over the smooth edge of the four poster bed, across the ice bucket on the table with the already sweating champagne, past the sliding doors that opened to our private deck and infinity pool.

God. This was ours.

For two weeks, this little slice of paradise was ours.

Behind me, Mingyu didn't speak. Didn't move.

I turned slowly and found him watching me with that look again. The one he'd worn the moment I stepped out during the ceremony in Florence. The one that made me feel like the center of the universe.

"What?" I asked, soft and a little shy.

His eyes drank me in. He didn't smile. Didn't blink.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said, voice low. "I don't even know what to do with myself."

I walked toward him, my hands resting on his chest as he took me in his arms.

"You already married me," I teased, leaning into him. "You don't have to keep seducing me."

He tilted his head down until his mouth brushed mine. "I'm not trying to seduce you."

"No?"

"No." His hand slid down to the curve of my waist, fingers flexing gently. "I just want you."

The kiss that followed was slow. Warm. Familiar in a way that still felt like falling. His lips parted mine with ease, his tongue brushing softly against mine as he deepened it, hands tightening on my hips like he couldn't get close enough.

I sighed into him, fingers moving up to unbutton his shirt, one by one.

He let me.

"You know what I've been thinking about all day?" he murmured against my mouth, the last button slipping free.

"What?"

"This dress." He kissed down the line of my jaw. "How it clung to you in all the right places."

"Mingyu..."

"How I knew the second you put it on... that I was going to be the one to take it off."

Heat shot straight through me.

"Do it, then," I whispered.

His mouth curved into a smirk. "Say it again."

I swallowed. "Take it off."

He groaned, voice thick and reverent. "Fuck, baby. You don't know what that does to me."

He tugged the dress up slowly, exposing inches of skin with every pass. I helped him, lifting my arms as he slipped it over my head, then gasped when his hands found my bare waist and pulled me into him, skin to skin.

"No underwear?" he asked, eyebrows raised, voice wrecked.

I shook my head, already breathless.

"I'm obsessed with you," he whispered, dipping to press a kiss between my breasts. "I don't even care if we eat tonight. I just want you. Like this. All night."

"Then have me," I breathed, reaching for his belt.

His mouth met mine again, hungrier this time. Desperate.

I made quick work of his pants, and when we finally collapsed onto the bed, bare and flushed, the air was thick with salt and tension.

He hovered above me, dark eyes roaming, like he couldn't decide where to start.

"You okay?" he asked, brushing his knuckles over my cheek.

"Yeah." I nodded. "Just nervous."

"Why?"

"Because it's you. Because this is real now. And because you're looking at me like you're about to ruin me."

He grinned, wicked and beautiful. "Oh, baby."

His voice dipped lower, heat curling around each word.

"I'm not gonna ruin you. I'm gonna worship you."

He kissed down my neck, over the swell of my breasts, pausing to take one in his mouth. I gasped, arching into him, hand tangled in his hair. He took his time, alternating between soft sucks and gentle flicks of his tongue until I was moaning beneath him.

"You always make those sounds for me," he murmured, lips trailing down my stomach. "No one else ever will."

"No one else gets to," I whispered.

His eyes met mine just as he settled between my thighs.

"Good girl," he said.

I gasped when his mouth met me. Hot. Wet. Tender. His tongue moved with slow precision, circling, teasing, licking until I was writhing, my legs thrown over his shoulders and my fingers clutching the sheets.

"You taste so good," he growled, voice muffled against me.

"Mingyu-" I moaned, hips rising, "Please. I need you."

He came back up, kissing my inner thighs, my stomach, my chest, leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

"Say it again."

"I need you."

"Say you're mine."

"I'm yours."

He kissed me hard, aligning himself at my entrance.

And then he was inside me.

All the way. Deep. Slow. Stretching me with a fullness that had me gasping and clinging to his shoulders.

"Shit," he hissed, forehead pressed to mine. "You feel so good. You always feel so fucking good."

He started to move with long, deep thrusts that had me gasping, whining, saying his name like a mantra.

Every time he hit that spot, I shook.

Every time he kissed me, I melted.

"Open your eyes," he said. "Look at me."

I did.

"I want to see your face when I make you fall apart."

I moaned, tightening around him. "You're going to make me come."

"Good," he whispered. "I want to feel it. Let go for me, baby."

And I did.

It hit hard, shattering and full and bright, like every nerve in my body had lit up at once. I cried out his name, trembling beneath him, and he held me through it, hips stuttering until he followed, spilling into me with a loud, broken moan.

"Fuck, I love you," he breathed, kissing my shoulder. "You're everything."

I was still panting when he collapsed beside me, dragging me into his arms.

"Can I say something?" I asked, half dazed, body still tingling.

"Always."

"I want round two after a shower and a snack."

He laughed, loud and shameless. "God, I married the perfect woman."

"You really did."

The next few days, we swam in nothing but skin and salt. I wore silk robes and no makeup. He couldn't keep his hands off me and didn't try to.

Dinners were on the beach. Lobster tails and caviar and fresh coconut water from golden rimmed glasses. Mingyu surprised me with a spa day that included a gold leaf facial and diamond oil scalp massage.

One night, he ordered a stargazing cruise.

Just us. A velvet sky. And the sound of the waves against the hull while he held me in his lap and told me he'd never stop chasing the life we had, no matter what the next season looked like.

We didn't check our phones once.

We didn't need to.

We had everything we needed right there.

Then, we came home.

To racing.

To Monaco.

⸻

I always wake up first on race day.

It's a weird kind of calm. The curtains are drawn back just enough to let in the early light, casting golden streaks across our hotel room walls. The bed's warm, our legs tangled, the weight of his arm heavy around my waist.

Mingyu's breathing is steady, face soft in the quiet. He always looks younger when he sleeps. Less like the man who commands a Formula 1 car at 300 kilometers an hour and more like the boy who held my hand the day my father died.

I brush his hair back gently, thumb grazing his temple.

"Gyu," I whisper. "It's time."

He groans softly and burrows into my side.

"I just got comfortable."

"You've had eight hours to be comfortable."

"Was more like six. You wouldn't stop stealing the blanket."

I roll my eyes and lean in to kiss his forehead. "Get up, Mr. Monaco."

"Don't call me that unless I win it."

"Well then I guess I'll keep calling you fourth place."

That gets him. He huffs and stretches, eyes still closed, but grinning.

"Savage," he mutters. "Didn't think marriage made you meaner."

"It made me honest."

He finally opens one eye. "...Still love me?"

"Stupidly."

"Good," he says, already reaching for me again. "That'll come in handy when I forget to pit and nearly wreck into turn 13."

"You're not funny."

He smirks. "Not yet."

⸻

Monaco is not Monza.

Monza is loud. Brutal. Fast. Pure speed.

Monaco is precise. Surgical. There's no room for mistakes here. One missed apex and you're in the wall. No runoff. No forgiveness. Just concrete and consequences.

I feel it in my chest as we get closer to the paddock, the way the streets narrow, how the yachts rise like silver monoliths in the harbor, how every inch of this place feels tighter than it should.

I hate it. But I respect it.

Mingyu grips my hand as we step out of the car. He always knows when my thoughts are louder than I'm letting on.

"Same track," he says softly. "Different story."

"You always say that."

"And I always come back to you after, don't I?"

I nod.

That's the truth I hold onto.

⸻

He suits up while I meet with Jinho and a couple of the engineers. We go over tire strategy, timing windows, what the simulations are saying. The car's been temperamental this weekend. He qualified fifth yesterday, frustrated, but not shaken.

"He wants to push on the first stint," Jinho says, tapping his tablet. "But if it's a safety car lap ten, we'll box early. Undercut could work here."

"And if it rains?"

Jinho just sighs. "Then God's got a dark sense of humor."

I glance out at the sky. Clear for now.

Back in the garage, Mingyu's climbing into the cockpit. I wait until his helmet's on, until his gloves are secured, until everyone else has backed off.

Then I lean in, one hand on his halo.

"You drive smart," I say through the radio mic. "No hero moves."

"Yes, wife," he mutters.

"I mean it."

He lifts his visor slightly so I can see his eyes. "I'm coming back to you. No matter where I finish."

I nod once. "Good. Because I married you for your ass, not your trophies."

He laughs, shaking his head. "You're such a menace."

"Go win something."

Race Start.

It's clean. Mostly.

Leclerc takes the lead. Norris in second. Mingyu holds fifth through the first corner, staying tucked behind Sainz. The team radio crackles with updates, Jinho murmuring times in my ear.

By lap 10, the gap to the car ahead is shrinking.

"Box now?" Jinho asks me.

"No. One more lap. Tires are hanging in."

"Are you sure?"

"I know him," I say. "He needs one more lap."

And I'm right. He overtakes Sainz coming out of the tunnel, textbook. Clean.

Now he's fourth.

I watch him through the camera feed, every sector. Every turn.

My hand doesn't shake anymore. But I still hold the chain around my neck tighter than I probably should. It's my father's. It's always with me when he races.

Lap 27. A yellow flag. Someone clips the wall at Sainte Devote, but no safety car.

Mingyu keeps pushing.

Lap 30. He pits. Perfect stop. In and out in 2.4 seconds.

Lap 34.

Mingyu is still in fourth.

The entire garage is wired tight, mechanics frozen mid breath, eyes flicking between monitors. Monaco doesn't forgive mistakes. It eats hesitation for breakfast. And right now, we're one bold move away from the podium.

He's faster than Norris ahead. He knows it. We all do. But he hasn't made the move yet.

"Gap is four-tenths," Jinho says in my earpiece. "He's faster in Sector 2. Could take him out of the tunnel."

I swallow hard. "Or end up in the wall."

Jinho glances over. "You want to call it?"

I nod once. Slide the mic closer.

My voice is calm. Clear. Because it has to be.

"Mingyu."

A second of silence. Then his voice crackles in.

"Yeah."

"You're faster."

"I know."

"So what's stopping you?"

I hear him exhale, hard through the comms.

"If I dive... there's no margin. He turns in a half second late and I'm in the barrier."

"Do you trust yourself?"

Beat.

"I trust you more."

My chest tightens.

"Then listen to me."

The tunnel looms on the feed. Lights strobing across the carbon fiber of his front wing.

"Win it."

A pause.

"You sure?"

"No," I whisper. "But I married you anyway."

Another second.

Then his voice comes in low. Focused. Full of everything we've ever been through.

"I'll come back to you."

And then he goes.

Straight into the tunnel. Tires locking. The car dipping left hard, reckless, perfect. Norris doesn't even have time to cover the line. He's through.

He's third.

The garage erupts.

Jinho yells. Hands fly. Someone throws a headset.

I just sit there. Frozen. Breathing.

Lap 45. Hamilton's up next. Mingyu's front wing is practically kissing his rear tire.

"He's holding you up," I say into the mic.

"He knows it," Mingyu replies, voice raspier now. "Can I take him?"

