#when the door opens an you Expect it to be them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

leriexoxo · 2 days ago

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Missing Keycard

Seungmin x Tour Manager Reader

Tags: shy dom seungmin, one bed trope, sleep groping, nipple play, forbidden sex, power imbalance, choking, spanking, riding, oral, braless reader, touch starved reader, unprotected sex, aftercare

Word Count: 6k

Summary: You’re a tour manager for Stray Kids, just trying to survive another city. But when a drunk, keycard-less Seungmin knocks on your hotel door at 2AM, mistaking it for his own room, sleep is the last thing either of you get. What starts as an accident turns into tension that finally snaps — and Seungmin? He’s nothing like you expected.

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

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The Chicago stop was a blur of chaos.

A venue delay, a last-minute setlist change, a prop that went missing ten minutes before curtain—and somehow, you’d still managed to get everyone on stage, on time, and in one piece.

Barely.

By the time the show ended and the meet-and-greet cleared, you were running on fumes, your phone at 3% battery and your body running mostly on espresso and anger. You’d finalized hotel room keys, triple-checked the luggage manifest, made sure all the boys had post-show meals waiting.

And then—finally—freedom.

You could’ve joined them at the bar. Hell, Chan had even tugged your sleeve and offered you a shot before leaving the lobby with a slurred grin.

But your legs had already carried you into the elevator, eyes closing before the doors even shut.

All you wanted was a bed.

No bra. No briefs. No bullshit.

So you stripped the second your door clicked shut.

Your panties were soft and high-cut, practically invisible beneath the oversized T-shirt you’d planned to sleep in—until you peeled that off too and reached for the one thing lighter, cooler: a thin, cropped camisole you’d worn under your manager’s jacket earlier.

The fabric barely kissed the curve of your chest. No padding, no support, nothing to hide how worn-down and sensitive you felt.

But fuck it, you were on a private floor, not sharing a room with anyone. No one would see you.

You passed out across the bed in seconds, limbs loose, hair stuck to your cheek, one leg tangled in the sheet and the other kicked free.

You didn’t even register the first knock.

But the second—louder, clumsier—jerked you upright.

You blinked, dazed and crusty-eyed. The room was dark, the hallway light seeping in under the door like a spotlight.

Knock knock.

You groaned, grabbing a pillow to your chest and hauling yourself to your feet. You were half-asleep, brain fogged and skin warm from sleep, not thinking at all as you padded barefoot across the floor.

The camisole had ridden up.

Your panties clung high across your hips.

But none of that registered—not until you cracked the door open and saw him.

“Hyung?” Seungmin mumbled, brows furrowed, eyes red and shiny. “Is this your—wait.”

His voice dipped. His gaze dropped.

And then he froze.

“…Oh,” he said, small and stunned.

You blinked at him. “Seungmin?”

He didn’t answer.

Because his brain—tipsy as it was—had just realized two things in rapid succession:

1. This wasn’t Chan’s room.

2. You were very naked.

Not technically. But close enough.

Your bare thighs were on full display, the camisole barely grazing your belly button, your nipples visibly hard through the thin fabric. The hallway light behind him cast your silhouette against the room’s dark interior in dangerous clarity.

He swallowed.

You blinked, still not fully processing.

“Wait—why’re you here?”

“I—” he scratched his head, swaying slightly. “Lost my card. Everyone locked their doors. Thought this was—uh—Chan-hyung’s room. My bad. I’ll just—”

You stepped aside and yanked him inside.

Hard.

His shoulder hit your chest and your hand scrambled to slam the door shut before anyone saw. Your heart pounded.

“Are you insane? What if someone took a picture of you?!”

“I’m sorry!” he whispered, voice strangled. “I didn’t—fuck, I really thought—”

You turned to him, panting slightly from the adrenaline, your blanket long forgotten on the bed.

Only then did you realize.

You looked down.

Oh. Shit.

Full tits. Bare thighs. Tight panties.

Seungmin was right there—eyes wide, frozen like a deer in headlights, clearly trying to keep his gaze anywhere but on your body.

Too late. He’d seen.

And now he was actively malfunctioning.

“I—I didn’t mean to knock on yours,” he stammered. “I thought it was Hyung’s. I swear. You just—you opened and I saw and I—”

You covered your face with both hands.

He was still talking, tipsy and spiraling.

“—and I was gonna leave but then you pulled me in and now I’m here and you’re—you’re dressed like that—”

“Stop talking, Seungmin.”

Silence.

His mouth snapped shut.

You peeked between your fingers.

He looked like he wanted to evaporate.

Which might’ve been cute—if you weren’t acutely aware that your nipples were still hard and your underwear left nothing to the imagination.

You dropped your hands with a sigh and crossed your arms under your chest, trying to ignore how that only pushed them up more.

“Okay,” you said, exhaling shakily. “You lost your card.”

He nodded quickly. “Yes.”

“No one else answered.”

“Correct.”

“And now you’re in my room.”

He nodded again, slower this time.

Your heart was still thumping. His eyes flicked up to yours—then away again. Every few seconds they betrayed him, dropping back down, catching on your thighs, your waist, your chest before he forced them back up again.

His ears were flushed red.

He was trying so hard not to look—and failing.

You didn’t know what possessed you to say it. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or curiosity. Or the way his bottom lip was caught between his teeth, swaying slightly, hands tucked behind his back like a schoolboy caught in the wrong classroom.

You sighed, one hand dragging down your face, the other cradling the pillow against your chest again.

“Well,” you muttered. “You smell like you lost a drinking game.”

“I probably did,” he said, voice rough but quiet.

“Bathroom’s through there,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the door near the dresser. “Freshen up. We’ll figure out the room situation in the morning.”

Seungmin blinked at you, dazed.

“You’re letting me stay?”

“Well that’s a given,” you said. “I’m not about to throw a drunk idol into the hallway at 2AM. God knows what sasaeng would love that headline.”

He made a soft, embarrassed noise in the back of his throat and practically scrambled toward the bathroom. You heard the door click shut behind him, followed by the water running.

Alone again, you exhaled sharply and looked down at yourself.

The camisole still clung to your chest, the fabric wrinkled from sleep. Your panties had shifted during your rush to the door, one hip strap riding higher than the other. The damage was already done—he’d seen you, fully—and suddenly, modesty felt stupid.

You weren’t thinking like a professional anymore. You were thinking like a tired woman who just wanted sleep and had, quite unfortunately, let a very drunk, very awkward, very cute Seungmin into her room.

Not ideal.

You crossed to the bed and slipped under the duvet, this time tugging it up to your neck like a shield, every inch of your body burrowing into the mattress. You didn’t even glance back when you heard the bathroom door open.

The room was small—modest compared to the suite-style ones booked for the boys—and there wasn’t much in the way of extra space. One armchair sat in the corner, low-backed and thin, its tiny matching ottoman clearly not meant for sleeping.

You could hear him hovering.

Fidgeting.

Shifting on his feet like he was trying to make himself disappear.

You kept your face to the wall.

More shuffling. A pause. Then a tiny sigh.

You rolled your eyes, still not turning.

“The bed’s big enough for two.”

Silence.

Then—

“…Are you sure?”

“I legally cannot let you sleep on the cold floor, Seungmin.”

“…Fair.”

The mattress dipped a few moments later. You felt the careful weight of him as he climbed in—slow, hesitant, like the bed might collapse under the guilt of it. He stayed close to the edge, not even rustling the duvet as he pulled it over his legs.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

You could feel the silence settle in like warmth, like tension slipping between your shoulder blades. He smelled cleaner now—soap and mouthwash, the lingering sharpness of whatever cheap vodka the boys had probably downed earlier. But mostly soap.

He didn’t move.

You didn’t either.

Eventually, his voice came, hushed in the dark.

“…Thank you.”

You mumbled something in return, barely audible.

Another pause. Then, quieter—

“I didn’t mean to see. Before. I wasn’t trying to.”

You sighed.

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine,” you said, and you were surprised to realize you meant it.

Maybe because he wasn’t leering. Maybe because he was clearly still rattled. Maybe because your back was to him and your body had long since relaxed again.

But you were tired. He was tired.

And despite everything, the room felt soft again.

Safe.

You closed your eyes and whispered into the pillow.

“Goodnight, Seungmin.”

He swallowed, voice low and raw behind you.

“…Goodnight.”

And then—finally—stillness.

But neither of you slept just yet.

Because under the sheets, just inches away, your heart was beating too loud.

And Seungmin, with his flushed ears and twitchy fingers, was still trying not to picture what he’d already seen.

⸻

The room had gone colder.

At some point, maybe around 4AM, the air conditioning kicked into overdrive, and the soft hum of it stirred you from sleep.

You shifted under the duvet with a lazy frown, your body instinctively chasing warmth. And then—

You felt it.

Not the chill of the room, but the heat of someone behind you.

A slow, calm breath ghosted over the back of your neck. Warm, steady.

Then the arm.

An arm wrapped around your waist. A hand splayed low, fingers spread wide and firm across your stomach, half tucked beneath the hem of your camisole.

Your breath hitched—eyes fluttering open as your senses slowly caught up to what was happening.

Seungmin.

He was pressed flush against your back now, close in a way that neither of you had planned. Your ass rested snugly against his hips, your legs curved toward your chest in a soft tuck, his body following the shape of yours like he’d been molded to it in sleep.

The realization hit like a slow, hot wave:

Somewhere between drifting off and now, you’d gravitated toward each other. Maybe it had started with a brush of knees. A shared pillow. Maybe he’d pulled you in. Maybe you had backed into him without thinking.

But now?

Now, you were wrapped in him.

And he was touching you.

That hand—broad and warm—shifted slightly, fingers flexing in his sleep. His knuckles grazed higher up your stomach, a slow, unconscious movement that felt more like a caress than a twitch.

Your skin prickled.

Your breath stuttered again.

And that was before you felt the subtle, unmistakable pressure against your ass.

He was hard. Not fully, not completely, but enough that the bulge was there—thick and lazy, tucked against the dip of your curves like it belonged there.

You froze.

Every nerve in your body suddenly wide awake.

It was still innocent enough. He was asleep. Dreaming. He wasn’t doing anything on purpose. But the heat that licked up your spine didn’t care about intentions. It cared about the weight of him behind you, the way his fingertips had curled slightly, like they liked the skin they’d found.

Your thighs pressed tighter.

Seungmin murmured something in his sleep. A sound low in his chest. And then—

His hips shifted.

Just a fraction. But enough.

He pressed into you.

Your lips parted, breath shaky, heart slamming against your ribs as his hips settled again, snug against the curve of your ass like he’d wanted to be closer. Like his sleeping body knew what it wanted, even if his mind hadn’t caught up.

You stayed still, not daring to move. Not even blinking.

His fingers on your stomach moved again. Slow. Dragging higher. The edge of his pinky grazed the underside of your breast, just barely. Not a grab. Not a grope. Just enough to send a thrill zipping through your chest.

You swallowed.

Carefully, silently, you reached down and clutched the duvet a little tighter.

But you didn’t move away.

And neither did he.

You stayed frozen.

Not because you were scared. Not because you didn’t want it. But because the smallest twitch of movement might’ve broken the spell—and right now, with his hands on you, his body warming your back, and his breath soft and steady against your neck… you didn’t want it to stop.

Even if he didn’t mean it.

Even if he wasn’t fully awake.

Even if this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Your body didn’t care about reason. Your body cared about the ache that had been living under your skin for too long. The way your thighs clenched when his fingertips brushed just under the curve of your breast again. The way your stomach fluttered when he pulled you closer, unconsciously grinding that hardening length against the softness of your ass.

A soft sound slipped from his throat—barely a hum, muffled into your hair.

Then his hand moved again.

Slow. Searching. Sliding downward over your stomach, like he was touching something delicate in his dream—fingertips gliding beneath the hem of your camisole, callused pads grazing skin that hadn’t been touched in months.

You held your breath. Every muscle tensed, every inch of you begging for more and terrified of it all at once.

Then the other hand found your hip.

It gripped you there—fingers digging into the flesh, like he was holding on. Like he needed to.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

His hips shifted again. His hard cock pressed tighter against your ass, no longer just a ghost of a touch but a full, heavy presence—throbbing through the fabric of his sweats, thick and real and there.

A soft gasp caught in your throat.

And then—God—his hands started moving.

The one on your stomach caressed upward, grazing the underside of your breast again with just the backs of his fingers. Not a grope. Not rough. But reverent. Careful. A sleeping man worshiping a dream he didn’t know was real.

The other stayed firm on your hip, squeezing lightly, rhythmically, as if guiding himself into the curve of your ass with slow, sleepy rolls of his hips.

You bit your lip so hard it almost hurt.

Because your body… it betrayed you.

Your nipples hardened, tight and sensitive beneath the thin fabric of your cami. Your thighs pressed together, desperate, seeking friction. And heat pulsed low in your stomach—building with every moan that slipped from his lips. Tiny, broken little things. Like he didn’t even realize he was making them.

You’d never heard Seungmin make those kinds of sounds before.

And you weren’t even sure he was fully awake.

Your breath shook. Your hand fisted into the duvet. You didn’t move, not an inch—but God, you felt everything. And you wanted more.

You wanted to press back into him.

You wanted his hands higher. Lower.

You wanted—

“…Hnn…”

A little whimper escaped him—almost helpless.

And then—his fingers twitched again.

Dragged higher.

This time brushing—accidentally, devastatingly—over your nipple.

But then didn’t mean to move.

Not really.

Not in a way you could blame on sleep.

But the ache had settled too deep now, thick and warm in your belly, and the feel of his hands on your skin—soft and curious and a little desperate—was unraveling your last thread of willpower.

So you gave in.

Just a little.

A slow, subtle push of your hips back into him—just enough for your ass to press tighter into the hard length straining behind his sweats. Your breath caught in your throat, chest tightening as the hand on your stomach twitched in response… and then slid up.

His palm cupped your breast.

Full, warm, heavy in his hand.

You gasped—a soft, broken little sigh—because the pad of his thumb grazed your nipple again through your top, and it was too much, too sensitive, too good. Your back arched into it instinctively, the quietest sound escaping your lips, and you felt him—

Stilling.

Breathing.

Then freezing.

Seungmin’s body went stiff behind you.

Like a man pulled straight out of a dream and dropped into a nightmare.

His hand stopped moving. His hips locked. His breath caught like he’d choked on it—and then dragged in sharp and tight, like he couldn’t even remember how to breathe anymore.

“…fuck.”

The word was barely audible. Choked. Wrecked. He jerked his hand away from your breast like he’d been burned, stumbling backward out of the bed in a tangle of limbs and blankets, his body trembling with confusion and guilt and raw panic.

He stood there beside the bed in nothing but a loose tee and sweats, hair messy, eyes wide, lips parted, and face pale in the blue light bleeding through the hotel curtains.

“I—I didn’t—I thought—” he stammered, hands raised like he’d accidentally committed a crime.

“I was dreaming,” he said, voice hoarse. “I didn’t know—fuck, I didn’t know it was you—”

You sat up slowly, duvet still pulled tight to your chest, your body flushed and your heart hammering so hard you thought it might burst through your ribs.

“I’m sorry,” Seungmin said, breathless, eyes darting everywhere but your face. “Shit, I touched you, I—God, I’m so sorry.”

He backed away, visibly shaking. “I swear I wasn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean to—”

You should’ve said something. Anything.

But you were still reeling—body buzzing, skin on fire, the ghost of his touch still etched into your chest.

And for a moment, neither of you moved.

Until he did—

You didn’t mean to stop him. Didn’t plan it.

Didn’t think it through.

But the second he took a step back—panic all over his face, like he was ready to disappear and pretend this never happened—your voice came out, small and raw, right before you could even breathe it back.

“…Seungmin.”

He froze.

Turned slowly. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

You just looked at him—bare shoulders rising and falling beneath the duvet, hair tousled from sleep, lips parted, heart thudding behind your ribs like it wanted to escape.

“I…” you started, the words thick in your throat. “It’s okay.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

“I didn’t stop you,” you said softly, eyes searching his. “Maybe… I didn’t want to.”

The room went silent.

And Seungmin—sweet, shy, brilliant Seungmin—stood there like the air had been punched from his lungs.

“You—” He blinked hard, swallowing, jaw clenched like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “You didn’t want me to stop?”

“I should have,” you said, honestly. “But I didn’t.”

You sat up a little, the duvet sliding down with the motion—revealing the thin strap of your camisole slipping off your shoulder, and just the barest peek of soft skin beneath it. The hem had already ridden up, underboob visible, your thighs spread slightly beneath the covers, body warm and flushed and so real in the low light.

Seungmin’s breath hitched.

You caught the way his eyes flicked down—just for a second—before he snapped them away, fists clenched at his sides, every muscle in his lean body tense.

“I’m your tour manager,” you whispered, more to yourself than him. “If I hadn’t been so tired, I could’ve sorted your room. I should’ve gone to the reception or called someone. I should’ve helped you.”

You looked down at your lap, voice quieter now. “Instead, you walked into my room. I was basically naked. And I let you into my bed.”

Seungmin stayed quiet. Still trembling. Still hard. You could see it—his sweats doing nothing to hide the thick, straining outline pressing forward. He wasn’t even drunk anymore. Just dazed. Wrecked. Fighting something inside him that was so clearly losing.

“And I didn’t stop you,” you finished, eyes lifting to meet his again. “Even when I should have. I let it happen. So…”

You took a breath.

“…you don’t have to go.”

His eyes locked onto yours.

And fuck, the look in them—like every wall he’d carefully built was cracking, like he was fighting to be good, to be professional, but his body was screaming something else entirely. Something raw. Something needy.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said hoarsely.

“Like what?”

“Like you want me.”

The duvet slipped lower when you shifted—bare thighs now visible. And Seungmin’s gaze flicked downward again. Just for a second. Just long enough to see how your cami clung to the swell of your chest, how it had ridden so high your round underboobs were visible, soft and tempting and so close.

You tilted your head, slow. Careful. Still quiet.

“…What if I do?”

That was it.

That was the moment.

Because Seungmin’s lips parted—eyes flicking back to yours, mouth pink and breath shallow, his cock visibly throbbing behind his sweats. The hunger was there now. He wasn’t just hard—he was wrecked by the sight of you, sprawled out like a dream he hadn’t meant to touch, and couldn’t resist anymore.

You were still his tour manager.

Still the professional. Still the one with authority.

But in that moment, with your hair a mess and your thighs spread and your lips barely parted in invitation—God, you looked so soft. So warm. So fucking beautiful it hurt.

And he had such a crush on you. Always had.

Maybe now he didn’t want to pretend otherwise.

Seungmin didn’t move at first. He just stood there, staring—like he couldn’t believe what was in front of him. You, almost bare-chested and flushed, thighs pressed tight beneath you, nipples peaked and your chest rising with every slow breath. His eyes dropped to your breasts, and he swore under his breath, the tension in his throat thick enough to choke on.

When you didn’t move to cover yourself, he dragged his gaze back up to yours.

Like he was waiting for the world to stop him.

Like he was seconds away from burning.

You didn’t say anything. Just held his stare and reached for his hand, curling your fingers around his and guiding it to your face—pressing his palm to your cheek.

That’s when he cracked.

His hand tightened. His jaw flexed. And then he moved—fast and quiet, crawling onto the bed over you with one knee on either side, not touching you yet, just looking down like he still couldn’t believe it was real.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream,” he said hoarsely, voice thick. “Please.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Because your body did—arching subtly, thighs parting slightly beneath him in silent invitation.

He bent down, mouth finding the slope of your neck like he’d been aching for it for years. You gasped, head tipping back, the heat of his breath dragging over your collarbone. Then his hands—those long, trembling fingers—finally reached your breasts. He cupped them like they were something sacred, thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, reverent circles.

“God,” he whispered against your skin. “You feel…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t have to.

His tongue found your nipple and you gasped, back arching under him. He was breathing harder now, grinding against your thigh through his sweatpants, restraint unraveling one touch at a time. His lips moved from one breast to the other, mouth open, hot and wet, tongue lapping and sucking until your thighs started to tremble beneath him.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he said against your skin, voice guttural.

You looked up at him, wrecked already, pupils blown wide. “Then show me.”

Something in his expression darkened.

And just like that, he sat back, pulled the duvet the rest of the way down, and let his eyes roam over every inch of you. His chest heaved once. Twice.

Then he dragged your panties down your legs, slow, savoring it, watching the fabric slide off your body like it was the last thing tethering you to decency.

He swore under his breath again.

You shifted, but he stopped you with a firm hand on your hip.

“Don’t move.”

He stripped his sweatpants in one motion, cock heavy and flushed and hard as it slapped against his stomach. You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe. He was beautiful, yes, but there was something feral now in his silence—something hungry and barely restrained.

You reached for him, and he let you. Let you wrap your fingers around him, let you guide him down to your mouth.

But just as you leaned in, he caught your wrist.

His voice dropped an octave.

“You do that and I’m not going to last.”

Your smirk faltered.

“You think I care?”

And before he could stop you again, you leaned down and took him into your mouth—hot, slow, tongue dragging along the underside as your lips slid down inch by inch. He let out a strangled sound, fists curling in the sheets on either side of him, chest rising fast.

“Shit—don’t stop—fuck—”

You didn’t. You moaned around him, letting the vibrations buzz through his cock. Your fingers curled at the base, your pace teasing at first, and then faster—your lips slick, jaw flexing as you swallowed him deeper.

He groaned, head falling back, hair sticking to his forehead.

“Fucking hell—how are you—” He choked, hips twitching. “You’re gonna make me—”

You pulled off with a gasp, a line of spit catching on your lip as you looked up at him, flushed and ruined.

Seungmin reached for you in a blur.

His hand wrapped around the back of your neck, dragging you up until your lips crashed into his. He kissed you like he wanted to memorize you, like he wanted to devour you—and as he pushed you back against the mattress, the last trace of hesitation fell away from him.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” he murmured against your mouth. “But I’m not stopping.”

And then he pressed the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, dragging it slow, teasing, watching your body react—watching your legs fall wider, your breath hitch.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, voice low and ruined. “Say it.”

“Yes, I want it.”

His cock nudged at your entrance—thick, hot, pulsing. You whimpered just from the feel of it pressing against you. Seungmin’s eyes locked on yours, blown wide, hair damp, jaw clenched so tight it ticked beneath his flushed skin.

“I want to fuck you so bad,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “But if I move right now, I’m gonna come.”

You bit your lip, your hips already rocking forward the slightest bit, aching for him.

“Please do it,” you whispered. “Slow. I want to feel every inch.”

He groaned like he was in pain and slid in—just the tip.

Then deeper.

And deeper.

You cried out when he bottomed out inside you, your walls stretching to take him, fluttering from the fullness. His head dropped to your shoulder as he trembled above you, trying so fucking hard to stay still.

“Fuck—” he rasped, breath hot on your neck. “You’re—Jesus, you’re tight. Warm. You feel so—fuck—I can’t—”

His hips rocked once, slow, thick drag of cock that pulled a breathless moan from your throat. He kissed your collarbone, hands gripping your thighs, keeping your legs spread wide for him as he started fucking you in slow, careful thrusts.

Each one sent shocks through your spine—steady, deep, possessive. He groaned every time he sank back in, voice rough with disbelief, hips shuddering as he fought not to lose it.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

“You’re not what I expected,” you breathed, already gasping as he set a slow rhythm, grinding in circles that had your toes curling. “You’re so—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Just moaned, softly, “Oh Baby…”

The effect was instant.

Seungmin froze mid-thrust.

His eyes met yours—dark, blown wide, almost dangerous.

“Say that again,” he said, low, like a growl from deep in his chest.

You blinked up at him, surprised, breathless. “…Baby.”

He snapped.

His mouth was on yours, desperate, tongue tasting every sound you made. Then he grabbed your hips and started fucking you with rougher, sharper thrusts—still deep, but now filled with urgency.

“You feel that?” he panted, hips snapping forward again. “That’s mine. You understand?”

You whimpered, clinging to him, head rolling back as he fucked you like he was trying to brand you.

“God, you’re so good,” he moaned, voice cracking. “Can’t believe you’re letting me do this. Can’t believe I’m inside you like this.”

You barely heard him—you were too busy writhing, body twitching under him, orgasm crawling up your spine like wildfire.

But you wanted more. You wanted to see him break.

You pushed at his chest, flipping him over and straddling him in one breathless motion. He let you, watching you like he was starved, lips parted as you lined him back up and sank down on him, slow and tight and trembling.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasped, gripping the sheets. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You started riding him, steady at first—hips rolling, eyes locked on his, both of you completely lost in the sight of your bodies moving together.

But when you leaned forward, whispering “You like this?” into his ear—

—he moved.

Fast.

One hand grabbed your throat, not choking, just holding—just owning. His other arm locked around your waist, and suddenly he was fucking up into you, lifting you off the bed with every brutal, delicious thrust.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growled. “Wanted to ride me, make me lose my fucking mind?”

You gasped, fingers flying to his wrist, not to stop him—just to feel him. His cock hit deeper like this, angled right against your sweet spot, and your thighs started to tremble from the sheer power of his pace.

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe.

“Look at me.”

You did—and his face. God, his face. Eyes locked on yours like he was watching you fall apart just for him.

“I’m gonna come,” he warned, voice hoarse. “You’re gonna take it. All of it.”

Your orgasm was still crashing through your body when Seungmin moved again.

Without warning, he flipped you onto your stomach, strong hands manhandling you like you weighed nothing. You gasped into the sheets, dizzy from the sudden shift—but the moment your cheek hit the pillow, you felt him behind you again, kneeling between your thighs, gripping your hips like he was about to lose himself.

“Fucking perfect,” he growled, voice low and wrecked as he stared at the arch of your back, your ass up high, your cunt slick and pulsing from how hard you’d just come. “You look like this and expect me to hold back?”

You whined into the sheets, pressing your hips up for him—begging without words.

He lined up.

And slammed into you.

You screamed.

It wasn’t pain—it was bliss. He was fucking deeper than before, harder, snapping his hips against your ass so roughly you could hear the wet slap echo in the room. You clawed the sheets. Your voice was a broken string of moans and gasps.

Every time he drove in, your ass bounced back against him, the sting of skin on skin turning into pure heat.

Then—smack.

His hand landed hard on your ass.

You cried out, back arching like a bow.

“Oh my god—Seungmin—!”

He did it again. And again. Spanked you until the skin burned and the sounds were too filthy to be real, and he was groaning behind you like a man possessed.

“I’ve dreamt of this,” he gasped, watching the jiggle of your ass as he fucked you. “Touching you. Being inside you. You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

His hand slid forward, fingers pinching one of your nipples, twisting it, tugging until you choked on a sob.

“Please—please—” you begged, not even sure what you were asking for anymore.

He leaned over your back, his breath hot on your ear. “Begging already?”

You were shaking. Crying out for more. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet and wild, and his rhythm got even more brutal—like he was trying to ruin you for anyone else.

“You want me to break you?” he whispered, thrusting deep and hard enough to push you forward.

“Yes—Seungmin—please—”

He pulled out suddenly and flipped you again, your body pliant and trembling as he pushed your knees up and apart, exposing you completely. He hovered over you, eyes wild, jaw slack, body covered in a sheen of sweat.

“You’re mine right now,” he said, voice trembling from restraint, “and I’m gonna make sure you never forget it.”

Then he sank back into you and started pounding again—deep, rough, so good you couldn’t breathe. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, and Seungmin’s hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, tweaking your nipples, palming your throat just enough to make your head spin.

“Say it,” he growled, eyes locked on yours. “Say I’m the only one who’s ever made you feel like this.”

“You are—fuck—you are—” you cried, losing yourself completely as another orgasm tore through you, clenching so tight around him that he finally let go.

He groaned—loud, raw—head thrown back as he spilled inside you, hips still moving like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t want to.

Even as he came, he kept fucking you.

Slow now. Deep. Letting it ride out as long as possible.

His voice cracked when he said, “I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

And honestly? You didn’t want him to.

⸻

The room was quiet now, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of your shaky breathing. Your body was limp beneath him, boneless, skin slick with sweat and heat and everything he’d just poured into you. He was still inside, still twitching a little, as if even his cock didn’t want to leave your warmth.

But then Seungmin exhaled—shaky and slow—and pulled out of you with a soft hiss. He moved so carefully, hands trembling a bit as he reached for the discarded duvet to cover your body, his eyes wide and stunned, his lips parted like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

You watched him sit back on his heels, hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks flushed, lashes low. The confidence—the filth—the devastating way he just fucked you… it was gone.

Now he looked shy.

Almost embarrassed.

“…Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly, reaching for the tissues from the nightstand. His voice was soft again—barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to be that rough. I just— I kind of lost it.”

You smiled, dazed and aching but full of warmth, watching as he carefully cleaned you up. He was so gentle, even shaking a little, his thumb brushing your inner thigh like he didn’t know if he had the right.

You pushed yourself up slightly and cupped his jaw. “Seungmin.”

His eyes flicked up to yours.

“I’m fine. Better than fine.” You leaned in and kissed him—slow and deep, tasting the way his breath hitched in surprise. “You don’t have to be so scared. I wanted it. All of it.”

He let out a sigh, the kind that sounded more like relief than anything else.

When you broke the kiss, he hesitated, then bent to grab the shirt he’d worn earlier that night from the edge of the bed. “Here,” he murmured, helping you slip it over your head. It was soft and warm, and it smelled like him—clean laundry and sweat and the tiniest hint of cologne. He smoothed the hem over your hips gently, reverently, then looked up at you with those sweet, wrecked eyes.

“…I’ll shut up now.”

You laughed softly and dragged him into the bed beside you. He climbed in, curling behind you like it was the most natural thing in the world, pulling you into his chest, holding you so tight it was almost like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

And for a few minutes, it was just quiet. Breathing. His nose buried in your hair. Your fingers lightly tracing the lines of his knuckles where they rested over your stomach.

Then you whispered, “No one has to know, right?”

He stiffened slightly. “Right.”

“But…” you tilted your head back, meeting his eyes, “I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t just a one-time thing.”

Seungmin blinked. His voice cracked when he said, “You mean that?”

You nodded, smiling softly. “There’s no going back to pretending we’re just coworkers. Not after this.”

His arms tightened around you.

“Good,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder. “Because I don’t think I could look at you like that again. I want this. You. As much as you’ll let me have.”

And then he kissed your neck—so softly, so sweet—and whispered, “I’m yours if you want me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: The way Seungmin has been creeping up on me and wrecking me these days???? Then that cute abs reveal? Safe to say he’s stuck in my head and Ive been thinking about this scenario for a VERY long time🥹

Also, we’re almost at 2k guys! 😭😭😭😭 you guys are the best fr!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar @shxdowofdarkness @aeyla @annyeongffs @beppybeesnuggets @iamwritteninyourstars @crisle19 @stxysakura @ocean-glacierblue

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yan-randomfandom · 2 days ago

Note

Heyyy! I was wondering if you could do yandere saja boys x reader where the reader hangs out with a guy and they get very jealous

Yandere!Saja Boys x GN!Reader

a/n; the day im satisfied with writing a yan!saja boys and/or yan!huntrix one shot is the day i'll retire because this is still lacking 💔

warnings; uncomfortable, stalking, possessive behavior, more spotlight on Abby! no Jinu here, sry!

— 🌇

That's weird.

You're not anywhere in your house. You haven't responded to their messages yet.

"Think they finally had enough of us?" Baby mutters, looking through your snack drawer—nothing of interest—before closing it harsher than intended. The loud bang echoes in the empty kitchen.

Abby narrows his eyes as he looks through the window. The sun is going to set soon. "That can't be right. Maybe they went to buy something."

"Without telling us?" Mystery growls, his fingers fidgeting together. Well, it's not like you need to tell them every action you'll do. He's not even sure himself why he's so irritated.

After all, they were already planning to take your soul after the whole thing is over. But now that he's thinking of it again, the idea doesn't feel so good anymore...

The front door suddenly squeals open. All of them turn, expecting you, but instead meet Romance's face.

"Don't look so disappointed," Romance scoffs with an eyebrow raise. "I found the human. Come on."

— 🫧

First, they felt relief, then anger, then sadness, then nothing.

They found you alone, as Romance said you were, but then you started laughing. Your gentle laughter stopped them from getting any closer. A smile curls on your lips as your eyes consistently follow something.

"What?" Romance mutters, confusion scrunching his face. They can't see well from this angle—but they can't move either without being seen.

"I told you it's slippery," you snicker, walking over and extending your hand. Ah. So you weren't alone. "Come on. I'll help you up, I guess."

"Thanks," a voice replies, matching your energy, causing all of the boys to glance at each other. They watch as a hand takes yours. "I guess."

The person gets up—a man. Not a demon, but a human. Standing too close to you and still holding your hand. Or maybe it was just a normal distance, and time felt like forever watching you touch that thing—but, oh, Gwi-Ma. They feel like boiling their human forms.

You finally let go of him, using your hand to fish your phone out of your pocket. A frown snakes across your lips after a while. "Oh, no."

"Oh no?" your friend asks, tilting his head. "Is something wrong?"

You begin chewing your bottom lip, looking around. "No, uh, not really. But I have to go now. Nice catching up with you, man!"

"Aw, really?" he says, glancing at his phone. "Oh. It is pretty late. Isn't your apartment like right over there? I can—"

"There you are!"

You and your friend turn your heads, both of your eyes widening for entirely different reasons.

Abby approaches you with a charming smile, settling an arm over your shoulders. He hums as he takes a good, innocent look at your companion. "Who's this?"

