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pboogerswbb · 2 days ago

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SO IT GOES - chapter 18

Paige Bueckers x oc Warnings: language, angst Wordcount: 4.3K A/C: hey everybody! this will be the last part of the before london section - think of it as book 1. thank you everyone who’s read all of this and been supporting me, i appreciate you endlessly! please send me your thoughts on the chapter or live reactions because i LOVE those so much <333 also thank you for being so patient with me, if you didn’t know my charger broke so i had to write this chapter on my phone lmao. i’m gonna take a teeny break from so it goes to write something else and then get back to it :) i love you guys, thank you for everything <3 i’ve really poured my blood and sweat into this series

Before London

Her world comes crashing down. I can tell because she’s clutching to me as if the past three weeks never happened, hyperventilating. Her face is pressed into my shoulder, my hands holding her like no time ever passed. It took the world ending for her to come back to me. I just wish it didn’t take that much.

“Breathe Izzie,” I comfort her, my own panic subsiding to comfort the girl in my arms. Seeing her fall apart made me want to hold it together. Like I wanted to be the strong one for her.

“Remember, in and out with me,” I whisper, my chest expanding against her as I inhale slowly. She copies me, her breathing more ragged and shaky. Eventually, I feel her calm down. Good. There wasn’t much time to waste.

Pulling back I’m shocked to see how horrified she looks. There’s a tingling on my skin from where she pressed against me. She buries her face into her hands, sighing. “What am I going to do?” She murmurs.

“Hey, not you. We,” I remind her, watching the video one more time before putting my phone down. There was no way to twist this. It’s clearly me and Izara - and according to the comments, everyone else figured it out too.

Yoooooo knew they were together since may nooooo my wife paige come home Omg! Paige is gay?

Izzie is pacing in a small circle, heels clicking against the concrete floor. She’s freaking out. I had never seen her like this - Izzie always had solutions to everyone’s problems. She always knew what to do. It wasn’t easy seeing her this way. I had to figure this out for her sake.

”What are you doing?” She asks teary eyed as I lift my phone to my ear, shushing her gently. I listen to the rhythmic slow beep until a familiar voice answers. My PR agent.

”Hey, sorry to call you outta nowhere. I’m in a bit of a situation.”

”What are you doing?” She whispers, her voice trembling. I simply raise my hand, silencing her. I would never do that normally, but in this situation she allows it.

In a hushed voice I explain the situation to my PR agent while Izzie paces around me, hands thrown over her head. I couldn’t even let myself feel ecstatic over getting her to talk to me again. It was all because this was more serious than I could comprehend.

”What did she say?” Iz asks before I’ve even had the chance to fully hang up.

Taking a deep breath, I meet her gaze. ”She said we gotta assume everyone here has seen it,” I say. Her face twists and her eyes begin to well up. ”Everybody except Linda. We gotta make sure no one tells her.”

”There’s no point she’s probably already seen it,” Iz sighs.

”Linda? On social media in the middle of a work day? Ion think so.”

The girl thinks, looking at the low ceilings of the hallways for a while. ”I guess but what about when she gets home.”

”Ok maybe I’m wrong but Linda doesn’t seem like the type to scroll on TikTok or stan Twitter,” I chuckle hoping to earn at least a smile from her. I don’t.

”I don’t know Paige,” she says. Hearing my name from her lips feels ecstatic. Like I could’ve died right then. ”It’s risky.”

”It’s the only chance you got,” I whisper. I wish it wasn’t true. And I couldn’t help but feel partially responsible for all this. I had been in a mood that day. I should’ve been more clear-headed, less drunk, more sensible. What were we thinking kissing out in the open like that?

”My PR team is gonna get that video down. Even if others are posting it, they’ll make sure we don’t end up on TMZ or something,” I comfort the girl. But she’s barely listening.

”But what about all the people that are reposting that shit?”

”All we can do is report and hope for the best Iz.”

Goosebumps rise on her skin when I say her name. But it doesn’t matter, because she’s nearly hyperventilating again.

”Fuck. Holy fuck,” she whispers more to herself, turning her back on me and pushing her dark waves back anxiously.

”Iz,” I mumble, touching her arm cautiously. She pulls back, turning to me.

”This is all your fault you know,” she says harshly, her voice trembling. ”You were a mess that day. I was just trying to calm you down.”

”Bro,” I chuckle dryly, shaking my head. She hates when I call her that. I’m immediately defensive, the guilt underneath gnawing at me. ”Now maybe I misremember but I’m pretty sure you kissed me.”