"Only if you want a heart attack waiting in bed tonight."

He chuckles once.

"Yeah. I want the win."

"Then go get it."

And he does.

Lap 49. Mingyu fakes left in the hairpin, then flicks right, inside. It's insane. Monaco doesn't allow that kind of pass.

But he makes it.

He's second.

Leclerc's up front, crowd screaming in red and white.

I press the mic again.

"Do you want Monaco or do you want to come home?"

"I want both."

Lap 66. The move comes at Tabac. Tabac. No one overtakes there. It's suicide.

But he doesn't lift.

I can't speak. Can barely breathe.

No.

No, no, no.

"He's not gonna-" I lean forward, my breath catching. "Gyu-"

"Tabac's too narrow," Jinho mutters, alarmed now. "Tell him not to-"

But I'm already pressing the mic.

"Mingyu, don't you dare-"

"I've got it," he cuts in, voice strained but steady.

"Don't do it!" I yell, louder this time. "It's not worth-"

But he's already committed.

And I see it. I see it.

He brakes late, dances the tires across the edge of traction, and takes the lead in a cloud of disbelief.

"Jesus Christ, Gyu-"

"Still here," he pants. "Still yours."

My knees buckle. I brace a hand on the pit wall.

Jinho exhales behind me like he forgot how.

"He made it," someone says.

I don't move. I can't. My hands are shaking, my eyes wide, locked on the feed like I'm waiting for it to rewind and prove me wrong.

"YN?" His voice crackles in my headset, ragged with effort. "You still there?"

My throat burns. "You weren't supposed to do that."

"I told you I'd come back."

"I thought-" My voice breaks. "I thought you were going t-"

"I didn't."

Silence.

"I'm still here," he says quietly. "For you."

⸻

Lap 70.

He's holding the lead now. My breathing hasn't evened out. I keep my mic off. If I speak, I'll lose it.

Jinho's giving him standard updates, sector times, pressure from behind. But I know Mingyu can still feel me on the line.

Because he keeps saying things like:

"This is for her."

"Tell her I'm okay."

"She's why I brake late and stay alive."

⸻

Final Lap. Lap 78.

He's golden.

Every apex kisses his tires. Every turn flows like a man dancing with death and calling it a partner. He doesn't touch the wall. Not again.

Not once.

⸻

Lap 78. Checkered flag.

Mingyu wins Monaco.

The roar is deafening. Mingyu's name lights up the leaderboard in gold.

P1 – K. Mingyu

The garage explodes in cheers, hugs, and chaos.

I don't move.

I'm still clutching the wall like it's the only thing keeping me upright. My chest is burning, my vision blurry. He won. He won.

And he scared the hell out of me.

The car rolls into parc fermé, still steaming. He rips off his gloves, tears the helmet from his head, and before the mechanics can even swarm him, he's already moving.

Straight for me.

No interviews. No fist pumps. Just tunnel vision.

Me.

"YN!" he shouts over the noise, voice raw. "YN!"

And when he reaches me, I barely have a second to breathe before he's in front of me, sweaty, flushed, shaking with adrenaline and smiling like a man who just rewrote the universe.

"I told you," he pants, grabbing my waist like he's anchoring himself. "I told you I'd come back to you-"

I shove him.

Hard.

Right in the chest.

Not enough to hurt but enough to make him stumble.

"What the hell was that?" I choke, voice trembling. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?!"

He blinks. "What?"

"TABAC, Mingyu? Really? You dive bombed a Ferrari at TABAC?!"

"I-" he grins, sheepish. "You told me to go for the win!"

"I didn't say almost die while trying!"

He laughs, wrapping his arms around me before I can protest, holding me tight even as I half punch his back in a fit of nerves.

"You scared me," I whisper into his shoulder. "So bad."

"I know," he says, voice quieter now. "But I had to. I felt it."

I look up at him, eyes stinging. "You're not allowed to feel anything until I give you CPR first."

He laughs again, this time, softer. "I'm okay. I'm really okay."

"I know," I murmur, resting my forehead against his. "I just needed to say it. Out loud. Because watching you risk it like that... I thought I was gonna lose you."

"You won't," he says instantly. "Not today. Not ever. I came back."

"And next time?"

"Next time," he promises, "I'll scare everyone else first."

I snort, then press a kiss to his jaw. "You better. I'm not going through that again."

"Deal," he whispers, grinning as he leans in. "But admit it. I looked hot doing it."

"You looked like a dumbass in a death trap," I shoot back, already kissing him before he can laugh again.

And when the crowd around us cheers louder, when the champagne starts popping and the reporters call his name, we stay right there.

Wrapped up in each other.

Alive.

I toss my earrings onto the marble counter, watching them spin to a stop. The bathroom light is warm, soft, and everything feels a little surreal in its stillness.

The race ended hours ago. The champagne's dried. The cameras are gone. The whole of Monaco has settled into its golden hum of post party haze.

And Mingyu?

He's in the other room, humming to himself as he unzips his race suit, trailing it off his shoulders and hanging it on the back of a chair. He's shirtless underneath, hair still damp from the podium spray, and smiling like he's got secrets tucked in his dimples.

We're in our comedown phase now.

The real life part.

The part that matters.

I pull the tie from my hair and glance at him through the mirror. He catches my eye and grins.

"What?" I ask.

He walks in behind me, hands slipping around my waist, bare chest pressing into my back. His chin rests on my shoulder.

"You looked good in the garage today," he murmurs. "All bossed up and biting your nails."

"You looked like a lunatic diving at Tabac," I deadpan, reaching for the cleanser.

He chuckles, kissing the curve of my neck. "Still got the win."

"Still shaved a year off my life."

"You married me knowing the risk."

"And yet," I mutter, squeezing product into my palm.

We brush our teeth together. Shoulder to shoulder. Married people things.

I rinse and pat my face dry while he spits and glances sideways at me.

"Back hurting?"

"A little."

He disappears into the room and comes back with the massage oil from his kit. "Turn around."

I do. He starts working into my shoulders with those warm, calloused hands slow, practiced, gentle. I melt instantly.

We don't talk.

Just soft jazz in the background from the TV we left on and the occasional Monaco breeze sneaking through the cracked balcony door.

After, I crawl onto the bed in my robe and he joins me, still in his boxers, hair tousled and eyes sleepy.

We don't need much to feel like home.

He spoons me from behind, pulling the blanket over us with a quiet yawn.

"Did I scare you that bad today?" he asks into my shoulder.

"Yeah," I admit.

"You hit me harder than the G-force."

"You deserved it."

A beat of silence.

"Would it help if I promised never to try that move again?"

"No," I say. "But it would help if you let me pick your overtakes next time, Mr. Monaco."

He snorts. "Deal."

I trace the scar near his rib, the one from last season's crash.

"You're all I have, you know," I whisper.

"I know," he says, voice low. "Same goes for me."

He kisses the back of my shoulder, his hand is in my hair, gently combing through the knots with his fingers. No words. Just the rhythm of his breathing beneath me, chest rising and falling like it has all the time in the world.

We've been quiet for a while.

It's quiet in the way that makes you feel like you're the last two people on earth. No cameras. No headlines. Just us.

Mingyu's legs are tangled with mine under the blanket. My cheek is pressed to his collarbone. His other hand is tracing the top of my spine, fingertips lazy, deliberate.

"Let's disappear," he says suddenly, voice low and scratchy against the hush.

I shift to look up at him. "Disappear?"

He nods, eyes still halflidded. "Just you and me. Somewhere warm. Somewhere no one knows my name and I don't have to put on a suit unless you ask nicely."

I smile, dragging my fingers across his chest. "Are you asking me to run away with you, Mr. Kim?"

He hums. "No. I'm telling you I already booked the flights."

My eyes widen. "You did not."

He smirks. "Villa in Crete. Secluded. Private pool. Outdoor shower. No agenda. Just us, white sheets, and whatever you want for breakfast every morning."

"You're serious."

"Dead serious."

I sit up a little, stunned. "When?"

"Day after tomorrow."

"Mingyu, we just got back from-"

"I cleared it with your calendar, too," he says casually, pulling me back down against him. "Your assistant's a gem. She said you've been needing a break."

"You're ridiculous."

"And you're overworked," he murmurs into my hair. "You always take care of me. Let me take care of you this time."

I'm quiet.

Because how do you even respond to that?

He turns on his side, propping his head up with his hand. "Come on. Picture it. You in a linen dress. Me in too short swim trunks. Sunsets. No emails. No calls. Just you laughing barefoot in the kitchen while I burn eggs."

I bite my lip to hide the smile. "You don't even like eggs."

"I like you. That's enough."

I groan into the pillow. "Stop saying stuff like that unless you want me to cry."

He leans in and kisses the tip of my nose. "We could take a boat out. Swim until sunset. Make love on a patio no one else can see. You can read. I'll sleep. And when you're bored, I'll cook for you."

"You'll cook for me?"

"I'll attempt. You'll laugh. We'll survive."

I shake my head, heart feeling too full. "You really booked Crete?"

"Surprise," he whispers. "I want to be selfish with you for a little while longer.”

I curl into him, kiss the corner of his mouth, and rest my forehead to his.

"Okay," I whisper. "Let's disappear."

His grin is soft. Slow. Married.

"God, I love you," he says, like it's easy.

Like it always has been.

And that night, before the world can knock on our door again, we dream in linen and lemon trees, tangled in each other and the life we're quietly building. A life that's not always loud. But full.

Exactly how we want it.

⤷ network tags: @svthub @k-films @blossomnet

･ ⟢ ⋮ svt masterlist

#svthub #k-films #blossomnet #seventeen #mingyu x y/n #mingyu smut #mingyu x reader #seventeen mingyu #kim mingyu #mingyu #mingyu oneshot #seventeen x f1 #f1 au

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cressidagrey · 25 days ago

Text

A Secret well kept

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: McLaren finds out about the tiny genius Oscar has been keeping a secret.

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Tom Stallard had spent the better part of two years learning Oscar Piastri’s rhythms.

He could spot when Oscar was overdriving by the tiniest spike in steering input. He could tell from a clipped radio “copy” when Oscar disagreed with a strategy call. He knew when Oscar needed silence and when he needed numbers.

What he wasn’t used to was Oscar checking his phone.

During sim hours.

Repeatedly.

The first time, Tom let it go. Maybe something with logistics. Or maybe Felicity—the now-infamous Secret Wife the entire paddock had learned about in the most dramatic fan-stage reveal in recent memory.

(He still wasn’t over watching Lando Norris shriek “YOU HAVE A WIFE?!” in high-definition footage. No one was.)

But by the sixth time Oscar glanced at his phone, unlocked it, frowned, and locked it again—all in the span of twenty minutes—Tom finally pulled his headset off.

“Alright,” he said calmly. “Who’s bleeding?”

Oscar looked up. “What?”