"Saja— Abs—Abby? From Saja Boys?! Uh, I mean— Hi! So nice to meet you!" An unexpected blush blooms over your friend's face. He glances at you with nervousness and fascination before bowing his head.

Your friend shows off a crooked grin. He's a big fan already; he told you moments ago how he had Soda Pop on loop. You huff and remove Abby's arm from your shoulder, barely able to hold your flinch at the way he looked offended.

You gaze at Abby in anticipation.

Abby immediately gets the hint and masks himself. "Oh, a fan! Thank you for your support!"

They took a picture, Abby did his autograph, all the while giving him fanservice with his abs. Your friend giggles cheerfully as they shake their hands goodbye. You didn't miss the way Abby wiped his hand on his shirt when your friend wasn't looking.

"Take care!" you call to him, waving a hand before turning to a blank-faced Abby.

He stares at you humorlessly.

You blink, avoiding his eyes. "Uh, hey. Sorry about... not replying. I ran out of—"

Abby chuckles, smiles like he wasn't just judging your entire being, and shakes his head. He returns to draping his arm around your shoulder protectively. "No need to explain. We're glad you're safe. Let's go home."

Your brows furrow as Abby guides your walk. We're? We?

It's an obvious thing that once a member is involved, all of them are. Just... where are the others? Abby is the only one here.

You stray your eyes, landing on a window.

In the dim reflection, three pairs of glowing, golden eyes point at you in the distance. Ah. There they are. Watching, waiting.

Ugh. You look away. Jinu's never this level of creepy. He's not present again, as always.

You don't notice Abby nodding his head curtly next to you.

— need .. need to include more horrors..... ngl I'm stuck between funny or horrific yan!saja boys ,,

— also if you're wondering why Jinu isn't here, I just prefer not to include him in general! yeah my bad, in my other fics he's just kinda hanging around

— why's it so hard for me to write yandere (says the yandere blog)

#yandere #x reader #yandere kpop demon hunters #yandere kpdh #yandere kpop demon hunters x reader #yandere saja boys x reader #yandere kpdh x reader #abby saja x reader

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myfictionaldreams · 3 days ago

Text

⁀➷ Property of the Asset // Winter Soldier x F!Reader

Summary: They trained you to be his match. But you became his obsession. And he became your only truth.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, dark, reader is an assassin, angst, slight dub-con, murder, torture, violence, memory-wiping, primal/feral sex, rough sex, breeding kink, pain kink, slight somnophilia, knife play, possessive, marking, hair pulling, exhibitionism, restraints, trauma bonding.

Words: 5.3k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The handlers never gave you a name. Not a real one, anyway. HYDRA called you Spectre-03. A designation. An echo. Like a ghost, able to disappear. You stopped missing your old name the moment they took it.

You were made for this, just as he was—the Winter Soldier.

The compound is buried beneath concrete, steel and ice. Somewhere in Siberia, or maybe not. You stopped keeping track of places after the third brainwash.

There’s no day or night here, just endless fluorescence. Surveillance eyes in the corners. Footsteps behind soundproofed walls. Metal doors that lock and seal without a sound.

Your cell is across from his. You both have beds, but rarely use them. You both wear uniforms, black and tactical, sterile, with endless pockets—no personal effects. No comfort. Just silence.

But you know he watches you. Sometimes, through the narrow glass of his door, you feel his gaze like a phantom weight across your throat. You don’t look back. Not often. But you always feel him.

They make you spar every three days. Or every time you’re punished. Sometimes both. The white room has no mirrors, only cameras.

You’re matched in every way: speed, strength, training. He’s taller, but you’re faster on your feet. His strikes are heavier, but yours are sharper.

Your fights are violent, exquisite. The kind of precision that makes the scientists mutter behind the glass. They tell you to win. But they never expect you to.

You’re not supposed to be as good as him. Not against the Assett. But you are, you always have been.

It wasn’t just the fighting. The fucking. The primal need to use each other for pleasure, satisfaction and another way to best the other.

The first time he’d issued you your lip was split from his fist. He’d knocked you down, bloodied your mouth, then dropped to his knees between your legs. He kissed the wound before fucking you through the pain.

You came like your body had no choice. He didn’t speak. Not until you were gasping beneath him, hands scrabbling for purchase against the cold white mat.

Then he whispered it. “Little Ghost.” A nickname, only for his lips.

Now, it’s become routine. They pair you deliberately now. They’ve seen the efficiency. When the Soldier fucks you, heperforms better the next day. Sharper, more focused and faster. The same applies to you.

So they schedule it. Allow it. Observe it. They leave the doors unlocked.

You never initiate. Never have to. He comes when he needs it.

Like tonight. You’re half asleep, body aching from a sparring match that left your ribs bruised. You’re on your stomach, face buried in the thin pillow. The cot beneath you is cold, the air colder. You feel the moment he enters. No footsteps, no sound.

Only heat. Then a hand in your hair. A sharp yank. Your head snaps back and your body tenses, but not in fear.

You gasp as your throat is bared to the air. Then a bite at your shoulder, deep and punishing. “Mine.”

He doesn’t wait. He never does. You feel his cock, hard andhot, as he pushed your sleepwear aside and drives into you with no warning. The pillow muffles your scream. Your body, already raw and used to him, accepts the intrusion with a broken whimper. There’s no care, just claiming. No prep. No softness.

He fucks you hard, brutal, the slap of his hips against your ass loud in the silence. One hand grips your hair, the other your hip, flesh and metal, binding you open.

He snarls above you, every thrust pounding into the bruises already on your thighs. Your knees burn against the mattress. You don’t move away. You never move away.

It’s always like this. Pain first, then the heat, the need, the mid-numbing want that eats you from the inside out.

You drool into the pillow as he presses harder, deeper.

“Little ghost,” he hisses. “Fucking take it.”

Your body obeys. It always does, accustomed to his harsh touch. You flinch when he bites again, this time on the neck, shoulder, and spine. He leaves teeth indents where no one can see them. Places only he can touch.

Your orgasm hits you without warning, hard and electric. It rips through your spine like lightning, your vision flashes white, and your entire body tenses as the pulses of pleasure consume you.

He doesn’t stop. Not even when you tremble, begging into the sheets. He pulls out, flips you over, yanks your legs apart, and drives back in.

You scream. Loud and broken, echoing off the metal walls. Your eyes roll back as your body lights up again. Tears slip down your temples.

You want more. You always want more. He groans as he fucks into your absued body, eyes locked on yours now, wild, glassy and burning. The soldier isn’t allowed to feel. It's not allowed to want.

But he does with you. He slams in one last time and stays there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving. You feel him spill. Heat floods you—his metal arm trembles.

And for a second, just a second, he closes his eyes: peace–or something like it.

Then he pulls out. Slowly. You twitch from the sensitivity, your thighs shaking, your skin burning with bruises.

He kneels beside you, pressing your knees apart. Inspects the mess between your legs. Runs his fingers through the slick, spreading it and checking for blood.

He finds a cut, a scrape from training. He leans down and kisses it. Your breath catches sharply.

He tugs your sleep shirt down over your body and covers your legs with the blanket. Brushing sweat and matted hair from your face. You don't speak. Neither does he.

But when he reaches for your hand and clasps it in his, you don't pull away. And when he whispers, “little ghost,” against your temple before leaving silently into the hallway, you wonder how much of him is left. You wonder how much of you is still yours.

—--------------

The lights never turn off in the compound. White fluorescent lights are behind your eyelids even when you sleep. The walls are covered in sterilisation chemicals. The guards are ghosts, the scientists quieter still. You hear them sometimes, whispering as you’re led down the corridor barefoot and bruised.

“Put the Spectre in again. She responds faster to the Soldier.”

“It’s not attachment. It's conditioning. Proximity reward loop.”

“They rut like animals, but the kill rate goes up. That’s what matters.”

You’re not led to the training ring this time. This door is made of metal, thick, and sealed from the outside. Inside, the room is whitewashed and windowless, with no mirrors or mats.

Just a cot. Two cuffs, mounted on the wall. And him.

The Winter Soldier stands at the far side of the room, shirt discarded, chest rising slowly with each breath. His left hand flexes, the metal one. His face is blank, expressionless.

But his eyes find you the second you step inside. And they burn—the door seals behind you with a hiss.

They’ve done this before, licking you together like animals in heat. Sometimes after long missions. Sometimes after punishment. They think it’s effective. They’re not wrong.

The moment the air goes still, you know he’ll take you. You know you’ll let him. It's not just instinct anymore. Not just blood and body. It's him.

You cross the room without speaking. His eyes track every step. When you reach him, you don’t touch. You just tilt your head slightly, offering your throat. A gesture of submission. One you never give to anyone else.

A snarl curls his lip. He slams you into the wall hard enough to rattle your bones. Your breath punches from your chest, but you don’t resist. You never resist him.

His mouth crashes against yours, bruising and brutal. No grace, no softness. He licks into you like he's trying to consume you from the inside out, teeth scraping your lips until you taste copper.

You man, arching again him. Your bodies collide, uniforms still on, gear buckles grinding together. His metal hand grips your throat, not choking, just holding. Claiming.

Your hips grind against his. He growls. “You need it.”

You nod, panting.

“Say it.”

Your voice is broken, “I need you.”

He spins you, slamming you against the wall. One hand tears at your pants, the other rips the fabric of your top. It doesn’t matter. They always give you new ones.

He doesn't prep you. He fucks you hard, bare and against the cold steel, each thrust punishing a sound from yoru mouth that echoes in the sterile room. His hips slap you with punishing force.

You’re sore. Already stretched from last time. But your body welcomes him. It always does. The pain is part of it—the ache. Your hand braced against the wall as he drives into you, growling filth into your ear in Russian and English and something in between.

“Fucking made for this–made for me. You’re mine—my little ghost. Mine to break. Mine to fix.”

He comes first, hot and deep, buried to the hilt, but he doesn’t stop. His cock stays hard. Still inside you as he pulls you back, grabs you to the cot, and shoves you down. Your knees hit the edge. He flips you onto your back.

You see it in his eyes. This time, he wants to watch.

He strips you fast, tearing open the rest of your uniform until you’re bare beneath him. He kneels, wide and hulking, between your thighs. Sweat gleams on his chest. His cock glistens with a mix of you both.

Then he spits on it. Strokes himself once. And slides back in. his rhythm is punishing.

Each thrust knocks you higher on the cot, your back scraping against the thin sheet, knees pushed to your chest. You sob into the stale air, nails clawing at his arms, flesh and metal, hot and cold. He's everywhere.

He’s inside you. And he's not stopping. He's already come one. You felt it. The heat spilling inside, the tremble in his breath, the shudder of his hips. But it only made him worse.

Now he's chasing yours but not giving it. He pulls out just as your body behind to foil just before it crests. You cry out, broken and desperate.

He grins. A real one. Cruel and controlled.

You slap at his chest, panting. “Please– Fuck– don’t stop–”

He grunts, “Not yet.” he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. The sweat on his skin drips onto your mouth. His eyes are locked on your face, watching every twitch, every whimper.

His thumb drags through yoru slick, presses down on your clit in cruel, slow circles. You choke on a moan, thighs trembling.

He watches that too. “Hydra’s watching,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek.

You flinch. Of course they are. Cameras blink silently in the corners. Mics pick up every sound, every filthy word, every cry, every slap of skin on skin. Your body’s not your own in this place.

But when he's inside you, it feels like his. That somehow, it means something. He pulls back, just enough to line himself up again, then slams into you so hard your breath vanishes. You cry out, your voice cracking.

“Please, fille me up, just fucking fill me again–”

His hand slams beside your head. His voice drops. Low, primal and dangerous.

“You want it?”

You nod frantically, “Yes–yes–please–”

“You want me to fill you up like they told me to? Stuff you full and make you–” he snarls against your throat, “fuckign taking it all?”

Your whole body convulses under him. “Yes,” you gasp. “Want it– need it– need your cock– nee dyour cum–”

He groans like it hurts, like your words punch something human in his chest. And then he gives it to you. His thrusts are erratic now. Deep. Merciless. The metal fingers of his left hand slide down to grip your throat, squeeing just enough to make you dizzy. Your legs lock around his hips. You milk him.

He watches your eyes go wide as you start to orgasm.

“Now,” he demands roughly. “Now, little ghost, cum for me– fuck–”

You break. Your orgasm tears through you like fire, molten and endless. Your nails draw blood down his back. You scream, clenching around him, and he loses it.

He follows you over the edge with a goram, loud, real, human. His cock jerks inside you, pumping more heat into yoru cunt, so much it leaks down your thighs. His body collapses against yours.

And still, the cameras blink. Still, HYDRA watches.

You don't know how long he stays inside you. Minutes, hours, maybe just seconds that feel stretched. His breath is still ragged. Yours doesn't return to normal at all. Your skin buzzes with the violence of it, your thighs sticky, your body bruised and open.

He finally pulls out. You whimper at the loss. At the emptiness. But then he kneels again, knees spreading your legs wider, palms pressing your thighs open. His head dips low. He doesn't ask permission.

But his tongue presses into yoru slit slowly. Not for pleasure. To taste, clean and claim. He groans low in his chest as he laps up the mess of both your bodies, tongue dragging through your folds until you twitch and tremble and gasp.

You push a shaky hand into his hair. “Mine,” you say barely above a whisper.

He freezes. His eyes rise to meet yours. You expect rage or for him to try to take control, or another round of rough, punishing use.

But he just stares. Like he heard something different in our voice. Like the word mine rewrote something inside him. He exhales, low and tight. His jaw clenches. And then he rests his head between your thighs, cheek pressed to your inner leg. Like he's listening to your heartbeat, it calms him just for that moment.

You stroke his hair again in a gentle, tender touch. Then he speaks, barely audible. “Don't let them take you from me.”

You don't reply because you know they’ll try.

OBSERVATION DECK 04 – HYDRA COMPOUND

The glass is one-way. The air is cold and clinical. Dr. Koenig finishes scribbling in his file and sets the tablet down.

“Well?” another agent mutters. “You saw what I saw.”

Koenig nods once. “The efficiency remains. Physical performance unchanged.”

“And the other issue?”

Koenig’s jaw tightens. “They’re bonding.”

A pause. “That wasn’t part of the program.”

“No,” Koenug says flatly. “It wasn’t.” He taps the comms button. “Schedule a rest. Just the Asset for now. Strip the sentimentality before it spreads.”

A moment’s pause. “And if it has spread?”

Koenig lifts his eyes, watches the way the Soldier nuzzles into her thigh like it’s the only safe place in the world. “Then we pursue the Spectre too.”

—------------

You aren’t supposed to flinch. Not when the knife grazes your cheek, not when the dislocation in your shoulder hasn’t reset, not when a mission fails and the punishment follows. You’re not supposed to feel.

But lately, you do.

It’s barely there, at first. A split-second pause before you stab your target. The way your breath hitches when you see his blood. The ache that lingers too long after he leaves your body.

You think it's an infection, contamination. Corruption of the programming. You feel it more when you sleep in the dead quiet of the corridor outside your cells, where only breath and memory live.

And him. The way he watches you when he thinks no one sees. The way your skin burns hours after his fingers have left it.

—-----------------

Missions grow bloodier. Not because you’re sloppy, never that. But because you hesitated. Just the once. Your last target was a civilian contact, and for one heartbeat, his face flickered into someone else’s.

It was gone in a blink. But HYDRA noticed. You know they did.

The pain chip lodged behind your ribs screamed white through your spine the moment the exfil team arrived. You bit through your tongue rather than scream.

The Winter Soldier broke a handler’s jaw in response. They dragged him away. You didn’t see him for three days. And when they brought him back, he wasn’t looking at you.

They put you back into training cycles. Side by side. Then, across from one another. Then against.

The sparring room is frigid. Your bare feet sting against the floor. Your body still aches from punishment, but you stand straight.

He stands opposite you, half-shadow, half-statue. The metal arm gleams dully under the overhead lights. He doesn't blink.

“Begin.”

You lunge first. He meets you head-on. You clash like war drums. A blur of limbs, blades and violence. His fists land hard, but so do yours.

But something’s wrong. He’s not finishing it. Not like before. Every strike he lands is slightly off, controlled. Calculated not to break, only bruise. His hands pull. His eyes flicker to your shoulder, still tender and sore.

He's holding back. So are you. Your knives locked between you, gritted teeth inches apart. His breath is hot on your face.

“I saw you bleed,” he growls.

You twist the blade. “You always do”

“I smelled it.”

Your pulse flutters. “And?”

He slams you to the mat, hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. But his hands cage your head, protect it. His eyes burn. “I thought you were gone.”

An hour later, you’re fucking in the weapons locker.

Quick and brutal. Half-dressed. His cock slams into you with savage need, your bodies hidden between racks of combat gear. He bites down on your neck so hard your legs give out, and he carries your weight liek its nothing, fucking you into his metal hand.

You cum on his cock in near silence, his lips swallowing your gass.

He doesn’t say a word. But he stays this time, rubbing your thighs and tucking your T-shirt back into place and caressing the nape of your neck.

It makes your throat tighten. It makes your chest ache. And it makes HYDRA furious.

—-----------------

OBSERVATION DECK 02 - INTERNAL RECORDING REVIEW

“They hesitated. Again.”

“We’ve scrubbed them twice this month. What's the degradation rate?”

“Unclear. This isn’t chemical.”

“Then what is it?”

“Instinct. Pair bonding. Reinforcement loops gone feral.”

“We need them reset.”

“We can’t. Not until the next phase concludes.”

“And if they start choosing each other over the mission?”

“Then we terminate both.”

—-------------

You’re in the cell when he comes. Not like before, no heat or stalking. He slips through the door and kneels by your cot like he’s seeking something.

His blue eyes search your face, then your body. His metal hand rises and pauses over your temple. “A man. Earlier tonight, he called me a name. It’s a name I’ve seen before, in my file. For me.” You hold your breath. “Bucky.”

The word tastes strange in his mouth, unnatural, like poison he’s been trained not to take. But it rings inside you. Familiar in a way.

Your hand rises and touches his jaw, and you nod. He flicnhes.

You whisper it. “Bucky.”

He looks at you like you've handed him fire, and for a moment, for one still breath between the walls, you see a glimpse of him. Not the Soldier, not the asset, but just a man.

—-------------

It's raining when the mission begins. Hard, slicing rain, cold enough to bite under the collar of your uniform, wet enough to make blood smear across pavement like paint.

You and the Asset land silently and unseen on the ground, dropped from the stealth helicopter five blocks from the extraction site. Target: a weapons dealer tied to former SHIELD assets. Secondary targets: irrelevant. The orders were simple. In. Kill. Out.

No deviations. But you knew the moment your boots hit the ground that tonight wouldn’t go clean.

Because he's been watching you. Too much. Even in the dark, especially in the dark.

The target’s compound is a crumbling fortress of concrete and chain-link fences. Guards patrol in loose formations. Cameras and alarms. You both move through it like smoke.

There’s a knife in your hand before you even see your first mark. You slit a throat in one smooth pull, and he does the same behind you. Two bodies fall. Two shadows remain.

No hesitation or time for thought. But tonight, there’s something off.

You feel it between your ribs, that burning that remains there.

His eyes keep drifting back to you. You don't speak, can't talk, but your bodies hum at the same frequency. It's always been like this, but now there's heat seeping beneath it.

You feel it in the way his arm brushes yours when he passes you a detonator. The way his breath lingers by your ear when he whispers the sweep pattern—the way your heart pounds when you smell blood on him.

The mission was doomed the moment he looked at you and didn't look away.

You're almost at the objective when it happens. He’s behind you, covering your back, when you feel his hand grab your hip. Not urgent, not mission-based.

Hungry.

You spin, knife in hand, but his is already at your throat, flat, not cutting, just a warning.

And then his mouth is on yours. Hard, brutal, nothing romantic about it. Your blade clatters to the ground. You shove him back into the wall of the hallway, breathing hard.

“This is–” you pant, “--not the time–”

His metal hand fists in your collar, pulls you closer. His mouth presses to your ear urgently. “You're soaked.”

You freeze. He drags his glove fingers over your covered core, pressing them into the wet heat between your thighs, through the suit, through everything. “You’re soaked, little ghost.”

And you snap. You shove him back, hard, hand flying to your side to draw your backup blade. He grins, fucking frins and pulls his own.

The two of you collide in a dance of violence and lust, blades clashing in the darkened hall. You slash at each other like it's foreplay. Your knife slides across his arm, and he doesn't even flinch. His blade catches your hip and tears fabric, grazing skin.

Then he's on you. Pinning you to the wall, blade pressed between your ribs, metal arm wrenching your thighs open. You kiss like you want ot kill each other. You want him inside you. You need it.

He doesn't even pull the suit off. He just unzips enough to free himself, shoves your gear down to your knees, and drives into you in one brutal thrust.

You cry out, high and broken, biting your fist to stay silent as his cock stretches you wide. The hallway is empty, but not secure. You both know this. You both don't care.

His hips slam into you again and again, grinding you into the concrete wall. The knife is still in your hand, and you press it to his chest.

He snarls. “Do it.”

You press harder, but not enough to pierce. He growls and fucks you deeper, harder, hands clawing at yourgear, your ass, your breasts, everywhere.

His mouth finds your ear. “You want my cum again?” he rapss. “Want me to fill you out here where they can see?”

You nod, panting, moaning through gritted teeth. “Fuck me full,” you grunt. “Breed me like you need to.”

And he does. He pins your writs, fucks you like the mission never mattered, like the only target thats ever existed is the wet heat of your body, the way it clenches andbegs and rembles around him.

You cum first and unexpectedly, squeeing him tight, whimpering his name.

He follows with a low groan, hips stuttering as he fills you deep, cock pulsing, teeth digging into your throat. And when it's done, when the blood and com drip down your thighs, you both hear the click of a surveillance drone overhead.

Too late.

The target still dies. You slit his throat five minutes later, face impassive, body still aching from the way the Soldier just claimed yo uagainst the wall.

You extract without speaking. But the silence in the jet isn't like before. Because, you know, they watched like they always do. And this time, they won't let it go.

—------------------

HYDRA NORTH COMMAND – DECONTAINMENT WING

The chamber smells of ozone and bleach—cold water jets down your body from overhead pipes. You’re naked, shivering and numb.

Hands cuffed behind your back. Across the room, he kneels. Unmoving. Unseeing.

The metal chair clamps around his limbs. The rest technician raises the neural needle.

“We warned you,” she says flatly, to no one in particular.

“You both degraded.”

She looks at him first. “No more distractions.” The needle plunges into the base of his skull. He screams, and you do too. Even though you swore you never would.

You lose him. Not to death, that would be easier. You lose him to silence. They caused the static. After the needle sinks into the base of his kill, you're dragged away in restraints and left naked in a cryo cell for thirty-six hours: no light or sound.

Just the echo of his scream. It plays on a loop in your head, like you're stuck in your own personal hell.

They don't reset you. Not yet, but they watch your every move. You feel the eyes, always watching and waiting to see what you do without him.

You don't cry, not where they can see. But when the door opened and they dragged you out again, hair wet, lip split and wrist raw, you looked for him. Your eyes search everywhere. And when you find him in the training ring two days later, standing in full tactical black, knife in hand, silent and cold, your breath stutters.

“Assett,” one of the techs' commands. “Eliminate the Spectre. Sim round only.”

He doesn't move. He doesn't blink. But he looks at you. Not at your face, or your throat that he liked ot mark. He looked at your hands, where your fingers tremble.

The blade in his hand doesn’t waver. Not at first, but you see it, the tension in his arm. The stiffness in his stance. His breathing is too controlled, too shallow. Not like him.

Not like the man who fucked youa gainst a concrete wall, who cleaned you with his tongue and whispered mine.

This version is off, wiped. But something in his eyes hasn't been entirely erased. He takes a step toward you. Then another.

You raise your fists automatically, out of instinct, not aggression. You don't hurt him. Not unless he makes you, but your heart is screaming behind your ribs.

“Bucky,” you whisper, too soft for the techs to hear.

His entire body jolts like you shot him. He blinks. The knife lowers, but only slightly, and it's enough.

The tech behind the glass slams the intercom. “Asset– engage! Do not hesitate!”

You take a step forward, slowly. Hands still raised, palms out.

“It’s me,” you say, louder now. “You know me. You always have.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes flick to your lips, but he still doesn't move. So you decide to move towards him instead.

You whisper again, trying to trigger his memories. “It’s me, you're little ghost.”

His breath stutters. Then his hand twitches, and the blade drops a few inches, and his metal hand reaches out, like he's not sure why.

Like he's trying to break through his memories, your fingers brush. And in that half second, before the guards floor the room, before the tranquillisers hit, you see him. Bucky.

—-----------

They put you in a different kind of cell this time. No cot or blankets. Just four white walls, a drain in the floor and a single overhead light that never dims.

You sit with your back to the corner, bruised knees drawn to your chest, wrists still cuffed behind your back. The silence is heavier than pain. It eats your breath. Your thoughts.

And still, you whisper his name. Bucky. It's nothing louder than breath, but every time it leaves your lips, something in you aches. Wants to claw through the walls and find him.

They know that. That's why they left you alone. Not to forget.

The speaker on the wall cracks after eight hours. A voice, one you don't recognise, clinical and dispassionate.

“Your presence is disruptive to the Asset’s stability. We assumed sexual bonding would enhance performance. We were incorrect. He is not recovering post-reset. Every time he sees you, something breaks.”

You stare at the wall.

“You are not a person, you are not his partner, you are an echo of malfunction. He was never yours to begin with.”

You want to scream, but you keep your composure. And you just whisper it again. Bucky.

Later, maybe hours or maybe days, they drag you back into the dark: a corridor, a low hallway, boots echoing behind you.

And at the end of the corridor, you see him. Cuffed, muffled, and with a metal arm trembling.

They're preparing him for cryo.

Your knees buckle. He looks up as you’re dragged past. Your eyes lock. And in that moment, his body lurches forward, violently, crashing into two guards, shoving them back, roaring into the metal restraint on his mouth.

You don't speak, just look, and for that second, he stops fighting them. Just long enough to watch you disappear behind the closing door.

—---------

The world outside burns quietly. HYDRA is collapsing, not all at once, but in cracks, like ice splitting beneath the weight of something ancient. Something true.

It started with a leak, the files, and then the names. One by one, ghosts came clawing up from beneath the floorboards, screaming for vengeance.

Now? The compound trembles under the weight of consequence. Not that you feelt it. You float, half-conscious. Sedated. Limbs strapped down to a gurney, heartbeat slow.

You're underground, two levels below the holding cells, where there's no sound or contact—just white noise and restraints.

“Too unstable to reassing,” you heard them say. “Too bonded to the Asset. Put her down, but keep her breathing.”

Not dead, not alive. A test subject. A failure. But even now, even here, you feel him. You always do, like he’d become a part of you.

—------------

At first, it’s nothing more than a flicker of red light against the white ceiling. Then– gunfire. Screaming.

The groan of steel bending and the snap of one. Doors crash open above you: radios fizzle, and boots run in every direction.

You blink hard through the haze. Your chest burns. Something isn't right.

But then, finally – “little ghost.”

The door blows open in a cloud of smoke and fractured metal. He stands in the doorway, barely human. Blood down his jaw, hair matted, tactical gear torn to shreds. Eyes wide and wild but burning with something read.

You can’t speak, you just look.

And he moves, crossing the room in four steps, cutting through the restraints like paper. His metal hand cradles your neck, trembling. His other hand lifts your chin, checking your pulse.

“Bucky,” you croak. He stops. For one breathless movement, he freezes.

Then he loses his eyes, as if hearing breaks something inside him.

“I didn’t forget,” you say pleadingly. His fingers tighten, his forehead drops to yours.

“They tried to take you from me.”

“They almost did.”

“Never again, little ghost. I’ve told you, you’re mine. Always.”

He lifts you into his arms as you look into his eyes. They're different, still the same clear shade of blue, but the lifelessness of the Soldier no longer resides there. Something in between human and Assett. Something different.

He carries you through the burning compound, past bodies and smoke and fire. Sirens wail, gunshots echo. He doesn't flinch, doesn't look back.

Your arms wrap weakly around his neck, and you don't ask where you're going. You only know it's away, and you're safe because you are with him, the only life you've ever known.

#winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier smut #bucky barnes #bucky #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #marvel smut #mine*

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verstappenverse · 20 hours ago

Note

hi! can i request that the reader and max anticipate their first child? he was so worried when the reader had a morning sickness and when the reader was about to deliver the baby? he worried whether he could be a good father or not to their firstborn baby. and how he was so protective, care, and just soft with the reader? thank you! i love your fics anyway, you're doing great! i hope you have a very good day ahead!! xoxo.

What If I Get It Wrong?

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max was never afraid of anything, but fatherhood? That’s a different kind of terrifying. As the two of you prepare for your first child, Max is protective, terrified, and completely in awe, and you watch the man you love fall headfirst into fatherhood. (Requested)

4.1k words / Masterlist

You weren’t expecting it to feel like this, equal parts overwhelming and breathtaking. A surreal mix of the mundane and the extraordinary.

Two faint pink lines on a stick, the distant hum of the bathroom fan. The sound of your shaky breathing as you sit on the edge of the tub, blinking down at something that just shifted the axis of your entire world.

Your hands tremble when you press your palm to your stomach. It’s still flat. Still unchanged. And yet… you already feel different. Maybe not physically, but something inside you is new. Expanding. Blooming.

You had a plan.

Of course you did. You’d always imagined telling Max with a smile too wide to hide, maybe over a fancy private dinner at home with the test tucked inside a gift box or a Red Bull baby onesie folded on his plate. Maybe filming his reaction when he opened it. Something worthy of the moment. Something permanent.

You even started writing a card, got as far as, "You changed my life once. Now—."

But when the door opens that night and Max comes in, home late from some media obligations, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, and grumbling about TikTok's and something you can’t quite hear. You don’t even get a word in before he presses a kiss to your cheek. “Sorry I’m late. What’re we having for—”

“I’m pregnant.”

The words leap out of you before you even mean to say them. It’s not soft. It’s not poetic. It’s raw and breathless and a little panicked.

The silence is immediate. Thick. His mouth stays open mid-word. His eyes flick to your stomach, then back to your face.

“I—” you start, already flustered, “I was gonna tell you in some big, sweet way, I swear. With a whole surprise and maybe a stupid cake or balloons, I even wrote like half a card and now I’ve just blurted it out like a maniac and—”

“Pregnant,” he interrupts.

You nod. Your voice is a whisper. “Yeah.”

It takes another two seconds before a breathless laugh escapes him. He crosses the room in one long stride, pulling you into his arms. His hands cradle your face like you’re something breakable. “You’re serious?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I took the test three times.”

He looks down at your stomach again. Then back at you. Then exhales a shaky breath that sounds like something breaking open in his chest.

“I’m going to be a dad?”

You bite your lip, eyes filling. “Yeah. You are.”

You nod again, and before you can say another word, he’s kissing you. Slow. Deep. His hand presses instinctively to your belly, protective already, and you feel his body tremble as his forehead rests against yours.

The nerves come quickly.

You’re crouched over the toilet, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain, on what feels like your fifth straight day of relentless nausea. Your stomach rolls again, and you groan, dry heaving into nothing.

Max hovers like a man teetering on the edge of a panic attack. He’s pacing the bathroom floor in bare feet, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other holding your water bottle like it might fix something if he just offers it enough times.

“Should I call someone?” he says for the third time in five minutes. “A hospital? Maybe your mum, I think, maybe Dr. Hendriks? I’ll fly him in. We have the jet, it’s—”

“Max,” you croak, cutting him off mid-spiral. “I’m fine. Just... a bit gross.”

He drops to a crouch beside you so fast you almost flinch. His hand is instantly at your back, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles over your spine like he’s trying to manually ease the nausea out of you.

“You threw up twice, you’ve barley eaten anything since yesterday, and you can’t even stand up straight. This isn’t fine,” he mutters, eyes scanning your face like he’s looking for signs of something worse.

You want to reassure him, but all you can manage is another gag and a feeble wave of your hand.

He makes a frustrated sound under his breath, somewhere between a growl and a groan and presses a kiss to your temple. You feel him shift beside you, still kneeling, still rubbing your back.

You’re pretty sure he was supposed to be on a flight to the Red Bull factory two hours ago. His suitcase is still zipped up in the hallway. His laptop sits forgotten on the kitchen counter next to the tea he brewed for you earlier, the tea you couldn’t even look at, let alone sip.

He didn’t even finish drying his hair. It’s still damp, curling at the edges. There’s a red line pressed into his cheek from where he must’ve fallen asleep beside you on the bathroom floor the night before.

“Max,” you mumble, finally able to lift your head. You rest your cheek against his shoulder, exhausted, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack before the baby’s even here.”

He tries to laugh but it comes out hoarse and half-broken. “I just hate this. Watching you like this. I keep thinking, what if I’m missing something? What if I’m not doing enough?”

You tilt your head up slightly, catching the crease between his brows, the lines of guilt that don’t belong there.

“You made me three kinds of toast this morning,” you murmur. “And cut the crusts off, and you held my hair and Googled ginger remedies until your phone died.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you press a hand to his chest right over the spot where his heart’s racing, fast and wild.

“You’re here,” you whisper. “That’s not useless. That’s everything.”

He exhales shakily, eyes locked on yours and for a second you swear they shine.