”Because you were acting like a bloody lunatic!” She shouts. I hush her, praying to God no one heard the way it echoes around the desolate halls. Izara quiets down, burying her face into her hands again. What are we doing? I know she’s fighting me because she’s completely freaked out.

”We gotta stop screaming and make a plan,” I tell her calmly. She stands there quietly defiant until she realises I’m right. ”I’ll talk to my people, you talk to the media team.”

”What if they don’t listen?” She asks me, a hint of vulnerability shining through her exterior.

”Why wouldn’t they?” I reply, placing a hand on her shoulder. She lets me, despite still avoiding my gaze.

”Everybody loves you Iz, and I mean that. Never heard anyone say a bad thing about you.” It’s true. Every word. She had people on her side so easily.

Finally her green eyes stop scanning the room, landing on mine. They’re still the same, even behind the glossiness of a few tears. Reminiscent of Connecticut. Of the overwhelming vibrancy that I sometimes missed here in Dallas. The feeling when you glanced outside in the summer and your eyes were met with such intense greenery of the trees and the grass that you couldn’t bear to look away. What made it even more beautiful was knowing in only a few months it would all be gone, the view turning from orange to yellow as everything that lived dies, reminding you that everything that was alive and flourishing is there only for a fleeting moment until the pure white cover of snow buries everything that’s dead underneath it. That’s what her eyes were - that short moment, a little piece of home.

”Hey,” I whisper softly. ”Don’t give up just yet.”

Izzie nods slowly, looking straight at me. ”Okay.”

“Hey, Rike,” I call as I jog over, my mind stuck on how Izara’s holding up.

I had been circling around College Park for what felt like hours - though it hadn’t even been 40 minutes. Izzie had taken a cab to the office to explain our situation to the marketing team, and anyone we hadn’t thought of. I hadn’t heard of her ever since she left, which was making me nervous, on top of the uncomfortable bubbling in my stomach.

”I was just looking for you,” Arike replies as her eyes widen.

”Me too. Hey uh, to ask but,” I mumble, scratching the back of my head. I hated asking for favors. ”Could you talk to the team-”

”Already done,” she says. ”And the practice player, coaching staff too.”

I always knew Arike had my back. But not like this. She had truly become my sister, and this was proof.

”They all love you two. No one’s gonna say shit,” she comforts me, patting my shoulder.

”Thanks bro,” I smile, letting out a sigh of relief. Maybe we could pull this off. No one’s gonna tell.

”Course,” she shrugs easily. ”You know I got you. You’re family, both of y’all.”

My heart’s pounding in my chest, each beat like something trying to claw itself out of me. slamming my sternum painfully. Deep breaths, slow down, I remind myself, imagining the weight of Paige pressed against me. It felt almost good enough to make me forget about everything, almost.

I tie my hair up clumsily, my waves overstimulating me. The office seems eerily desolate, having me walk around for a while until I run into Ava, her blonde hair recognisable anywhere.

”Ava,” I sigh, relieved, hurrying to her. I wish I hadn’t worn heels today, my feet already aching. I hadn’t anticipated all this running around.

”Zari! I thought you were in College Park-”

”Can we sit down? Please?” I ask abruptly, interrupting her. She’s surprised by the seriousness in my voice and it shows in her face.

”Of course, what’s up?”

I lead us into an empty office room, pulling out a chair for her. I’m far too nervous to sit down myself.

”Have you seen it?” I ask carefully, looking at the carpeted floor. I can’t believe I was in this situation. Of all people. The sensible, careful Izara. I swear I’ll never be careless again.

There’s a confused look on Ava’s freckled face. ”Seen what?”

Shit. Sighing I dig my phone out of my purse, my ears burning with embarrassment. I look for shock or surprise but to my confusion, Ava watches the video, expressionless.

”Caleb owes me 20 bucks,” she chuckles, handing the phone back.

”Huh?”

She giggles. ”We had a bet, I knew there was something going on with y’all.”

Of course. Like it was ever really a secret. I feel so stupid. Who was I kidding thinking we could keep this on the low.

”Right well,” I mumble, my cheeks turning hot. ”Well it’s everywhere. And I really, really can not let this get to-”

”- Linda,” Ava finishes my sentence, picking up on my concern.

”Yeah,” I nod. ”I just, I know it doesn’t make it better but it’s not just messing around. I really care about her and I know I’m asking for a lot but-”

”Zari. I’m not telling nobody,” she comforts me. ”And I’ll make sure no one else does. If it’s up to me Linda will never see that, okay?”

I nod, relieved.

”I’ll also make sure those posts of the video get taken down okay?” Ava smiles, wrapping an arm around me and patting my back. She’s the one managing the algorithms and viewership so her help will be everything.