“Who’s bleeding or whose car is on fire,” Tom clarified, crossing his arms. “Because you’ve checked your phone six times in less than half an hour, and unless telemetry now runs on WhatsApp, I’m calling that suspicious.”

Oscar hesitated.

Then sighed. Tapped the phone once more. “It’s Bee.”

Tom blinked.

“…Bee,” Tom repeated slowly. “As in…?”

“My daughter.”

A long pause.

Tom stared at him. Then, slowly—very slowly—Tom set his clipboard down.

Oscar blinked again. “You didn’t know?”

Tom stared harder.

“You have a daughter?” he said, voice just slightly raised now.

Oscar nodded, like this was a completely normal Wednesday.

“3 and a half years old. Her name’s Bee. Short for Beatrice.”

Tom slowly sat down. “Okay. Sure. Why not. That tracks. Because you being married wasn’t enough of a revelation, let’s go ahead and throw in a whole child.”

Oscar winced. “I thought you knew. After the wife thing.”

“You said nothing.”

“I figured… it wasn’t relevant to tire compounding?”

“A daughter,” Tom repeated. “Like, a small human child.”

Oscar blinked again. “I mean, she’s not that small—she’s very opinionated. Knows more about chassis stiffness than most interns.”

Tom didn’t react. Just stared a moment longer. Then let out the deepest, most exhausted sigh in the history of Formula 1 engineering.

“You know,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I thought the wife reveal was bad. But this? This is somehow worse.”

Oscar scratched his neck. “Sorry?”

“You didn’t even mention her, Oscar.”

“It didn’t come up.”

“Didn’t come up?!”

Oscar winced. “Look, I wasn’t hiding her. She’s just… not part of the whole media thing.”

Tom just stared at him again, then picked up the clipboard like he might start smacking Oscar with it.

“And the reason you’re glued to your phone today?” he asked wearily.

Oscar hesitated. Then, quietly: “She hates kindergarten.”

That, Tom hadn’t expected.

“She’s smart,” Oscar continued, voice quieter now. “She’s been having a hard time lately. Doesn’t really fit in. She’s… different. Scary smart. And sweet. But she hates loud places and doesn’t like people who don’t wash their hands. One boy pushed her last week and said she was weird for talking about the moon.”

Something in Oscar’s voice caught there. He looked down at the edge of the simulator like it might offer an answer.

Instead, Tom just sighed.

Deep. Long-suffering. Strangely fond.

“Well,” he muttered, standing up and clapping Oscar lightly on the shoulder. “Congratulations. You’ve officially joined the club of race dads who can’t fix everything with telemetry.”

Oscar let out a soft laugh.

Tom finally exhaled. Deeply.

“This is exactly like the marriage thing,” he muttered.

Oscar frowned. “What?”

“You just—casually drop massive life updates like they’re tire pressure notes.”

“I didn’t think it was a secret.”

“I’m your race engineer, mate. I should at least know if there’s a three-year-old waiting at home who might need you to emotionally recover from kindergarten trauma.”

Oscar gave a weak laugh. “Fair.”

Tom shook his head and pulled his headset back on. “Alright. We’ll finish this run, then you can check your phone again.”

Oscar smiled, grateful.

“And Oscar?”

“Yeah?”

Tom glanced at him sideways. “If I find out next month that you’ve adopted a goat or something, I swear to god—”

“No goats,” Oscar said solemnly. “Only a dozen chickens named after WDCs.”

Tom elected not to even say anything about that.

“You know,” he said, “you’re allowed to be distracted sometimes.”

Oscar looked at him. “I don’t want to be.”

“I know. But that’s not how life works. Especially not with kids.”

Another pause.

“Go call your wife,” he said. “Text your kid. Reset the sim. We’ll pick it back up in thirty minutes.”

Oscar blinked. “Are you sure?”

“I’ll even let you drive the old config you like. The one with the twitchy rear end.”

Oscar blinked again. “…You hate that setup.”

“Yeah,” Tom muttered, turning away. “But apparently you’re a whole-ass father and I need a minute to process that.”

***

Andrea Stella prided himself on being prepared.

That meant data. Budgets. Team rosters. Track conditions. Tyre strategies. And sometimes, it meant Oscar Piastri’s unexpected personal life.

Which was how Andrea found himself in a Monday morning planning meeting that started with strategy documents and devolved—rather rapidly—into a conversation about Oscar Piastri’s three-year-old daughter.

He should have seen it coming.

In hindsight, the wife thing should’ve been the warning sign. One moment Oscar had been answering a harmless “Would you rather get married or get a tattoo?” fan question, and the next? He had nonchalantly dropped the news that he’d already been married for five years.

The PR team still hadn’t recovered. (Neither had Andrea.)

And now, apparently, there was a child.

“Bee and Felicity are joining us for Silverstone,” Oscar said evenly, scrolling through his phone as if he were reading weather forecasts, not detonating Andrea’s understanding of his life.

Andrea blinked once. Then looked down at the meeting notes. There was nothing in here about a Bee.

“Bee,” Andrea said carefully. “Is…”

“My daughter,” Oscar supplied, still calm. “I’ll need two extra paddock passes,” Oscar said, looking up from his phone. “One for Felicity. One for Bee.”

Andrea very slowly turned his head to look at him.

His daughter.

Felicity had only come to light three weeks ago, courtesy of a now-infamous fan stage moment that had left Lando shrieking and PR with three different emergency plans.

Oscar being married was already a saga.

But Oscar Piastri being a father?

Lando, who had shown up to this meeting with an iced coffee and no expectation of drama, raised a hand like he was in school.

“Just to clarify—I have met both the wife and the child,” he said. “So I am not spiraling this time. This is growth.”

Oscar gave him a faint, appreciative nod.

Andrea turned his stare toward Zak Brown, who looked—annoyingly—completely unsurprised.

Of course.

Zak leaned back in his chair with a mildly smug expression. “I’ve known since he signed. Mark told me.”

Andrea blinked. “You’ve known for years?”

Zak shrugged. “It wasn’t relevant until now.”

Sophie made a high-pitched noise that may have been the PR equivalent of a nervous breakdown. “So. To recap. You have a wife. You’ve had her for five years. You also have a child. Named Bee. And now’s she’s coming to the paddock?!” she asked, clearly already mentally preparing for press kits, child-safe wristbands, and a media nightmare.

Oscar shrugged. “She doesn’t do well with crowds, so she’ll mostly be in the garage. But I thought she might like to sit at the pit wall during Free Practice if that’s possible. Just for a bit.”

Andrea just stared at him. The silence was deafening.

“On the—?” Sophie began.

“She can bring headphones,” Oscar added. “She already has the proper ones. She doesn’t touch buttons. She’s very respectful.”

Zak looked like Christmas had come early. “Honestly, it’s great! Kid on the pit wall? Home race? We’ll sell it as wholesome, engineer-brain legacy. Sophie, write something nice.”

Sophie took a breath. “Okay, okay. We can do this. We can manage this. She’s three. This is fine. We’ve handled worse. We’ve handled… okay, no, nothing has been like this, but we’ll adjust.”

Andrea finally found his voice again. “Oscar, forgive me for asking, but—you’ve been married for five years and a father for over three. Why is this the first time we’re hearing about either?”

Oscar shrugged, deadpan. “I didn’t think it was a secret.”

Andrea stared. “You keep saying that. And it keeps being wrong.”

Zak leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the chaos. “Look at it this way. At least he tells us these things eventually.”

Andrea sighed and scrawled "Bee – pit wall access" under the Silverstone weekend plan. “Right. Fine. She can sit at the pit wall. As long as she wears the proper headphones and doesn’t touch anything. Zak?”

Zak waved a hand, amused. “Love it. Great look for the brand.”

Sophie sat up straighter, already regaining her footing. “If we position it right, it could actually be a great opportunity. You’re the quiet, analytical driver. The one who never shows emotion. This—this is an angle. This is family. Human. Relatable. It’s—”

“No.”

The word wasn’t loud. But it landed like a pin drop in a library.

Sophie blinked. “Sorry?”

Oscar looked up then. Calm. Direct. Dead serious.

“I’m bringing Bee to Silverstone because I want her to feel welcome in a world I’ve spent my life working toward. I want her to see where I go when I am not with her. I want her to sit beside me and watch what I do. That’s it.”

He set his iPad down. Folded his hands. “She’s not a brand. She’s not a marketing opportunity. She’s my daughter. And she deserves better than being used to soften a public image I never asked for in the first place.”

The room went very quiet.

Sophie looked chastised, but not defensive. “Of course,” she said softly. “You’re right.”

Oscar gave a small nod. “We’re not hiding her. But she’s not content, either. If you want to post something, clear it with me. And with Felicity.”

Andrea—who had sat through years of drivers micromanaging sponsors and pushing for the exact opposite of what Oscar was saying—just stared at him for a beat.

It wasn’t often a driver drew a boundary this sharp.

Even rarer that he did it so… gently. Without anger. Just certainty.

“She’s three,” Oscar said again. “She’s just a little kid who likes telemetry and mochi. If she wants to be in a photo, fine. If she wants to wear my hat and climb on the tyre warmers, fine. But if she doesn’t? I expect everyone here to respect that.”

Andrea watched as Zak’s amused expression faded into something more thoughtful.

Zak, unusually thoughtful, gave a slow nod. “Understood.”

Sophie, now quieter, said, “We’ll brief the whole team. No posts without approval. No filming unless you give the green light.”

Oscar exhaled softly. “Thank you.”

Andrea leaned back in his chair, watching him. The dots connected quickly now—the stillness under pressure, the precision, the impossible composure. This wasn’t about hiding anything. It never had been.

Oscar had simply been living a whole life quietly. Protectively. Lovingly.

And now he was letting them see just a glimpse.

“She likes telemetry,” Oscar added. “And correcting Lando’s sector times.”

Lando sat up. “She WHAT?”

“She thinks you overbrake into Maggots.”

“She’s THREE!”

“She’s observant.”

Sophie looked like she was about to combust.

Zak looked delighted.

“Does anyone outside of McLaren know?” Sophie said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, like she needed the physical act to keep herself grounded.

Oscar paused. “My family knows. Mark knows…some friends know as well. The grid knows, because Arthur Leclerc mentioned Bee to Charles.”

Andrea groaned, setting his pen down with dramatic finality. “Of course he did.”

Zak looked far too entertained by all of this. “Well, I’m glad the grid knows. Let’s just hope none of them tells a journalist by accident.”

Sophie sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Oscar, have you posted anything? Even a story? A soft launch?”

Oscar shook his head.

Sophie’s sigh got louder. “Okay. Then we still have time to control this. We need to handle this properly. If you bring them to Silverstone without any warning, the media will go insane.”

Zak leaned back in his chair, almost smug. “They’re going to go insane either way.”

Oscar shrugged. “So what do you want me to do?”