“I’m just so scared of getting it wrong,” he admits, barely audible. “This whole dad thing. Taking care of you. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done, and I keep feeling like I’m already screwing it up.”

“You’re not,” you promise, curling your fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt. “You’re already the best dad, because you care so much, because you show up.”

The weeks pass in waves. Ultrasounds. Appointments. Cravings that come out of nowhere at 2 a.m. and leave you both laughing in the kitchen in your pajamas, sharing a jar of pickles and toast with peanut butter. There are stretches of calm, slow, quiet mornings when the Monaco sunlight creeps across the bedsheets and Max wraps an arm around your waist, murmuring something sleepy against your neck. And then there are flashes of chaos, bags packed, schedules rearranged, Max on a video call with his race engineers while still rubbing your swollen feet with one hand.

Somehow, amidst it all, you find a rhythm.

You learn to time what you can around Max’s races, his travel, his returns. You count the days until he’s back, until he’s lying beside you again, one hand stretched protectively over your belly like it’s instinct now.

The first time you hear the heartbeat Max looks like someone knocked the air out of him. His mouth parts. His eyes fill.

“She’s real,” he whispers, the words barely making it past his lips. “Our baby is real.”

You haven’t even found out the gender yet, but he says she instinctively, without hesitation, like his heart already knows something the rest of you don’t.

You tease him about it once, smiling as he folds baby clothes that aren’t even needed yet.

“It might be a boy you know?” you say, watching him hold up a tiny lemon-patterned onesie like it’s the crown jewels.

He looks up from the clothes, something quiet and unshakable in his gaze. “Maybe, but I don’t know, I just feel it, every time I picture the future, it’s you... and her.”

You stare at him, your breath catching somewhere in your throat.

“She’s loud,” he continues, grinning now, his accent curling around the softness of his voice. “Talks too much. Bosses me around. Already a little menace. Definitely your child.”

“Excuse me?”

He laughs, quick and boyish, and leans over to press a kiss to your cheek. “You’ll see. She’s gonna have your fire.”

You don’t say it, but the truth sinks deep into your chest, he already loves this baby with his whole being.

He talks to your belly when he thinks you’re asleep. You catch him doing it all the time, quiet, unguarded moments where his world has narrowed down to two things, you and the life you’re creating together.

When you both lie awake at night, hands intertwined under the duvet, whispering about baby names and nursery colors and what kind of parents you want to be, Max is always a little breathless. Like he still can’t believe it’s real. Like he’s terrified and amazed in equal measure.

“She’s going to change everything,” he murmurs once, voice low in the dark.

“She already has,” you whisper back.

He nods slowly, curling into you like he always does, like you’re the only home he’s ever needed.

Max becomes… soft.

In every possible way.

It’s not just the way he handles you now, like you’re something precious and breakable. It’s not just the way he walks slower beside you or watches your face when you stand up too quickly or how he quietly puts your sneakers on for you when your feet start to swell.

It’s in the little things.

He buys three different pregnancy pillows, a full-body one, a C-shaped one, and some strange ergonomic wedge because he isn’t sure which one will help you sleep better. One night you catch him actually reading a parenting blog in bed next to you, blue light from his phone casting shadows across the duvet. He scrolls silently, occasionally muttering things like:

“Did you know babies can hear our voices by week twenty?”

Or,

“Apparently we’re supposed to play music for her.”

Then there’s the night you find him in the nursery.

It’s late. You’d gotten up to grab water and noticed the light was on down the hall. You pad softly to the doorway, heart already warm with affection and there he is.

Max. Standing perfectly still. The crib is built, assembled a few days ago it sits against the far wall now, freshly made up with soft cream sheets and a stuffed lion tucked in the corner.

He’s just staring at it.

Half terror. Half wonder.

“Max?” you say gently, stepping into the room.

He startles a little but doesn’t turn around.

“Do you think I’ll be good at this?” he murmurs.

You cross the room without answering and slide your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against the cotton of his t-shirt. He reaches for your hands, holds them tightly over his chest.

“You’re already good,” you whisper.

He lets out a long, shaky breath. The kind that sounds like it’s been sitting in his chest for months.

“It’s just…” he starts, and then pauses, struggling to find the words. “I didn’t exactly have the perfect example.”

You nod, letting the silence stretch. You don’t talk about his childhood much but he’s never needed to say much for you to understand. Jos was many things, passionate, driven, ambitious. But he was also sharp around the edges. Affection was earned, not given freely. Max learned young what it meant to perform under pressure. To please. To succeed, or suffer.

“I’m scared I’ll mess her up,” he says, voice quieter now. “That I’ll push too hard. Or expect too much. Or say something I can’t take back. What if she cries and I don’t know how to make it better? What if she needs something I don’t know how to give?”

You pull back just enough to tilt your head and meet his gaze.

“Max, you’re the most patient person I know.”

He snorts, but there’s not much humor in it. “That’s a word I don’t think has ever been used to describe me.”

“You’re patient with people you love,” you correct gently. “With me. You’ve been soft and kind and so careful this whole time, even when I’ve been sick or moody or irrational. You listen. That’s what she’ll see. That’s what she’ll learn.”

You hesitate, then add softly, “I’m scared too, you know.”

His brows draw together, surprised. Maybe he hadn’t realised, maybe you’ve hidden it well. “You are?”

You nod. “Every single day. I lie in bed and think about how much we don’t know yet. About how overwhelming it all feels sometimes. What if I’m not enough? What if she needs more than I can give?”

His arms tighten around you instinctively, like he’s trying to hold the fear out of your body.

“But then I see you,” you whisper. “And I remember… we don’t have to do any of it alone, and that makes all the difference.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just turns in your arms, eyes a little wet, and rests his forehead against yours.

“I don’t want to get it wrong,” he breathes. “Not with her. Not with you.”

“You won’t,” you whisper. “But if you ever feel like you are, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

He nods slowly. Swallows. “Promise me you’ll tell me if I ever forget, if I ever slip. If I start to become…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

“I promise, but I already know I won’t need to.” you say, holding his face in your hands.

You kiss him then, soft and sure, and he kisses you back like your faith in him is something he never wants to let go of. And in the stillness of that nursery, with your belly pressed to his and the crib waiting quietly behind you, Max lets the fear settle… just a little.

Maybe it’s okay to be scared, as long as neither of you is scared alone.

The last month is the hardest.

Your back feels like it’s been replaced by concrete. Your feet have swollen so much you’ve officially retired every pair of shoes you own except one pair of very ugly slides. You cry at everything, a dog food commercial, a voicemail from your mum, Max just looking at you across the kitchen.

You’re tired in ways you didn’t know were possible. Your body feels like it’s working overtime to grow a person and also remind you of gravity’s cruelest tricks.

Max, meanwhile, has entered full protective mode. As if the impending arrival of your daughter has turned every single instinct inside him up to eleven.

He won’t let you lift anything.

Not a grocery bag. Not a chair. Not even your own overnight hospital bag.

You once reached for a water bottle and he appeared out of thin air swiping it out of your reach with a sharp, scandalized look.

“Max,” you deadpanned, “I’m pregnant, not paralyzed.”

“I’m aware,” he muttered, already unscrewing the cap and handing it to you like a peace offering.

“You think the baby’s going to fall out if I hold a Fiji bottle?”

“No,” he said seriously, “but why take the risk.”

You rolled your eyes then. You do it often now. But secretly?

You love it.

You love how protective he is. How he walks slightly behind you in crowds, like a buffer. How he started driving ten kilometers under the limit the second you entered your third trimester, even though he used to complain that Monaco traffic was basically just expensive cars parked in motion.

You love how he fusses, quietly but constantly. How he now triple-checks that your favorite snack is stocked before leaving the apartment, how he installed a nightlight in the hallway so you wouldn't trip during your nightly bathroom trips. How he downloaded six different white noise apps on his phone so you could try them out in bed. "For practice," he said, “in case she’s fussy.”

But what really gets you, what makes your chest ache with something warm and vast and impossible to describe is the way his face changes every time you talk about the baby.

A softening around his eyes. A slight tilt of his head. The more you speak about her name, about what she might look like, about whether she’ll like racing or painting or maybe dinosaurs, the more he leans in.

He’s never looked at you like this before. Not when he’s on the podium. Not even after winning his first championship. This? This is different.

This is awe. This is devotion. This is Max Verstappen world-class driver, famously unshakeable completely and utterly undone by the thought of his daughter.

He leans down and kisses your skin. “She’s going to wreck me isn’t she?”

“She already has.”

He looks up at you, eyes shining under the soft lamp light, and for once he doesn’t have a smart reply.

Then the day finally comes.

You wake at 3:13 a.m. with a pressure in your abdomen that steals your breath. It isn’t sharp, not at first. Just a heavy, aching pull deep in your core, like gravity has shifted suddenly inside you.

For a moment you think it’s another false alarm.

You shift under the covers, already rehearsing the mental checklist your doctor gave you: hydration, time the contractions, don’t panic. You ease out of bed, try walking to the bathroom, just like they said to do when you’re not sure it’s real yet, but then the pain tightens, sharp and low and unmistakable. It doesn’t come and go. It grips.

Just like that you know.

You shuffle back to the bed and place a trembling hand on Max’s chest.

“Max.”

He jolts upright as if someone’s fired a starter pistol. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it time?”

His voice is gravelly with sleep, but his body is already moving.

You nod, barely able to get the words out through the rising wave of pain.

“Okay. Okay. Alright, okay,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, as he flings the covers off and springs into motion.

What follows is like watching a pit stop in human form.

Max moves with sharp, terrifying focus. He’s already helped you into the comfiest clothes he can find, sweatpants and one of his old t-shirts, before you even finish brushing your teeth. He pulls the hospital bag from the front closet, double-checks its contents, grabs your water bottle, chargers, snacks, the car keys.

But the entire time, his hands are shaking.

You notice it in the way he fumbles with the seatbelt when helping you into the car. In the way he presses the elevator button three times like it’ll come faster.

By the time he’s in the driver’s seat, knuckles white on the steering wheel, you’re gripping the side of the door, breathing through another contraction.

“Max,” you whisper, chest rising and falling in short bursts. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing, you need to breath.” he says quickly, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror even though the road is deserted.

“No, you’re hyperventilating.”

“I’m not, maybe a little,” he admits, cheeks flushed. He loosens his grip on the wheel, forces one deep inhale through his nose.

You reach across the console and take his hand, squeezing through the contraction.

“You’re going to be amazing,” you say through gritted teeth.

He glances at you, eyes shining under the dashboard light. “You’re the one doing the hard part.”

You laugh sort of. It’s half a wheeze, half a whimper. “Hard doesn’t even cover it.”

He presses a kiss to your knuckles at the next red light. “Just keep holding on. I’m right here.”

The labour is long.

Twenty hours of chaos and calm. Of excruciating pain and quiet moments in between, your hand curled tight in Max’s.

He never leaves your side.

“I love you,” he says every few minutes, even when you’re too far gone to reply. “You’re doing so good. You’re so strong.”

He hovers beside you, whispering soft encouragements, brushing sweat from your forehead with shaking fingers.

And then, after everything, comes silence.

The kind that feels holy.

The room stills. You collapse against the pillows, exhausted and trembling. And then it happens.

A sound. Fragile. Piercing.

A cry.

Your baby’s first breath shatters the stillness, high-pitched and perfect and real.

Max sags beside you like his legs can’t hold him anymore. He buries his face in your shoulder, and for the first time since you’ve known him, since the earliest days of cautious flirtation and long-distance calls, since the podiums and the plane rides and the quiet "I love you"s you feel him cry.

“She’s here,” he chokes out. His whole body shakes. “She’s really here.”

When the nurse places your daughter on your chest, something in you clicks into place. She’s tiny. Wrinkled. Red-faced and slippery and making the most outraged little sounds, but she’s perfect. She’s yours.

And Max… Max looks like he’s been struck by lightning. He can’t move at first. Just stands there, one hand braced on the edge of the bed, the other hovering like he’s afraid to touch her. His face is wet with tears. He looks shell-shocked.

“She’s…” he starts, but he can’t finish. His voice breaks again.

You reach for his hand and guide it gently to her. His fingertips brush her hand and her tiny fingers curl around his pinky, as if she already knows him.

“Hi, kleine meid,” he whispers. “I’m your dada.”

Just like that he’s gone.

Hopelessly, entirely, irreversibly in love.

Later, after the visitors come and go after your families cry over tiny fingers and kiss your cheeks with soft, trembling mouths, after nurses shuffle in and out with gentle voices and kind hands the hospital room falls quiet again.

Just the three of you now. The soft hum of machines. The muffled hallway beyond the door. The gentle rustle of a newborn’s breath in the bassinet beside the bed.

Max lies beside you on the narrow hospital bed, somehow fitting his long frame against yours like puzzle pieces. One arm is curled protectively around your back, anchoring you to his chest. The other hand rests on the side of the bassinet, fingers still.

You watch him as he stares at her. He hasn’t looked away in over twenty minutes.

Not since the nurse gently wheeled her over and whispered, “She’s all yours now.”

“She’s got your nose,” you murmur sleepily, the exhaustion pulling at you like a tide, but the kind you’d wade into again without question.

Max smiles, slow and full and a little dazed. His eyes are glassy, bloodshot from lack of sleep and tears he no longer bothers hiding.

“Poor thing,” he says softly.

You chuckle, too tired for more than a breathy laugh. “She’s lucky.”

He looks over to you, his gaze heavy with affection. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there like he’s silently thanking the universe for bringing you through it.

“No,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’m the lucky one.”

You curl into his chest a little deeper, feeling the solid beat of his heart beneath your cheek. His hoodie smells like hospital linen and baby powder and Max, warm, worn-in, familiar.

“You were worried,” you say quietly, almost to yourself.

He nods without hesitation. “Terrified.”

There’s no bravado in his voice now. No need to pretend.

He exhales, glancing back at your daughter. “I’ve been trying to imagine this moment for months. Her face. The sound she’d make. Whether I’d be good enough for her.” His fingers flex slightly against the edge of the bassinet, just brushing the corner. “And now she’s here. And I just keep thinking… how do I live up to her?”

“Still scared?” you whisper.

He hesitates. “Yeah.”

He glances down at the baby again. She’s sleeping now, her tiny fist curled near her cheek, lips parted in a soft, steady rhythm.

“But it’s different now,” he adds. “I think… how is she real? How did we make her? How is she breathing and blinking and making those tiny sounds like it’s the most normal thing in the world?” His voice catches. “How do I ever make sure she knows how much I love her?”

You reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his. He grips yours back immediately, tight, like he needs to feel your pulse to believe any of this is real.

“She already knows,” you whisper. “She’s felt it. She’s felt it every time you talked to her. Every time you rubbed my back or held my hair or teared up during an ultrasound.”

Max looks at you then, and you see it all, the vulnerability, the devotion, the pure, unfiltered wonder that hasn’t left him since the moment she arrived.

You smile through the tears clouding your lashes.

“We’re in this together,” you say.

He nods. “Always.”

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @lenamds @blueskies4everxo @teamnovalak

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kxsagi · 3 days ago

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Bllk with a reader who is always at their home and the moment she isn't they panic/feel lonely lowkey me

“𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧”

a/n: just watched flipped and i need a yearnful man

ft. isagi yoichi, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, kaiser michael, karasu tabito, yukimiya kenyu, shidou ryusei, bachira meguru, ness alexis

isagi yoichi

he walks into the apartment whistling, all happy and boyfriendly, expecting you to be on the couch wrapped in a blanket like a human burrito watching your 20th true crime doc.

but the moment he opens the door and it’s silent… he freezes mid-step like he just triggered a tripwire.

“love? you taking a nap?”

no answer. his eyes dart around like a detective. he starts checking rooms, corners, under the bed?

calls you immediately. your phone rings from the kitchen counter.

“oh my gosh she left her phone. she’s dead. she’s in a ditch.”

doesn’t even sit down. just holds your throw pillow to his chest, stares blankly at the ceiling and whispers, “this is what grief feels like.”

when you walk back in, he’s like, “i thought you got kidnapped and forgot your phone during the struggle. i already made a missing poster.”

you were gone for an hour to buy dish soap.

mikage reo

reo swears he’s the most chill, secure man alive… until he opens the door and you’re nowhere to be seen.

immediately texts you: where are you did i do something be honest. you hate me now right i’ll buy you a new apartment

facetimes you and just stares at the screen without blinking. full deadpan. no words. just sorrow.

“you weren’t here to greet me at the door like a happy little wife. how am i supposed to go on?”

lies dramatically on the couch like he’s in a 1920s soap opera. holds a photo of you to his chest.

considers texting your mom just to feel closer to you.

the moment you walk back in with iced coffee: “oh so you’re alive. and caffeinated. but not emotionally invested in my suffering? okay.”

nagi seishiro

the moment he realizes you’re not home, he literally just… stops functioning.

like, deadass stands in the living room for three minutes straight. motionless.

throws himself on the bed dramatically.

calls you and groans into the mic when you pick up.

“this sucks. i was gonna lay on you like a body pillow.”

ends up opening the fridge 14 times out of boredom, forgetting every time that you’re the one who actually cooks.

texts you “when are you coming home 😩” every 10 minutes and leaves 28 voice notes, all of them sighs.

when you return: “finally. i was thinking about ordering you off amazon if you didn’t show up.”

itoshi rin

rin acts like it’s whatever. says, “she’s probably out. it’s fine.”

it is not fine.

starts pacing the apartment like he’s rehearsing a monologue.

checks the time like he’s your parole officer. opens the closet to see if your shoes are still there.

mutters “what if she met someone smarter. taller. funnier.” like he’s fighting inner demons.

keeps walking into rooms and frowning like they offended him.

when you come back, he’s sitting in the dark, arms crossed.

“you didn’t text me. or call me. or say ‘rinnie, my love, i’ll be back soon.’ what am i supposed to do with that?”

then immediately pulls you into a hug like he’s been deprived of oxygen.

itoshi sae

acts like he doesn’t care. “she’s out. whatever.”

literally sits on the couch with his arms crossed like he’s waiting to argue.

glares at the wall. then at your phone charger. then at your slippers.

ends up scrolling through old texts, rereading the one where you said “brb i’m going pee.”

calls you and doesn’t even say hello. just: “so you abandoned me now?”

you tell him you just went out for groceries and he replies, “okay. so you’d rather be with onions than me. good to know.”

when you come back: “you didn’t even ask if i wanted to come. i could’ve carried the bags. held your hand. flirted with the cashier to get you a discount.”

kaiser michael

absolutely losing it. like, cartoon-level panic.

he opens the door expecting to see you, only to be met with dead silence and a couch that looks too empty.

dramatic gasp.

“she’s gone. my freundin is gone. and i don’t know who i am anymore.”

immediately checks your location. sees you’re at the pet store. starts spiraling.

“what if she meets a guy who likes cats more than me? what if he’s german, too?? no. NO. I’M ONE OF A KIND.”

facetimes you mid-aisle and when you pick up, he says, “don’t buy a hamster, buy a plane ticket back to ME.”

when you return: grabs your face in his hands, all breathless like a war reunion.

“don’t ever leave me again without telling me the exact time, duration, and intention of your trip. and a selfie.”

karasu tabito

the worst combination: clingy and sarcastic.

the moment you’re not home, he sends you a video of him dramatically opening the fridge, seeing it empty, and saying, “wow. abandonment. you left me to starve.”

updates his IG story with a selfie captioned “#widowed.”

facetimes you and holds your blanket up to the screen like, “you see this? this smells like you. this is all i have now.”

calls his mom and says, “remember that girl i told you about? yeah. she left me. she’s dead to me.”

when you get back, he immediately flops on you.

“i couldn’t even be toxic today. who was i gonna annoy? the toaster?? never again, babe. next time you leave, i’m hiding in your purse.”

yukimiya kenyu

starts off normal. reads a book. drinks tea. listens to classical music like a refined man.

but after 45 minutes of silence, he starts looking around like a ghost might appear.

opens the window and sighs like he’s in a french film.

talks to the cat you guys don’t even own: “she’s usually here by now. i hope she’s okay. she’s my sun, my moon, my stars…”

makes himself a sad cup of tea and drinks it in your sweater (that’s too tight for him and the fabric is snapping).

when you finally walk through the door, he says, “oh. you returned. i only had to make three voicemails about how much you mean to me. no big deal.”

hugs you for an entire minute and whispers, “next time, take me with you. i can fit in your tote bag.”

shidou ryusei

bro flips out like a sitcom character whose wife just left him for a yoga instructor.

immediately calls you and when you don’t answer in 0.2 seconds: “babe? where are you?? i’m losing my mind, i think i’m seeing things. the plants are whispering.”

drags your hoodie around the apartment like a lost child. talks to it.

makes a dramatic tiktok where he fake cries into the camera and captions it: “she went outside without me 💔 pray for me y’all”

tries to track your location. can’t. assumes you’re on the run.

when you get back, he clings to you like velcro.

“you LEFT me here, alone, with myself. do you even know how dangerous that is?? never again. we’re getting a gps tracker. download life 360 right now.”

bachira meguru

step 1: walks in.

step 2: realizes you’re not home.

step 3: whispers, “... uh oh.”

this man has the emotional regulation of a bouncy ball. the second he doesn't see you smiling at him from the couch, he starts spiraling like he's in the middle of a villain origin story.

“did she get bored of me? is this my joker arc?”

talks to your plushies like they're your personal council. lines them up and goes, “okay guys, serious meeting. our queen has vanished. thoughts?? theories?? conspiracy??”

makes a whole art piece with crayons titled “come home, baby, i miss you.”

facetimes you with his face one inch from the screen like, “WHERE. ARE. YOU.”

“you said you love me and then you LEFT. you broke the sacred trust. i can never emotionally recover from this.”

when you walk in with bubble tea: “you were gone for so long i started humming to the walls. they’re my friends now. you can’t replace them.”

but then he tackles you in a hug and whines, “next time i’m coming with you. i can fit in a shopping cart if i curl up.”

ness alexis

you are his sunshine. his oxygen. his wi-fi connection.

so the one day you're not home when he walks in with a bright little “i’m back~!” and there’s no answer? he’s devastated.

full meltdown. texts you: i’m home!! wait where are you are you okay?? did someone steal you??? i miss you already. it’s been 3 minutes.

paces around the apartment like a sad little elf, sniffing your perfume from your jacket and sighing like he's in a boyband breakup ballad.

sits on the floor with your fuzzy socks and says, “i wore these once when you weren’t looking. they made me feel safe.”

calls kaiser and says, “yo do you think she left me?” kaiser was like “she went to the pharmacy.” ness: “so she’s gone.”

posts on his close friends story: “miss her. wish she’d come home. i lit a candle for her safety 🕯️😭”

when you come back: “i was gonna knit us matching scarves while crying to sad kpop. you’re lucky you came back in time.”

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niccolites · 3 days ago

Text

a gouge in the wood - unfinished 1.7K words came back wrong au, simon 'ghost' riley x reader cw. violence

The thing wearing your ex-husband’s face stands in your living room and watches you.

You map out where he’s standing, the muck on his boots, flaking off and sticking to your wooden floors. There’s a mad moment where you think it may not be him - might not be Simon. Some other threat, that is raising the hair on the back of your neck. Some faceless military grunt, here to string you up, just like Simon had always feared they would.

You know him though, even when you cannot see his face. Something beyond knowing just the curve of his shoulders, like how he holds his right just an inch further back than his left. Where your amygdala takes over at the sight of him, like you know what he is before you think of his name.

You also know that it cannot be him, when you identified him on that cold autopsy table just a few hours ago.

You hover in the open doorway, eyes on him as if that will stop him from moving, and consider your options. You could run out the door, screaming, but you know his bulk belies his speed. You may make it back onto the step behind you before he caught you, but you wouldn’t get further than that.

You flex your keys in your hand before you step inside and let the door swing shut behind you. His eyes track your movement, dead on, centre. You wonder if you should stop thinking about it as a ‘he’ but rather something else. Something unknown, something that’s alive and grown and decided to invade your home.

“If you’re trying to intimidate me, can you knock it off,” you say, voice slightly tilted as if you want to make it a question. It doesn’t move. “What do you want?”

Now, that generates a response. Tiny, but a slight shift of his head. You’re too far away, but you like to imagine you can see his pupils flex. So, it does want.

Something about that, desire in something that you do not understand, has your body choosing flight. You flinch back, hare brain kicking you towards the door, and it’s on you.

You’re knocked back, skull rattling back against the door, its forearm braced against your chest and the other around your jaw. Thumb pressed into bone, catching sound there and stealing it.

You blink up at him, restrained. It’s Simon, you know it now that he’s closer. His dark eyes, you’d thought he still had his paint on his skin but you can see that it’s a bruise now. It’s also not. Maybe Simon was a little heavy handed in a way that you knew your friends wouldn’t like if they found out, but this was a new level. Simon always knew that the best way to corral you was to create the perimeter around you and let you tire yourself out. Patient, in the way that predators are when they crouch in high grass.

“Simon?” you wheeze, dots around your vision. A question.

The thing wearing your ex-husbands skin says your name. An answer.

You swing your hand up and only feel a brief satisfaction as it cuts the side of his shoulder. The feeling disappears when he doesn’t even flinch as he yanks your keys out and lets them drop to the floor with a terrible clink.

You shriek, muffled under the paw of his hand and he rattles your skull against the wall.

Your vision goes blurry, as if you have been submerged underwater. Pain blossoming out with each thump of your pulse, weighted and red.

You crumple but you’re caught and dragged upwards. You feel like you’re made up of static, as if someone has yanked the station and you’re hovering in some no man's land, an irritating buzzing noise that needles until it's fixed.

Given the way that you’re being carried, tossed over a shoulder and limp, you are placed on your couch with a lot more care than you expect.

You slump to the side, and the black lump that must be Simon - or whatever it is - shifts up and slants a cushion under your head.

He’s saying something, but you feel groggy, sickly. Unable to do anything other than stare at your coffee table as the sounds filter through to you. Water through paper, soggy and ruined.

Simon reaches up and takes off the balaclava, and he looks like he did on that cold table. Stubble grown out, you know he must be complaining about not being able to access a razor. Bruises cutting across his temple to his eyes. They said a bullet to his head. The way that you put down a dog.

“Fuck off,” you slur. He doesn’t crack a smile. He crouches down further in front of you so that your faces are level and you feel peculiar about being so close to his bare face. There had been a layer of deniability that you hadn’t truly believed when he’d been wearing the mask. At least you could maybe start to kid yourself that it isn’t him. The wrinkle of his brow, unbearingly intimate, this close to your eyes.

He reaches his hand out and into your hair. Pain whites out your vision - station found and blaring - and you whimper. “What -”

“Do you feel nauseous?” he asks, pulling his hand back, a jerk in his at your pained noise. He squints at his fingertips, the back of his hand against your cheek. His skin is so cold against your own, a block of ice against your fever.

The pain beats like your heart, and you can barely formulate a thought to force it out as a sentence. You blink at him, dumb and mute.

He shifts his hand and cups your cheek to hold your head steady. A balm, drawing sickness out of you and into him. You shut your eyes, inhaling deeply. A smell of dirt and moss lingers on him, the outside, dragged into your living. “Do you feel nauseous?” he repeats. The LT voice, commanding. You grit your teeth against it, petulant.

“Yes, you fuck,” you groan, refusing to open your eyes again before you sick up all of the food that you ate that day.

He’s satisfied with your response, hand still as steady but melds into the curve of your face. Thumb on your temple, smooths your baby hairs out of your face. Like an apology, like you're a stunned bird in his hands and he didn't mean to break your wing.

“You’re dead,” you say, when he doesn’t move. You can feel the weight of his gaze on your face, but refuse to open your eyes to the rollercoaster that your body is on.

He grunts in response, knees clicking as he shifts on the floor.

No comforting response is forthcoming. You think of the bullet rattling around in his skull. No death will take, not even the real, permanent kind. It’s so ridiculous that you feel a manic laugh start to bubble up in your chest but you stifle it before it can escape.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he barks, shaking your head to jostle it until you cry out.

“Fuck you, asshole, I hope I fall asleep and die, you fuck,” you whimper.

He doesn’t have a further response to that, but stares you down until you stare back. Awake, against your will.

You drop your gaze to his shoulder, can see the cut in his jacket, where you managed to dig your keys in. You reach a hand up and press your thumb into the fabric, trying to part it to reach his flesh.

He lets you, his gaze still heavy on your face as if waiting for you to suddenly fall asleep. The look in his eye is different, but the weight of his attention is the same as it was before. Encumbering, to be loved by Simon. He had clutched on with both hands, but always had the stiff back as if waiting for the command to curl up and die.

You realise that you’re seeking something here that you cannot find in his hands. Some type of truth that touch will provide when your eyes won’t confirm it. His hands could be that cold for any reason. But here, in the meat of his shoulder, this is where you used to tuck your head under when it was cold at night.

There’s no comfort here. Simon is a stiff wall of flesh under your palm. Goose-flesh rise up all over your skin, your body finding a truth that you don’t want to acknowledge. Unsettling, like seeing something out of the corner of your eye and actually catching it in the full of your vision.

You drop your hand, unsettled, and stare at a point over his shoulder.

Once he’s satisfied that you’re not going to drift off and get yourself killed, he gets up slowly. It’s unnerving, watching him move out of your vision and he completely disappears. He’s soundless, the faint shuffle of clothes as he moves before that disappears as well. If it wasn’t for the wet smell of mud that he’s left, you wouldn’t have known that he was in your home at all.

You stare out at your wall, unseeing. Fear of the thing in your home stops you from closing your eyes like you desperately want to. Sleep like molasses that drag your limbs down and leave you heavy. Drift downward like a weighed anchor, drowning.

Time slips away, meaningless. Memories feel like silk, forming in your mind before fluttering away, entire minutes forgotten. One moment Simon isn’t there, and then he’s back. The time between smacks together until it is thin enough to wear through in your mind. “It’s you,” you slur, although you don’t think he is.

He grunts, and reaches beneath you and hoists you up into his arms. The world takes a sharp turn and takes your vision along with it. You groan unhappily, but he ignores you and slings you around until you’re across his shoulders.

A mountain of a man, you had thought once. The view from the top is horrifying now that you’ve reached the peak, you tuck your head into his shoulder to hide from it. You wish he would hit your head again, you don’t remember your last journey up here just a few minutes ago.

“Where we goin’?” you ask, mouth choked in the cotton of his jacket.

“Out,” he says, helpfully. You throw your leg out in a pathetic attempt to kick him, which is so sad that he doesn’t even acknowledge it.

He opens the door of your car and places you in the passenger seat. His hand on your throat as he steadies your head.

It’s starting to rain, fat droplets that smack against the roof of your car.

“I’m going to pass out,” you let him know, polite, at least. The shift of his brow as he goes to snap at you again, but you’re yanked down into a pillowy darkness and you much prefer that company to this one.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #nic writes #undead au #wips #i will come back to this one day. and she will end up as ghoap x reader. but she is NOT working with me rn #im off to my horror anthology BE GONE FROM MY TABS

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paxaz535 · 3 days ago

Text

SLOW SIMMER - FOUR

dallas!paige x privatechef!azzi

note : sorry it took so long , i needed to do a lot of thinking so i can keep this story interesting lol

—————————————

“so… how’d you feel about everyone?” paige asked as she and azzi cleaned up the kitchen.

it was around 11:20 when everyone left the bueckers household. the girls had stayed late, running extra games, and azzi ended up bonding with dijonai and maddy over leftovers and side conversations.

azzi smiled to herself, thinking about what they talked about. “i already love them. they’re funny—especially dijonai. she has no filter,” she laughed, the memory still fresh.

paige chuckled, rinsing out a bowl before putting it in the cabinet. “that’s good to hear,” she said, leaning on the counter. “i thought you were gonna hate them.”

azzi finished cleaning a cup, then mirrored paige’s stance, their eyes locking across the kitchen. “hate is a strong word. i don’t think i could ever hate anything.”

paige gave her a look. “trust me, you hate something.”

azzi played along, leaning in slightly, a small grin on her lips. “and you know this how?”

paige leaned in just an inch closer, her voice dropping. “i know a lot of things. don’t tempt me.”

azzi’s heart fluttered. paige’s tone was soft, low, but teasing. her eyes flickered to the blonde’s lips before returning to her eyes. “yeah?”

paige didn’t budge. “yeah.”

just as azzi opened her mouth to say something, paige’s phone dinged. the sharp sound broke whatever was building between them. both girls flinched back a little as paige sighed and checked her phone, her expression instantly shifting.

“what happened?” azzi asked with a soft chuckle, noticing the way paige’s whole vibe changed.

paige didn’t answer right away. she looked at azzi, then back at her screen. “it’s just… someone i used to talk to. she can’t take a hint that we don’t talk anymore.”

azzi hummed, her smile fading slightly. she didn’t know what that meant, didn’t know if she wanted to. still, it didn’t hurt.

not really.

not yet.

but it felt weird.

‘i don’t blame her,’ she thought, then immediately shook the thought away.

the phone rang again, and paige rolled her eyes before answering with a sharp, dry, “what’s up, bro?”

azzi nearly burst out laughing—she’d never heard paige sound so unbothered.

on the other end, a girl scoffed. “don’t answer the phone like that, i can’t call you no more?”

paige’s tone flattened. “no, you cannot, actually. what do you want?”

then came the bomb.