Sophie’s eyes darted between her notes and Oscar’s completely unbothered expression. She took a deep breath, folded her hands together on the table, and said with all the patience she could muster, “We’ll draft something. A post. A statement. Something that doesn’t send the internet into complete meltdown.”

Oscar tilted his head. “Something simple?”

Sophie nodded. “Preferably. Something that says: yes, I’m married, yes, I have a daughter, no, it’s not a scandal, please don’t scream.”

Lando looked genuinely disappointed. “That sounds boring.”

“Boring,” Sophie said through gritted teeth, “is exactly what we want right now.”

Lando perked up. “Can I help write it?”

Sophie didn’t even look at him. “Absolutely not.”

Zak chuckled. “Maybe just include something cute. A dad moment. Casual but sweet. You know—‘Here’s my kid. I’m still me. She likes mochi and thinks Lando overbrakes into Maggots.’”

“She’s not wrong,” Andrea muttered.

Lando looked personally wounded.

Oscar, as ever, looked mildly amused. “You really think a post will help?”

Sophie nodded firmly. “It won’t stop the attention, but it’ll let you lead the story. People will be curious no matter what. This way, they hear it from you first. Not from a blurry pap shot or a gossip blog that calls Bee your niece. I’ll write something tonight. You can approve it. “

Oscar stood, collecting his iPad and coffee. “Let me know when you’re ready. I’ll run it by Felicity.”

Sophie nodded. “We’ll loop in comms, legal, and the social team. If we get this out before media day, we’ll control the narrative. Barely.”

Andrea exhaled, already picturing the media chaos anyway. “Just get it done. Before Silverstone.”

Sophie stood, already typing a draft in her notes app. “I’m going to need a quote. Something calm. Personal. Human. Oscar, tell me something nice you’ve said about Felicity recently.”

Oscar looked up, expression blank. “I said she had good taste in tire compounds.”

Sophie stared at him.

Lando wheezed.

Andrea stood up. “I’m leaving before I hear another word.”

Oscar, still deadpan: “It was a compliment.”

***

Sophie shut her office door with a click so controlled it was practically a scream.

Then she turned, leaned back against it, and let out a noise that could only be described as a strangled “what the actual—”, cutting herself off before the second syllable of profanity left her lips.

She stared at nothing for a moment. Just breathed. Tried to slow her pulse. Tried to remind herself she was a communications professional. That she had handled crises before. Paparazzi breakups. Grid penalties. That time a junior driver accidentally leaked half a launch plan on Twitch.

But nothing—nothing—had prepared her for Oscar Piastri casually revealing an entire secret family during a Thursday logistics meeting.

She moved slowly to her desk, as if sudden motion might trigger another revelation. Maybe Lando had a twin. Maybe Andrea had a side hustle as a DJ. Maybe Zak was actually fluent in six languages and just pretending to be Californian for brand alignment.

She slumped into her chair. Stared at her notes.

OSCAR

Needs two extra paddock passes for Silverstone

One for wife

One for daughter (Bee, age 3)

Wants her to try sitting at pit wall during FP1

“She likes telemetry”

????

Sophie dropped her forehead to the desk.

“He said it like we were supposed to know,” she mumbled into the woodgrain. “Like, oh by the way, I’ll need extra passes for my secret family, thanks, Sophie.”

She sat up again, ran both hands through her hair, and laughed once—loud, incredulous, mildly hysterical.

Because it wasn’t just that Oscar had a wife. Or a child.

It was the way he said "Bee likes telemetry” like that was normal.

Like most toddlers didn’t throw iPads when they got bored of Peppa Pig but instead asked follow-up questions about delta time.

Sophie opened her laptop. She had three drafted announcement posts in the works. She now needed a fourth. Or a funeral for her career.

Because the world didn’t know yet. But they would. Soon.

Oscar had given them the green light. Not that he’d said “go ahead.” No, Oscar just sat in the meeting with that maddening calm and said “I didn’t think it was a secret.”

Sophie snorted. “I didn’t think it was a secret.” She mimed strangling air. “Did you also think people knew how to breathe underwater, Oscar?!”

She paced.

Oscar Piastri. Their most unbothered driver. Calm. Calculated. Polite in every press pen. And apparently the most emotionally baffling person she’d ever worked with.

Because yes, he had a wife. Named Felicity. Who, by the way, was brilliant enough that Sophie had to stop reading her CV halfway through to cry and eat a biscuit.

And yes, he had a daughter. Named Bee. Who liked telemetry. At three years old.

Sophie stopped pacing. Looked at her mug. Then looked at the drawer with the emergency whiskey miniature. Considered her options.

Eventually, she opened a new file. Titled it: “Piastri Family – Soft Reveal Strategy (Try Not To Die)”

And got to work.

While muttering the whole time: “I need a raise. I need therapy. I need a vacation. I need… I need Oscar Piastri to stop casually reinventing his entire public image mid-season like it’s just another Wednesday.”

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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millers-girl · 3 months ago

Text

all that matters

chapter 1 of willow & whiskey

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: two strangers are tasked with smuggling you and Ellie to the old state house – things don't go exactly as planned...

warnings/tags: age gap, adult language, blood and violence, mentions of loss/trauma

word count: 3.1k

series masterlist

You were seven years old when the world ended.

Thirteen when you lost your mom.

And now, at the ripe age of twenty-seven, you were dealing with the post-apocalyptic world the only way you knew how – by taking care of the one person whose sole survival depended on you.

Every moment of Ellie's life had been etched into your memory, from the day she was born. She was, decidedly, the most important thing in your life. She was why you kept going. Because at the end of the day, when she was born, you were all she had – and she was all you had.

And, sure, Marlene was around—whenever it was convenient for her—, but you were the one who took care of Ellie; you were her family. There was a weight in that responsibility, one that sometimes left you wondering if you were doing enough.

Life in the Boston QZ was tough. You'd traded as much as you could within the QZ. So, sometimes taking care of Ellie sneaking out to trade with nomads or other groups from other QZs nearby.

You were lucky you had your "shining personality" in your arsenal – people often found it refreshing in the cold world you currently lived in. Seeing how warm and welcoming you were made you pleasant to trade with; made others want to trade with you.

More importantly, it reminded you that kindness still had value in this cold, new world.

Because you were gone so often, you had made the executive decision (much to Ellie's chagrin) that she'd be better off attending FEDRA school. It wasn't an ideal scenario but they could look after her when you weren't there; it was how you two survived.

And then, three weeks ago, everything changed.

You'd snuck Ellie out of school for a night at your apartment when she showed you the bite mark. She said it was four days old. You'd never heard of anyone surviving that long after being bitten.

Still, you had your theories. You were old enough to remember Ellie's birth. Remember her mother being bitten moments before giving birth. Remember how, with her dying breath, she begged you to promise to take care of Ellie. And, now that you were older, you thought maybe something about that could've been the cause of Ellie's supposed "immunity."

But there was only one way to prove it: this was a waiting game.

So, that'd what you did. For an entire week, you huddled with Ellie in the cramped safety of your apartment, watching over her. And, nothing happened. Hell, if anything, the broken skin at the site of the mark started to scab over and heal.

By the end of the week, when you'd run out of food, you took Ellie and followed the graffitied signs in the city straight to the Fireflies. To Marlene.

Standing before you, you found yourself more tired than angry as you said, "I've never asked you for anything." The words tasted bitter on your tongue. "And you've been great at delivering, but I need you to step up now. Ellie, show her your arm."

And so, you explained everything to Marlene. Not shockingly, the Firefly leader believed you immediately. Of course she did. The Fireflies were fanatics for a cure. That's how you knew it'd be smart to bring Ellie here, to place her at the center for their desperate hope. Because now that a supposed cure was staring her in the face, how could Marlene possibly deny you anything?

For good measure, she kept you and Ellie in a room for the next few days, just to confirm the theory. She saw it for herself, the skin healing more and more by the day. No behavioral or physical changes in Ellie. She really was immune.

By the end of the second week, Marlene told you about a Firefly base out west, in Colorado, where scientists were working on a cure. She'd gotten in contact with them, over the radio, and from the little information they received, they were sure a few vials of Ellie's blood would do the trick.

The confidence in her voice was contagious, even if a part of you trembled at the thought of the leap of faith. You and Ellie were about to step into unknown territory.

Waiting in a dim room for a group of Fireflies to escort you and Ellie out west, you barely had time to contemplate the quiet before the storm – until you heard shouting in the hall, followed by Ellie's distinct voice.

Instinct kicked in.

Muscles tensing, you quickly grabbed your gun and cocked it. Throwing open the door, you saw Ellie on the ground with a man towering over her, his back to you. Ellie tried to reach for her switchblade, but his boot nailed it to the ground. He stood tall and tense, his grip on his gun unyielding, the barrel pointed directly at her.

A surge of protective anger flooded you as you rushed out of the room and pressed your own gun to the back of his head. "Drop it," you commanded in a low, threatening tone. Your voice shocked even you but you were damned if someone was about to hurt Ellie.

In an instant, another figure—this time a woman—was hurling herself at you. The impact sent you crashing against the ground, your gun clattering a few feet away. Lying there, breath stolen by the blow, you stared up at the ceiling, exhaustion catching up to you.

As you sat up, rubbing your bruised side, you caught sight of Marlene calmly breaking up the fight. Her steady gaze met yours, informing you that the two strangers were not foes.

Would've been good to know before I attacked them, you thought.

You visibly relaxed your shoulders but scoffed, "What the fuck, lady? You just go around tackling people like this is a game of college football?" Even as you cursed, the full throb in your side remind you of your own vulnerability – you would most definitely be bruised tomorrow.

From a few yards away, Marlene conversed with the man, her tone pragmatic. "Look, Joel, we were gonna move Ellie out of the zone tonight. But we won't make it anywhere like this. Not for a while anyway. So now I'm thinking, you and Tess are gonna do it."

At the mention, your body instinctively moved between Ellie and the newcomers. Over your shoulder, Ellie declared, "I'm not going with him!"

Simultaneously, the man, Joel, scoffed, "The hell we are." His tone was curt.

"What happened to the plan?" You demanded, eyes locked with Marlene's. "You were going to take us."

Marlene's hand dropped from her abdomen, and you could see blood seeping through her tank. She'd been hit.

"Shit, forget I asked," you muttered, the resignation in your voice mingling with a simmering frustration. You exhaled slowly, taking in your options. "You two planning on rugby-tackling anyone else to the ground? Or pointing your gun at the people you're supposed to be smuggling – "

"She attacked me first," Joel defended with a low growl.

"She's a kid," you shot back, before turning back to Marlene with a shake of your head. "This is really the best option?"

Marlene silently nodded.

The woman – Tess – spoke up, surprising you with how calm she sounded. "We'll take her. We'll take them." Joel's eyes flickered with disbelief. "We need the battery," she tried.

"We'll find another one," he responded coldly.

Marlene cut in. "Take them to the old State House and my team there will give you all of it. Not just the battery – a fueled-up truck, guns, supplies. I swear."

A nudge from Tess and a defeated sigh from Joel sealed the deal. "Okay, here's the deal. We'll get them to your crew at the State House. But before we hand them over, your people give us everything that we want. If not, we kill her, there and then."

Marlene nodded once more. "Deal."

Your stomach twisted, a knot of anxiety forming within you. "Really? That fast?" you mused bitterly.

Marlene's tone softened, almost gently, as she said, "You two are all that matter. Ellie is all that matters." It was a reassurance you'd heard before, yet it never failed to convince you. "My team will not jeopardize that. I promise."

After a moment of weighted silence, you finally nodded. It wasn't like you had many options. Turning to Ellie, you said, "Go get your pack." Ellie looked up at you, disbelief etched on her face. "Now, Ellie." She stomped off into the room to do as you asked. Meanwhile, you grabbed your own, lost in thought of the worry that was likely to come from this arrangement.

You snatched Ellie's switchblade off the ground, handing it over to her when she came to stand beside you.

"Are we seriously going to stroll out of here with two people we met five minutes ago? One who had a gun in my face and the other who attacked you?" she asked, her tone half-accusing, half-resistant.

Gently, you squeezed her shoulders. "It's just to the State House," you reassured her. "Then, we'll never have to see their faces again. And, in the meantime, keep your blade close. Don't let them try anything."

Ellie nodded sharply, determination in her eyes that made you wish you could shield her even more fiercely from the world outside.

"Let's go," Tess instructed, leading the way.

As you followed behind Ellie, you couldn't help but glance back at Marlene. The older woman gave you a soft nod, a silent promise that somehow, everything would be okay. You weren't so sure.

As you made your way through back alleys and darkened corridors, you made sure to keep your body between Ellie and the strangers in front of you. Every step was measured, every glance filled with protective vigilance. Marlene may have trusted them, but that wasn't a luxury you could afford right now.

At Joel's apartment—a brief, safe haven before the next leg of your journey—you and Ellie walked in first, leaving Joel and Tess to exchange a few private words in the hall. When Joel finally entered and closed the door behind him, Ellie had already gone snooping.

She found an old, thick book titled Number 1 Music Hits, and was rifling through it to stave off boredom. A piece of paper slipped out, with some sort of cryptic code scrawled on it.

Bill/Frank 60 — NOTHING IN 70 — NEW STOCK 80 — X

Meanwhile, you sank into the large chair in the corner of the living room, pulling a worn book out of your pack.

As Joel set his pack beside the couch, Ellie broke the silence. "So, who's Bill and Frank?" Her voice was light and curious, cutting through the quiet.

You hummed softly, glancing up. "What's that, bub?" you asked, tone affectionate.

It took Joel by surprise. It'd been a long time since he last heard someone speak with such tenderness, let alone publicly.

Ellie shook her head. "I'm asking Joel. The radio's a smuggling code, right? 60s song, they don't have anything new. 70s, they got new stuff. What's 80s?"

Joel stood up from the couch, snatching the book out of Ellie's hands and tossing it on the table with a decisive thud. He then sprawled out on the couch, stretching across its length and closing his eyes.

Ellie frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Killin' time," he replied curtly.

"Well, what am I supposed to do?" Ellie snapped back.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out," Joel responded, tossing an arm over his eyes to shield out the light.

You rolled your eyes, easing the tension with a suggestion and a warm smile. "Come here, trouble. I stole a board game from the Firefly camp for us to play. Might as well break it out."

As Ellie moved toward you, she muttered, "Your watch is broken," to Joel, who only ignored her and turned away to catch some shuteye.

While he slept, you and Ellie played a board game called Pandemic, a grimly appropriate choice that somehow lightened the mood. The sound of Joel mumbling in his sleep broke your quiet, light conversation a few times. Eventually, even Ellie settled down and rested her head in your lap as you leaned back against the old chair. You absentmindedly ran your fingers through her hair, humming a lullaby your mother used to sing to you.

When the rain pounded on the window and the room darkened, Ellie's voice broke through the silence. "I'm scared to go past the wall," she confessed, her words barely audible.

"Why?" you gently asked, the worry in her tone striking a chord deep within you.

She shrugged, picking at the lint on her jacket sleeve. "Do you think Joel and Tess go out there a lot? Like, more than you? When do you think they last went out?"

From the couch came Joel's gruff reply, "Maybe a year." Both you and Ellie looked up to see him awake now, sitting up on the sofa. "What's it matter?" he added.

Ellie sat up as well. "But you know where to go? So we're gonna be okay?"

You noticed how Joel took in Ellie's nervous demeanor. "Yeah," he said, sounding surprisingly comforting. "We'll be fine."

Still, you squeezed Ellie's arm in reassurance. "And if we aren't, at least we're faster than them two. We'll just outrun them." Your words were meant to comfort—and they did, Ellie was giggling—but you only found a familiar knot forming in your stomach at the unknown ahead of you.

In truth, you usually traveled south of the QZ; trips east to the State House were rare and always fraught with uncertainty. It scared you not being sure about what to expect, but you wouldn't let Ellie see that. And, maybe something about the confident in Joel's voice made you believe him, too.

"So, what's the deal with you two anyway?" Joel asked when Ellie left to go to the bathroom, leaving you alone for a moment. "You some bigwig's daughters or somethin'?"

You shrugged lightly. "Something like that."

You returned to your spot in the large, comfy chair in the corner, flipping your book open again.

Joel glanced at the title. "What are you readin'?" he inquired.

"Just some book about hobbits and a ring," you answered nonchalantly, a small smile playing at your lips.

Joel rolled his eyes, unimpressed. You were sure that was as much of a reaction as you were going to get out of him, at least for now.

When Ellie returned, she squished beside you on the seat, and said to Joel, "Oh, by the way, the radio came on while you were sleeping."

Joel instantly sat up straighter. "What? What was the song?" he demanded.

Ellie shrugged, playing it cool while you struggled to suppress your grin. "He kept saying something like 'wake me up before you go-go'?"

Joel groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Shit."

Ellie's smile widened mischievously. "Gotcha." Joel immediately looked up at her. "80s means trouble. Code broken," she teased.

Before he could respond, Tess entered the apartment. "The spot under Lancaster looks good. You got jackets in your packs?" You nodded. "Okay, get them. It's time to go."

With you following right behind Ellie, Tess led the way into the underground tunnel system. When the four of you emerged above ground again, you found yourselves outside the QZ.

You managed to take the left edge around the buffer zone with relative ease, keeping Ellie close. That is, until you happened upon a FEDRA guard. It seemed that even though he knew Joel and Tess, he wasn't cutting them any slack this time.

"Turn around. Get on your fuckin' knees," he barked.

Joel tried to calm the situation. "Now, hold on — "

But the guard was relentless. "What'd I fuckin' tell you, man? Get on your knees!"

Tess groaned and stepped forward to try a different approach as the four of you sank to your knees. "Look, you let us do this run, and we'll split the cards with you."

The guard ignored her, his focus on compliance. "Hands on your head. Eyes forward."

From the corner of your eye, you watched the guard methodically place a virus detector against Tess's neck. "Really, man?" she muttered.

"Yup, we're doing this by the book."

"Jesus Christ."

You didn't have to look over at Ellie to notice how her demeanor completely changed then. You could feel her anxiety radiating. Even your heart was pounding faster with each passing second as you thought of what would happen when the guard got to scan Ellie. You had to think fast.

The moment he passed by you and made it to the youngest member of your group, you drew the knife you kept in your side pocket and forcefully thrust it into his thigh, dragging it sharply to create a wide, searing wound.

The guard staggered back, groaning loudly as he yanked the knife out. "Fuckin' bitch," he snarled, pulling his gun up to point it right at you. You shoved Ellie behind you and, to your surprise, found Joel's broad shoulders in front of you as he shielded your body from the raised gun.

"Hey, hey. Stop!" he tried to reason.

"Get out of the fuckin' way!" The guard demanded.

"We can fix this," Joel tried again, tone desperate yet resolute.

"Move."

Without hesitating, Joel lunged forward, knocking the guard down and climbing on top of him on the ground, beating him with his bare hands until blood seeped from his knuckles.

Meanwhile, Ellie was frantically tugging at your sleeve, her eyes wide as she pleaded with Tess. "Tell her I'm not sick! I'm not! I am not sick!" She cried, the fear in her voice pulling you out of the trance of watching Joel.

"Joel!" Tess called out, holding the virus detector up to him. The red screen glowed vibrantly against the dark of the night.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you stepped sharply in front of Ellie, snatching your gun from where you'd dropped it. With shaking hands and a fierce determination, you pointed it toward Joel and Tess. Ellie stood behind you, hand clutching the back of your jacket.

"She's not sick," you insisted, voice unsteady despite the resolve in your chest.

Joel's gaze was fixed on the guard, as if he were in a trance, but Tess met your eyes, unconvinced.

"I'm not!" Ellie repeated, pulling up her sleeve to show Tess the healing bite. "Look! This is three weeks old! Nobody lasts more than a day. Does this look a day old to you?"

Tess reached out to grasp Ellie's forearm, inspecting the mark with precision. "When did it happen?" she asked, her voice tight.

"Is right now really the best time to talk about this?" You snapped, eyes darting around the area. "They're gonna catch us if we don't run!"

As if on queue, a siren wailed in the distance, the sound slicing through the heavy rain. "We gotta go – fucking now!"

Without a second thought, you tugged Ellie along, breaking Tess's grip on her arm, and darted towards the open city.

Behind you, Tess's voice chased, "Shit, she's right. Joel, we gotta move. Joel!"

Neither you nor Ellie dared to look back as you plunged into the biological contamination area – downtown Boston's chaotic heart.

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fluff #joel miller fanfic #protective joel #joel miller x you #joel tlou #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal #tlou #tlou hbo #the last of us hbo #the last of us fanfiction

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wbbpls · 25 days ago

Text

Platonic Plus One

Word count: 6,500 Warnings: sexual content bc i edged you guys hard on getting this chapter okay here it is!! thank you all for your patience and i hope it was worth the wait. pretty please drops reacts or anything else. do you guys want to see this go back to storrs or let it end here?

Azzi is the first to wake up. She feels a weight on her, and when she wakes up, sure enough, blonde hair covers her shoulder and neck. Paige’s head is comfortably placed in the nook of Azzi’s neck, like it always belonged there, and her arms are tightly wrapped around Azzi’s stomach. Her legs are wrapped over Azzi’s as if she’s trying to keep her from flying away.

Memories of last night start flooding Azzi’s brain. She expected to feel panic or worry, but for the first time this week, her head is just calm. Everyone thinks Azzi is the calm one who brings Paige out of the clouds, but that’s where they’re wrong. The blonde girl she’s holding, who is so full of life, also keeps her safe. Safe not to overthink or worry. Safe to be calm.