“girl, you know you miss this pussy. stop playing with me, paige.”

azzi’s eyes went wide, her hand flying to her mouth. she hadn’t expected that. not out loud. not now.

paige froze, clearly just as stunned. azzi made eye contact with her, silently mouthing, i’m gonna go. goodnight.

paige gave a tight nod, sighing heavily as she turned away to keep talking. “watch ya mouth, ‘cause you don’t even know what you talkin’ ‘bout.”

azzi slipped down the hall, quietly shutting her bedroom door behind her.

she didn’t know why hearing that girl bothered her so much.

but it did.

it left a weird twist in her stomach, a tightness in her chest.

because something about that call made her feel like…

whatever her and paige were building—

wasn’t just theirs.

not yet.

and azzi didn’t want to admit how much that bothered her.

she just got some clothes out to shower with, today was long.

she was about to go to the bathroom but when she opened the bedroom door, paige was standing there.

the blonde froze, clearly not expecting azzi to come out at the exact moment she planned on coming in.

azzi froze too, one hand still on the doorknob. “oh,” she mumbled, eyes locking with paige’s.

“hey,” paige said quietly, rubbing the back of her neck. her expression was softer now, different than it was a few minutes ago when she answered that call.

“hi,” azzi replied, stepping back slightly to let her pass. “did you need something?”

paige didn’t move right away. she looked at azzi, then glanced toward the floor before finally meeting her eyes again. “i wanted to say sorry… about earlier.”

“you don’t have to,” azzi said quickly. “it’s not my business.”

“maybe not,” paige nodded. “but it still felt… weird. and you didn’t deserve to hear that.”

azzi looked at her, unsure what to say. the hallway was quiet, a thick silence hanging between them.

“it’s not like i’m mad,” azzi finally said. “i just… wasn’t expecting it.”

paige stepped a little closer, her voice dropping again. “i’m not talking to her anymore. i haven’t for a while. that call? it wasn’t anything.”

azzi nodded, her voice softer. “okay.”

paige noticed the way azzi’s fingers curled slightly around the doorknob, like she didn’t know whether to stay or go.

“i didn’t mean for it to mess up the night,” paige added.

“you didn’t,” azzi said. “it was a good night.”

they stood there for a second longer, quiet again. then paige tilted her head slightly, her eyes gentle. “you were heading to the bathroom?”

azzi nodded.

paige stepped aside. “go ahead. i’ll be out here.”

azzi gave her a small smile, walking past her.

but even as she entered the bathroom, paige’s voice echoed in her mind.

that call wasn’t anything.

so why did it still feel like something?

next day, azzi woke up with the whole scene from last night still replaying in her mind.

the phone call.

the hallway conversation.

the way paige looked at her.

the way she felt.

it was fucking with her brain.

but she had to pull herself together.

this wasn’t supposed to be complicated.

she was here to cook. not to catch feelings.

so she got up, showered, and got dressed—something simple, something comfortable. her apron hung over her arm as she made her way out of the room, trying to clear her head.

what she didn’t expect to see was emma, paige, dijonai, lyss, and arike sitting in the front room. their faces were serious, low voices murmuring back and forth like they were mid-discussion about something important.

emma was the first to notice her. she looked azzi up and down with a soft smile, lifting a brow. “well if it isn’t the chef herself.”

all heads turned.

azzi suddenly felt warm under the pressure of so many eyes.

especially the blue ones.

she stood there for a beat, then forced a small smile. “hey, everyone.”

paige didn’t say anything right away, just looked at her. her gaze wasn’t cold—but it wasn’t easy to read either.

“hey, azzi,” dijonai greeted, patting the empty seat beside her. “come sit. we’re talking about something important.”

emma chuckled, shaking her head. “we’re not dragging her into it just yet. she just woke up.”

azzi glanced at paige again, her chest tightening a little.

“you okay?” lyss asked, catching the slight hesitation in her posture.

“yeah,” azzi nodded quickly. “just a little tired.”

emma stood up, brushing off her jeans. “i was just checking in before heading out. needed to talk to paige about a few things.”

azzi nodded, her hands tightening slightly around the fabric of her apron.

“you cooking this morning?” arike asked, eyes hopeful.

“i was planning to,” azzi answered, a little more gently. “what are we feeling?”

paige finally spoke then, voice soft. “surprise us.”

and for some reason, those two words carried more weight than they should have.

“paige, you love surprises don’t you?” lyss joked, her tone teasing as she threw an arm around dijonai’s shoulders.

paige glanced over at her, unimpressed. “don’t start.”

dijonai smirked, nudging lyss. “nah, she definitely do. remember that time at the team dinner—”

“nope,” paige cut in quickly, holding up a hand. “we are not doing story time right now.”

emma laughed as she grabbed her bag. “i’ll let y’all get back to embarrassing each other. azzi, i’ll text you later, alright?”

“okay,” azzi said softly, offering her a wave as emma made her way out the door.

as soon as it closed behind her, the room shifted a bit. still light, but quieter. azzi moved to the kitchen, her hands already reaching for the pan on instinct.

behind her, paige was watching—she always seemed to be watching lately. the girl who was once just her private chef had somehow started taking up more space.

not in a bad way.

just… noticeable.

“so what kinda surprise are we getting?” arike called from the couch, breaking the silence.

azzi smiled faintly as she opened the fridge. “a good one, hopefully.”

and somehow, she wasn’t just talking about the food.

she heard footsteps behind her and glanced to the side—paige had walked into the kitchen, leaning on the counter like she always did when she was trying to act casual.

“you sleep okay?” the blonde asked, her voice softer now that it was just the two of them.

“yeah,” azzi said, pulling out eggs and some fresh spinach. “woke up kind of in my head, but… i’m good.”

paige nodded slowly, then let a beat pass. “about last night…”

azzi kept her eyes on the cutting board as she cracked an egg, careful and calm. “you don’t have to explain again. it’s fine.”

“i know i don’t have to,” paige said, watching the way azzi moved, “but i want to.”

azzi finally glanced up at her. “okay. then talk.”

paige hesitated, like she was trying to find the right words. “i haven’t talked to that girl in months. it was just one of those people who pops back up for attention, you know? i shut it down as soon as i could. i didn’t want it to mess anything up.”

azzi’s eyes lingered on hers for a second. “why would it mess anything up?”

paige looked at her—really looked. “because… i don’t want you thinking you’re just another person in my space.”

azzi blinked, surprised by the honesty. her heart did that weird flutter again, the one she swore she wasn’t supposed to feel.

“…well,” she said after a moment, turning back to the stove, “if you keep talking like that, i’m gonna burn these eggs.”

paige laughed quietly. “can’t have that.”

azzi smirked, focused on the skillet. “exactly. i’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

the moment settled into something easier—something warm. and while the rest of the girls in the living room teased each other and scrolled their phones, in the kitchen, something quiet but real was beginning to take shape.

“hey— where’s maddy?” azzi asked, glancing toward the living room as she flipped the eggs.

paige turned her head to look too, only just realizing the absence. “yeah, where is maddy?” she called out to the three girls on the couch.

“oh, she’s with her boyfriend,” arike replied casually, not looking up from her phone.

“fiancé,” lyss corrected, grinning. “get it right, boo.”

“same difference,” arike mumbled, rolling her eyes as she leaned back deeper into the couch cushions.

lyss laughed, stealing the throw pillow beside her. “she said she’ll be here for dinner, though. told us not to eat without her.”

azzi raised an eyebrow from the stove. “dinner? we making plans already?”

paige shrugged, leaning her elbow on the counter, chin in hand. “only if you’re cooking.”

“of course i’m cooking.” azzi smirked, “what else am i here for?”

“your sparkling personality,” dijonai teased, sending her a playful wink.

azzi just laughed, shaking her head. “y’all are a mess.”

“and yet you love us,” dijonai grinned.

paige smiled to herself quietly, her gaze lingering on azzi longer than it should’ve.

yeah.

she really did.

“i’m a loveable person. i love everyone.” azzi said with a small shrug, turning back to the stove like it was just a casual statement.

“mmhm,” dijonai drawled from the couch, “but do you love paige?”

paige nearly choked on her water.

azzi froze for a split second—hands still, jaw tightening just slightly—before laughing it off. “i said everyone, didn’t i?”

arike hollered. “that’s a safe ass answer, chef. i see you.”

lyss grinned, nudging dijonai. “you tryna stir the pot before breakfast’s even done?”

“girl, i stir everything,” dijonai said proudly. “food, drama, tension. i’m well-rounded.”

azzi just shook her head, flipping the eggs with a smirk. “y’all are too much this early.”

“you love it,” paige said quietly, still smiling as she watched azzi from the side.

azzi didn’t look at her, but she heard it.

and she felt it.

“maybe,” she muttered under her breath, the tiniest grin tugging at the corner of her lips.

paige heard that maybe—soft, almost too low to catch—but it echoed loud in her chest.

she leaned a little closer across the counter, chin propped in her palm, blue eyes steady on the girl standing at her stove like she owned the whole damn place.

“what was that?” paige asked, teasing, even though she heard her just fine.

azzi didn’t turn around, just kept flipping the eggs and plating the rest of breakfast. “nothing,” she said casually, but her ears were a little pink.

“nah,” lyss called out. “that wasn’t ‘nothing,’ fudd. what you say?”

“yeah, come on now,” dijonai added, grinning. “we all heard something that wasn’t ‘i love everyone’ just now.”

azzi finally turned, setting a plate in front of paige and grabbing another for arike. “i said maybe,” she admitted, locking eyes with the blonde for a half-second. “now eat.”

“mmm. mysterious,” arike grinned as she took her food. “i like her.”

“i been said that,” dijonai muttered, already halfway through a bite.

paige, though, didn’t say anything.

she just stared at her plate for a moment—then up at azzi again.

“thanks,” she said softly.

azzi nodded once. “you’re welcome.”

but as she turned back to the kitchen, that grin wouldn’t leave her face.

and paige?

she was already thinking about dinner.

paige kept eating, but her mind wasn’t fully on the food anymore—even if it was damn near perfect. she was chewing slower, eyes following azzi as the chef moved around the kitchen like it was second nature now.

it wasn’t just the way azzi cooked.

it was the way she made the space feel… soft. warm.

like a home paige didn’t realize she’d been missing.

“yo.” arike’s voice broke through her thoughts. “you good?”

paige blinked. “huh?”

arike raised a brow, a fork mid-air. “you zoned out hella hard just now. you was over there chewing like it was a love song playing in your head.”

lyss and dijonai burst out laughing.

“she’s in deep thought,” lyss said dramatically. “probably imagining her last name on wedding invites.”

“shut up,” paige muttered, but her grin gave her away.

azzi glanced back, eyes flickering between the group and paige. “what’s going on over there?”

“nothing,” paige replied quickly. too quickly.

“mhm,” dijonai smirked. “nothing except our girl here making heart eyes at the chef.”

azzi blushed immediately, turning back to the sink. “y’all are exhausting.”

“you love it,” paige echoed softly.

azzi’s hand paused over a dish for half a second before she kept going.

the room filled with laughter and clinking forks, the smell of breakfast still hanging in the air.

but under it all, something new was brewing—

and it wasn’t just what was on the stove.

“so, azzi.” dijonai spoke, resting her elbow on the counter like she was about to start trouble.

azzi looked up, her brows raised. “yes?”

“you got any plans today?”

azzi thought for a second, sipping on her water. “not that i know of. why, what happened?”

paige’s head turned slightly, eyes narrowing in suspicion as she chewed slowly. she knew that tone in dijonai’s voice. it always meant something.

“good,” dijonai grinned. “because we’re taking you with us.”

azzi laughed softly, intrigued. “where are you taking me?”

“yeah,” paige chimed in, tilting her head, “where are you taking her, nai?”

“chill, p.” dijonai smirked. “you can come too. it’s nothing crazy. we’re just gonna hit the little vintage market downtown and maybe stop by that smoothie place arike’s obsessed with.”

“you didn’t even like that smoothie place last time,” arike said with her mouth full.

“shhh,” dijonai waved her off. “azzi hasn’t been yet. it’s a bonding trip now.”

azzi smiled, her interest piqued. “alright… i’m down. sounds fun.”

“great,” dijonai clapped her hands once. “we’ll leave in like an hour. wear something cute.”

paige leaned over, nudging azzi lightly with her shoulder. “you always wear something cute.”

azzi looked at her, surprised, lips parting to say something—but dijonai cut in.

“aht aht—none of that flirty stuff yet. we on a group trip.”

paige rolled her eyes while azzi just blushed and turned back to her water, smiling into the glass.

this was gonna be a long day.

but probably a good one.

azzi kept it simple—she didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard, but she still wanted to look good.

she pulled on a pair of green cargo jeans that sat just right on her hips, pairing it with a black tube top that hugged her figure in all the best ways. her goddess braids were pulled up into a bun, but a few curls had fallen out, framing her face in a way that felt effortless.

a soft makeup look—light blush, glossed lips, lashes just enough to bat—

and gold hoops to finish it off.

when she stepped out of her room, the conversation in the living room quieted a little too fast.

paige, who had been mid-scroll on her phone, looked up—then kept looking.

“okayyy,” lyss said, dragging the word out with a grin. “chef said outside today.”

“you look good, fudd,” dijonai added. “like, you trying to get chose good.”

azzi blushed, brushing them off with a laugh as she reached for her bag. “it’s just cargo pants.”

“mhm,” arike said, standing and grabbing her keys. “and i’m just 5’9”. let’s roll.”

as everyone headed to the door, paige lingered, walking beside azzi with a smile that felt soft—genuine.

“you really do look good,” she said under her breath.

azzi looked over, smiling back. “thanks. so do you.”

neither of them said anything else.

but they didn’t really need to.

they all piled into dijonai’s car, the group loud and already full of chaotic energy. dijonai slid into the driver’s seat, tossing her phone into the cupholder as she called out, “azzi, shotgun.”

azzi was about to politely decline, but before she could even say anything, she heard lyss behind her.

“wha—baby, i always sit in the front,” lyss said, dramatic as ever, watching azzi reach for the passenger door handle like her title was being stolen.

dijonai turned around with a deadpan expression. “it’s not gonna kill you to sit in the back for a day. calm down.”

lyss folded her arms as she pouted, mumbling under her breath, “this car ain’t even got real legroom in the back.”

“your legs short anyway,” arike teased, already buckled in behind dijonai.

“let azzi have her moment.” paige chimed in.

lyss gasped. “wow. okay. betrayal from all sides.”

azzi, laughing softly, finally got in and shut the door. “y’all are funny.”

dijonai looked over at her once they were settled in. “they do this every time. don’t take it personal.”

“oh i’m not,” azzi replied, smiling. “this is fun.”

dijonai grinned as she started the car. “good. you better get used to us.”

and just like that, they were off—windows down, music blasting, voices overlapping—azzi’s first real day out with the crew.

and so far, it felt right.

“so what’s up with this smoothie place? i love smoothies,” azzi asked, glancing over at dijonai as the car rolled through a yellow light.

the older girl had on black sunglasses, her jaw set like she was driving in a Fast & Furious sequel.

“first of all,” dijonai started, eyes not leaving the road, “this spot is it. fresh fruit, they don’t use that fake-ass syrup. and they put this granola crumble on top of the smoothies-in-a-bowl that’ll make you rethink your whole life.”

“they do be hittin’,” arike added from the back, chewing gum loudly. “i ain’t even like smoothies like that ‘til i came here.”

“same,” paige chimed in, turning to look at azzi. “i get the dragonfruit one. fire.”

lyss leaned forward from the backseat, her arm hanging between the front seats. “azzi, don’t listen to them—get the pineapple mango one with the extra honey. that’s the best.”

“see? already starting,” dijonai muttered, smirking. “you’re gonna have to make your own decision, fudd.”

azzi laughed, her gold hoops catching the sunlight as she shook her head. “this sounds like serious business.”

“it is,” paige said, tapping her phone like she was preparing a whole review. “smoothie politics in this car are intense.”

“y’all lucky i like y’all,” azzi teased, looking out the window as they turned into the lot. the spot was small but cute—plants in the windows, people sitting outside with bright bowls and even brighter drinks.

“welcome to the jungle,” dijonai grinned as she parked.

“don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

they all piled out of the car, the sun warm against their skin as they headed toward the shop. the smell of fresh fruit, honey, and something faintly tropical hit azzi immediately.

“this place smells good already,” she muttered, taking it in.

“just wait,” arike said, holding the door open with a little bow. “ladies first.”

azzi chuckled, stepping inside with the others. it was cozy but vibrant—plants hanging from the ceiling, a chalkboard menu with colorful writing, and a few shelves of granola and pressed juices off to the side. the energy felt local, personal… kind of like the food azzi liked to make.

“i’m telling you,” lyss whispered as they walked up to the counter, “one bite and you’re gonna understand why i almost fought arike last time over the last açai bowl.”

“she’s not lying,” arike added, arms folded. “i didn’t get the last one. and that still hurt.”

paige stood beside azzi, glancing up at the menu. “you want me to help you pick?”

azzi looked over at her, their shoulders nearly touching. “nah, i think i wanna try that pineapple mango one lyss was raving about.”

lyss pointed at her from the back of the line, “you will not regret that.”

they all placed their orders, laughing through it as arike fumbled her card and dijonai made a big deal out of getting two bowls “just in case one doesn’t hit.” while they waited, they found a spot outside at a corner table under a shaded umbrella.

azzi sat between paige and lyss, and for a moment, it felt like she’d been part of the group forever.

“so,” lyss started, poking at her straw, “now that we’ve all officially adopted you, what are your weekend plans lookin’ like?”

azzi looked around the table, everyone waiting, playful curiosity in their eyes. she smiled softly, realizing she didn’t mind being asked.

“honestly?” she said, pulling her hair back into place. “no plans yet.”

“good,” dijonai nodded. “you do now.”

“good,” dijonai nodded, popping the top off her smoothie bowl. “you do now.”

“oh, word?” azzi laughed, raising a brow. “y’all just assign plans to me now?”

“absolutely,” lyss said, already halfway through her drink. “you’re one of us now. no escape.”

arike leaned across the table, spoon in hand. “we’re thinking a beach day. well… more like a lake day, technically. there’s this spot about 30 minutes out. not too many people, chill vibes, good scenery.”

“and snacks,” dijonai added, pointing her spoon at azzi. “which is where you come in.”

“i had a feeling this was food-related,” azzi muttered, shaking her head with a smile.

“i mean,” paige said, leaning back in her chair and turning her cup in her hand, “if we’re all gonna be outside for hours, wouldn’t it make sense to have, like… gourmet sandwiches?”

“gourmet sandwiches?” arike snorted. “you bougie now?”

paige gave her a dry look. “have you had azzi’s sandwiches?”

arike raised her hands in surrender. “point taken.”

azzi laughed, covering her mouth. “fine. i’ll make something. but y’all better bring the drinks and entertainment.”

“done,” dijonai nodded. “you focus on the food, we got the rest.”

they all clinked their cups together like it was some kind of unspoken contract. and just like that, azzi had weekend plans. not because she asked for them—but because this group had a way of pulling you in.

paige leaned close again, voice low just for her.

“sorry in advance if they get too loud or competitive.”

azzi turned her head slightly, their faces just a little too close.

“i think i’ll be okay,” she whispered back.

“they feel kinda like family already.”

paige’s lips curved into something soft—real—not the camera-ready kind of smile azzi had seen on tv or in press photos. this one was for her.

“that’s good,” paige said, still holding her gaze. “they can be a lot, but… they’re solid people.”

azzi nodded, her eyes flicking down to her smoothie for a second, then back up. “i can tell.”

their moment was broken when lyss let out a dramatic groan from across the table.

“can y’all stop whispering and start planning the vibes? like… what kind of music are we bringing? cause if y’all think i’m listening to country the whole ride—”

“girl, no one listens to country,” dijonai deadpanned.

“you’d be surprised,” arike chimed in.

“uh huh, and you be the main one knowing the lyrics when it come on,” lyss shot back, pointing at her with a plastic spoon.

“okay but let’s not act like azzi don’t give off r&b picnic playlist energy,” maddy added as she rejoined the group with her drink in hand, having finally arrived.

“mads! i thought you weren’t coming back until later on?” dijonai asks as she sipped her drink.

maddy shook her head, “something told me to check arike’s location so i came here.”

azzi laughed, leaning back in her seat. “wait- r&b picnic?what does that even mean?”

“it means you got the vibe,” maddy said, sliding into the last empty chair. “like, the soft vocals, sunset lighting, wine-in-a-jar aesthetic. that’s you.”

paige, now clearly enjoying this, raised a brow. “wine-in-a-jar?”

“you know exactly what i’m talking about,” maddy smirked.

azzi shook her head with a grin, letting their banter wash over her. she wasn’t used to being so naturally folded into a friend group—let alone one that felt this easy. this seamless.

it was like they’d known her longer than just a few days.

paige must’ve sensed something in her silence because she bumped her knee against azzi’s gently under the table.

“you good?”

azzi glanced at her, then nodded. “yeah. i’m really good.”

and for the first time in a while, she actually meant it.

they stayed out there for a while—long after the smoothies were finished and the bowls were scraped clean. the conversation drifted from music and weekend plans to random “would you rather” questions, embarrassing college stories, and heated debates over which disney channel original movie was the best.

azzi didn’t speak all the time, but when she did, the girls listened. laughed. pulled her in even tighter.

it wasn’t just paige making her feel welcome—it was all of them.

eventually, the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a soft golden light over the patio. arike stretched her arms dramatically. “alright, i need to get back before i pass out.”

“same,” lyss yawned, tossing her empty cup in the trash. “we still on for the lake?”

“yes,” dijonai confirmed. “saturday morning. we meet at mine.”

“i’ll bring the speaker,” maddy added, already typing something into her phone.

“i’ll bring towels and extra sunscreen,” lyss said.

“i’ll… bring myself,” arike shrugged, earning a few laughs.

paige turned to azzi as everyone stood and started filing toward the car. “you need anything for it? i can pick up ice or coolers if you don’t have enough.”

azzi smiled, pulling her braids back into place. “nah, i think i got it covered. i’ve done a few beach picnics before.”

“of course you have,” paige smirked, nudging her playfully.

“chef life,” azzi shrugged, then paused. “but… thanks. really. this was fun.”

“you don’t gotta thank me,” paige said, holding the car door open for her this time. “you’re stuck with us now.”

as they drove back, azzi looked out the window, her face lit by the warm pinkish light of the sunset.

she couldn’t explain it, but something about today shifted things inside her.

she didn’t know what it meant yet. but it felt… right.

like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi

232 notes · View notes

alinathinkstoomuch · 17 hours ago

Text

CLOCKED IN

pairing: aaron hotchner x fake!fiancee!reader summary: hotch is trying his hardest to keep it together when your so-called friends crash the night out, good thing the bau are world class shit stirrers, based on this request. warnings: fluff, protective hotch but also protective bau!! brief reference to them meeting which can be read here word count: 1.3k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

Hotch was, against all odds, and probably his own expectations, actually having a good time. Shocking, really. But he knew exactly why, it was you. You sitting under the glittering mirrorball light, talking with your hands mid-explanation.

It was your first official time meeting the team, and he wasn’t even a little bit surprised by how quickly you charmed every single person at the table. You had that effect on people. It was something he’d always admired about you, and okay, maybe envied a little too. He wasn’t exactly known for being warm or approachable. His voice didn’t magically pull smiles from strangers. Yours did.

And yet somehow, you—completely out of the blue—had walked into a bar similar to this one and asked him, a total stranger, to pretend to be your fiance for the night. Still one of the most absurd things he’s ever heard and he deals with absurd for a living.

Maybe that bit of envy came from a selfish place, though. Because he liked to think that the effervescent side of you was something you saved just for him, but it wasn’t because you were like that with everyone. All grins, all giggles, all theatrics because that’s who you were. And it made him furious inside to imagine anyone taking advantage of that. Like those awful friends who made you feel like you had to lie in the first place.

Still, in a roundabout, slightly messed-up way, he guessed he owed them one. Because their cruelty had delivered you straight to him.

He was mid-sip of his drink when he caught the way your smile wobbled. And when you did a double take towards the front door, his eyes were inclined to follow to see who or what he was going to have to glare at for sucking the light from your face that fast.

He didn’t even try to hide the exasperated sigh that left him.

“Oh boy,” you muttered, eyes still on the door.

“Do you know them?” JJ asked, leaning forward over a cluster of empty cocktail glasses. “Because they’re pointing.”

“And coming over,” Morgan added, eyebrows raised.

You straightened in your seat. “That’s…the quarter of the group responsible for me meeting Aaron.”

“No!” Penelope gasped, hand flying to her chest. “You mean those friends? The ones you had to lie to? The whole fake-fiancé saga?”

“In the flesh,” you confirmed, grabbing your drink and taking two very necessary gulps as Aaron braced himself for the evening to dissolve into performative lunacy.

You shifted in your seat beside him, shoulders going stiff in that I’m fine, this is fine way that meant the opposite. And yeah, his jaw clenched. Because the idea of you having to perform just to feel safe, or liked, or respected? Made his blood run hot. Especially when you were surrounded by people who actually saw you—really saw you—and didn’t need a single performance to adore you.

“Oh my god! Okay! We all have very important parts to play,” Penelope whisper-yelled at the table.

“Just don’t make it weirder than it has to be,” Emily muttered, toying with her paper straw.

“You want another drink?” Rossi nudged Aaron who just glared at the older man. “Come on, lighten up. I didn’t get to see you in fiancé-action last time.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Hotch said dryly, reaching over and resting his hand over yours in a squeeze.

You turned to face him and the panicked look on your face made his stomach knot. “I’m sorry for this. I had no idea they’d be here, I haven’t even spoken to them in months.”

“You don’t owe me an apology, just like you don’t owe them a damn thing.” His tone softened. “But if you want an out, just say the word, I’ll make up an excuse and we’re gone.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but it was too late.

“Wow,” came a voice you knew all too well. “Look who it is.”

“Veronica.” You offered a perfectly polite, perfectly fake smile. “Dani,” you added, glancing at her tagalong.

“Mind if we sit with your fiancé and friends?” Veronica asked, already pulling a chair over from the table behind because she wasn’t actually asking or waiting for permission. She wedged herself in between you and Emily.

Dani copied her motions, plopping herself down between Penelope and Spencer. The poor genius looked like he was calculating the fastest way to disassociate, especially when Dani’s manicured hands rested a little too close to his drink.

“So,” Veronica said, all teeth. “Are you going to introduce us?” She glanced around the table. “How do you all know the happy couple?”

“We work with Hotch,” Morgan answered smoothly, lifting his glass. “FBI.”

“Oh. Wow. That’s… intense.”

“Depends on the day,” Emily chimed in, “But yeah, keeps us busy.”

Veronica’s icy gaze slid to you, her mouth twitching. “Must be nice. All that… structure and stability. Probably pays off a little more than fashion, huh?”

You barely had time to get a word out before Penelope jumped in for you. “Oh, sweetie. One campaign of hers pays more than my entire annual salary. And I’m not exactly working for peanuts.”

You let out a sheepish laugh, just as Aaron’s thumb pressed gently against your hand, as if reminding you to breathe.

“Anyway,” Dani piped up, suddenly remembering she had both a voice and a personality, “how’s wedding planning going? You must be deep in it by now, right?”

“Weren’t you just looking at venues?” Rossi added with a grin, like he’d been personally waiting for this moment. Hotch made a mental note to get him store-brand whiskey for his next birthday.

“We were,” Hotch replied as casually as he could manage. “She wants a beach wedding. I want one where her dress doesn’t blow into the ocean.”

Morgan snorted while JJ shook her head, trying and failing to hide a smile.

“Tell the truth,” Emily grinned. “You just don’t want sand in your shoes.”

“I don't want sand in my everything,” Hotch said flatly, taking a sip of his drink at the involuntary conversation.

“Fair,” Morgan laughed, tipping his glass towards him. “Sand gets everywhere. Man’s got a point.”

“Well, the guest list must be pretty large then,” Veronica went on, smiling just a little too sweetly. “Half the FBI, and of course us, your best friends. You’ll need something that can accommodate everyone.”

“We’re keeping it small,” Hotch almost snarled, his tone landing somewhere between polite restraint and you’re not fucking invited. Not that there was an actual wedding, but if he ever did marry you, those two would be the last names on the list.

“Oh! But you have to have bridesmaids, right?” Dani pressed on, gesturing between herself and Veronica. “I mean, you’re probably thinking of us, your best friends—”

“We haven’t gotten that far,” you cut her off.

“Besides,” Emily added with a shark-like smile, “it’s so hard to find dresses that don’t clash with fragile egos.”

Your eyebrows shot up before you could stop them. Morgan was grinning like a man thoroughly entertained. JJ stifled a laugh behind a cough. And Spencer? He just looked politely baffled, having subtly nudged his drink as far away from Dani’s claws as possible without making it look like he was giving it to Rossi.

Hotch, meanwhile, added a new line to his growing mental list: whatever bottle Emily wanted for her birthday, she was getting the top shelf version. Hell, maybe two.

Some of the tension in his chest eased a little and he hoped yours had too. Because if there was one thing his team excelled at, it was rallying around someone they’d decided was theirs. And judging by the grins, side-eyes, and Emily’s very intentional lack of filter, the BAU had officially clocked in.

Not for a case.

For you.

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uncuredturkeybacon · 23 hours ago

Text

𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you go to your first basketball game and didn't expect something more

You were exhausted. Not in the tired of life way, just the overwhelmed by glamour kind of way. The Formula 1 movie premiere had been a blur of flashbulbs, champagne flutes, and glimmering gowns. You weren’t a driver, but you may as well have been with the way the cameras hounded you and Charles from the moment you stepped onto the red carpet.

It never really stopped, that attention. Not when you were the younger sister of Charles Leclerc and one of the very few women working as a Formula One race engineer—let alone one who’d made it onto the Ferrari team by twenty-three. People were interested. People always had questions. And your face? Apparently marketable enough for every tabloid to want it next to your brother’s whenever you were in the same city.

So, yeah. You were exhausted.

Which is why the idea of going to a basketball game sounded... almost rebellious in its normalcy.

You leaned your head on Charles’s shoulder as the car rolled through Manhattan traffic, humming under your breath. “I still can’t believe you dragged me into that afterparty last night.”

Charles snorted, relaxed in his seat with Alexandra curled up against his other side. “You say that, but you were the one doing shots with Lando.”

“I did one shot with Lando,” you corrected, “because he said I was too uptight.”

Alex laughed softly. “He also said you should be in front of the camera instead of hiding behind pit walls.”

You groaned. “He says that every time. I fix your telemetry one time during qualifying and suddenly I’m Angelina Jolie.”

Charles grinned and gave your hand a squeeze. “You just hate being famous.”

“I don’t hate it,” you murmured, lips quirking. “I just hate not being able to disappear.”

And that was really it. You hadn’t told anyone outside your inner circle about your plan for today. A quiet trip to the Barclays Center. Just you, Charles, and Alex.

You’d mentioned it in passing after breakfast this morning, still sipping your iced coffee, eyes puffy with sleep.

“I’ve never seen a basketball game in person,” you said, squinting at your phone. “New York Liberty’s playing tonight.”

Charles blinked at you across the kitchen island. “You want to go?”

You shrugged. “Kind of curious. I know nothing about it, but the atmosphere seems cool when I googled it.”

“You google everything,” Alex teased you, whited you just shrugged at.

“Alright.” He pulled out his phone. “I’ll text my manager. We’ll sort it.”

And of course, being Charles, he sorted it within half an hour. Three courtside seats. No fanfare or sponsor ties. Just you three, sitting down to watch women throw a ball around and, hopefully, scream at each other with intense athleticism. It sounded oddly soothing.

Now the black SUV pulled up to the Barclays Center and the street buzzed with energy. The pre-game crowd was thicker than you expected. People in teal and sea foam green jerseys stood in clumps on the sidewalk, others in navy and silver.

You read a few of the names on the backs of shirts. Jones. Ionescu. Bueckers. That last one you pronounced in your head like “Buckers” before second-guessing yourself.

As the door opened, Charles stepped out first, always the gentleman, offering a hand to help Alex out next. You slid out after them, a little disoriented by the shift in atmosphere. Less polished than the premiere, but more alive somehow. No tuxedos or gowns—just sneakers, t-shirts, music blasting from speakers along the entryway.

You adjusted your sunglasses, even though it was nearly evening, and tugged your denim jacket tighter around you. The press hadn’t followed. No one here really cared mush about who you were. A few teenagers glanced at Charles—probably Formula 1 fans—but no cameras. No interviews. No one asking how Charles thinks of the season so far, how no one asks you about updates on the cars.

Just... peace.

“Didn’t think there’d be this many people,” you said under your breath as you approached the VIP entrance.

“Basketball’s apparently big here,” Alex replied, brushing her hair over one shoulder. “The Liberty are kind of a big deal.”

You tilted your head. “Do you know anything about it?”

“Enough to pretend,” she said with a grin.

“Perfect. I’ll follow your lead.”

Security ushered you in quickly once credentials were checked—Charles’s manager had arranged everything—and the cool of the arena swallowed you whole. Air conditioning, the sharp scent of popcorn and floor polish, and the distant thud of basketballs echoed in your ears.

You followed a staff member through the lower tunnels, emerging out into the blinding brightness of the court.

And just like that, you were courtside.

It was... closer than you expected.

You could see the lights glaring off the court. Hear the rubber of sneakers squeaking with warmup drills. Players darted up and down the court, long-limbed and agile, even just jogging. You didn’t know who was who, but one team was in blue warm-ups and the other in black.