Azzi gently moves the hair out of Paige’s face and kisses her head. Paige wiggles further into Azzi as if she weren’t close enough already. Azzi giggles and rubs her hand up and down Paige’s back.

“Paigey, I don’t think you can get any closer without living in my skin.”

“Can I just move in?” Paige mumbles into her neck and pulls her even closer. Azzi can’t stop the giggles from coming out. She feels like a middle schooler with how much she’s already giggled this morning. Paige smiles and starts kissing Azzi’s neck.

“You’re so fuckin’ cute in the morning.”

“Just cute?”

“And sexy. You’re cutexy.” Paige wiggles her eyebrows proudly.

“Yeah, not so sure that worked as well as you wanted it to.”

“Next time you’re being cutexy, I won’t tell you then.”

Azzi doesn’t even know how to respond, so she just smiles down at Paige and runs her fingers through her hair. Paige looks up at her with shining blue eyes.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty in the morning, Azzi.”

“And you’re just full of compliments in the morning, aren’t you?”

“Just facts, babygirl, just facts.”

Azzi softly kisses Paige.

“Mhm, and an important fact is that I need to leave soon to get my hair and makeup done.”

“Already? It’s so early.”

“I know, but it’s like an all-day thing.”

“Shit, what am I supposed to do without you?”

“Uh, what do you normally do?”

“I normally just wait for you to get back.”

“Have you always been this cute?”

“Born this way, babayyy.”

Azzi can’t help but laugh, almost in relief at the freedom to voice her thoughts. For so long, she’s held in the moments she wanted to call Paige pretty or beautiful. It’s been years of holding back, and now the floodgates have opened.

Soft lips descending her neck pulled Azzi out of her thoughts. She takes in the weight of Paige’s body and sighs as she nips at her collarbones.

“P, I gotta be downstairs in twenty minutes.”

“Aight, give me five, Princess,” Paige says with a smirk and quickly presses something into her phone before throwing it to the side. She then drops down Azzi’s body and opens her legs, immediately licking up her slit.

“Fuck, Paige.” Azzi gasped, overwhelmed by her directness.

“What, baby? Thought you needed me to hurry?”

“Ugh, shut up.” Azzi grabs Paige’s back of the head and pulls her back in.

Paige dives in with determination, stimulating her clit. Azzi immediately starts to buck her hips up to chase her lips, and Paige grabs her hips to keep her down.

“You taste so good, mama.”

“Please don’t stop.”

“Never, baby.”

Paige enters two fingers, curling them in. Azzi’s moans grow louder as she pulls harder at Paige’s hair. She’s grasping so tightly on her hair that it’s starting to be painful, but Paige doesn’t care. She has tunnel vision focused on nothing but Azzi’s pleasure. Her legs begin to shake and squeeze tightly around Paige’s head. She’s screaming Paige’s name and gasping for air.

“C’mon, baby girl, let go for me. I wanna taste you so bad.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m gonna come!”

Paige moved her tongue into Azzi’s entrance while still pumping her fingers and firmly licks back up to her clit. Then she sucks on it, making Azzi arch off the bed giving Paige space for her fingers to go even deeper into her. That does it, and Azzi comes screaming while Paige rides out her orgasm.

She pushed Paige’s head away, signaling she was done, and tried to pull Paige back up to kiss her. Instead, Paige quickly grabbed her phone, which had been tossed on the bed.

“Are you seriously checking your phone right after fucking me?”

“Three minutes and thirty-five seconds.”

“Uh, what?”

“That’s how long it took me to fuck you.”

Azzi stares blankly at Paige, trying to figure out if this is real or some big joke, but Paige’s proud smirk says otherwise.

“You seriously timed yourself eating me out?”

“I told you five minutes tops. Plus, I can start making new records or somethin’.”

“You are genuinely insufferable.”

“Yeah, true, but you benefit if it helps.”

Paige shrugs, kisses Azzi on the lips, and then snuggles back under the covers. Azzi is at a loss for words. How did they go from admitting their feelings to eachother last night to Paige competing for best her personal records on fucking Azzi fast enough?

“Imma go back to sleep. Love you, baby.”

Azzi shakes her head, trying to catch her brain up to where Paige is, which isn’t usually possible. Her brain is like a pinball machine, and it's best just to try to keep up.

“I love you, too, P.”

After hours of hair and makeup, Azzi patiently waits to put on her bridesmaids' dress before taking photos, so she texts Paige.

Princess 💗: I miss your stupid face so much.

Paigey 💗: stupid?

This face? stupid???

image sent

Paige sends a selfie of herself still cuddled in bed. Azzi can’t help but appreciate the soft skin exposed.

Princess 💗: hmm very cutexy

Paigey 💗: YOU SEE THE VISION

Princess 💗: I see a face that gives me cuteness aggression

Paigey 💗: bro i wanna kiss you bad right now

Princess 💗: maybe start by not calling me bro and you could

Paigey 💗: my bad baby

I wanna kiss ur beautiful face all over

and then kiss the rest of you all over

Princess 💗: pls feel free to continue

Paigey 💗: all night mama

btw where my photo of you at? I sent one so it's only fair i get one back

Azzi chuckles and takes a selfie with the sunlight shining on her face.

Paigey 💗: fuck ur so fuckin beatiful az

Princess 💗: It’s just good makeup haha

Paigey 💗: nah its my girl lookin hot asf

Azzi’s heart stutters. My girl.

They haven’t spoken about labels yet, or anything past "I love you," for that matter. Azzi knows they should communicate and define this next step in their relationship, but for now, she’ll enjoy blushing over Paige’s text for the next five minutes.

Princess 💗: I gotta take photos before the ceremony so i wont have my phone for a while. I'll see you there cutie

Paigey 💗hearted the message.

—————————————————————————

Since she has most of the day to herself, Paige slept in and is now heading to the lobby for lunch. Once she got downstairs, she ran into Katie and Tim.

“Bueckers, here, now!” Tim calls her over with a big smile.

“Sir, yes, sir.” Paige jokingly salutes Tim.

“Take a seat, hun. We actually wanted to talk to you before the wedding.” Paige slips cautiously into the booth next to Katie.

“Uh, okay...Am I in trouble or somethin’?”

“Not unless you do something stupid to our daughter, no,” Tim says sternly.

“Oh, Tim, leave her alone,” Katie rolls her eyes at him before turning to Paige. “Look, Paige, we know your relationship with Azzi has been fake.”

Paige choked on the drinking water, causing Tim to crack up at her.

“W-what?”

“Yeah, Azzi told me the other day.”

“Wait, she told you? Why didn’t she tell me?”

“I asked the same thing, Bueckers.”

“Tim, you’re about to get kicked out.”

Tim throws his hands up in surrender, snickering at how easy it is to mess with his wife.

“Look, sweetie, you know we love you and we know you love Azzi just as much, if not more. It’s been clear for years that there’s more to your friendship. We just want you to know that it’s okay and no matter what, you’ll always be our family.”

Paige is shocked to silence, so Tim takes the opportunity to fill that gap, “Unless you hurt her, then I’m comin’ after you.”

That gets Paige to laugh and take a deep breath.

“I never ever want to hurt Azzi, I swear. She’s everything to me.”

“We can tell. Just don’t spend so much time being scared of what you’ll lose. You’re stopping yourself from having so much more.”

“Thanks, guys. It actually is really nice to talk to someone who understands what’s going on. I was going crazy in my head there for a minute.”

The three continue to talk about Azzi, basketball, old stories, and funny family memories. As they begin to wrap up, Paige hesitantly gets their attention.

“Sooooo, I was—well, I guess—no, I know—”

“Spit it out, kid.”

“IwanttoaskAzzitobemygirlfriend.” Paige takes a large breath and anxiously stares at the Fudds.

“You know, like forreal this time.”

“Okay, so do it.”

————————————————————————-

Paige takes her time getting ready, letting last night's and this morning's realities settle. She’s trying to digest everything Azzi, Katie, and Tim have said. This is all she’s ever wanted, and now that it’s here, she feels overwhelmed with gratitude and fear. Fear of messing up and losing all of this, losing Azzi. She knows they need to talk. She also knows that Azzi deserves her to initiate the conversation. Azzi risked it all and put her feelings on the line when all Paige knew how to do was run. Well, she’s done running.

Now she’s doing her hair and makeup before getting dressed for the ceremony. She hasn’t seen Azzi in her dress yet, and Azzi hasn't seen Paige since she got the outfit tailored or with accessories.

Paige parts her hair in the middle, curls her hair into long waves, and pins the front back to keep her hair out of her face. She knows Azzi loves her hair in a bun, but she especially loves to play with Paige’s long hair strands when she wears them down. And after the past 24 hours? Paige has learned Azzi really likes her hair. So yeah, Paige doesn’t mind doing her hair in a way that makes it easy for her to imagine Azzi pulling on it to get what she wants.

Just half an hour until the ceremony. Paige is starting to feel nervous now. It’s not even her wedding. She’s literally just sitting in the audience and then praying the rest of the night. But in that audience, she will see Azzi for the first time out of the bubble they created in their hotel room. Will it be the same? Will Azzi change her mind?

She slips on her light blue slacks, lying at the right spot of her hips, and buttons up the black vest. The deep V at the top and bottom is even better now that she’s gotten some color over the past week. She covers herself with gold rings, small gold hoop earrings, and layered necklaces, including the cross Azzi got her when she tore her ACL.

After putting on her oversized blue jacket and shoes, she checks herself in the mirror one last time. Paige knows she looks good, but that’s not what she cares about. She cares about Azzi thinking she looks good.

Paige makes her way to the outdoor ceremony and finds the Fudd family sitting a few rows back.

“Yo, P!” Jose yells, ”We got you a seat right here.”

Paige's heart stutters. This is her family. She has always had a seat at the table with them, despite the changes in her and Azzi’s relationship. For so long, Paige focused on avoidance in fear of ruining a perfect friendship, but now she realizes she wasn’t just stopping herself from more with Azzi. She was stopping herself from having the most amazing family as her own.

Paige takes her seat and scrolls through TikTok with Jon and Jose until they hear the ceremony music. Paige hasn’t been to many weddings, just her parents when they both got remarried. She knows they’re better off apart, but those weddings represented the split in her family. She always found herself a bit lost in those situations, never really feeling like she belonged.

Today is different. Today, she is at a wedding with her family and the love of her life. Today, she is excited to celebrate love.

The wedding party begins to walk down the aisle, and Paige is anxiously waiting to see Azzi—her beautiful Azzi. Everyone looks great, and yeah, today is about the bride and groom, but she couldn't care less about anyone else here. Finally, Azzi turns the corner with one of the groomsmen, and Paige stops breathing.