Someone was shooting three-pointers with precision. Another sprinted from baseline to half court and back, ponytail whipping behind her like a comet trail.

“Bloody hell,” Charles muttered beside you, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket. “They’re fast.”

“Mmhm,” you said, barely hearing him.

One of the players jogged past, close enough to see the tiny bead of sweat trickling down the side of her face. She didn’t look over, too focused on her footwork. Her jersey read BUECKERS in crisp blue letters across the back.

You blinked.

Oh. That name again.

You leaned toward Alex. “Is that... Buckers? Like the jersey we saw outside?”

Alex nodded. “Yeah. She’s really famous, I think. Played for UConn. Supposed to be a big deal for the Wings this year.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “How do you know that?”

“Google is a wonderful tool, hermana.”

You studied the woman as she slowed to a jog near the bench, catching a water bottle and tipping it up with ease. Blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail, pale skin, strong arms that flexed easily with every movement. She had a kind of presence. Not in the way F1 drivers did—loud, cocky—but... quietly intense.

You tilted your head. “She looks like she could stare through someone’s soul.”

Charles chuckled. “Don’t let her stare at you like that. You’ll explode.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it.

The arena began to fill. The crowd’s energy ramped up with every minute closer to tip-off. Announcers boomed over the speakers. Lights dimmed, and spotlights painted patterns across the hardwood.

You settled into your seat, tucking one ankle over your knee and balancing a bottle of water between your palms. The back of your neck buzzed with anticipation, though you couldn’t say why. Maybe it was just the unknown—this whole world of sport you knew nothing about. Maybe it was the air conditioning. Or maybe it was the fact that Bueckers, whoever she really was, had just glanced toward your row like she knew exactly who you were.

But she didn’t. Did she?

It started with a tap.

A quiet one, like the soft thud of a butterfly wing against your skin. You were distracted by the sweep of pregame lights moving across the ceiling, the slight back and forth between Charles and Alex beside you and by the rhythmic sound of basketballs echoing like thunder on the court.

You didn’t notice the two players breaking away from warmups at first, not until you caught a shift in the atmosphere. Like energy moving in a new direction.

And then, there it was. A gentle, almost tentative voice near your shoulder.

“Hi. Um. Are you—are you Charles’s sister?”

You turned and blinked.

It was her.

Bueckers. The name you’d only just learned a few minutes ago. She was taller than you’d expected up close, but not by much. Her cheeks were flushed from warmups, blonde hair tied in a tight ponytail. Her jersey was still partially tucked in, and she was holding her water bottle in both hands like it might anchor her to the moment.

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your mouth. “Depends who’s asking.”

She let out a soft breath, something between a chuckle and a sigh of relief. “Just a fan.”

That surprised you. “You’re a fan of me?”

Paige shook her head, then immediately nodded, then looked like she regretted both. “No, I mean—yes. Not like in a weird way. Just... I’ve seen you on the screen sometimes during races. You always looked beaut—uh, I mean—focused and serious.”

You blinked again. “You follow Formula 1?”

“Arike’s girlfriend is obsessed,” Paige replied, glancing quickly over her shoulder. “She’s a huge Ferrari fan. So Arike’s always hearing about your brother. And I guess I kind of got sucked up in it once I moved to Dallas.”

You glanced past her. Sure enough, one of her teammates—the one with the wicked jumper during warmups, now confirmed as Arike—was enthusiastically talking to Charles. She looked slightly overwhelmed, and very excited, holding her phone in one hand as she grinned up at him like he’d just won her a car.

Your eyebrows lifted. “Wow. That’s not something I expected today.”

“Yeah,” Paige murmured, and when you turned back to her, she was already looking at you again. “Me neither.”

You didn’t know what it was, exactly. Maybe the nerves in her voice, maybe the way she rocked slightly on her feet like she was resisting the urge to bolt—but it made you soften.

You held out your hand. “I’m Y/N.”

Her smile grew. “Paige.”

You nodded. “Ah, Paige. It’s nice to finally know the first name.”

She laughed. “You didn’t know?”

“Nope,” you said, tipping your head. “Just kept seeing Buckers jerseys everywhere.”

Paige’s ears went a little pink, and she tucked a loose piece of hair behind one ear, fingers fidgeting with the elastic of her jersey. “Um, it’s Bueckers actually. The ‘u’ is silent.”

“Bueckers. I apologize,” you said.

“It’s okay,” she gave a shy smile. “You, um. You’re really here for a game?”

You glance back out to the court, where the rest of the Wings and Liberty were still running drills. “First one ever. Thought I’d see what all the hype is about.”

She grinned. “You picked a good one. Liberty versus Wings is never boring.”

“I wouldn’t know,” you said lightly. “I’ve never watched basketball before. Been surrounded by race cars all my life.”

Paige laughed again, lighter this time. “That’s okay. I know nothing about racing except that I can’t even go-kart without spinning out.”

You smiled. “Maybe we can teach each other.”

The words hung in the air, light but charged. Paige’s eyes flickered to your mouth before quickly darting away again. You didn’t miss it.

“So,” you said, shifting in your seat so you were angled slightly more toward her, “are you just saying hi, or are you here on official wingwoman duty for Arike?”

She groaned softly, but she was smiling. “She begged me to come over. She got too nervous and didn’t want to go alone.”

“Too nervous?” you asked, genuinely curious. “Charles is like... a walking golden retriever. He’s the least intimidating person I know.”

“I think that’s why she’s nervous,” Paige said, leaning slightly closer. “She wants to make a good impression. Her girlfriend’s always saying how cool he is. Especially his girlfriend. Plus, Arike’s not great with... subtlety.”

You snorted. “I can tell. She’s practically vibrating.”

Paige’s gaze lingered on you for a second longer before she pulled back slightly, clearing her throat. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t be bothering you before the game.”

“You’re not bothering me,” you said easily. “I feel like I’m the one that’s bothering you. But this is already more fun than I expected.”

She grinned. “What did you expect?”

You shrugged. “To sit here awkwardly while everyone screamed around me. To not understand what was happening. To check my phone halfway through the second quarter.”

“And now?”

You looked at her, really looked, and smiled softly. “Now I kind of want to stay until the very end.”

Her blush returned, stronger this time.

The crowd began to rise in volume as the clock above the court ticked closer to tip-off. Music pulsed through the speakers. A Liberty player dunked during layup lines and the crowd roared. Paige glanced toward the bench.

“I should probably get back,” she said, sounding reluctant.

You tilted your head. “Are you starting?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “But I’ll—um. I’ll try not to trip in front of you.”

You smirked. “No promises from me. I might cheer for the other team just to keep you on your toes.”

Her mouth parted like she didn’t know whether to laugh or challenge you. “You wouldn’t.”

You lifted a brow. “Wouldn’t I?”

She bit her lip. “Well... if you change your mind, I’ll be number five. Wings jersey. You know. Just in case you decide you want to cheer for the right side.”

You leaned back, eyes gleaming. “We’ll see how you play.”

She took a few steps back, still facing you, then finally turned around just as Arike finished her impromptu photo with Charles and bounded after her.

You watched her go—watched the easy way she moved, the subtle glance she cast over her shoulder before disappearing behind the bench.

Alex elbowed you gently. “So. That was a very long conversation for someone who only came over because of Arike.”

You tried for casual. “She was being polite.”

Charles snorted. “Mon dieu. She was flirting and she was terrible at it.”

“She was sweet,” you corrected, still smiling faintly.

Alex leaned in. “And you liked it.”

You didn’t say anything. Just sipped your water, eyes trailing back to where Paige now stood with her teammates, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet, gaze already scanning the court—but every now and then, flickering right back to you.

And each time it did, your heart fluttered a little faster than it had on any starting grid.

It wasn’t obvious at first.

You weren’t sure what to watch during a basketball game—when to focus on the ball, when to look at the off-ball movement or when to just follow the flow of the players gliding across the court like it was muscle memory. The speed surprised you. The precision. The sheer athleticism of it all.

But what surprised you most was how often your eyes were drawn back to her.

She moved like she didn’t need to think, like the court was just an extension of her breath. One second, she was at the top of the arc calling for the ball, the next, she was slashing into the paint, drawing a defender with her before dishing out a no-look pass that made the crowd gasp and a teammate drain a three.

You leaned forward unconsciously. “She’s really good,” you murmured.

Charles glanced sideways. “You mean Paige?”

“Mhm,” you said without looking away. “She plays like she’s solving a puzzle no one else can solve.”

“She has vision,” Alex added. “Like a driver who sees the apex before the turn.”

You nodded, eyes narrowing slightly as Paige picked off a lazy pass and darted up court in transition. She didn’t rush, didn’t force anything—just read the defender’s body language and timed her steps perfectly before finishing with a layup that rolled off her fingers like silk.

The scoreboard ticked up in the Wings’ favor.

And Paige—oh, Paige—jogged back on defense with a half-smirk tugging at her mouth. Her eyes scanned the front row, just briefly, but when they landed on yours, they didn’t move.

You didn’t either.

Her gaze lingered a second too long. She gave the smallest shrug of her shoulders—barely noticeable—but it said everything. That one was for you.

You blinked. A beat passed. And you smiled, just a little.

Timeout.

The coaches called for a break, and both teams huddled by their benches. Paige wiped her face with her towel, bouncing on her toes, sipping from her water bottle, listening with half an ear to what her coach was saying.

But her eyes found you again.

You didn’t pretend not to notice.

She raised a hand and waved—quick, subtle, a flick of fingers from low by her waist like she didn’t want anyone else to see.

You lifted your brows, amused.

She smiled again—shy, still—but different now. Confident in a way that felt like a quiet dare.

“She’s waving at you,” Charles said, practically choking on his soda.

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, thank you, Cha.”

“I’m just saying,” he replied, grinning like an idiot. “You’re distracting a professional athlete in the middle of a game. That’s impressive.”

“I’m not trying to distract her,” you muttered.

Alex smirked. “You’re not not trying.”

You crossed one leg over the other, resting your elbow on the armrest between you and Charles. Paige was back in the game now, standing on the wing waiting for the inbound pass. She glanced toward you again.

You didn’t wave, didn’t smile. You just raised one brow and tilted your head like Alright, Bueckers. Show me something.

And she did.

She moved off the ball like she was built for it—cutting, darting, changing direction so fast the Liberty defender couldn’t keep up. She caught the pass mid-motion, turned, and let it fly from just beyond the arc.

Swish.

The net barely moved.

Half the crowd screamed.

The Wings bench stood up, cheering.

And Paige? She jogged back, biting her bottom lip like she was trying to hide a grin—but didn’t try that hard. Her eyes met yours again, and this time she winked.

Winked.

You could feel Charles and Alex practically vibrating next to you.

“Ay dios mío” Alex said under her breath. “You’re in so deep already.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly. “I just met her. I didn’t even know how to say her last name.”

“You know,” Charles said, “I always imagined you’d fall for someone complicated. Mysterious. Dangerous.”

“She plays basketball,” you said flatly.

“She’s clearly dangerous to your self-control.”

You ignored him. Sort of.

Because you were watching her again. Watching the way she locked in when she played. The way her teammates looked to her instinctively. The way she trusted her first move—no hesitation, no overthinking. Paige Bueckers played basketball the way you did data analysis mid-race… fast, decisive, and like the margin for error was nonexistent.

And every time she made a big play, her eyes flicked back to you.

Like she wanted to know if you’d seen.

Like she needed you to.

By halftime, your heart was pounding harder than it had in any garage on race day.

You’d come here for something simple. A distraction. A break from being Charles Leclerc’s little sister or Ferrari’s engineering prodigy. Monaco’s Princess.

Instead, you got Paige Bueckers.

And every time she looked at you, it felt like she saw right through the noise.

The final buzzer sounded like a sigh.

The game had been close—closer than anyone had predicted from what you gathered in the crowd chatter around you. Liberty fans were loud, but by the fourth quarter, you started to hear more Wings chants pick up momentum. You didn’t understand every foul or call or play, but you understood Paige.

You understood how her team trusted her. You understood how she handled pressure like it was gravity. You understood how, after every big moment, her eyes found you.

And now, it was over. Scoreboard locked. Jerseys drenched in sweat. Fans buzzing in that familiar post-sport high.

You stayed seated as most of the arena stood to leave. Charles was scrolling through his phone, nodding occasionally at a fan who called his name but otherwise keeping low-key. Alex sipped the last of her drink, curled comfortably against his arm, while you just… watched.

The court was still alive.

Paige was surrounded—first by teammates, then reporters, then fans pressed against the rails. She was gracious with each person, smiling wide in photos, laughing at something a little girl said, holding her sharpie with care as she signed the backs of posters, jerseys, and phones.

“She’s got that same energy you do after a podium,” Alex said gently.

You glanced at her. “Huh?”

Alex nodded toward Paige. “A little exhausted, a little adrenaline high, kind of glowing but pretending not to notice.”

You looked back. Paige was crouched to take a photo with a kid in a Wings jersey two sizes too big for him. She gave the camera a thumbs up. Her pony was messy now, strands of blonde hair falling loose around her face.

She glanced toward you. Saw you still there.

And smiled like it meant something.

You felt it like a pull.

Paige whispered something to a staffer and took a final photo, then jogged toward the bench. Her teammates were heading back to the locker room, but she lingered. You stood as she approached, not sure what you were expecting.

“Hey,” she said, a little breathless. “You’re still here.”

You smiled. “I said I’d stay until the end.”

Her eyes flicked to Charles and Alex, who were now standing just behind you, watching quietly. Paige’s cheeks flushed, but she held her ground.

“I, uh—I have to do post-game interviews,” she said, almost apologetically. “Media stuff. Probably fifteen, twenty minutes. But I was wondering…” She shifted, bouncing slightly on her toes. Her voice was softer now, meant only for you. “Would you wait?”

You blinked. “Wait for you?”

She nodded. “I just— I’d really like to talk more. If you want. I don’t know if you’re going somewhere after or flying out soon or—”

“I’m here tonight,” you said, cutting gently through her nerves. “We’re in New York for another day.”

“Oh. Good. Okay.” Her smile was so honest it made your chest feel warm. “So... would you?”

You could feel Charles and Alex still watching, but they didn’t say a word. You tucked your hands in your jacket pockets and tilted your head.

“You want me to wait around in an empty arena just so you can talk to me again?”

Paige met your gaze. Didn’t back down. “Yes.”

The answer was so simple it made you grin.

“Okay,” you said. “I’ll wait.”

Relief bloomed across her face. “Cool. I won’t be long. Promise.”

She started to turn, paused, then hesitated before glancing at Charles.

“I’m a big fan of yours, by the way,” she added quickly, cheeks turning red. “Both of you. You guys looked really good in Monaco.”

Charles lit up. “Merci. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear most of that conversation earlier.”

Paige laughed nervously. “Noted.” Then she looked back at you. “Be right back.”

You watched her disappear into the tunnel, every bit of her confidence lingering behind in the way she glanced at you over her shoulder one last time.

When she was gone, Charles bumped his shoulder lightly into yours.

“Does she always look at people like that?”

You raised a brow. “Like what?”

“Like you’re the only thing in the room worth seeing.”

You shrugged. “Maybe she just appreciates a challenge.”

Alex grinned. “You’re such a liar. You’re already gone for her.”

You didn’t answer. Just sat back down and stared at the empty court where she’d just been.

And waited.

It was quiet by the time she returned.

The kind of quiet that only settles in after the world has exhaled. Most of the crowd had gone home. Security lingered by the exits, sweeping the rows. Staffers rolled carts of used towels and half-empty water bottles down the tunnel. The court was bare now. Just the hushed hum of the arena winding down.

You were still there. Sitting courtside. Jacket draped over your shoulders, fingers absently spinning the cap of your water bottle. Charles and Alex had wandered off somewhere to give you space. You hadn’t asked, but they just knew.

And then you heard footsteps again—softer now, not game shoes. Slides against the polished concrete.

You looked up.

There she was.

She was fresh from the locker room, face clean, blonde hair damp and tied loosely now. A W hoodie, oversized, sleeves pulled down over her hands. She wore simple black shorts and Nike socks pushed halfway down her ankles.

She looked like herself in a way that tugged at you—like all the edges were finally rounded off now that the lights were dim and the cameras were gone.

“You waited,” she said, quiet.

You gave her a small smile. “I said I would.”

She sat beside you, one seat in-between, giving you space but close enough for your knees to brush if you shifted.

Neither of you moved.

For a while, you just sat there like that. Silence stretching between you like a breath held, but not tense. Not awkward. Just... present.

She finally spoke. “So… be honest. What’d you think?”

You looked at her. “Of the game?”

Paige nodded.

You took your time. “It was like hearing a language I don’t speak, but still knowing exactly what everyone meant.”

She blinked at that. “That’s... really poetic.”

You shrugged. “I’m around fast cars all day. I don’t get to be poetic very often.”

Paige smiled to herself. “You said you’d never seen a basketball game before?”

“Never.” You glanced out at the now-empty court. “I came in expecting to get bored halfway through. I thought I’d be checking my notes on my phone by the second quarter.”

“And instead?”

“I forgot I even had a phone.”

She turned her head toward you, expression soft. “Because of the game, or...”

You looked back at her. “Do I need to answer that?”

She didn’t blush this time. But her eyes dropped for a second, and when they lifted again, they held something steadier. More certain.

“I’m glad you came,” she said.

You studied her. “You mean that?”

“Yeah. I—” she hesitated, exhaling through her nose. “I know it sounds stupid, but sometimes when you play so many games, they all blur together. It becomes muscle memory. You forget what it feels like to want someone in the crowd to see you. Like, actually see you.”

You didn’t speak, not right away. Because that hit somewhere you weren’t ready for.

“Does it get lonely?” you asked softly.

Paige blinked. “What?”

You looked down at your hands. “Being known. By everyone. But not really known by anyone who isn’t part of the circle.”

She was quiet. You risked a glance at her. She was already watching you.

“It does,” she said. “It really does.”

You nodded. “I get it.”

“I figured you would.” She shifted in her seat, angling toward you more. “You know what it felt like tonight?”

“What?”

She paused. “It felt like you weren’t here for the show. You weren’t waiting to be impressed. You were just... there. Watching. Like it was already enough.”

You held her gaze. “That’s because it was.”

You saw the breath catch in her chest before she tried to play it off with a quiet laugh. “You’re really dangerous, you know that?”

“Because I said something kind?”

“No. Because you meant it.”

That silenced you both for a long moment. You let it happen. Let the silence linger and swell and settle. Eventually, Paige leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, looking out at the court.

“Do you think you’ll come to another game?” she asked.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you mirrored her posture, your shoulders touching ever so slightly. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’ll be there.”

She let out a small breath of a laugh, low and fond. “God, you’re gonna wreck me.”

You smiled. “That’s not my intention.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s why it’s worse.”

The lights overhead dimmed a little more as the staff shut down sections row by row. A janitor passed with a sweeping broom. You didn’t care. You had nowhere else to be. Not in that moment.

She looked at you again. “Can I give you my number?”

You raised an eyebrow. “That was inevitable.”

“I didn’t want to assume,” she said, grinning now, eyes crinkling. “You could’ve been not interested. Or just—”

“Paige,” you cut in gently. “I waited for you.”

She smiled slowly.

You reached into your jacket and pulled out your phone, unlocking it and holding it out. She entered her number carefully, then hesitated before handing it back.

“What?” you asked.

She looked slightly sheepish. “Just thought my contact name should pay tribute to our first interaction to each other.”

You checked it.

Buckers

You laughed. “Wow. You’re not gonna let that go, huh?”

“Nope. It’s part of you now. You gonna change it?”

You didn’t. You saved it as is.

“I like it,” you said. “It’s us.”

You both stood when security finally made a quiet gesture that the arena was closing up. Paige stretched her arms above her head and gave you a look like she didn’t quite want to leave.

You didn’t either.

“Hey,” she said, more serious now. “Can I call you tomorrow? Or tonight? Or whenever it’s not weird? I just... I’d like to talk more. Without a clock running.”

You nodded, heart softening. “I’d like that.”

And then you leaned in—just slightly—and kissed her cheek. Slow. Intentional. Close enough that your lips brushed the corner of her mouth.

She froze. Exhaling softly.

When you pulled back, her face was pink, her eyes shining.

You whispered, “I’ll be waiting for that call.”

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #pb5 #paige bueckers uconn #paige bueckers fanfic #paige bueckers fanfiction #paige x reader #paige buckets #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb #dallas wings #wnba x reader #wlw #lesbian #wuh luh wuh

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hyacinth-in-a-haze · 2 days ago

Text

Evening routine- Yandere kidnapper! x fem reader!

The day goes by slowly with him gone. Even if it is out of the necessity for socialisation you still find yourself missing his presence when he goes to work, waiting four hours for his phone call at lunch, and then another four hours for his phone call to say he is on his way. It is as though your clock has now become wired to cycle around his presence in your life. When the door opens to the sound of his tired groan you really do hate the way your head turns to look for him.

He is quick to collapse into your bundle of blankets on the couch, resting his head in the crook of your neck. Breathing in deeply trying to ground himself with you, as though he could become rooted to your body.

“I missed you so much today,” his voice is breathy, hair tousled, suit crumpled. As though eight hours of separation is a war he has to bear. Kissing the space under your ear as he complains about the mindless inconveniences within his day. It takes near ten minutes for him to separate his body from you, begrudgingly. Making his way to the kitchen and calling out his suggestions for dinner, with the expectation of a response from you now that whatever you've taken earlier has long since worn off. And contrary to what it appears he does adore your voice, he just hates it being misused to curse him out.

He takes one of your mumbles as confirmation and begins to take out the pots and pans. He never wants to rely on takeout, it's a treat for once a week at most if you're deserving of a treat. So far you've been doing well, finally adjusting to your new home. You stumble into the kitchen quietly, holding onto the counter for balance as you watch him silently. He clucks about, practically a mother hen as he gestures to the barstool at the counter.

You don't even understand why you seek him out now, but maybe it'd because in the absence and instability of everything you once had outside these locked windows and doors, you grasp onto the only constant you are offered.

In very little time there is a fresh plate of pasta in front of you. He steps off the pour himself a glass of wine and places a diluted cup of juice beside you. This is good. It is better than before, when you fought him off until hunger made you forget your pride, pride doesn't do anything for you here. It does nothing but cause you more trouble to stand up for yourself when he can bring you down so quickly to a begging mess on the cold floor. Meanwhile swallowing yourself down makes sure he treats you like a spoiled pet than a disobedient one. You open up without a word when he begins to lift your fork.

Your cup only gets topped up with more and more water until its clear, while he drinks until the bottle empties. The only notice he's indulged being the faint flush of pink across his cheeks. He gets affectionate when he drinks, in a clumsy way, stroking your hair like it's the most enamouring thing to exist. It would be cute if this was a first date rather than dinner with the man who plucked you from your life because he's the only one who can look after you properly.

The dishes get left to soak as he practically drags you to your bedroom. Dropping you down delicately, as your hair splays out over the pillows and your chest rises with each breath.

“You are so perfect like this.” He murmurs it like a prayer as he falls to his knees on the bed, hands clasped around your thighs as he kisses his way up them. He opens your legs without resistance, his head diving onto your clothed cunt like a man starved. Pulling your underwear off with animosity at its separation from your skin. It doesn't take you long to begin to buck against his tongue as he works his way around your clit. Hands clamped on your mouth as though that counts do anything to bury the sounds you are making back to where they were dragged out from you. When he presses his tongue flat against your hole you practically thrust upwards, hand embedded in his hair trying to pull him off as you cry its too much

He groans at the contact, taking it only as a sign to keep pushing through despite your pretty little whines of mercy. Which become more and more frantic as you find yourself getting close. With a cry more animal than human something shatters inside you, as you soak his sheets and face when you squirt. Collapsing into a puddle of embarrassment and shame for how easily he managed to wrap you around to his tongue. He finally lifts his face from your cunt, chin slick and glistening as you try to avoid looking at the tent in his slacks. Pretending to be so spent you can only nod off to sleep.

If only the world was so kind to alow you that.

“No no my love, you can't fall asleep just yet, what happened to brushing your teeth and cleaning off your face?”

He places a hand cool in comparison to the raiging flush across your cheeks.

“sweet little thing, did I tire you out so quickly? I think tonight we may be able to go without your little prescriptions so long as you continue to prove that that it can be managed by us?”

He leaves the discarded panties on the bedroom floor while he carries your strung out state to the bathroom, carefully repeating what he already done once before this morning. Only now there a new intensity within his eyes as he pulls the toothbrush in and our of your pretty pink lips. You are exhausted properly by the time you find yourself in some nightgown more suited to a period piece than your bedroom.

You let your head lol to the side as he hovers above you, pressing open kisses on any exposed skin in front of him as he pistons his hips in and out of you. With a desperation that if he fucks you enough then you'll be too cock drunk to ever have any animosity for him ever again. Mumbling in your ear about the future children you'll hand over to him, how they will have your eyes and his hair. That your firstborn will be a doctor or maybe a teacher, even a chef, he'd be happy with anything that could ground his greatest fantasy into reality.

When he cums he stays inside you, not wanting anything to go to waste. Crooning in your ear that his heart will break for how hard he loves you. As you slip into sleep, head upon his chest with his heartbeat echoing in your ears. His cum dripping down your thighs, you realise something.

He's no longer using that handcuff. Still glinting in the moonlight as it dangles above on the bedframe.

#fem reader #male yandere #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere drabble #yandere nanami #yandere jjk #yandere kidnapper

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cigarettesuga · 3 days ago

Text

꒰꒰⠀⠀⠀text me when you get lonely⠀✸⠀(⠀⠀knj⠀⠀)

pairing: non-celeb!ex!namjoon x f!ex!reader

genre: exes-to-lovers, angst, bit of romance, slow-burn, smut

warnings: explicit consensual sex, graphic oral sex (fem receiving), face ridding implied, overstimulation, rough sex, hair pulling, fingering, slight breath control (hand on throat, not choking), cum on body, praise & degradation mix (if you squit your eyes), possessive behavior, size kink, deep penetration, leg on shoulder position, wet/messy sex, begging, post-orgasm sensitivity, soft dom!namjoon, desperation and emotional vulnerability during sex, unprotected sex , aggressive kissing, marking (bites), mild semi-public sexual tension, emphasis in mutual pleasure and yearning (let me know if i'm forgetting something)

word count: 14.3 k

summary: after a night out stirs old feelings, a late-night text opens a door (y/n) swore she’d locked for good. when fate brings them face-to-face at a packed underground gig, sparks fly, wounds reopen, and the line between anger and desire blurs. one reckless night later, they confront what’s left between them—no promises, just raw truth and the fragile hope of second chances.

lu's note: this is officially my longest one-shot ever—and i loved every messy, tender, smut-filled second of writing it. 🖤

i’ll be shifting focus to finish chapter 3 of opposites don’t attract, they destroy (finally, i know lmao) so if content slows down a little, that’s why!! thank you for always being patient with me and letting me take my time with these chaotic little love stories

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ masterlist⠀ | ⠀taglist⠀ | ⠀more to read

the music was loud, someone had spilled beer on the floor, and (y/n) was clutching a half-warm drink like it was her lifeline. she was supposed to be having fun. that had been the plan—get dressed up, laugh too hard, maybe flirt with someone cute and harmless just to feel something again.

but then steph, all glitter lids and tipsy honesty, leaned over and tilted her head like a curious cat.

“hey... didn’t you used to come here with namjoon?”

and just like that, it was over.

it wasn’t the question itself—it was the way the energy shifted. the air changed. the people around them—friends, old classmates, acquaintances that still followed her on instagram out of habit—went quiet in that careful way. like everyone expected her to shatter.

(y/n) smiled. it wasn’t fake, exactly. just... practiced.

“we’re not together anymore,” she said, tipping her cup back. the alcohol went down rough. “it’s been a while.”

steph’s eyes widened. “shit, sorry—i didn’t mean to—”

“it’s fine,” (y/n) cut in, voice light. too light. “i mean, you didn’t know.”

there was a beat of silence. one of her friends, amara, looked like she wanted to say something comforting, but thought better of it. someone else cleared their throat. the music kept playing but it felt like it had gotten quieter.

no one asked anything else.

the hallway outside the bar was dim, lit only by a flickering exit sign and the vague hum of someone’s vape cloud still hanging in the air. (y/n) leaned back against the peeling brick wall, cold seeping into her spine through her thin shirt, and took a slow breath in.

not to cry.

just to breathe.

the night buzzed behind her—voices, basslines, laughter. it all felt far away now, like she was watching it from underwater. her buzz had dulled. or maybe soured. she couldn't tell anymore.

she hated that a name—just a name—could still change the temperature of her blood.

a year. it had been a year. she’d dyed her hair, moved apartments, started journaling again like she was a teenager with a heartbreak playlist. she’d told everyone she was fine. and she was. mostly. enough.

but the way steph had said his name…

namjoon. like he was still hers. like it hadn’t ended in the kind of silence that made her doubt the entire thing ever happened.

“fuck,” she muttered under her breath, rubbing at her arms. the night was cooler than she expected. or maybe that was just what regret felt like.

she checked her phone—reflex. no messages.

she shouldn’t text him. not now. not like this.

her fingers hovered. it was so stupid. she knew it was stupid. but the truth was—

she did miss having him around.

not just the sex, not the shared playlists or the stupid way he folded her laundry like a librarian shelving books. she missed the quiet. the safety. the way he’d always known when she needed to be held without being asked.

and before she could talk herself out of it, her thumbs were moving.

i miss having you around.

she stares at her phone just a moment before locking the screen. “this is so stupid” mumbling under her breath.

the bass was still pounding when she walked back in, like nothing had happened. like her stomach wasn’t twisted and her throat didn’t feel like it had been scraped raw from the inside. someone handed her another drink—she didn’t even catch who. she nodded her thanks, forced another smile, and knocked it back too fast.

the warmth never hit her chest. it just sank.

she hovered at the edge of the circle, letting her friends’ chatter wash over her like static. the laughter felt too loud. the neon lights too bright. she wasn’t in it anymore—just floating above, watching herself nod, sip, grin. a ghost in her own skin.

steph tried to meet her eyes once or twice. (y/n) didn’t let her.

after another drink, she checked the time. 3:08 a.m. perfect excuse.

“hey,” she said, interrupting a story she wasn’t listening to, “i’ve got things to do in the morning, so… i’m gonna head out.”

a couple of her friends blinked. amara pouted. someone offered her a ride.

“nah,” she smiled. “i’m good. thanks.”

steph didn’t say anything. just looked at her like she knew.

(y/n) ignored it, squeezed a few arms goodbye, and slipped out before anyone could stop her.

the night air hit her like a slap—cold, sharp, honest.

she pulled her phone out of her coat pocket. her unsent message was still open on the screen.

i miss having you around.

still there. still blinking.

she didn’t delete it.

but she didn’t send it either.

by the time she stepped into her apartment, the quiet almost made her flinch. no voices, no music, no bass crawling under her skin. just the soft hum of the fridge and the dull echo of her own steps against the floor.

she toed off her shoes in the dark, letting them fall sideways by the door. her makeup still clung to her skin, smudged slightly under one eye, and her jacket was slipping off her shoulder, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. everything felt too heavy. her arms. her chest. even her thoughts.

she didn’t bother changing out of her clothes. didn’t brush her teeth. didn’t even check her phone again. she just dropped her bag somewhere near the couch and made the short, autopilot walk to her bed, collapsing onto the mattress like something hollowed out. the city buzzed faintly through the window, a distant lullaby of car horns and wind, and within seconds, sleep took her like a blackout.

when she opened her eyes again, the light was harsh.

her head ached in that familiar, dehydrated way. her throat was dry, and her limbs felt tangled in fabric she couldn’t remember putting on. the sun was too bright. the room smelled faintly like whatever perfume she’d sprayed hours before and the remnants of sweat and bar smoke.

she groaned, dragging her arm over her face. reached blindly for her phone.

6 unread messages. none from him.

she was halfway through a notification from a food delivery app when she noticed the chat still open behind it. his name. his thread.

and there it was.

the text she swore she didn’t send.

i miss having you around.

right beneath it:

read 4:17 am.

she blinked at it. once. twice. waiting for something—anything—to change. maybe a reply would pop up. maybe it had glitched. maybe this was a dream and she hadn’t hit send after all.

but no.

he’d read it.

and that was it.

no typing bubble. no three dots. no follow-up. no you too. not even a dry hope you’re good.

just silence.

the kind that wrapped around her like cold water.

her stomach twisted, hot with humiliation. god, had she really sent it? like that? no punctuation, no explanation, just—that? a drunk confession disguised as a throwaway text?

she dropped the phone onto her sheets and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. she wasn’t going to cry. this wasn’t something to cry about.

it was just a text.

just a ghost.

just another reminder that he was still good at walking away.

she didn’t even get out of bed until noon.

and even then, it wasn’t because she wanted to—it was because her bladder forced her to. the sun spilling through the curtains made her wince, and every part of her mouth felt like sandpaper. she moved like she was made of rust, each step slow, dragging, her thoughts heavier than her body.

she didn’t check her phone again.

not right away.

instead, she wandered to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and leaned against the counter in that hunched-over way she only ever did when she was hungover or emotionally bruised. this morning, she was both.

by the time she sat down at her desk and opened her laptop, her phone was right there next to it—staring at her. taunting her. the temptation was unbearable. not to look at his message—she already knew what was (and wasn’t) there—but to do something about it.

like text him again.

maybe something casual. ironic. a recovery joke.

lol sorry drunk me got sentimental ignore that, rough night lol forget it

but what was the point? he read it. read it. and said nothing.

what the hell else was she supposed to do? follow it up with an apology? beg him to talk to her? no—no, fuck that. she’d already handed him a piece of her vulnerability on a silver platter. she wasn’t about to keep spoon-feeding it to him.

still…

she thought about it.

the entire day, it circled her like a mosquito—tiny, buzzing, impossible to swat away. every time she opened another tab, washed another dish, tied her hair up, the thought came creeping back in: what if he’s waiting for me to say more?

what if he wants her to chase him?

what if he’s just being cautious?

what if he read it and regretted not answering, but didn’t know how?

what if.

she typed at least five different drafts of a follow-up. none of them made it past the keyboard. each one felt weaker than the last. some were angry. some were sarcastic. one was just a string of question marks she didn’t even remember typing.

eventually, she just set her phone screen-down and pushed it to the far corner of the table. opened a new document. tried to work. but even her words—normally her safe place, her breath—betrayed her.

every sentence reminded her of him. or worse, of herself with him.

she was halfway through pretending to write an email when the memory of the message hit her again like a slap: i miss having you around.

how pathetic. how raw.

and he hadn’t said a thing.

the knock came just after seven.

soft at first, then impatient. then followed by the sound of a key in the lock.

(y/n) didn’t move from the couch.

she was still in the same hoodie she threw on after her shower, the sleeves tugged over her hands, one leg curled beneath her and the other hanging off the edge like a question mark. a half-eaten banana and a cup of tea sat forgotten on the coffee table, next to her phone, which she hadn’t touched in hours. not since the last time she opened their thread. not since she stared at the word read until it blurred.

the door creaked open, and the scent of bulgogi and rice and something fried cut through the stale air of her apartment.

“i swear to god if you’re dead in here i’m going to bring you back just to slap you,” amara called out.

a beat.

then: “...oh.”

(y/n) didn’t look up. just mumbled, “hi.”

amara’s boots clicked across the floor, and then she was dropping two plastic bags onto the coffee table and kneeling in front of her like some kind of holy intervention.

“jesus christ, you look like a sad victorian ghost. have you even eaten?”

“kinda.”

amara narrowed her eyes. “do fridge grapes and ibuprofen count?”

(y/n) cracked the ghost of a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

amara sighed and sat beside her, her presence immediate and grounding. she unpacked the food with practiced ease, muttering something about “soy sauce therapy” and “emergency carbs.” they ate in silence for a few minutes, chopsticks scraping against containers, the only soundtrack a soft playlist humming from (y/n)’s laptop.

then amara said, casually, “so… how bad is it?”

(y/n) didn’t answer at first.

she took another bite of kimchi, chewed slowly. tried to pretend it didn’t taste like regret.

then, finally: “i texted him.”

amara didn’t blink. “namjoon?”

(y/n) nodded.

“when?”

“last night.”

“what’d you say?”

(y/n) swallowed hard, looking down at her hands. “i miss having you around.”

amara’s eyebrows shot up. “oh damn. straight to the throat, huh?”

“i didn’t mean to send it. i thought i didn’t. but i did.”

“...and?”

“he read it.” her voice cracked, just slightly. “and he didn’t reply.”

amara leaned back against the couch, exhaling through her nose. she didn’t look surprised. but she did look like she was calculating something in her head.

“bitch,” she finally said, “i love you, so i need to ask—what were you hoping he’d say?”

(y/n) blinked. “i don’t know.”

“yes, you do.”

“i didn’t expect anything, i just—”

amara gave her a look.

(y/n) sighed, letting her head fall against the couch cushion. “i guess… maybe i wanted him to say he missed me too. or that he’d been thinking about me. or that it sucked for him, too.”

amara nodded slowly, eyes soft but steady. “and instead, he gave you silence.”

a beat.

“again.”

that last word landed hard. (y/n) flinched, just a little. but she didn’t argue.

she hated how familiar this feeling was. the waiting. the not-knowing. the pretending not to care while dying inside.

amara nudged her with her foot. “you know this doesn’t mean you’re pathetic, right?”

“sure feels like it.”

“you were vulnerable. that’s brave. and it doesn’t make you desperate, it makes you human. but let’s also not pretend that this isn’t who he’s always been—someone who disappears when you hand him something fragile.”

(y/n)’s throat tightened.

amara continued, voice gentler now. “you don’t have to chase someone who doesn’t know what to do with your heart. it’s not your job to teach him how to hold it.”

that was when the tears finally came.

not loud. not many. just a couple that slipped down her cheeks quietly, like they’d been waiting all day for permission.

amara didn’t make a big deal out of it. she just scooted closer, wrapped an arm around (y/n)’s shoulders, and pulled her into her side like they’d done this a hundred times before.

and maybe they had.

you don’t have to chase someone who doesn’t know what to do with your heart.

the words hung in the air like incense smoke—sweet, heavy, lingering long after they were said. (y/n) didn’t answer. she couldn’t. her throat was too tight. so she just leaned into amara’s shoulder, blinking up at the ceiling like if she stared hard enough, the tears would slide back in.

amara let her sit there in silence for a moment, fingers tracing idle circles on (y/n)’s back.

then, gently: “you know this won’t be forever, right?”

(y/n) made a soft, scoffing noise. “what won’t?”

“this feeling. the ache. the shame. you won’t always be this girl who sent the text and got ignored.”

she didn’t believe that. not yet. but hearing someone say it out loud made it hurt a little less.

amara sat up a little straighter, nudging her side. “wanna hear something stupid?”

(y/n) wiped under her eyes. “always.”

“i’ve been holding onto this for three weeks.”

“holding onto what?”

amara reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out two crumpled, slightly bent paper tickets.

“you remember Still Moss?”

(y/n)’s head jerked up. “no fucking way.”

amara grinned. “they’re playing saturday. small set. underground venue in itaewon. i saw the flyer on some niche subreddit and snatched the tickets before they were even posted officially.”

(y/n) blinked. “amar—what the hell, why didn’t you tell me?”

“because you were doing better,” amara said, voice soft but honest. “you weren’t thinking about him every day. you were flirting with the guy at your gym. you were laughing again. and i didn’t want to pull you back into memories of the past just because one of our old favorites decided to crawl out of their indie cave.”

(y/n) took the ticket with both hands, staring at it like it might bite.

“but,” amara added, “now? i think you need something real. something alive. not a text thread. not a read receipt. not silence in a chat that used to be your whole world.”

(y/n)’s lips parted, but no words came out.

amara shrugged. “you don’t have to go for me. but you should go for you. for the part of you that wasn’t just his. the part of you that screamed lyrics and danced like a lunatic in your kitchen and wore that ugly green beanie just because they mentioned it in a b-side.”

“that beanie was iconic.”

“it was moldy avocado vomit and you loved it.”

(y/n) laughed. just once. and it cracked something open.

the grief didn’t vanish. but it shifted. made space for something else. not quite joy. not even hope. just a sliver of maybe.

“you really think it’ll help?” she whispered, still clutching the ticket.

“i think it’ll remind you that you’re more than what he didn’t say.”

(y/n) looked down at the printed text again. the date. the time. the name of a band that once meant everything.

she wasn’t sure if she could face it. but something in her chest fluttered anyway.

“okay,” she said. “i’ll go.”

amara raised her brow. “with me?”

“obviously with you.”

amara grinned and tossed a napkin at her. “cool. you’ve got two days to get your shit together, wash your hair, and remember who the fuck you are.”

(y/n) rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered this time.

-----

she stared at her closet like it had offended her.

clothes were already strewn across the bed—black mesh tops, a beat-up denim jacket with a fading patch on the back, her favorite pants that somehow always made her feel like she was too much and not enough all at once. she had half a mind to cancel. text amara and say she got sick. or had work. or—fuck it—just ghost the entire thing.

because this was his band.

not officially, obviously. not legally. but still—he was the one who found them. the one who burned their first EP onto a cheap CD and played it in his car at full volume while they drove through the city with the windows down and their hands out like wings. he was the one who paused every other song to say “listen to this part, wait, right here—this is the line that wrecked me.”

they used to talk about seeing Still Moss live like it was some bucket list item. one day. someday. a future tense wrapped in shared laughter and tangled limbs.

and now she was going without him.

(y/n) sank down onto the bed, the air suddenly thick, her fingers trembling as they pulled at the edge of her comforter.

what was she doing?

what the fuck was she trying to do? prove something? distract herself? reclaim something that maybe never really belonged to her alone?

she reached for her phone, scrolled back to his name—again. the message still sat there like a bruise on the screen.

i miss having you around.

read. still no reply.

and now she was going to the show they used to dream about, pretending it didn’t mean anything?

who was she kidding?

she dropped the phone face-down on the bed and covered her face with her hands.

it felt like treason. like stepping into that venue without him was rewriting history, erasing the version of herself that once existed in his arms. she’d be surrounded by music they once called theirs, lyrics that felt like inside jokes, moments only they knew how to hold. what if they played that song? the one he always hummed when he kissed her shoulder half-asleep?

how could she stand in that crowd and not feel his absence like a blade?

still.

not going would mean something, too. it would mean he still owned that part of her.

and maybe—just maybe—going would be her way of saying: you don’t get to have it all.

her reflection caught in the mirror across the room. she looked tired. haunted. but underneath the exhaustion was something steadier. the shadow of resolve.

she stood up.

grabbed the mesh top.

and started getting ready.

the street outside the venue was already humming with life—groups of twenty-somethings crowding the sidewalk, passing around half-smoked cigarettes and cheap convenience store beers, the faint thrum of bass leaking through the brick walls like the night had a pulse.

(y/n) tugged her jacket tighter around her body, scanning the crowd for a familiar face.

no sign of amara yet.

she checked her phone for the third time in five minutes. 7:48 p.m. she’d said they’d meet a little before eight, but amara was always early. always waiting on the curb with snacks shoved in her bag and a too-loud story to fill the silence.

and then her phone buzzed.

a text.

[amara :] babe i’m so sorry. something came up. i can’t make it tonight. pls don’t kill me ily :(

(y/n) stared at the message.

read it again.

then once more, just to make sure she hadn’t misread it. but there it was. soft. apologetic. and devastating in its own casual way.

for a second, everything felt like static. the noise around her, the lights, the laughter—it all flattened into white.

she looked up at the venue entrance.

the line was shorter now. people were already filtering inside. the music inside was getting louder, familiar bass lines testing the sound system. Still Moss. she could already picture the setlist in her head.

she hesitated.

every cell in her body told her to leave. to turn around. take the train home. crawl into bed and pretend none of this ever happened.

because now it wasn’t just a gig. it was a battlefield.

but the thing was—she’d already fought this fight with herself earlier.

in the mirror, while deciding on her top. while wiping mascara smudges from under her eyes. while whispering to her reflection, you’re allowed to have things that used to belong to both of you.

and now, standing in front of the venue alone, she realized something else: leaving would feel too much like surrender.

to namjoon.

to the past.

to the version of herself that thought rejection meant she had to disappear.

no fucking way.

she took a breath.

pushed her phone back into her bag.

and stepped into the venue.

it was dim and loud and crowded, the floor sticky under her boots and the air thick with anticipation. the lights were still up. people milling around, drinks in hand, conversations half-shouted. she squeezed through the crowd toward a spot near the back—not close enough to feel suffocated, but just enough to see the stage, to feel the throb of the speakers in her chest.

and despite everything—the anxiety still clawing at her ribs, the faint echo of read 4:17 am playing on a loop in her head—she felt it.

a flicker of excitement.

this was her night.

and she wasn’t going to let the ghost of a man who couldn’t even text her back take that from her.

the venue had that familiar, half-feral energy only places like this could hold—dim ceiling lights hanging from exposed pipes, old show flyers layered on the walls like bark, the faint hum of something spilled and sticky in the air. voices rose and fell around her, half-drunk excitement wrapped around slurred words and laughter. no one here knew her. no one looked twice.

it helped.

for a second, it helped.

(y/n) found a spot near a worn pillar toward the left side of the room, far enough from the stage to breathe, close enough to see the instruments already arranged—drum set lit in soft red, mic stands waiting like they knew secrets. she crossed her arms and let herself sink into the pulse of the crowd. the subtle rhythm of people shuffling, talking, sipping, swaying.

Still Moss would go on soon.

she could feel it.

and beneath her nerves—below the tension stitched into her shoulders, below the phantom sting of rejection still lodged in her chest��there was something else. something familiar.

want.

not for him. not for the past.

for the music. for this night. for this version of herself that had always existed under the hurt.

someone brushed past her and muttered an apology. she nodded. took a slow sip of her drink. let the noise rush around her like static. the pre-show playlist crackled overhead, layered with old demos and deep cuts, and when the familiar intro of one of their early tracks started up—their song, the one from their first EP—her throat tightened.

but she stayed.

she didn’t flinch.

the lights overhead flickered once. twice.

and then they dimmed.

a hush spread through the crowd—not silence, but reverence. anticipation. the kind that hit you low in the gut.

she smiled.

just a little.

and for a moment, she forgot about the message. the rejection. the ache.

for a moment, she was just a girl in a crowd, heart beating in sync with the rest of them.

the stage lights snapped on—white-hot and gold—and the band filed out one by one to the kind of roar that felt earned. the guitarist adjusted his strap. the drummer spun his sticks once, twice, like ritual. the lead singer stepped up to the mic, tugged his cap low, and said—

“you guys ready for a loud fucking night or what?”

the room answered with a scream.

(y/n) screamed with them.

and for those first few songs, she let go.

she danced. not like she used to—not wild and fearless—but she moved. she let the bass hit her ribs and the guitar wrap around her neck and the lyrics pull her mouth into half-remembered shapes. her hands were in the air by the second chorus. her voice raw by the third.

she was alive.

and that’s exactly when it happened.

a shift in the air. not dramatic. not cinematic. just something off. like the static changed frequencies.

she turned her head.

and there he was.

namjoon.

standing maybe twenty feet away, half in shadow, eyes already locked on her like he hadn’t stopped looking since she walked in.

her pulse stuttered.

she didn’t look again. wouldn’t. she turned back to the stage with the kind of sharp, practiced movement that screamed I didn’t see you and I don’t care, even though her lungs had forgotten how to work and her drink suddenly tasted like regret.

the crowd surged forward with the start of another song, and she let herself be pulled along, like if she just moved fast enough, she could outrun the sudden roar of thoughts in her head. she focused on the band—on the flicker of stage lights slicing through fog, on the way the lead singer’s voice cracked in the chorus like a prayer, on the guy next to her who was already elbowing into her space trying to get closer. she focused on anything but him.

but she could feel it.

his stare.

like heat at the back of her neck, heavy and deliberate, digging in like he was trying to memorize the way she stood now. the way she danced without him. the way she still came, still claimed this night as her own. it wasn’t romantic. it wasn’t tender. it was invasive. unbearable.

she swallowed hard and lifted her hands, let herself sway with the rhythm, kept her body in motion just to give her mind something to anchor to. the crowd was louder now, rougher—people pushing forward, eager, half-drunk on adrenaline and cheap whiskey. someone brushed up against her, a hand catching too low at her waist before slipping off. another person stumbled into her back, barely catching themselves with a muttered apology and a laugh that didn’t reach their eyes.

the unintended groping, the crush of sweat and sound and strangers—it was a lot. too much. normally she’d lean into it, lose herself. but now every brush of skin felt like static. like him. like memory bleeding into muscle.

she didn’t dare look back.

but she knew.

he was still watching.

maybe trying to figure out if it was really her. maybe trying to decide if he should come over. maybe just… feeling it. the pull. the hurt. the consequence of silence.

her heart beat against her ribs like it was trying to break out.

stay cool. that’s what she kept telling herself. over and over, like a mantra between lyrics. stay cool. stay cool. he doesn’t get to ruin this for you. not again.

and god, she almost believed it.

almost.

but beneath it all, there was still that other voice—small, traitorous, terrified—asking: why is he here? did he know you’d come? is this some kind of joke? or is it fate, sick and stupid, dragging you both back together just to watch you fall apart again?

the lights flashed. the bass hit. the song climbed to its peak.

and she danced.

not for him.

but in spite of him.

she didn’t notice how thick the crowd had gotten until she tried to move.

one song bled into another, and suddenly the bodies pressing in around her weren’t dancing—they were shoving. climbing. surging toward the stage like it was salvation. someone behind her yelled something she couldn’t make out, and the girl to her left kept pushing her elbow into (y/n)’s ribs, eyes locked on the front like she’d sooner break bone than give up her view.

she tried to shift, just enough to step back, maybe slide toward the edge of the crowd—but there was nowhere to go. her foot caught on someone’s bag, someone else’s arm tangled with hers, and in the chaos she realized—fuck—she was stuck.

her breath hitched.

it wasn’t panic. not yet. but it was close.

the air was getting tighter, hotter. the music roared in her chest like thunder, no longer comforting, just loud. she ducked her head, tried to wedge her way sideways—but the wave of bodies moved again, and this time it nearly knocked her off balance. her shoulder clipped someone’s back. her hands went up instinctively, useless.

and then—

a hand.

fingers wrapping around her wrist—firm, familiar, undeniable.

she froze.

looked up.

and there he was.

namjoon.

right in front of her now, eyes wide, mouth tight, brows drawn in that exact expression she remembered from every argument they never really finished—worry twisted into anger. or maybe it was the other way around. either way, it hit her like a punch to the ribs.

his hand was warm.

his grip steady.

and his face—

god, his face.

he didn’t look surprised. not exactly. more like—rattled. like seeing her here was something he’d rehearsed a hundred times in his head, but the reality of it still threw him off balance. his jaw clenched. his eyes scanned her face like he was checking for damage, like he expected her to be bruised and broken just from being here.

she didn’t know what to say.

she couldn’t say anything.

the crowd pushed again, and this time he pulled her toward him—closer, instinctively protective, his body shielding hers like it was second nature. and maybe it was.

he leaned in, voice low but urgent in her ear. “you okay?”

she didn’t answer.

she couldn’t.

because all she could think was: you left. and I still wanted to marry you.

and now here he was, dragging her out of the storm like nothing had ever broken between them.

the crowd didn’t care who they were or what cracked, fragile history hung between them—it just kept pressing in, louder, harder, all elbows and shouted lyrics and spilled drinks. someone bumped into her back, hard enough to make her stumble, and she felt namjoon’s grip tighten around her wrist immediately. not rough, not possessive—just instinctive. like his body was answering a question before his brain could form the words.

he pulled her closer, chest brushing against her shoulder now, his other hand moving to the small of her back without thinking, guiding her through the tide like muscle memory. even after all this time, he still moved like someone who wanted to shield her from the world, still held her like she was precious and breakable—even if he had been the one to shatter her last.

“we should move,” he said, close enough that she felt the shape of the words more than heard them. his voice was low, almost calm, but the tension in his jaw told a different story. his eyes—those warm, unreadable eyes—searched her face in the flickering stage light, darting over her skin like he was looking for bruises, for signs that she’d been hurt. not just by the crowd.

by anything.

and she hated that it still made her want to cry.

she nodded, or maybe she didn’t. maybe her body just leaned into the pull of him, because the next thing she knew he was gently—gently—pressing her ahead of him through the crush of people, using his frame to carve a path through the chaos. every time someone got too close, he shifted, stepping between her and the noise, that quiet, seething frustration radiating off him like heat—not at her. never at her. just the situation. the pushing. the closeness. the way she’d been caught in all of it, small and alone and so vulnerable.

and she could feel it—how hard he was trying not to let it show. the anger simmering under his skin. the fear, maybe, buried somewhere beneath it. but it was there, plain as breath: he cared. he still fucking cared.

and that—more than the hands or the eyes or the words—was the most dangerous thing of all.

the bathroom corridor was narrow and dim, lined with peeling posters and flickering overhead lights that buzzed like flies. the smell of stale beer clung to the walls, and the occasional echo of the concert leaked through the cracked door down the hall, muffled now. distant. the adrenaline from the crowd hadn’t faded, not fully, but out here, in the quiet, everything felt sharper. more dangerous.

namjoon turned to face her the second they stepped into the space. he didn’t let go of her wrist until he was sure she was steady on her feet, and even then, his fingers lingered for a moment longer than they should have. like he didn’t want to. like maybe part of him still remembered what it felt like to hold her like this for no reason at all.

he stepped back then, ran a hand through his hair, and started in before she could even catch her breath.

“you shouldn’t have been in there alone,” he said, voice low but tight, like he was trying not to snap. “you know how packed these places get. it’s not safe, not when you’re by yourself. what if I hadn’t been there? you could’ve gotten hurt, trampled, or—”

she blinked, still catching up, heart pounding like a drum in her chest.

namjoon’s eyes stayed locked on hers, jaw clenched like he was still trying to hold the anger in his mouth, but it was starting to fracture—splinters showing through the edges. the fluorescent light above them flickered once, casting shadows across his face, and she hated how familiar he still looked in this lighting. like every too-late night in their old apartment, like every fight that ended with her curled up in his hoodie and his hands in her hair whispering, we’re okay, aren’t we? we’re okay.

but they weren’t okay now.

they hadn’t been in a long time.

“i wasn’t alone by choice,” she said, arms folded tight across her chest. “amara was supposed to come with me.”

namjoon’s mouth parted slightly.

she didn’t wait for him to speak.

“she bought the tickets. said i needed to get out of my head for once. i was going to cancel when she bailed but—” she swallowed hard. “i told myself i’d be fine.”

his expression shifted. not dramatically. not in that open-book way most people’s faces moved. but in the subtle ways she still remembered—his brows pulling in just enough, the set of his mouth softening like it suddenly hurt to keep it closed.

“seriously, what were you thinking? you don’t even like crowds like that. and if amara was supposed to be with you, why didn’t you just leave when she bailed? jesus, you could’ve—”

“you’re such an asshole,” she muttered.

the words slipped out before she could stop them. not loud. but loud enough to cut through him.

he froze.

the silence between them was immediate, electric.

she shook her head, chest tight, throat burning. “you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to show up out of nowhere and act like you’re worried about me when you left me on read.”

he stared at her, jaw tight, but he didn’t interrupt.

“you don’t get to act like it’s still your job to take care of me,” she said, her voice trembling just enough to piss her off. “i sent you one fucking message. one. and you couldn’t even be bothered to answer. and now you’re here lecturing me like you give a shit?”

his eyes darkened. “what was I supposed to say, huh?” he snapped, stepping forward. “you text me in the middle of the night after we haven’t spoken in over a year. what the fuck was I supposed to do with that?”

her mouth opened. then closed.

namjoon kept going, voice rising like he was finally letting himself feel the thing he’d been pushing down. “you think that didn’t mess with my head? you think I haven’t spent the last few nights wondering if I should’ve said something? if I was allowed to say something? because for a second I thought—fuck, I thought you were drunk, or lonely, or both, and if I said the wrong thing, I’d make it worse.”

she laughed, bitter and breathless. “so you decided saying nothing was the better choice.”

“it was a dick move, on both ends” he said, quieter now. not denying it. just... laying it out.

they stared at each other.

her back against the wall. his shoulders drawn tight like he was holding something back with both hands. and the air between them? thick with everything they didn’t say after they broke up. everything they still don’t know how to explain.

the silence after his last words stretched taut between them, like the air was waiting for one of them to break it. (y/n) felt her breath coming fast, too fast, chest rising and falling like she’d just run a mile. her heart was pounding for all the wrong reasons—rage, confusion, grief. want. all tangled together so tightly she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

namjoon was standing barely a foot away, his jaw clenched, arms stiff at his sides like if he moved even a little he’d reach for her, and he didn’t trust himself to do it.

and fuck, she hated how familiar he still felt.

the heat between them was unbearable. it had nothing to do with the venue. nothing to do with the crowd they’d escaped. it was just them, trapped in this too-small hallway, skin prickling, hearts racing, eyes locked.

his gaze flicked down—her lips. then back up.

hers did the same.

and it was like time held its breath.

her mouth parted just slightly, and he leaned in a fraction of an inch, like he couldn’t help it, like something in him needed to be closer. and for a second—one long, shattering second—it felt inevitable. like their mouths were going to meet, and this whole night would collapse into something hot and reckless and full of everything they’d been avoiding.

but they didn’t kiss.

neither of them moved.

and the restraint hurt worse than any breakup ever could.

namjoon exhaled shakily, his voice suddenly quiet. “i should walk you home.”

just like that, the fire between them shifted. cooled at the edges. but didn’t go out.

she blinked, throat thick. “what?”

he met her eyes. no anger there now. just something raw. something so tender it made her chest ache.

“it’s late,” he said. “and i don’t want you going alone.”

her lips parted, but she didn’t know what to say.

because she should say no.

she should tell him to go to hell. to let her be. to stop doing these stupid, soft things that made it so hard to hate him.

but the part of her that sent that text? the part that never really stopped missing him? that part wanted to say yes.

god, it wanted to say yes.

the walk back to her place unfolded like a dream they weren’t sure they were awake for—quiet, disorienting, charged with too much everything. neither of them said a word, not at first. not when they left the venue. not when they crossed the street or turned down the familiar blocks of her neighborhood, shadows stretching long under the streetlights, the faint pulse of the city flickering somewhere behind them.

they didn’t have to speak to feel it.

every step buzzed with unsaid things. every brush of his arm near hers felt like an accident that wasn’t. she could feel his body heat like a second skin. like he was walking too close, not quite touching her, but there—solid, steady, present in a way he hadn’t been in over a year.

and she hated how natural it felt.

hated that her body still remembered the rhythm of him. the pace. the weight. the subtle, invisible pull like gravity still worked differently when he was near.

she didn’t know how they got to her building so fast. one second she was replaying their argument in her head like a song stuck on loop, and the next—she was unlocking the front door, his hand hovering behind her like it used to when she fumbled for her keys, like he still had the instinct to catch her if she dropped anything at all.

they stepped inside.

dim hallway. elevator out of service. and then the climb—three floors of quiet tension, every footfall like punctuation. they didn’t speak, not even as she led him to her door, not even as she stood there with the key halfway into the lock, heartbeat thudding in her throat.

and when she turned to face him again, everything came rushing back.

the fight.

the guilt.

the aching, unbearable want.

“you’re still mad,” he said quietly, eyes locked on hers like he couldn’t bear to look away.

she scoffed, soft and tired. “of course i’m mad.”

“i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“yeah?” she said, voice tight, bitter. “then why did you act like i didn’t exist?”

his face twitched, jaw clenching. “because i didn’t know how to handle it, okay? you don’t get to show up in my messages like that and expect me to be fine.”

“i didn’t expect you to be fine,” she shot back, stepping toward him now, all the space between them collapsing. “i didn’t expect anything, namjoon. i was drunk and stupid and—god, i just missed you. i wasn’t trying to trap you or make some kind of fucking dramatic statement—i just… i don’t know. i didn’t think. but you did. you saw it. and you chose nothing.”

he was breathing harder now. so was she. neither of them looked away.

“do you know how much it hurt?” she whispered, voice breaking. “after everything? to be left on read by the one person i thought would at least… at least say something?”

his mouth parted. something crumpled behind his eyes. but he didn’t speak.

they were so close now that she could feel the edge of his breath against her cheek, smell the faintest trace of something warm and familiar clinging to his collar. the scent of him broke her more than anything he could’ve said.

she wasn’t sure who moved first, but suddenly they were standing toe to toe, barely a breath apart, the keys in her hand forgotten, her back nearly brushing the door. his hands clenched at his sides like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t trust himself. her fingers curled around the hem of her jacket like they were the only thing keeping her grounded.

the silence between them? it wasn’t empty.

it was full. heavy. breaking at the seams.

they weren’t done.

not even close.

namjoon’s eyes searched hers like he was looking for an opening, like if he could just name the thing between them, maybe it would make sense. but it didn’t. it never had. and now, standing inches from her door, with his chest rising and falling like he’d just run here barefoot, all he could manage was, “i didn’t want to make it worse.”

she blinked. slow. disbelieving.

“worse?” she echoed, voice low and razor-sharp. “you think ignoring me made it better?”

he flinched, just a little. his gaze dropped to the floor, like the tile pattern suddenly held the answers. “i thought if i said something, it would… reopen everything. and i didn’t think you wanted that.”

“so instead you just pretended i didn’t exist?” her voice cracked, raw now, too open. “you were the one person who knew how hard that year was for me and you—god, you didn’t even ask if i was okay. you just watched me bleed.”

he took a step back, not far, just enough to pace, to get his bearings—but even that small distance made her feel cold.

“you think it was easy for me?” he said, louder now, no longer calm. “you think i’ve just been—what—fine? do you know how many times i almost called you? how many fucking nights i picked up the phone just to hear your voice and had to put it back down because i didn’t trust myself not to fuck everything up even more?”

“then why didn’t you?” she snapped, stepping toward him again. “why didn’t you call? or text? or do anything?”

“because i loved you too much to hurt you again!” he said it like it burned coming out, like it wasn’t meant to be said at all, not now, not here. but it was out there now. between them. sizzling like an exposed wire.

her breath hitched.

he stared at her, wild-eyed and wrecked. “i still fucking love you, okay? even when i shouldn’t. even when it’s a terrible idea. even when i know you deserve someone who doesn’t keep you waiting at two a.m. for a message that never comes.”

her hand went to the doorknob, like she needed something to hold on to. like if she didn’t, she might collapse under the weight of his words.

“you don’t get to say that now,” she said, barely above a whisper. “you don’t get to stand here and tell me you still love me when you spent the last year pretending i was nothing.”

“i never pretended you were nothing,” he said, voice breaking, “i’ve been pretending you were everything, and that i could live without it.”

and just like that—the thread snapped.

they didn’t move toward each other so much as fall into the space between them, mouths colliding not with grace but with desperation. her back hit the door with a soft thud, his hands finally finding her waist like they were made for it, her fingers tangling in his hair like no time had passed at all. it wasn’t soft. it wasn’t sweet. it was feral—the kind of kiss that tasted like every word they didn’t say, every night spent apart, every second of missing wrapped up in heat and teeth and breathless curses.

there was no going back now.

not after this.

his mouth tasted like all her worst decisions and all her best memories.

they didn’t stop kissing when they left the hallway. they didn’t even pretend to. his hands stayed glued to her hips, dragging her closer with every step like he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go. and she couldn’t let go, not when every inch of him felt like muscle memory, not when her hands had minds of their own, sliding under his jacket, fingers curling into the soft cotton of his t-shirt like she needed to feel the warmth of him to believe this was real.

her keys fumbled in the lock, hands shaking too much to find the hole, her mouth still locked on his, lips bruising against his, his teeth catching her bottom lip just enough to make her gasp and drop the keys entirely.

“fuck,” she breathed, laughing against his mouth, frustrated and drunk on him.

he reached around her, growling low under his breath, picked up the keys, found the lock like it was his apartment and not hers, and shoved the door open.

they stumbled in, mouths never parting. she kicked off her shoes without looking, dragging him inside by the collar. his jacket hit the floor with a dull thud, followed by hers. the air in the room was warmer than it should’ve been. or maybe it was just them. heat radiating from every inch of skin, every frantic touch, every groan pressed into a mouth too busy to stop.

they didn’t bother turning on the lights. didn’t need them.

his hands were everywhere—fisting the fabric at her sides, sliding up her ribs, down her back, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. like he was still angry, still caught in the argument, and this was the only way to speak now. she didn’t mind. she wanted it. wanted to be touched like this. wanted him like this—desperate and undone, like he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her either.

they reached the bedroom door, breath ragged, foreheads touching, lips still grazing each other’s in frantic, broken passes. her hand was on his chest, nails dragging lightly down muscle, his fingers pressing bruises into her waist like punctuation marks.

“this is a stupid idea,” he whispered, voice strained, wrecked, like the words hurt to say.

she grabbed his face, pulled him in again, kissed him like she could erase the thought.

“i don’t care,” she whispered against his lips. “stay. just tonight.”

the way she said it—soft, cracked, a little too close to pleading—broke something in him.

he didn’t answer. didn’t have to.

his mouth was back on hers before she could take another breath, rough, needy, starving, like he was trying to carve his name into her all over again. their bodies collided in the doorway, hands fighting with layers of clothing, mouths locking again and again, each kiss more desperate than the last.

they were already past the point of no return.

and neither of them gave a damn.

they didn’t make it to the bed right away.

he had her pinned to the wall just outside the doorway, their mouths crashing again like every kiss was a bite, a battle. namjoon’s hands gripped her hips hard, dragging her against him, and the low groan he let out when their bodies collided was guttural, like something primal had been knocked loose.

his lips broke from hers only to move down her jaw, his breath hot and heavy against her skin. “fuck—do you know what you did to me?” he muttered, voice rough, gravel-thick. “a year, and you text me like that... then just disappear again?”

her fingers scrambled at the hem of his shirt, yanking it upward, her breath hot against his throat. “you think i didn’t suffer too?” she snapped, dragging the shirt over his head. “you think it didn’t kill me to say nothing when you didn’t reply?”

he stepped forward, forcing her back again, until her shoulder blades hit the hallway wall. his bare chest pressed against hers, skin to skin, and he didn’t pause—just dipped down and pulled her shirt up with both hands, ripping it off in one quick, frustrated motion. his palms roamed her sides, rough and urgent, fingers curling around the waistband of her jeans like he couldn’t stand one more second of fabric between them.