Her curls are stunning in a bun, with loose curls framing her face. She wears a deep blue silk gown with spaghetti straps and a heart-shaped neckline. As she continues to walk, Paige can’t help but notice the slit going down her right leg.

Fuck, this is going to be a long night.

“Dude, close your mouth.” Jose teases and nudges her, pulling her out of her Azzi trance. She probably does look crazy right now, but holy shit that girl is beautiful.

As they get closer, Azzi finds Paige in the audience, like a magnetic pull. Azzi has to tighten her grip on the groomsman's arm so she doesn’t fall. She can see the love in Paige’s eyes from here. Azzi can’t help but blush and smile at the look of awe on Paige’s face. The image of Paige so at ease with her family, looking like she’s always belonged there, brings warmth to Azzi’s chest.

Once she reaches the altar, she steps aside to wait for the rest of the wedding party and the bride to walk down. When her cousin Jessica turns the corner, everyone stands, and tears begin to fall. Azzi notices the groom, Brandon, desperately trying to keep his tears at bay. The love in their eyes for each other was an honor to witness and reminded her much of her own love.

Azzi has always loved planning her imaginary wedding, but never included the groom role. She really only focused on the music, flowers, and colors. But now, she sees why. That spot has always belonged to Paige. She has spent years resisting her, trying to convince herself she needed to find a groom, when she had her bride the whole time.

Azzi couldn't help but imagine Paige waiting for her at the end of the aisle, ready to start the next chapter of their life with open arms. Azzi knows they haven’t even defined what’s happening between them yet, but she knows one thing. One day, she is going to marry Paige Bueckers.

When the girls finally see each other again, it’s at the cocktail hour. Azzi tries to move through the crowd to reach Paige, but many of her family members keep stopping her. Paige is looking at her adoringly from the other side of the room, patiently waiting. But Azzi wants her to be impatient and selfish. Azzi wants Paige. Just as she is about to cross the bar to say hi to Paige, her aunt steps in the way.

“Azzi, you look gorgeous!”

“Thanks, Aunt Chrissy. You look great, too. This is such a beautiful wedding.”

“You know, your wedding is probably next, my dear.”

Suddenly, Azzi feels familiar hands wrap around her waist, and a whiff of her favorite Valentino cologne clogs her senses.

“Is that right?” Paige says. Azzi can hear the smirk in her tone before turning to see it herself. When Paige looks down at her, Azzi is taken aback by her bright eyes.

“H-hey, P.”

“Hi, pretty girl.”

“Well, I just can’t wait for your wedding. Don’t leave us waiting too long, okay, girls?”

“Don’t worry, Mrs.C, I don’t plan on waiting too long.”

Azzi snaps her head back up to look at Paige. Is this for show? Her aunt is one of the main reasons this all started. Her Aunt Chrissy gets distracted by another family member, leaving them alone. Paige moved to face Azzi and gently pushed a curl out of her face.

“You know what you’re doing is pretty messed up.”

“Me? What did I do?”

“You’re not supposed to outshine the bride, baby. I mean, look at you.”

Azzi rolls her eyes and starts blushing uncontrollably. Paige laughs at her and pulls her in by the waist for a hug. They just hold each other at this point, taking in the feeling of being together.

“I missed you today.”

“I missed you, too, Az. So much.”

Azzi smiles into the crook of Paige’s neck and hums in response.

“Hey, Az, I was actually hoping we could maybe talk real quick?”

“Right now?”

“Y-yeah, I mean, if that’s like, uh, okay with you.”

“Of course. Want to go somewhere quieter?”

Paige nods and softly grabs Azzi’s hand, pulling her towards the garden and sitting at the bench near the fountain. Paige can’t stop herself from fidgeting, showing her nerves.

“You okay, P? Is something wrong?”

“No! I mean, no, nothing is wrong. I’m just nervous, I guess.”

Azzi wraps her arm around Paige’s back and starts to rub her hand up and down to soothe her anxiety.

“What are you nervous about?”

“Last night. It was real, right?”

“Very real.”

Paige nods her head and then takes a deep breath.

“Look, Az, I gotta be honest with you. I’ve pushed the option of ever having you outside my head as best I could. But now, now that I know what it’s like to have you, I need all of you or none of you. I’m done being scared and living off of what-ifs. I’m done wasting precious time. I’m done telling myself not to want you. To not need you. I know I ran away last night because I was scared, and I’m really sorry. I’m so thankful that you came after me and made us talk, but because of that, I think it’s even more important that this comes from me. Azzi Fudd, will you please be my girlfriend?”

Azzi hits Paige upside the head.

“Ow!”

“Why didn’t you start with that? I thought you were already breaking up with me or something.”

“What? No! I literally wanna wife you up, baby.”

“Wife me up, huh?”

“Hey, I wasn’t lying to Mrs. C back there. Asking you to be my girlfriend is only step one.”

“Hm, I guess I can be your girlfriend.” Azzi shrugs nonchalantly, trying to hide her smile.

“You guess?”

Paige starts tickling her, and Azzi desperately tries to push her hands away and catch her breath from laughing. Now she’s fully leaned into Paige, laughing, face red, and finally surrenders.

“Okay, okay! I really, really want to be your girlfriend. Please give me mercy.”

Paige pretends to think and taps her finger on her chin.

“Hmm, I’m not sure I wanna be your girlfriend anymore.”

Azzi’s mouth drops in shock, and she is now the one to attack Paige, trying to tickle her, but Paige is too fast and grabs her wrists. The two girls are breathless and laughing as they look into each other's eyes. Paige’s eyes dart down to Azzi’s lips.

“You my girl or what?”

“Yeah, I’m yours, P.”

Azzi closes the gap and releases a sigh of content she didn’t even know she was holding. Paige moves her hands up Azzi’s arms and onto her cheek. Their kiss is soft and unrushed. Paige pulls back and rubs her thumb against Azzi’s cheek. They savor the moment to take each other in before Paige leans in for another gentle kiss.

“Dude, do you ever stop kissing my sister?” Jose interrupts them with a mischievous smile on his face. Azzi hides her head in Paige’s neck, giggling.

“Literally, why would I?”

“You play too much.”

“Nah, when you get a girl even half as good as Azzi, you’ll get it.”

Azzi’s eyes are practically the definition of heart eyes, looking up at Paige while she talks to her brother right now. Azzi can’t help but notice every detail on Paige’s face. The sharpness in her jaw, the angle of her smile, and the brightness of her eyes.

“Well, as much fun as it is, and not at all weird to compare my future girlfriend to my sister, I can’t say that’s why I came over. Mom and Dad want a family photo before you know who gets wasted.” Jose says, casually pointing at Paige and walking away.

“Is he talking about me?” Paige’s voice is about 3 octaves too high, given how offended she is by his accusation. He might not be wrong, but still.

“I think you’re cute when you’re a little drunk. Plus, you get all clingy.”

“Hm, is that why you’re always the one who offers to walk me home?”

“Yeah, sure, that’s why. Not the excuse to sleep in your bed with a cuddly drunk version of you.”

“Hey, I’m always cuddly.”

“Annoyingly so.”

Paige pouts in response, and Azzi can’t help but laugh at how cute she is and kiss the pout off her lips.

“I love you so much, P.”

“Mmm, I love you too, Az.”

“You know, this outfit on you is just...wow.” Azzi looks Paige up and down while pulling at her jacket.

“You like it?”

“I love it so much that I want to see what it looks like when I take it off you.”

“Shit, Az. You can’t say stuff like that when we can’t go anywhere.”

“But the blue makes your eyes pop. It’s so hard not to say stuff when you look like this, and it’s finally all mine.”

Now Paige has a goofy smile, “Yeah, baby, all yours.”

“Maybe you can remind me tonight?” Azzi smirks when Paige’s mouth drops open into an O shape. She runs her finger up Paige’s neck to the bottom of her chin to close her mouth. “Let’s get you drunk, hm?”

Azzi walks away, knowing Paige is watching her.

“Fuck, she’s gonna be the death of me,” Paige whispers to herself before running after her girlfriend. —————————————————————————

Soon after, both girls are sufficiently tipsy and their heads are in the clouds. They’ve been dancing and talking with family, and Paige has been to the mac and cheese bar about three times. The fourth time Paige goes, she has to selfishly ditch her mac and cheese because the MC announces the slow dance will be starting and to partner up. Azzi's eyes immediately find Paige silently asking for a dance. Paige leaves the sacred mac and cheese line and walks towards Azzi with a smile only for her.

“Wanna dance with me, Princess?”

Azzi grabs Paige’s hand and follows her to the dance floor.

“You gonna be too scared to touch my hips again?”

“Ha ha, very funny. I was nervous, okay. ”

“I mean, I hear you, P, but it's wild to be nervous about that after having your tongue down my throat.”

“Alright, when you put it like that, I get the perspective...but this time I want to hold you as close as possible.”

The girls smile at each other as the music begins. Paige confidently, yet softly, wraps her hands around Azzi’s hips, and Azzi wraps her hands around Paige’s neck. They hold each other close and begin to sway to the music.

“I’m really happy you came with me to this, Paige.”

“Me too, Az. I’m just happy to be with you.”

They lean their foreheads on each other’s and Azzi offers soft scratches at the base of Paige’s neck.

“It’s gonna be weird tomorrow when we need to leave our bubble we made here. I’ve kinda enjoyed having you to myself.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It’s just when we get back, everyone is going to want a piece of you again, and I genuinely don’t blame them. Ice and KK alone need like 48% of you a day and an extra 12% for fortnight.” Azzi says as she pouts.

“True true, but I’ll always find my way back to you. Even when I am with them or doing something else, I always miss you. If there’s a chance to be with you, Az, I’m taking it. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Speaking of going back soon. What do you want to do about telling the team?”

“I don’t know, honestly. Is it weird I kinda want to see how long it takes for someone to say something?”

“Bet. Who do you think will pick up on it first?”

At the same time, both girls say, “Caroline.”

The girls continue to dance and drink for the rest of the night. If people thought they were touchy before, then they had no idea what they were talking about. The girls were taking a break at their table. Paige had her arm wrapped around the back of Azzi’s chair while her other hand gently rubbed at Azzi’s cheek. Azzi leaned into her hand and drew circles on Paige’s thigh.

“You’re so pretty, baby.”

“Thanks, P. You’re not so bad yourself.”

“You want another drink, Mama?”

“Yeah, please. Want me to go with you?”

“Nah, you relax.”

Paige kissed her on her forehead and then walked towards the bar, and Azzi stayed back to speak with her mom.

“Happy and in love looks good on you.”

“It feels good, too.”

“What you two have is really special. Paige has always been a part of our family, you know?”

“She’s always just fit in like that space was waiting for her.”

“Maybe it has been.”