“then why’d you do it?” he growled, mouth crashing to hers again. “why’d you send that message if you didn’t want me to come back?”

she gasped into the kiss, nails dragging down his spine, her jeans already half undone by his fingers, tugging hard, yanking them past her hips. “i didn’t know what i wanted,” she breathed, teeth grazing his bottom lip, “i just—i missed you.”

something in him snapped at that.

his hands locked under her thighs, lifting her with an easy, angry grip. she wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively, clinging to his shoulders as he carried her into the bedroom. their mouths never parted—just shifted, hungrier, rougher, teeth clashing in the dark. he dropped her on the bed like he couldn’t stand not having her underneath him any longer, following her down with a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and fuck, finally.

her bra was gone next, pulled off with a practiced twist, his hands covering her like he was making up for lost time. he kissed down her neck, over her chest, marking her with lips and teeth, every touch bruising, claiming. her moans were breathy and desperate, her body arching into him like it remembered every time he’d touched her before.

“you should hate me,” he murmured against her skin, voice strained, like the words were choking him.

“maybe i do,” she whispered, dragging his belt open with shaking fingers, “but not tonight.”

he kissed her again, harder this time—his hips grinding against hers, both of them still half-dressed, bodies slick with heat and hunger.

“then don’t stop me,” he whispered, teeth on her jaw, one hand gripping her thigh so tight it made her gasp. “because i don’t think i can.”

his mouth found her neck first—hot, open kisses dragged along her skin like he was starving for it, tongue tasting, teeth grazing. she tilted her head back with a breathy gasp, giving him more, and he took it like a man possessed. he sucked hard just under her jaw, the kind of kiss meant to leave a mark, and she arched beneath him, hands threading into his hair, tugging as if that would tether her to the moment.

he groaned low in his throat, one hand already sliding between their bodies, palming her over her underwear—rough, slow circles of pressure that made her gasp again, hips twitching up against his touch. the fabric was already damp, and he swore under his breath like that fact physically wrecked him.

“fuck, you’re soaked already,” he muttered against her throat, voice dark and hoarse, almost angry about it. “you miss me that bad, huh?”

her fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting skin. she didn’t answer—not with words. just a moan that caught in her throat, a roll of her hips into his palm that said everything.

his mouth trailed lower, dragging over her collarbones, down the center of her chest, pausing only to breathe her in like she was the last clean thing in a filthy world. and then he was on her breast, hot mouth closing around her nipple with an obscene sound, tongue flicking before he sucked hard, making her back arch off the mattress. her breath hitched. her thighs tightened around his hips.

his other hand gripped the other breast, rough fingers toying with the sensitive peak, thumb brushing, pinching lightly, just enough to make her whine. he switched sides without warning, lips wrapping around the other nipple like he’d been starving for it, groaning into her skin as if he could get drunk off the taste alone.

his mouth never stopped moving—sucking, kissing, biting gently—while his hand between her legs kept working her over the thin cotton barrier, dragging slow, cruel circles over her clit that made her legs tremble.

he pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes half-lidded, mouth slick, chest heaving.

“you think about me when you touch yourself?” he rasped, fingers curling against her cunt through her panties. “you still moan my name when it gets too much?”

her eyes fluttered shut, lips parting with a shuddered breath, and god—he wanted to hear her say yes. wanted her to admit that she’d been ruined for anyone else.

and he hadn’t even gotten his mouth between her legs yet.

his mouth trailed lower, leaving a hot, open path down the center of her stomach. her skin jumped under his tongue, her body twitching as he nipped along her waist, his hands spreading her thighs wider, slower, like he wanted to savor the shape of her more than the act itself. like being between her legs again was holy ground—and he was a man at the altar, worshiping through gritted teeth.

he looked up, caught the way she was already squirming beneath him, her chest heaving, lips parted as if every breath was costing her something. and fuck, she was beautiful like this—undone and trying so hard to hold it together.

then he got to her underwear.

he pressed a kiss just above the fabric, then let his eyes drop to the soft elastic hugging her hips. he hooked one finger under the band, tugged it lightly—just enough to make her feel the tension of it. a quiet, predatory smile played on his lips as he murmured, “you look so pretty in these.”

his voice was low, dark, velvet-drenched and filthy. he snapped the band gently against her skin, then ran his thumb along the curve of her pelvis, dipping dangerously close to where she was already soaking through the cotton. he let his mouth follow, mouthing her through the thin fabric, slow, wet drags of his tongue that made her hips buck up off the mattress.

and then—rip.

one swift motion. the fabric gave with a sharp tear, and her gasp echoed off the walls, eyes snapping open just in time to see him toss the ruined panties aside like he didn’t give a damn what they cost.

“i’ll buy you new ones,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel. “but fuck, i couldn’t wait. not with how wet you are.”

and then he was between her legs.

not teasing. not easing in.

devouring.

his tongue licked a long, slow stripe from the bottom of her slit all the way to her clit, ending with a soft suck that made her choke on a moan. his hands gripped her thighs hard, thumbs digging into her skin, keeping her spread open as he buried his face in her like a man possessed.

he groaned into her, the sound low and almost pained, like tasting her again physically undid him.

“missed this,” he growled between licks, one hand sliding under her ass to pull her closer, his mouth working her over like it was his job. “missed how you taste. fuck.”

her hands found his hair, tugging, anchoring herself. her hips rolled, helpless, chasing the pressure of his tongue as he sucked her clit into his mouth again, harder this time, relentless now. his tongue moved fast, slick, filthy strokes while he moaned into her like he was getting off on the sound of her falling apart.

“joon—” she whimpered, voice cracked, fingers curling tight in his hair.

he didn’t stop.

if anything, he smiled against her cunt.

and then—two fingers slid inside her. slow at first. deliberate. crooking up, finding that spot that made her eyes roll back as his mouth never left her clit, his tongue flicking faster, filthy, precise, focused. like he was making up for every second they’d lost.

she was close. so close. and he knew it. he could feel it in the way her thighs trembled, the way her moans got higher, tighter, more desperate. he pressed his hand against her stomach with his free hand, holding her down like he wanted to feel her break from the inside out.

“cum for me,” he murmured against her, voice dark and hungry, “right on my fucking mouth, baby. let me taste you fall apart.”

her orgasm hit hard, sharp and fast, like her body had been waiting for his mouth for too damn long. her back arched, her thighs clamped around his head, and a broken, high-pitched moan tore out of her throat as his fingers kept moving inside her and his tongue never stopped. he held her through it, firm hands pressing her down like he needed to feel her shake apart against his mouth, like he didn’t trust her to stay grounded otherwise.

she whimpered his name like a prayer, like a curse, like she didn’t know what else to hold onto—and still, still, his mouth was on her, tongue dragging through her, catching every twitch, every pulse, like he wanted to memorize the shape of her climax.

only when her body gave out, slumping into the mattress with a wrecked, gasping breath, did he pull back—slow, deliberate.

he licked his lips once.

his chin was glistening. soaked in her.

his mouth was swollen, cheeks flushed, and there was a wild, wrecked look in his eyes as he hovered over her—something between pride and hunger, like tasting her had only made him more desperate, not less.

“fuck,” she breathed, staring at him like he was a hallucination.

and then she dragged him down.

no hesitation. no time to breathe.

her hands curled into his hair, and she kissed him—hard, filthy, open-mouthed, tongue tasting herself on him, moaning into his mouth like she was trying to suck the soul back out of him. his weight pressed down on her, solid and heavy, but it wasn’t enough. she needed more.

“please,” she whispered into the kiss, nails digging into his back, hips lifting up against the weight of his still-clothed cock pressing into her thigh. “joon—please. keep going. i need you inside me. now.”

he groaned into her mouth, like her begging physically hurt him. his hands fumbled at his pants, pulling them down far enough to free himself, the sound of his zipper and her ragged breath the only thing between them. her hands went to her own thighs, spreading them wide beneath him in an offering, desperate, ready—wrecked.

“you sure?” he panted against her lips, forehead pressed to hers, cock in hand, lining himself up with a grip that looked almost painful. “you say the word, i’ll stop.”

she looked him in the eye, voice shaking but certain.

“don’t you fucking dare.”

he slammed into her in one deep, brutal thrust.

his hips slammed into her with one long, deep thrust that knocked the air clean out of her lungs. the stretch burned so good she cried out, legs shaking around his waist, hands fisting the sheets as her head dropped back in utter shock.

“fuck—joon,” she gasped, voice raw, almost stunned at how full she felt, at how much she’d missed this. missed him.

he groaned like the sound of her voice broke something in him. his hands grabbed her thighs, yanked her even closer, then pulled out almost all the way just to slam back in again—harder, sharper, each snap of his hips making the bed creak under the weight of it all. her body jolted with every thrust, his cock thick and heavy inside her, dragging against every spot that made her legs tremble and her breath hitch in real time.

“you feel so fucking good,” he growled, leaning over her, teeth gritted as he fucked her like he meant it. “so fucking tight. fuck—i forgot how tight you get when you’re losing it.”

his hand reached up, tangled into her hair, pulled just enough to tilt her head back. she moaned for it—loved it—the little edge of pain sharp enough to drive her crazier, her back arching up into his chest. his mouth was on hers again before she could speak, all tongue and teeth and gasping moans, swallowing every breath like he couldn’t stand the space between them.

their mouths clashed, messy and open and hungry, like kissing had turned into its own kind of fight.

she clawed at his back, dragging nails down muscle, digging in every time his hips snapped forward and buried himself to the hilt inside her again. each thrust hit so deep she swore she saw stars, his pace fast, merciless, like he was punishing both of them for every second of distance they’d ever had.

“you missed this?” he panted into her mouth, voice low, almost mocking, like he knew. “missed getting fucked like this? stretched out on my cock like you were made for it?”

she choked on a moan, nails raking down his spine. “yes—yes, joon—fuck—don’t stop.”

“wasn’t gonna,” he growled, grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head with one hand. “not until you’re screaming.”

and then he really let go.

hips slamming into her, deep and fast, skin slapping skin, her whole body sliding up the mattress from the force of it. his free hand went to her waist, holding her down, keeping her steady as he wrecked her, thrust after thrust after thrust—her mouth open, no sounds coming out at all for a second, just wrecked gasps and the kind of expression that would stay burned in his memory forever.

he dropped his forehead to hers again, breathing heavy, fucking her so deep and so hard that tears prickled at the corners of her eyes—not from pain, but from relief. from the way everything in her finally broke under the weight of him.

he pulled out just long enough to manhandle her into a new position—grabbing her thigh, lifting one of her legs and pressing it high onto his shoulder, folding her open for him like a fucking gift. the angle changed everything. he slid back in slow just to feel it, to watch the way her mouth fell open and her eyes rolled back the moment he bottomed out again, deeper now, better.

her moan broke open the silence like a scream, one hand gripping the sheets, the other clawing at his forearm as he started fucking into her again—hard, relentless, that new angle making her feel everything more. every thrust hit home, punching a whimper from her lips, her cunt wet and hot and clenching around him so tight he nearly lost control.

“fuck, baby,” he groaned, leaning over her just enough to bring his hand to her jaw, gripping it, thumb pressed under her chin to tilt her head back so she looked at him. “you look so fucking good like this. making a mess on my cock. soaked all the way down my thighs—shit.”

she couldn’t answer. not really. just breathless, broken sounds, tears threatening to fall because it was too much—not just the sex, but the feeling of it. the heat of his skin, the grip of his hand, the filthy way he was watching her like she was something he’d been dying to touch again.

he leaned in, close enough that their faces almost touched, still pounding into her like he needed to fuck the memory of her into the walls.

“you missed this?” he whispered, voice rough, dark, mean. “missed me splitting you open like this? filling you like no one else can?”

her hands grabbed his wrist, her nails digging into his skin, nodding frantically, eyes wild and desperate. “yes—fuck, yes, namjoon—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop.”

he growled, pure animal, his grip tightening on her jaw as he kissed her again—messy, filthy, tongue and teeth and moans—his other hand sliding down to where they were joined, fingers finding her clit and rubbing in tight, fast circles while he thrust into her like he was chasing a high he couldn’t come down from.

“gonna cum again for me?” he murmured against her mouth, thrusting harder now, faster, body slamming into hers like he meant to break the bed. “you gonna make a mess all over me, baby?”

she was already there. legs shaking. body locking up. her breath caught in her throat and she whimpered, choking on his name like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to earth.

“cum for me,” he growled again, voice raw, mouth at her ear now. “fuck—cum on my cock. i missed this so fucking much—missed you.”

and then she shattered.

again.

her body convulsed beneath him, legs trembling, thighs twitching around his hips as she came again—louder this time, back arched, mouth open in a soundless gasp that broke into a moan when he kept thrusting through it. her nails raked down his back, her whole body pulling him in, tighter, deeper, like she wanted to keep him buried inside her forever.

he couldn’t hold it anymore.

the way she clenched around him, the heat, the mess of her under him, the way she looked when she came—completely ruined, all soft and raw and his—it tore the last thread of restraint out of him.

“fuck, i’m—shit, i’m gonna—” his voice cracked, low and hoarse and wrecked, his thrusts stuttering as his body locked up.

he pulled out fast, just in time, his hand wrapped around himself once, twice, and then he came with a broken, strangled whimper right into her ear, forehead pressed to hers, breath hot and fast. thick ropes of his cum landed across her stomach, slick and warm, and he let out a shaky breath as he collapsed halfway over her, chest heaving, fingers still gripping her thigh like he couldn’t let go.

for a moment, neither of them moved. just the sound of their breathing—heavy, ragged, in sync.

but then—he kissed her again.

soft this time.

just under her jaw, then across her throat, right where her pulse still fluttered like a drum. his hand smoothed down her side, his lips slow and deliberate as he pressed them into the soft spot under her ear—the place that used to make her shiver when he loved her gently.

and then—he slid back in.

slow.

gentle.

soothing the ache he’d left behind.

his cock was still hard, still thick, but now every roll of his hips was tender, like he was apologizing with his body. like he couldn’t bear to stop touching her just yet. he buried his face in her neck, groaning quietly as her walls fluttered around him, warm and slick and still so damn tight.

“could stay like this all night,” he whispered, voice barely a breath. “just like this. fuck, you feel so good. like you were made for me.”

her fingers found his hair again, gentler now too, stroking through the sweat-damp strands, her own breath shaky but steadying.

“then don’t go,” she murmured, barely audible.

and he kissed her again.

not fast. not hard.

just full of everything they’d said without words.

the shift was almost too much. like the weight of it all finally sank in once the sweat cooled and the urgency dulled into something deeper. something unbearably tender.

he was still inside her—moving, slow and careful, like he wanted her to feel every inch, like he was afraid to lose the warmth of her if he stopped. their bodies rocked together, hips moving in soft, deliberate rolls, his hands planted beside her head, his chest pressed to hers, their foreheads touching.

he kissed her again, slow and deep, tongues brushing with the kind of hunger that had turned gentle, reverent. her arms wrapped around his shoulders, clutching him close like she was scared he’d vanish. she moaned softly into his mouth, breath hot and broken, each little sound spilling into his throat like a secret.

“you feel so good,” she whispered, voice tight, shaking, almost tearful.

and he felt it. every syllable. the way her voice cracked, the way her body clung to his like she couldn’t let go.

he kissed her harder, but not rough. not anymore.

his hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw as he pulled back just enough to look at her. his eyes were heavy, glazed with lust and something aching behind it—something close to regret, or maybe grief, for everything they’d lost between then and now.

“i missed this,” he murmured, his forehead pressed to hers, the rhythm of his hips slow and steady, still buried deep inside her. “missed you.”

her breath hitched, eyes fluttering closed as her legs tightened around his waist. she didn’t say anything for a moment, couldn’t—not when her throat was closing up, not when every slow thrust made her feel everything she’d spent the last year pretending didn’t still live under her skin.

“me too,” she finally whispered, brushing her nose against his. “so much.”

he kissed her again. deeper. longer. her lips trembled against his, but she didn’t cry—not yet. just held him tighter, her soft moans landing in his ear like confessions, her hands running down his back, memorizing every ridge of him like he might slip away again.

he moved inside her like they had all the time in the world.

and for a moment, they did.

he was still buried inside her, hips moving in those slow, shallow rolls like he never wanted to stop. but the urgency had passed. the storm had calmed. and when she brushed her fingers gently along the nape of his neck, murmuring his name soft and low, he sighed against her mouth, like her touch was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

he pulled out with a soft groan, breath catching as he left her warmth. but before the space between them could feel too wide, she reached down and wrapped her hand around him—slow, smooth, and intentional.

he hissed, his body jolting from the sudden touch, already so close from everything they’d done that he twitched in her palm, leaking for her.

“shh,” she whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “just let me take care of you.”

her hand moved slow at first, slick and steady, her thumb brushing the tip every so often in a way that made his hips jerk and his breath come harder. her other hand rested on his hip, anchoring him as she stroked him with a rhythm that was both loving and filthy. his eyes fluttered shut, forehead falling to her shoulder, chest rising and falling fast as she murmured to him—sweet nothings and soft gasps of filth.

“you’re so fucking perfect like this,” she breathed, kissing his temple, “so hard for me still. you liked fucking me that much, huh?”

he groaned—whimpered—a quiet, broken sound that made her clench around nothing. she could feel him tensing, his muscles twitching under her hand, his moans getting tighter, shorter, more desperate.

“gonna cum for me, baby?” she whispered, lips dragging along his jaw now, her pace quickening just a little. “all over my hand? let me feel you lose it, joon.”

his hips stuttered once—twice—and then he did, cumming hard, hot, thick spurts painting her hand and her stomach again, his mouth open in a soft, wrecked sound that died against her throat. he trembled, completely spent, and she held him close, kissing the corner of his mouth as he shuddered through the aftershock.

he collapsed on top of her a moment later, body heavy and boneless, his breath loud in the quiet room, mouth still parted against her skin.

she didn’t mind the weight. not one bit.

her clean hand slid into his hair, damp with sweat, fingers gently massaging his scalp, nails lightly grazing as she whispered soothing little circles into his crown. he hummed against her chest, nuzzling in deeper, her heartbeat loud and steady beneath his cheek.

neither of them spoke for a long while.

but in that silence, her hand never left his hair. and he never moved from the curve of her body.

he stayed on her chest for a moment longer, breathing deep, eyes closed like he could hold back the tide if he just didn’t look up. but even with her fingers carding through his hair, even with her heartbeat steady beneath his ear, the weight in his chest kept growing.

he lifted his head slowly, and even that felt like too much. the air shifted. the warmth between them cooled by a breath.

“what are we doing, (y/n)?” he asked, barely above a whisper, his voice already frayed. his eyes searched hers—deep, dark, desperate. looking for something. for regret, maybe. a sign that she wanted to take it back, that this had just been a moment of weakness, a one-night undoing they’d sweep under the rug come morning.

but there wasn’t any.

not in her eyes. not in her touch.

she blinked, then gave a small smile that didn’t quite reach all the way. “well,” she said, breathless, trying for lightness, “you fucked the shit out of me just now. so… i’d say we’re about four orgasms past asking that question.”

he let out a short, breathy laugh—but it didn’t last. not really.

his eyes didn’t leave hers. and hers… started to falter.

because she could see it. that flicker behind his gaze. the one that said he was trying not to feel too much, not to fall too hard all over again when the edge of her skin still felt like home.

and god—she could feel herself starting to unravel.

“joon,” she whispered, softer now. her clean hand cupped the side of his face, thumb brushing along the line of his cheekbone. “it’s okay.”

“is it?” he asked, the words sharp but the tone anything but. it wasn’t anger. it was fear. “because it doesn’t feel like it should be. it feels like I just—like we just opened a wound we spent a year trying to close.”

she bit her bottom lip. looked up at the ceiling for a second like she was searching for the courage not to let the sting in her eyes turn into tears.

“i’m not sorry,” she said eventually. quietly. “not for a second.”

he looked at her for a long time, as if her answer both soothed and destroyed him.

his hand found her waist under the sheets, gentle now, grounding. like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold her—but he couldn’t not.

“me either,” he said.

and yet… the silence said everything else.

“we should probably clean up,” she murmured, voice husky but gentle as she traced lazy fingers down the line of his spine. “we’re both covered in sweat and cum.”

he let out a low, sleepy laugh, forehead still resting against her collarbone. “mmm, that we are.”

it took them a minute to untangle. not because they were too tired, but because every time they shifted, one of them stole another kiss—slow, unhurried, more lips than tongue now. soft breaths, forehead touches, the kind of kisses that meant stay without ever needing to say it.

they padded to the bathroom in silence, limbs heavy, hands brushing. and once inside, under the dim overhead light, the intimacy only deepened.

he turned on the shower and stepped in first, then held out his hand for her without a word. she followed, the water pouring down over both of them, steam curling around their skin as he reached for the shampoo like it was the most natural thing in the world.

he moved slowly, fingers in her hair, massaging her scalp with gentle care. her eyes fluttered shut, arms resting around his waist, her cheek pressed to his chest. and when it was her turn, she did the same—dragged her fingers through his hair with a touch that made his knees weak, washed his shoulders and his neck with the pads of her fingers like she was memorizing him all over again.

there was no hunger in it. no spark of lust.

just something closer.

every few moments, one of them would lean in to kiss the other—wet, slow kisses that tasted like water and exhaustion. a kiss to the shoulder. one to the temple. one on the mouth that lingered longer than it should’ve.

they dried off together, standing close, sharing a towel, her eyes following the slope of his back like she was afraid it’d disappear.

he pulled on the shirt she handed him. it was one of his, left behind long ago—somehow still folded in the back of her dresser drawer. she didn’t say anything when he smiled at it. didn’t have to.

and when they were standing in her bedroom again, the air thick with the scent of clean skin and old memory, he moved toward the door almost instinctively—like he should go.

like this had been enough.

“you don’t have to leave,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the quiet like a thread pulled loose.

he turned slowly, met her eyes.

and god, she looked so bare. not just physically—wrapped in nothing but a towel and damp hair—but emotionally. open. honest. a little afraid.

“stay,” she added, quieter this time. “please.”

his throat worked. like the word caught there.

and then, finally—he nodded.

not dramatic. not with a speech. just a quiet, yes written into the way he came back to her, climbed into her bed, and pulled her into his arms like she belonged there.

because maybe she still did.

they slipped under the sheets like they’d done it a thousand times before—because they had. the weight of the covers settled over them like a secret, like something sacred. her head tucked under his chin, one of his arms curved tightly around her waist, the other splayed across her ribs, his thumb brushing gentle lines over her skin like he had to keep reminding himself she was real.

his breathing was steady against her hair, his legs tangled with hers, the kind of closeness that was impossible to fake. and for the first time in over a year, they weren’t bracing for the next blow. no accusations. no fear.

just truth. in its rawest, sleepiest form.

“i thought you hated me,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

his hand tightened around her waist, just a little. “never,” he said, almost immediately. “i just… didn’t know how to stop missing you without falling apart.”

she closed her eyes, felt that break something in her. a soft exhale left her mouth. “i never stopped missing you,” she admitted. “even when i said i was fine. even when i laughed with my friends and told them i was over it.”

he didn’t answer right away. just pressed his lips to her forehead, long and warm. like he was apologizing for the space that had stretched between them.

“every time i passed that coffee place you loved,” he said, voice low, “i had to walk the other way.”

she blinked hard, tears threatening. “i deleted your number like three times. memorized it anyway.”

he let out a soft laugh through his nose. not happy, not sad. just knowing.

the silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full. full of everything they’d carried in their chests for twelve long months. full of what-ifs and why-nots. full of the ache of having loved each other and the even deeper ache of still loving each other now.

she turned in his arms, nose brushing his, their eyes meeting in the dark. “i didn’t mean to send that message,” she said. “not really. i was drunk, and sad, and tired of pretending i didn’t still—”

“i’m glad you did,” he interrupted softly. “i’ve read it at least a dozen times. didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t ruin us all over again.”

she reached up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “you didn’t ruin anything, joon. we just… broke. but we never stopped meaning something.”

he kissed her then.

slow. deep. different.

like he heard her.

when they pulled apart, their foreheads stayed pressed together, their breath tangled, hearts pounding in quiet sync.

“can we stay like this?” he murmured, not quite a question, not quite a plea.

“for as long as we want,” she whispered back.

and they stayed.

no promises.

just warmth, and weight, and the hope that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t the end.

he stayed quiet for a moment longer, just watching her, the way her eyes blinked slowly up at him in the dark. the way her breath steadied when he touched her like that—gently, reverently, like touching something breakable but beloved. his thumb traced her cheekbone, her jaw, the curve of her lip, and when she kissed the pad of it—just a light brush, soft and sure—something inside him settled.

“okay,” he said at last, the word nearly swallowed by the stillness.

her brows furrowed, and he saw the flicker of uncertainty before he caught her chin between his fingers and smiled, just a little.

“we can try,” he said, clearer this time. “if you want to… really try. no more running. no more pretending we’re fine when we’re not.”

her lips parted—surprised, maybe—but she nodded almost immediately. like she’d been waiting to hear that exact thing from the moment he walked into that bathroom corridor and looked at her like she still mattered.

“i do,” she said. no hesitation. “i want to.”

he exhaled then, not shakily, but with the kind of relief that made his whole chest sink into hers.

“me too,” he murmured. “so much.”

they kissed again. slower now, but full. full of things they hadn’t said. full of the ache and the years and the breathless kind of hope that blooms when you stop lying to yourself.

his arms wrapped tighter around her. hers curled beneath his. their legs tangled like they’d never been untangled in the first place.

and this time, when the silence settled around them, it wasn’t heavy.

it was safe.

the kind of quiet you only get when the worst part is over, and something better is starting.

they’d hurt. they’d healed. they’d found their way back through the noise and the hurt and the time.

and now—together, in the dark, skin warm, bodies still humming with memory—they were choosing it.

again.

and this time, they meant it.

quietly always, cigarettesuga.

taglist Ꮺ @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @h6rtf9lt @wynterlove

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asiatic-apple · 3 days ago

Note

Love your writing! Thank you for taking requests.

I would absolutely adore fluff promp 6 with Zayne and female MC. Imaging them at maybe Dr Noah’s place in Snowcrest? Or anywhere where you prefer it :)

Thank you so much, lovely!! I'm still getting used to writing for Zayne, but I hope this is to your liking 💙 and I apologize for the long wait

Late night warmth

Zayne x female reader

Prompt: it’s freezing cold and they can’t figure out how to turn on the heat; they’ll just have to share the bed to stay warm then

Content: tooth-rotting fluff, mutual pining, cuddling

Dr. Noah’s house is quiet this late at night. Snowcrest’s frigid winds push softly against the windows, but inside, everything is still. The wooden floorboards creak as you pad down the hall, half-asleep, rubbing your arms to ward off the cold.

The thermostat near the kitchen hasn’t responded to anything you tried. Dr. Noah warned you the heating system could be stubborn this time of year, but you hadn’t expected it to be this bad.

You could go back to your room and try huddling up in the blankets. But there’s another, more tempting solution. When you glance down the dark hallway, you catch the faint glow of warm light beneath the other guest bedroom’s door. The one Zayne is staying in.

He’s still awake, it seems.

Waddling over to the door, you knock gently and whisper, “Zayne?”

A pause. Then, “Yeah.”

You crack the door open. He’s sitting upright in bed with the duvet tucked around his shoulders a bit comically and a datapad resting on his lap. The blue glow from the screen highlights the tiredness in his eyes. But there’s also a hint of amusement in them; he doesn’t look surprised to see you.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks quietly.

“Not in that room,” you say, stepping in and closing the door behind you. “It’s freezing in there.”

He hums in understanding—although you both ignore the fact that your excuse doesn’t make much sense since it’s freezing everywhere in this house.

You see him shift slightly beneath the covers, a subtle motion. As if he’s making space for you.

You glance down at the bed, then back at him. “Is your bed warm?”

He meets your eyes for a beat. To anyone else, they’d only see that calm, unreadable expression of his. But you notice the glint of playful teasing behind his wire-frame glasses.

“A little,” he says. “Blankets help.”

You stand there for another second. Then you cross the room.

Zayne doesn't say anything when you slide under the covers beside him. He just lies down beside you and adjusts the quilted duvet to tug it up over your shoulders. The bed is warmer than the one in the room you were given. Or maybe it’s your imagination.

Maybe it’s the way your skin always goes a bit too clammy whenever you’re near Zayne. And being in the same bed as him only heightens your yearning for him. The air feels thick with his calming scent—something clean yet faintly herbal like peppermint or eucalyptus.

You lie stiffly at first, trying to give him space by sticking to the extreme end of the bed. But the air beyond the blanket’s edge is cold, and you don’t want to accidentally slip out into the frosty air.

Zayne doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out, fingers grazing your wrist under the sheets. It’s the softest touch, almost uncertain. Somehow, his fingers feel even colder than the air outside. But his touch makes your skin sweat.

You turn your head toward him.

“Are you still cold?” you ask.

You expected to borrow his warmth, but instead, something about him draws the heat from you—like he needs it more than you do. For once, you want to be the warmth that eases into his chest. Maybe all the heat he makes you feel with a simple look or the graze of his fingertips can finally serve a bigger purpose.

He nods, barely perceptible in the dim light. “A bit.”

You shift, turning onto your side to face him properly. “C’mere,” you whisper, a little less confident than you want to sound.

There’s a pause. Then he inches closer, slow and deliberate, until you can feel the chill of his body against yours. Your legs brush. His hand settles lightly at your waist, no pressure behind it, like he’s testing the space between you.

You reach up and touch his cheek, brushing his hair back from his forehead. His skin is cool. But he melts under your touch—the perfect complement to how you always burn for him. You watch, enraptured, as his eyelashes flutter in what seems like bliss.

“You couldn’t sleep because of the cold either, could you?” you ask with a chuckle. “You should’ve come to my room.”

He exhales softly, something between a laugh and a hitched breath. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

“You never bother me.”

Your voice is quiet, but you mean it. You’re close enough now to feel the soft rhythm of his breathing against your chest. His body gradually relaxes as the warmth spreads between you—a slow, calm settling, like snow drifting to earth.

“Thank you,” he murmurs after a moment. “For being my hearth.”

You feel his fingers tighten slightly against your side, a quiet acknowledgment of how much your presence means to him—more than just the warmth you can provide.

His words and touch fan the flames beneath your skin, and you press a light kiss to his forehead in reply. Eventually, his breathing evens out. The house is wrapped in silence again as your stoic doctor curls closer to you in his sleep.

Want to be added to my tag list?

💕 tag list: @heartyluv @doeeyes515 @lethalasylum @starryeyed-apple @starlitfics @craeatio @rafayelslittlestar @ruralamours @alyssac9 @blushofeve @alastor-simp @nezuswritingdesk @yoonights @ashirelle @jamfingers @decadentwastelandpoetry @yrdarlingpup @asiaticapple @spidermanlaalalalala @partycityyyyyyy @raendarkfaerie @sweetcalebb @mikenotmic @jenvhae @kaeyasfuturewife @purpleamethyst25 @grapeees16 @pepitesingulare @opalesquegirl

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dividers by me (please do not repost)

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smutmind · 2 days ago

Text

Goodbye Head ft. Wendy

The agency halls echoed with soft footsteps and muffled goodbyes.

Wendy walked slow, fingers brushing the plastered wall where old tour posters still hung. Thirteen years. From fresh-faced trainee to seasoned idol. Every corner of the building held a whisper of her past—early call times, tearful rehearsals, stolen naps on studio floors. She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She turned the corner and nearly collided with someone.

"Ah—sorry," she started, then blinked. "Mr. Joon?"

He looked older. Grayer hair. Softer around the edges. But the same calm eyes, always watching without judgment. He stepped back, blinking as if trying to confirm what he was seeing. "Wendy... Wow."

She grinned. "It’s really my last day. Can you believe it?"

"I can’t. God, I remember when you came in with braces and a notebook full of lyrics you were too shy to show anyone."

Her laugh was quiet. "I still have that notebook. Somewhere."

He smiled, but something in it sagged, weary. They stood in the hallway as the silence stretched between them.

"You know," he said, clearing his throat, "I’m leaving too. Retiring, technically."

Wendy's brows lifted. "Really? I didn’t hear. When?"

"End of the week. No fanfare. Just... walking out."

She read his posture—shoulders rounded, tie loose, eyes that avoided hers for a beat too long.

"You okay?"

He gave a low laugh. "I don’t know. Poured everything into this job. Years just blurred by. All the birthdays missed, family I stopped calling back... I don't even have a plant at home to water."

Wendy's smile faded. Her voice turned soft. "I saw it. All of it. You were always the last one to leave. Even when I passed out in the practice room, you were the one who covered me with a coat."

Mr. Joon looked away.

"You gave everything, Mr. Joon. We noticed. I noticed."

For a moment, he didn't answer. Then: "It's strange. You get to the end and realize no one’s there to clap for you."

The ache in her chest surprised her. Wendy stepped closer. Close enough to see the faint wrinkle beside his mouth. Close enough to smell his cologne—subtle, woodsy, familiar.

"That's not true," she said. "I’m here."

He met her eyes.

Wendy tilted her head. "Come on. Just for a second."

She led him down the hall, past the break room she remembered napping in between vocal lessons. The light was off. The door creaked as it opened, and silence wrapped around them like dusk.

Mr. Joon paused inside. "Still smells like burnt coffee."

"And ramen packets," she added.

The hush between them deepened.

She stepped closer, fingers trailing the edge of the table where she used to sit and cry quietly after a bad dance eval. "You don’t deserve to feel alone. Not after everything you gave us."