—————————————————————————

After chatting a bit more, Paige complains of feeling hot and removes her jacket. Maybe Azzi would have more self-control without alcohol running through her veins, but it’s too late for that. As Paige takes her arm out of each sleeve, the swell of her muscle is outlined and defined by the lighting at the reception. Paige turns to wrap her jacket around the back of her chair before putting her arm back around Azzi. She sits confidently, her legs slightly spread and her arm quietly claiming Azzi. When Paige moves forward to sip her drink, the veins in her arm are more prominent. Suddenly, Azzi is pulled out of her thoughts by Paige tapping at her forehead incessantly.

“Yo, your Dad is tryna talk to you, babe.”

“Oh, what?”

“You good, Az? You were totally zoned out there.”

“Uh, yeah, just you know, appreciating.”

“Appreciating?”

“Mhm,” Azzi squeaks, and her eyes dart down to Paige’s arms.

“And what exactly are you appreciating?”

Azzi wants nothing more than to wipe that smirk right off her face. She can tell Paige knows where her head is at now, and she can definitely tell Paige plans to take advantage of it fully.

“Just, like, you know, being here.”

Paige looks amused before moving to “stretch.” When she pulls her arms and tenses her muscles, her top rises slightly, and her muscle definition is clear as day. Azzi grabs her arms, pulling them down quickly.

“Okay, we get it, you have nice arms.”

“Bruh, I didn’t even do anything.”

“Put your jacket back on before I drag you out of here.”

“Is that a promise or a threat? Because I’m kinda likin’ my odds here.”

Before Azzi could respond, the MC invited guests up for the bouquet toss.

“Paige, let’s go!”

“What? Me?”

“You’re a girl who isn’t married, aren’t you?”

“I mean, yeah.”

“Glad we’re on the same page. Now let’s go.”

Azzi pulls her up by the arm and intertwines their hands. They gather in a large crowd of women ready to catch the bouquet. Paige has never actually done one of these before and almost feels out of place.

When the bouquet is thrown, time seems to slow down. Before she knew it, Paige jumped, taking advantage of her long arms as her competitive spirit emerged, and she caught a bouquet. Everyone starts cheering, especially Azzi’s family, and blue eyes find brown eyes.

“Looks like you’re next in line to get married, Bueckers.”

Paige gulps and laughs nervously. “I guess so, yeah. Can’t complain.”

“Well, when that time comes, she’s gonna be one lucky girl to marry you.”

“Believe me, I’ll be the lucky one.”

Azzi leans in to Paige and kisses her cheek gently before whispering in her ear. “All jokes aside, watching you jump up that high for the bouquet was really hot.”

Paige wasn’t expecting the tone shift, so she burst out laughing.

“I never say no to the chance at a little competition.”

As they’re talking, Tim walks and wraps his arm around Paige, squeezing her tightly. “You asked us a few hours ago about Azzi being your girlfriend, not your wife. You move fast, kid.”

Paige’s face immediately turns red, and she starts stuttering, trying to figure out what to say. She darts her eyes at Azzi, looking for help, but Azzi is too busy laughing with Tim at her girlfriend’s embarrassment.

“Aight, you all suck.”

Paige dramatically shoves the bouquet into Tim’s chest, and he starts laughing harder.

“Aw, P, it’s cute!” Azzi smiles as she wipes Paige’s scowl off her face. Paige tries to stay mad—she really does—but Azzi’s smile is so contagious that it’s honestly just a waste of time. What isn’t a waste of time, however, is messing with Azzi.

“Y’all just keep laughing it up, but according to those flowers I’m next to get married and you, Azzi Fudd, are not.”

“Oh, so we gonna play it like that?”

“The flower gods have spoken. I can’t wait to see you at the wedding, though. I’m thinking you’d be my Maid of Honor. What do you think?”

At this point, Paige is standing way too close to Azzi, allowing herself to almost tower over the younger girl, and Tim walks away with his newfound flowers. He learned a long time ago just to let the girls bicker until they were all over each other again.

“I think you'd better shut up before you end up with no wife and no girlfriend,” Azzi whispers evenly and looks down at Paige’s lips before looking back up and arching her eyebrow as if she’s saying, “go ahead and try me.” Paige loves it when they get like this and she has a feeling she’s about to love it even more now with their new dynamic.

“How about I bring you upstairs and show you why you wanna stay my girlfriend?”

—————————————————————————

The second they make it to their hotel room, they're all over each other. Maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s the confidence that they know they are each other’s, but this time, their kisses are messy and demanding. Paige is running her hand up the open slit of Azzi’s dress towards her warm center.

“I can’t get enough of you, Az. This dress has been killing me all night.”

“So then why is it still on?”

“Bet.”

Paige rushes to unzip her dress and let it drop to the floor, exposing Azzi’s lingerie.

“Damn, you had that this whole time? You really are tryna kill me.”

“No, just trying to get you to fuck me.”

Azzi yanks Paige’s jacket off her and starts unbuttoning her top. At this point, Paige’s brain has short-circuited, and she is brought back to reality by the feeling of her back hitting the wall behind her and Azzi’s mouth on her neck.

“Azzi,” Paige moans desperately as she grips at Azzi’s hips. Azzi responds with her hands, finding the back of Paige’s neck and tugging hard. She reattaches her lips to Paige’s throat, devouring her. Claiming her.

“Oh my god, Az.”

Paige is breathless, yet desperate for more. She doesn’t care if she can’t breathe anymore. Not when she has Azzi like this. Paige starts to move her hand to the front of Azzi’s panties and cups her through the fabric. Azzi stutters her movements for just a moment before nipping and sucking at Paige’s neck and grinding down on her hand. Paige moved quickly to slip her hand under the band and towards her new place of worship. She breathes in with Azzi at the feeling and begins to slowly stroke from her entrance up to her clit.

“Fuck, Paige,” Azzi whines, almost sounding frustrated by the pleasant interruption.

“Hmm, you want me to fuck you, mama?” Paige teases, and she moves deeper into her entrance and back, not giving Azzi what she wants until she can hear her. When she hits just a little deeper, Azzi’s eyes roll to the back of her head, and she moans. Paige smiles like she just won a national championship, “I’ll happily fuck you, girlfriend.”

Azzi moans at the mention of their new relationship and rocks forward into Paige’s hand. Paige quiets her moans by kissing her and sucking on her tongue. When Azzi starts kissing her back, she moves from her mouth, kissing down her chin and along her jawline. Azzi is holding the back of her neck like her life depends on it. She is gripping so tightly that Paige is practically forced into her neck, and Paige takes full advantage. She licks and sucks at Azzi’s neck and sucks harder everytime Azzi’s hips roll forward with a strangled moan.

The sounds are driving her, so she manages to push Azzi away just enough to descend to her breasts, stopping to appreciate the light purple bralette and swap positions so Azzi now has her back against the wall.

“You’re so fuckin’ sexy.”

Paige’s lips move as if they’re possessed, and Azzi’s nails find home in her scalp, encouraging her to continue. Paige unclips the bra and rips it off as if it personally offended her and without warning sucks at Azzi’s hard nipple. Azzi grips Paige’s shoulder and gasps when she feels her tongue swirling and flicking at her nipple. Azzi sighs at the feeling, leaning back against the wall for support while Paige moves to appreciate her other breast. Looking down, she meets Paige’s deep blue eyes, filled with love and longing. It’s almost too much to handle, but Azzi has waited so long for this, to not hold it with everything she has.

Paige is on a mission to kiss down Azzi’s body, desperate to taste her. The thought alone sends a jolt of heat down Paige’s core as she moans out Azzi’s name and pushes her harder into the wall. Before Paige can make it too far, Azzi grabs her head, tugging her back up for a messy kiss. A kiss filled with teeth colliding, ragged breaths, and desperate moans. Before Paige can register the shift in Azzi’s body, she is being pushed towards the bed, falling backwards, and borderline squealing in surprise.

“I wanna remind you why you asked me to be your girlfriend in the first place, baby,” Azzi says as she unbuttons Paige’s slacks and rips them off her. Any opportunity for delicacy was left at the door the second Azzi saw Paige in this outfit. Suddenly, Paige’s mouth is consumed by Azzi’s tongue, and the feeling of Azzi’s thigh grinding into her at a rapid pace.

Paige is so lost in the feeling of Azzi that she doesn't even notice her slowing her thrusts to slip her fingers into her boxers. Azzi doesn’t wait for Paige to get used to her fingers; she plunges two right into her entrance. Paige screams out Azzi’s name like a prayer, grasping at her shoulders to ground her.

“You’re so wet, P. That all for me?”

Paige tries to speak, she really does, but all she can manage to do is nod. But that’s not what Azzi wanted. She wants to hear her. She wants to be hers.

“Tell me or I’m gonna pull out.”

“Fu-fuck, Az.”

Without warning, Azzi curls her fingers towards her, hitting the deep spongey part of Paige that makes the world stop. Paige tensed and her jaw stuck open, trying to catch a breath. She starts seeing stars at the feeling, and then Azzi presses down on her stomach and thrusts harder.

“Fuck, Azzi!”

“Who’s it all for, baby?”

“You! It’s all for you! Please, Azzi, please.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Azzi moves her fingers out back towards her clit and lick.s up Paige’s neck.

“I need—” Paige grabs her wrist, moves her hand back down to her entrance, and tries to speak again. “I need you so bad.”

Azzi doesn’t hesitate. She follows Paige’s lead and pushes her fingers back inside of her. “You need me like this, baby?” Azzi asks breathlessly in her ear.

Paige rolls her hips up, making Azzi’s fingers hit even deeper, causing her eyes to roll to the back of her head. “More, please, fuck, more.”

“Anything for you, my love.” Azzi gently kisses her cheeks, completely opposite of how hard she's fingering the older girl.

Paige tries to respond or even beg for more, but any words have been lost in the back of her throat, blocked by a loud moan. Maybe she can’t speak, but she can move. Paige moves her hand from Azzi’s waist to her front and slips her hand into her panties.

Azzi gasps in surprise and then starts to grind into Paige’s hand. They can’t tell who’s making what noises anymore.

“Fuck, Azzi, I’m gonna come, fuck.”

Azzi starts grinding harder in response. She feels herself going over the edge. She doesn’t know if she’s more desperate to make Paige come or finish herself.

“Paige, I wanna feel you come so bad.”

That’s all it takes, and Paige arches her back, screaming Azzi’s name. When Paige starts trembling, it sends Azzi over the edge. The girls both finish grasping each other and yelling each other’s names.

Azzi collapses on top of Paige breathlessly. They both try to catch their breath while they hold each other.

“Wow,” Paige exhales.

“Yeah, wow.”

“I still can’t believe we’ve waited this long to do that.”

“So stupid of us, honestly.”

“I really love you, Az.”

“I love you, too, baby. So much.”

Azzi starts kissing all over Paige’s face, listing all the reasons she loves her. Azzi falls more in love with her as she giggles under the younger girl. They don’t exactly know what’s next or how they’ll deal with everything when they get home, but right now this is all they need.

#pazzi #paige x azzi #pazzi fics

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