He shook his head, mouth twitching like he might say something. Then he didn’t.

Wendy touched his hand. His skin was warm, trembling slightly. Their eyes met again, and something unspoken bloomed between them—gratitude, grief, tenderness.

Her voice barely above a breath. "Can I give you something?"

He hesitated. But he didn’t move away.

Wendy knelt slowly, fingers brushing his belt.

His breath caught.

She looked up, her gaze steady. "Let me say goodbye properly."

She opened his belt with slow, deliberate fingers. The metallic clink echoed in the silence. Her palms were warm against his hips as she unbuttoned and tugged down his slacks.

Mr. Joon’s breath stuttered. "Wendy… this kind of service… It’s only ever been offered to higher-ups. The executives, sponsors. Never someone like me. Not once. Even when you were all still under my care, I never—never expected anything."

She smiled gently, her lips grazing the outline of him through his briefs. "Exactly why you deserve it. You were kind. Always. No agenda. You watched over us. You watched over me."

Her voice turned tender, reverent. "So let me watch over you now. Just this once."

She pulled his briefs down, freeing him. He was already half-hard, heavy and flushed, and he twitched when the cool air kissed him. Wendy wrapped her fingers around his base with soft wonder. Her thumb stroked the tip, drawing a sharp hiss from him.

"You’re beautiful, Mr. Joon."

He groaned, looking down at her. She looked luminous even in the dim light—her skin glowing, lips plush, lashes casting long shadows over her cheeks.

Then she leaned in and licked.

One slow drag of her tongue along the underside, from base to tip. He shivered. Her mouth opened, wet and warm, and she took him in—just the tip at first, circling it with her tongue.

"Jesus," he muttered, hand finding the table to steady himself. "You feel like a dream."

Wendy moaned softly around him, the sound sending a throb straight through him. She began to bob her head slowly, each movement smooth, her cheeks hollowing as she took more of him in.

His hips jerked. She steadied him with a hand against his thigh.

"Wendy—God—you don’t have to—"

She pulled off with a pop. "I want to. Let me spoil you. Just this once."

Then she went back, deeper this time. Her throat opened to accommodate him, slick and hot. Her other hand fondled his base, her lips working him with deliberate devotion. She wasn’t rushing—she was savoring. Worshipping.

He gasped, watching her. Her hair brushed her shoulders, catching the dim light. Drool slipped from the corners of her mouth as she took him deep again, again, her eyes fluttering closed with each descent.

Then, she looked up.

She locked eyes with him, mouth full of him, lips stretched wide. And then she moaned again—vibrating pleasure straight into his core.

"Fuck—" he choked. "I can’t—I’m gonna—"

She didn’t pull away. She sucked harder, faster, her cheeks flushed, her eyes never breaking contact. Her nails bit into his thighs just enough to ground him.

And then he came.

He spilled with a long, ragged groan, and she took it all—every drop—without breaking rhythm. Only when he trembled under her touch did she finally pull back, licking her lips, eyes still soft.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smiling up at him.

"Goodbye, Mr. Joon."

#wendy #red velvet #wendy smut #red velvet smut #kpop smut #kpop x reader

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saetiate · 1 day ago

Text

call it what it is. (or, the five times sae and you are "just friends". and the one time it stops being possible to deny what this really is.)

itoshi sae x f!reader fluff. friends to lovers, first kiss, how love happens, reader goes by she/her pronouns and has some personality (sorry, i couldn't get around it bc of The Plot but i kept it as minimal as possible) word count: 2.3k author's note: you both have a whole dinner date, go to events together, take care of each other, and then get surprised when people think you're dating??? okay so the sound of fireworks are less obvious than whatever yall have going on

Bitterness churns at the back of your throat. Is it from the roasted beans of the coffee you've been slamming into your system for the last few days, or from the lack of sleep?

Not that it matters. You've worked OT, both your team and your clients are unhappy, and according to your Excel worksheet, you're on your 85th job application. So really, it doesn't get worse than —

The doorbell rings.

Who the actual —

You breathe out the biggest sigh at the pretty face standing before you. It's definitely the lack of sleep, isn't it? Either you really should've checked the peephole and put on something a little more flattering, or he's a hallucination.

Let's hope it's the latter. You move to close the door, and his hand reaches out lightning-quick, holding it still. In a spark of annoying rebellion, you press all of your body weight against the door, and it doesn't budge an inch.

Right. Athletes and their stupid, stupid strength.

"You didn't answer my calls."

They say sighing is a necessary part of your lungs, that one of the struggles of artificial lungs was getting them to sigh. You wonder if it meant this many times in a day. "Sae, I'm busy. Wait, I didn't answer your calls? You don't answer my texts 90% of the time."

Then he's in your entryway, because of course you can't argue where your neighbors can hear, that's rude. But then he's in your kitchen, washing his hands, opening your fridge.

"There's nothing in here. When's the last time you took a shower?"

"You come here just to insult me?"

A towel hits your face with an oof before it falls into your arms.

"Sae," you try again, as the towel slides down your cheek, "You can't just barge in here and —"

20 minutes later, there's two steaming bowls of katsu curry rice on your now-clean desk. Sae opens up the little ziplock of togarashi, leans it against your bento box with more care than you'd expect.

"Itakadimasu."

It's the strangest thing, walking into your place only for someone to already be in there. How the noise cuts through, something unbelonging but welcomed.

"You know, giving you the key wasn't so you could just walk in here whenever you want. It was for emergencies only."

The only answer you get is the smell of onions being caramelized, crackled sparks of savory in the air.

"I answered your call," you continue, undressing behind a half-open door. "So this can't be an emergency. And you have a much nicer place than this."

Sae barely glances at you as your head peeks into the kitchen. "You could stay there."

"What, with you? Like we're roommates? Nah, you'd see what a mess I am."

"I'm already seeing it."

A spatula waves in little circles around the pan,

What are you doing here, Sae?

Like he's already braced for the question, the refrigerator light beacons out into the descending night. Your favorite wine passes from his hand to yours.

"Got gifted it," he responds before you can even ask. You could've caught him looking at you, but the gold label glints with stars in your eyes.

"How'd you get gifted icewine? You've never talked about it in an interview."

He doesn't tell you he asked his manager for recommendations, that he knows they let it slip to someone looking for a brand deal with him. Instead, he watches as you struggle to pop the cork open, the xylophone clink of ice into twin wine glasses.

"So you do like sweet things," you comment as the nectared drink meets your tongue with a smile. There's a reverence to it: how he watches you chop the vegetables before sliding them into the pan, how the last remnants of today's sunlight filter through the window and past your hair.

Sweet things. He supposes he does like something like that.

"This event, is it a big deal?"

He vaguely hears a ruffle of clothing behind the half-shut bathroom door, lightstream swept across the floor. He offered you what he knows his teammates get their wives for these events — stylist, makeup artists — but he watched you stand in his bathroom layering on eyeshadow for yourself anyways.

I don't trust anyone else to touch me. A simple statement made stark.

"Sorry, Sae. Could you help zip me up please?"

Maybe it's that implication, that hidden trust you place in him, that makes his exhale a little shaky as one of his hands wraps around your waist to hold the dress down, the other carefully pulling up metal piece up.

You've often thought athletes would naturally be aggressive. You've seen Sae make a fast pass across the entire field without breaking a sweat. But when his hands are on you, they're always light. You think of the falling of snow, its soft and silent touch that comes unexpected, the easy descent it makes before it melts into the ground.

Love is a little like that, maybe.

It's a common feeling, to feel as if you're completely alone in this world. Easy to get into your own head, to see only yourself within four walls again and again and forget that there is a whole world outside. It's logical, well-researched, known. It's because of that that you can factor out the feelings when it hits you.

The four walls has never felt as striking as now, coughing into the hollow quiet. The morbid thought strikes that if you died here, no one would know. They'd find your body days later, after the smell starts to waft out.

But you chose this. To move and to fight and to create a life worth living. You, with your ambitions and heavy heart and endless survival faith that makes you somehow believe you can still make it. Sometimes you have to force a door close before wrenching another one open with nothing but your bare hands. Sometimes you have to swallow all your pride and roll up your sleeves and pray to no higher gods you worship that the decision you made is worth it.

You think you hear something click as your mind fogs back and forth into sleep. You hope whoever's burgling you will at least leave you alone and only take what they need. You hear your name, and then a shuffle, and god this is really the worst time to have a stalker.

The back of a hand over your forehead is cool to the touch, the night's breeze still pressed between the molecules.

"You're sick."

Thank you, intruder, for pointing out the obvious is what you want to say. But instead, your head lulls heavily to the side. "I just need to rest for a bit."

"You need a hospital."

"I'm fine. I'm just- being dramatic. But I'm fine."

Your world tips on its axis, warmth blooming into your side. He lifts you into his arms soundlessly. You almost envy how effortless it is for him; the weight you carry is so heavy when you're carrying it yourself.

It's only halfway towards his car that you find yourself processing, finally speaking, "Thank you, Sae."

There's a sharp intake of breath from him, the hard line of his body protecting you from the night's chilled-sweet air. His heartbeat against your ear is as steady as the shore, the way it waits for the kiss of the tide.

"Just call me next time."

Sae's not sure how he feels about this.

It's his first time being late when he's meant to be taking you to this event. He moves fast through the crowd, searches with keen eyes. Chandeliers flicker and crystal-light dances —

Only to find you propped up against the wall, Rin leaning down close.

Sae might be less confused if Rin didn't look — for what might be the first time at an event ever — like he actually wanted to be there. He's listening to you with all his attention, has no problem being in your space.

Sae only approaches once you've been whisked away by Bachira.

"Why were you talking to her?"

Rin whips around, and instead of looking guilty, he's in wide-eyed shock, and then narrow-eyed annoyance. "Ha? She's your girlfriend, isn't she?"

Sae blinks. Did he say that? He would've remembered, wouldn't he?

"You good-for-nothing older brother," Rin's voice is a grunt, nothing like the sweetness he gave you. "You didn't even introduce me. I had to fucking find out through Isagi."

"How does Isagi know?"

"Oliver."

"How does Oliver know?"

Rin gives him an begrudged, deadpan look. "He's your teammate?"

That explains nothing. Actually, Sae is even more confused. He has about a dozen more questions.

"She's nice." Rin mumbles low, playing with the stem of his wine glass, watches as it almost tips before swooping it back up.

"You like her?"

"I think she's nice." Rin grits, and Sae really doesn't know how Rin gets away with faux passes on the field when his reactions are this obvious, because he watches how his eyes grow with realization as another thought passes through his brain. "You don't like her?"

"I like her." Sae accepts quickly.

"Ha??? Then what are you asking me for?!"

If Sae's being honest, he knows he has more than enough. He wonders what this thing is that he's had since he was born, never satiated even as he reaches the top. He thinks about how Bachira describes his 'monster', a childlike wonder, whether this is his own version of something like that.

But even the blackhole-depths of his greed doesn't anticipate wanting you. Like remembering the sea upon the drink of an oyster. A second breath, heart soaked with knowing.

What am I doing, sleeping in his bed? The night grows darker with every step, so the invite was innocuous enough. You sink into the mattress and the blanket of night muffles the fear, the thought that love is never so easy. There will be complications and contracts —

You turn to him and all the braveheart strength seeps out of you. Maybe you can put it down here, just for a moment.

He looks at you love-first, in a thousand colors, something he can't find with anyone else. He brushes the hair from your face so delicately, you find yourself stuck between watching his relaxed expression and fluttering your eyes shut to absorb the feeling. The back of his fingers caress your cheek, a butterfly's wing.

"Are you happy? Satisfied?"

Sae is not abstract. It's a vague but concrete question. You understand him at first glance.

"Not yet," you exhale honestly. "I have more to do. I'm gonna get there."

I'm gonna be the person I want to be. And by that time, I'll also be —

I'll also be the kind of girl you'd consider worth dating.

"Just wanna be worth it," you smile weakly instead.

He looks at you with a tenderness that feels dangerous. You think of a bird's first flight, the swoop of the fall. The crackle of a flame before it eats the firewood.

"People are worth something the moment they're born," he recites with no inflections.

"I know that."

"You're the one who said that." It's not accusatory, it's a reminder: your own truth, a perception of love you've been made the exception of. It's too heavy with degradation for him to feel comfortable focusing on, so instead he asks something he knows.

"If you had everything you want now, would it be enough?"

You sit up, his eyes following you. Your body heat no longer pressed against his feels like a loss, something he's sure to correct.

"No. You know that's not how it works." You should know, better than anyone.

He does know. That greed is a bottomless abyss, ambition an infinite sky. There is no amount of good enough that could ever make it all feel worth it.

His hand circles around your wrist, pulls you in on top of him until you're chest to chest.

Love is not your right. Shattered somethings cradle your heart. Trees can grow around items. You wonder if your heart is the same — muscle grown strong around fractured glass, a whisper of a cutting edge with every beat.

If you're always going to want more, be better, go further —

Could you have a little something in the now?

He's so close to you now that it fills your mind completely. He's not naked but he feels so bare under you, your hands framing his cheeks, soft skin brushing against your fingertips. One of his hands skates up your back, the other slides up your jaw, cups the back of your neck.

You wonder when you started letting him touch you like that.

He treats you so gently, so unlike the overwhelming emotion that crashes into you. Both lightweight and heavy, you feel swept under, you just want to anchor onto something —

His lips touch yours and everything falls into place.

"How'd you know about her?"

Oliver could make it easy for him. He won't, because getting a reaction out of Sae is much more fun. Instead, he tries and fails to feign ignorance. "Who?"

"My girlfriend."

Oliver leans his head back against the wall, a playful smile over his face. "So she is your girlfriend. Loyal too."

Sae narrows his eyes.

"Relax. I just talked to her at one of those events you brought her to."

"You talked to her?"

Oliver gets the sense that Sae is trying to make it sound like a normal question, but all it sounds is exactly how annoyed he feels.

"She just said she's waiting for you."

notes: unbelonging is not a word, i used it anyways on purpose to strengthen the idea of something not belonging. nectared and lightstream are also not real words, but i like them. twin wine glasses is kind of a reference to twin flames, though i do think you and sae are actually soulmates. i wonder if people can be both. "the weight you carry is so heavy when you're carrying it yourself" is a double meaning, not just your body weight but everything else you carry too.

call it what it is: / a love created, hand-sculpted to fit. / a silent reprieve, / to be seen, / constellations bursting at the seams. / unfounded heart, / a tepid start,/ an easy, soft-sweet thing. / say what this really is. / place it on the justice scales of the abyss. / what you're meant to be / versus what you choose / you can decide you have a right to this.

#sae x reader #itoshi sae x reader #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae x you #itoshi sae x y/n #sae x you #what else am i supposed to tag it i forgot #blue lock x reader #okay is that good?#fragments of memories #fragments of memories: fic #fragments: bllk #x reader #fragments: bllk: sae #forgot to put MY OWN TAGS LMAO #corae talk #cora selfship talk

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lilithschosen · 3 days ago

Text

if the bed's rocking, don't come knocking

word count: 4091 ships: Betty x Reader (yes you read that right. x reader lmao) rating: E (NSFW) tags: smut, cunnilingus, nipple play, possessiveness (from Betty!! for a bit, lil ooc but shhh it's hot)

(ao3 link)

It’s been a stressful couple of months for you. Not having a job, trying to apply to everything and everywhere while nothing gets back to you. With all of that pent-up frustration, you’ve managed to relieve it with masturbation. It’s normal, natural, and healthy to do. Any sort of resistance in any regard, you’d grumble your way to the bedroom and pull out whatever you were feeling from the bedside table and get down to it.

Some nights you’d stare up at the ceiling, laying in the middle of your soft bed when you should be sleeping, you’d reach over to that damn table and pull out your vibrator just to finally get yourself to sleep. It was a routine of sorts, a rhythm you fell into easily.

You live alone, no one could hear you or tell you to stop. So, who cares?

When you finally manage to land a job at Valdivian of all places, you’re excited. Some semblance of pay instead of having your parents front your utilities bills for the thousandth time because they don’t want you blowing all your savings.

It’s all fine and good until you get a notification literally your first day that you were being relieved of your position, only to be replaced by an AI assistant.

So much for that, you think.

You push back from the desk with a long, drawn out sigh. The chair catches on the rug underneath your desk and you nearly topple backwards, hand flying out to grab onto the shelf behind you. You stand slowly, making sure you’re stood firmly on the floor before fully rising up. Pushing the chair back under the desk, you hear the Thiscord notification sound from your phone.

Fishing it out of your back pocket, you open the message from a username you don’t recognize. The person rambles on about how you’re expecting a package for special glasses then hear a thud against your office window.

A Valdivian delivery drone.

You watch with bated breath, praying silently the stupid drone doesn’t break through a window. “Don’t break it, don’t break it. I can’t fucking afford a busted window, please.”

It zooms around to your front door and you hear a smash as well as a thud. You curse quietly and rush to the door, seeing the drone stuck in the windowed part of your door, with a package delivered inside your house. You kick at the busted glass and snag the box, glaring at the drone as it whirs.

You toss the box in your hand, thinking twice before you throw your best fastball at the drone using the box. Instead, you exhale slowly and turn on your heels. You’ll fix the window later.

The Thiscord notification pings again and you swap the box to your other hand while you open the messages. The person, tinfoilhat, tells you they’re a prototype. A one of one type of technology. You hum, rolling your eyes in disbelief as you climb your stairs up to your bedroom.

You make your way into your bedroom and toss the box on the bed, now able to fully respond to the person on the messaging app. They ask if you can try the device out and essentially be a guinea pig of sorts. You don’t remember signing up to be a test dummy for anything, but since you didn’t have anything else to do, why not?

You pull the box apart and see glasses. Pink tinted aviators.

You laugh at yourself, feeling like you’re being pranked.

Lifting the glasses out delicately with your forefinger and thumb pinching at the metal frame of the glasses, you hold them up to your face. They don’t seem like anything special.

Another Thiscord ping.

You brush it off and nestle the glasses on your face. The immediate pink overlay has your head swimming, but you blink and squint until your eyes adjust.

“Damn, she looks good in those.”

You freeze, hands out as if someone had a gun trained on you. The voice gasps at your reaction and you turn to face where it was coming from.

A pink haired, curvy woman is sitting on your bed. She has a white billowing coat and a light brown corset of sorts on her torso, with white plush pants to go with it. The tail of the coat falls down to the floor and your breath catches at the sight of her.

“You can see me?” she asks tentatively, fingers held up to her mouth as she stares at you with wide eyes. “You can hear me?”

You nod, hands still in front of you. You step back a bit, closer to the doorway of your bedroom. You don’t want to startle her and have her do anything rash, but you have no idea how this beautiful woman ended up in your bedroom of all places.

“Wait, don’t go,” she calls out, reaching to grab you by the wrist, “It’s me, I promise you know me!”

Her hand wraps around your wrist and you blush, staring down at it. “I do?”

She smiles at you, stepping closer. She takes your other hand with hers, holding them in front of you. Your heart pounds in your chest, not knowing where to look so you opt to just stare down at the floor.

“Well, I'd hope so seeing we sleep together every night. I'm Betty, I'm your bed.”

Your head snaps up in confusion, staring at her now. She bites her lip, looking at you with heavy lidded eyes. The Thiscord notification pings again and you go to take it out of your pocket but she holds your hands between the two of you.

“You know how to drive a woman wild, that’s for sure,” her breathy voice is breaking you down, just from her talking, “I wasn’t sure if you even knew I exist, but hearing those sounds you make late at night? Hearing you call out for someone, begging to cum? It was for me, wasn’t it?”

You swallow hard and stammer, glasses slipping down your nose. As the frames fall out of view from your eyes, you notice she disappears in front of you. She clears her throat, letting your hand go to push the glasses back up on your face with a chuckle.

“There you go, baby.”

She drops her hold on your wrist, allowing you to take your hands back as she shifts back to sit down on the bed. You try to wrap your head around the thought that this gorgeous woman is your bed, then start to spiral about everything you’ve done in the bed.

Betty watches you panic and giggles at you, leaning back on the bed. She tilts her head and shakes it gently, letting her long, pink curls cascade down her back. Her hand runs across the blankets and she sighs sensually.

“I thought you were just into Ben-Hwa the way you use those toys all the time,” she frowns as she speaks, but perks up as she drags her hand up her body, “But the way you whine and dig your heels into me? I knew it was for me. You put on quite a show, you know.”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes locked onto Betty’s hand as she runs it across her ample chest.

“When you grabbed onto the headboard the other night?” Betty groans, pressing her thighs together at the memory, “I swear I would’ve cum too if you held on any longer.”

“How long have you, uh,” you pause, mouth held open as Betty’s eyes lock with yours and you notice how blown out her pupils are, “How long have you been here?”

Betty smirks. “You don’t remember, baby? Since you brought me home and put me together. Your fingertips tickled as you put together my frame and you were so gentle hauling the mattress on me.”

She spreads her legs, moving them apart as far as she can. She gazes up at you with a curious, hopeful look. Wordlessly asking for you to move in, to come closer.

Your feet act before your brain can stop you and you step forward, drawn into Betty’s space in a trance. She sits up in the bed with a mischievous grin and wraps her arms around your hips, holding you against her body with her chin resting against the button of your jeans.

She inhales the scent of your cleaned shirt, groaning before she can rub her nose against it. She holds her forehead beneath your navel for a beat then hooks her fingers through the belt loops of your pants.

“God,” she rasps with her eyes closed in revelation, “That time you stuck one of those toys you have to the bed frame and rode it. I was praising you so loud, I thought you’d hear me, I honestly hoped you did. You looked so fucking perfect bouncing on it.”

She pecks at your lower belly through the shirt and looks back up at you, face flushed with her eyes open again. You want to look away, to break away from Betty’s hold, run away and call the police of all things. Yet, you stay here. In Betty’s arms.

Betty bites her lip again and you wet yours with a quick swipe of your tongue, locked in place.

“I don’t want to pressure you into anything,” she begins, her arms around your waist starting to loosen, “I think I got a little carried away, so I’m sorry for that. I’ve been dreaming of this day for I don’t even know how long anymore.”

She blushes harder, dropping your shared gaze. You feel guilty and cup her cheek on instinct, wanting to comfort her.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Betty,” you rush out, clearing your throat before continuing, “I’m a little overwhelmed at the thought that you’re a person and not just my bed after everything I’ve done in you.”

Betty moans quietly at the implication, layering her hand over yours on her cheek. She lets you guide her face back to look at one another and you smile.

“Can we start over?”

She nods, returning your smile. You stay quiet with your hand still holding her face and find yourself rubbing at her cheek with your thumb. She chuckles at the action, turning her face into your palm to press a kiss into it.

“I’m Betty,” she states, “I’m your bed. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

She runs her nails over your knuckles and you shiver, a chill running up your spine. “Nice to finally meet you as well, Betty.”

She grins up at you, other hand snaking up and over your backside until she has her fingers tucked into the waistband of your jeans. You chirp at the surprise but don’t fight her, instead laughing breathily at it.

Why was your bed flustering so much?

“I don’t think I can hold back anymore, sugar,” she grips onto your jeans, the waistband digging into your hips from how much she holds in her fist, “Can I kiss you?”

You gawk at her, unable to verbally respond and you just nod dumbly. She presses the back of her knuckles into your lower back and scoots back on the bed, forcing you forward even more until you can only fall. You topple onto Betty and she giggles at you, wrapping her legs around yours while holding your face with her hands.

She drinks you in, committing every inch of you to memory before her eyes fix to your lips. Betty eases in slowly, nearly hesitating to ask for permission once more before she closes the distance entirely and kisses you.

It’s a sweet, gentle kiss. Testing the waters. Hoping that you wouldn’t break it and run away.

When your eyes flutter closed, she moans against your mouth. Her tongue slips between her lips and licks between yours, begging for entrance. You let it in, letting her consume you entirely.

She nips at your lower lip, tugging it back before continuing to swirl her tongue onto yours in your mouth. Her hands drop from your face and splay against your back, hips lifting underneath you to grind against you.

Betty breaks the kiss with a gasp for air, chest heaving as she pants. “Fuck, I knew you’d be a good kisser, too.”

Your lips throb from the kisses and you surge forward to keep going. She squeaks in surprise but it falls into another moan as you trail down to her chin and groan against her jaw.

“That’s it, baby,” Betty coos, rocking into you again, “Keep going. That’s my girl.”

You drag your canine teeth against her jawbone before moving down to her throat, pressing sloppy kisses as you crawl. You suck and nip and bite at every part of her neck, wanting nothing more than to cover Betty in kisses.

Your hands hold just under the swell of her breasts as you lift from her chest, staring at them in hunger. Betty laughs at you, running a finger over the top of them before dragging it between them. She traces the faint stretch marks across her skin and your mouth waters, wanting to do the same with your tongue.

“You want these, sweetie?” she asks with a saccharine sweet voice, pouting at you with her kiss-swollen lips, “Wanna suck on them? I know how much you love rubbing your head between them.”

You pause at the comment, unable to pinpoint when you would’ve until it hits you. You always nestle your head between your pillows when you fuck yourself. Betty gives a throaty chuckle, pulling the fabric of her shirt down with the same finger. Her tits burst out, bouncing in your face. She tucks the shirt underneath them and winds a hand into your hair, guiding your mouth to one of her already hardened nipples.

“Go ahead, baby. I love when you play with my tits.”

You don’t hesitate, immediately wrapping your lips around one of her nipples and sucking it into your mouth. She groans, holding her head against the mattress while digging her fingers into your hair. She grips it at the base of your skull and pulls, but keeps you against her breast.

You take her other breast into your hand, running your fingers across the other nipple to play with it. Betty cries out at the dual sensation, grinding into your abdomen. She whimpers at you, nodding while your tongue swirls around her nipple.

“Fu-uck, baby,” she hiccups, moaning as you pull your mouth from her tit to pay attention to the other. You rub your saliva around her nipple while your tongue laps at the other, “So good for me. Just like that.”

You graze your teeth against it, holding the nipple between them while you run then back and forth providing even pressure. She cries out, bucking into you again.

Sucking her nipple into your mouth hard, you let it fall with a wet pop. You smack your lips and grin at her. “Need something?”

Betty smirks, shifting underneath you to press her knee between your legs. Your smugness falls as you whimper shamelessly at the sensation, throbbing against her leg.

“I think you need something, love,” she grabs your ass with one hand while the other tugs your head back and you moan. “You’re far too fucking dressed for me right now.”

“Do something about it, then.”

Betty raises an eyebrow in question, licking her lips as she looks at you. She removes her hands from your ass and your hair, pushing you away from her with a shove to the chest. You cackle at her, climbing off of her to kneel up on the bed. You reach down to pull at the hem of your shirt but she swats at you, grabbing it herself.

She removes your shirt in a swift move as you raise your arms to help her. She wastes no time, grabbing the button of your jeans and popping it open. She wiggles them down your hips, revealing your underwear and she groans with a lip between her teeth.

“Look at you,” she drawls out, ripping your pant legs off of you one at a time until you’re free of them completely. She cups your center through your underwear, her eyes rolling into her head feeling how wet she made you. “My poor thing, I bet you’re aching. Let me take care of you.”

Betty pushes you back with two fingers to your shoulder. You fall down with a soft thud, but you lean up on your elbows to watch as Betty begins to peel off her clothes. She starts with the headband, wiggling it free from her curls and running her fingers through her hair. She leans over the bed to place it gently on the ground. As she sits back up, she shrugs out of her coat and shoves it to the floor. Then she lifts the top off, winking as her tits bounce up again once the shirt is removed. She tosses her shirt at you with a giggle, and pulls at the button to her pants.

“I'd normally opt to do a little strip tease,” she says slowly, popping the button, “But I need to feel you and need you to feel me. Maybe next time?”

The thought of being able to do this again has your brain fuzzy.

She drops her pants, lifting her legs out of them, and tosses them to the floor to join the rest of her clothes.

Betty lets your eyes wander, taking in every aspect of her curvy form. The way her hips swell, the soft tummy and the additional stretch marks across it and her thighs. She looks so soft and squeezable, someone you want to touch endlessly. Your hand trembles, reaching for her to do just that.

“Are you ready for me, lover?”

Your attention pulls back to her face and you nod, parting your legs as an open invitation. She crawls between them, wrapping her hands around your calves and starts kissing up your legs.

Your cunt aches as she settles with your legs over her shoulders. Betty nips at your inner thigh, sighing happily.

“You smell so good, baby,” she groans, pressing a kiss to your pussy through your soaked underwear, “I can't believe this is all for me.”

She rubs her nose into you, inhaling the scent of your arousal. The mass of fluffy, pink hair is all you can see above your crotch. You need her, need anything at the moment. Your hand inches away from your body, reaching out toward your bedside table on instinct. Betty doesn't notice at first, looking up at you through her lashes with a hunger in her eyes but stops as she snaps to find your wandering hand.

“No,” she growls, lifting away from your thigh to grab your hand. She pins it to the bed next to you both. “Don't bring Ben-Hwa into this. I know you use them often enough, but right now you're fucking mine.”

The possessiveness of Betty, the way her otherwise breathy, soft voice turns hard and raspy shouldn't turn you on, but it does. Your hips buck into empty space where she once was and she smirks.

“You like that, baby?” she teases, “You like the thought of me making you mine? That's what you deserve after all of those orgasms that tore through your body on me.”

You mewl a whimper, eyebrows pulling together while you buck your hips up again. She tucks your hand underneath your ass, patting you on the forearm, and wraps it over your thigh once more.

Betty sticks out her tongue and licks a broad, strong stroke at your core. You cry out, fisting at the sheets underneath you. She hums her laugh into your cunt as she licks again. Tasting you through your underwear alone has her desperate for more.

She rips your underwear to the side, unable to pull it off of your legs fast enough. She buries her tongue into your core and moans, frantically sucking and licking at every drop of your essence she can find.

“Holy shit, Betty,” you gasp, rocking into her mouth. Her eyes connect with yours and she winks. “I-I don't know how long I’ll last.”

Her tongue slips out of you and you whine in disappointment until she drags it through your folds. As the tip of her tongue grazes over your clit, you scream.

Betty’s fingernails dig into your thighs as she focuses on your clit. She draws lazy shapes across the swollen nerve bundle and you can only grind into her face. You fight to keep your eyes open, wanting to watch Betty as you tiptoe toward your orgasm.

She starts to write out letters over your clit, starting with a B. She spells out her name slowly, switching from holding her tongue flat against your cunt to teasing the tip of her tongue into your entrance.

As she finishes the Y of her name, she swirls her tongue over your clit for an O and drags it up and down, writing out a W. She follows it with an N and an S, you push all the letters together and clench at the realization she's spelling out that she owns you.

Where you anticipate another Y, there's a T.

Each stroke of her tongue against you is more torturous than the last.

You're panting, holding back the orgasm that threatens to send you into a spiral.

As she finishes the final letter, she slides her tongue into you and starts fucking you with it.

“Yes!” you cry out, hand in your own hair with your palm against your forehead while you ride her face. “I'm so close, Betty! Please, fuck, I'm gonna-.”

You scream her name again as she flicks her tongue into you in the exact spot you need, sending you head first into the waves of your pleasure.

You cum in her mouth and she moans with voracious approval at the taste of your juices, feeling your walls spasming around her tongue.

Betty keeps thrusting her tongue in and out of you until your orgasm slowly dissipates, leaving your body spent and practically vibrating. She presses a final opened mouth kiss over your clit, holding her nose in your pubic hair for a moment before pulling away entirely.

She sits up between your legs, grinning from ear to ear with your slick covering the lower half of her face. You let out an exhausted huff, covering your eyes with a hand.

“I can't believe my bed just fucked me senseless.”

Betty swipes the corner of her mouth, licking your cum off her thumb. “After everything you've done on me before? I can.”

You laugh, shifting the glasses on your face. Betty graciously settles next to you, watching over you with a pleased look.

“I think I've firmly staked my claim,” she scratches a single nail between your breasts, “I'm normally easy going when it comes to lovers, but something's different about you.”

You cough, sputtering with a laugh that came out wrong. It makes you feel like you're floating at Betty's words. You weren't ever sure you could be perceived as different or anyone that stood out, but Betty made you feel like you were.

She tweaks a nipple, bringing you back to her with a hiss. “Are you okay, sugar?”

“Yeah,” you say, waving her off as you shimmy closer to her on the bed, “Just started thinking a bit. So you said you've been here the whole time?”

She nods, propping her head up on her hand while she drapes her other arm over your abdomen.

“Since day one, sweetie.”

Betty has seen every side of you that you've brought out in this house since you bought it. You feel embarrassed at that, despite Betty gazing at you like you've hung the moon in the sky.

“That's cool. Well, I'm glad to be able to see you now.”

Betty laughs gently, “Me too, baby.”

She ushers you in to rest your head on her chest, which you eagerly do. She’s just as soft and inviting as you’d want, as you’d expect. Comforting and warm.

Your eyelids grow heavy and you feel yourself slowly drifting off to sleep when she squeezes you tight against her. “You can play around with everyone else in the house come tomorrow. But for now? You’re all mine.”

#Betty x Reader #Betty Date Everything #Date Everything #Date Everything Betty #Date Everything Betty x Reader #wlw x reader #lilithschosen #idfk what else to tag i never wrote smth like this before i needed the brainworms OUT #SHOUTOUT BETA FOR SPIRALING DOWN THIS WITH MEEEEEEEEEE #hehehehehe i'm not sorry #if you know me no you fucking DON'T

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