”Oh my goodness you’re shaking,” she comforts me. I notice the trembling of my legs that are indeed weak, barely holding me upright.

”It’s pretty stressful,” I chuckle coldly, my eyes burning as I hold back tears. Suddenly, the sound of my phone vibrating against the table makes me jump. It’s Paige.

“Hey,” I answer. The rumbling of traffic comes through before her voice.

“Hey, I’m driving over. All good at College Park.”

“Here too,” I say, smiling bye to Ava as she leaves me to talk with the blond. “Just gotta wait for the PR team to get out of their meeting.”

“You tell Trey yet?” She asks. Oh shit. Trey.

“I haven’t seen him,” I admit. A moment of silence falls upon us.

“I’mma be there in like 10 minutes okay?”

“Paige,” I start, feeling a throbbing ache in my shoulder. “It’s okay, you don’t need to come here.”

The line goes silent, the quiet hum of the road and traffic coming through.

“You don’t want me to?”

Reaching over to my neck I massage the tension but it doesn’t go away. Is that really what I want? Why is it so hard to figure it out?

“No, I need you here,” I finally accept. Despite the tension and the mess between us it was clear that I needed her. That her presence made everything better. That’s just what Paige is like. She brings the sun with her wherever she goes.

I’m picking at my skin when the blonde emerges into the empty office lobby, holding two cups. She looks surprisingly serene considering - though it wasn’t her job that was on the line.

“What’s this?” I ask as she hands one of the cups to me. It feels warm against my skin.

“Coffee, black,” she says absentmindedly, taking a seat in the chair next to mine, taking a sip of the frappucino she got for herself.

I do the same, feeling the warm bitter taste fill my mouth. It’s just how I liked it. My heart throbs. Mind overflowing with the memories of our little habit. Of Paige getting up half an hour earlier than she needed just to go pick up some coffee for me on the way to work.

”Better?” Paige asks, sprawled comfortably next to me. I can feel the heat of her thigh tingling against mine but I can’t be bothered to move, or to pretend like I didn’t need her. I felt myself fantasizing about some reality where Linda would understand. Where me and the blonde could just be together. No complications, no excuses, no goddamn hiding. It would be so much easier to let myself fall in love with her in a reality like that.

”Much better,” I mumble. ”Thanks.”

”It’s just a coffee Iz,” she murmurs, shrugging it off.

”No,” I shake my head. ”You don’t have to be doing this. You could easily just leave me to handle it myself. But you didn’t.”

My eyes meet hers, blue and vibrant like the ocean.

She shakes her head, brows furrowing gently. ”I wouldn’t do that,” she whispers. ”It’s half my fault… Okay a lil more than a half.”

She chuckles a little looking at her feet. ”For what it’s worth I am sorry for that night.”

Paige looks regretful, playing with her bracelet.

”Me too.”

A throbbing ache runs along my spine to my shoulderblades, the tightness making it hard to breathe. Absent-mindedly my hand shoots to my neck, pressing and rubbing. Paige glances at me.

”Your shoulders again?” She asks. Honestly the only time in my life they hadn’t bothered me was probably when Paige would give me daily massages. Something about her got me to finally relax.

”Again,” I chuckle awkwardly. Without hesitation Paige’s warm and familiar hands replace mine, massaging the knot out of my shoulderblade. My body melts, the tension easing in my face and neck.

”Thank you,” I hum, letting my eyelids close. Pretending just for a moment that we were us again.

”That’s funny,” Paige says smiling, ”You sound more British again.”

I smile too, her fingers now pressing down on the nape of my neck. ”I suppose. It’s probably because I haven’t been around you.”

Sounds of steps stop us, Paige pulling away as two people from marketing walk by, smiling at us knowingly as they greet us. Sighing, I lean back in the chair and rub my forehead.

”It’s like everyone’s watching us,” I mumble quietly.

”Guess I’m used to it,” Paige replies. She’s right, it’s only new to me. Somehow she’s been handling this since high school.

”Did you um, get the chocolate?” She asks, fiddling with the hem of her black shorts.

”Yeah,” I hum, thinking of the note attached to it. I felt completely stuck between two roads, not sure which one to take. On the other hand nothing about us made sense. But still I wanted her more than anything. I couldn’t imagine ever being able to want anyone like I want her.

It was like my entire life had been split into two - the time before Paige and the time after. Everything before felt irrelevant. She had come into my life with a crash, when I most needed her but didn’t know I did. She had irrevocably changed me. I don’t know how I could go back to before.

”It was amazing, I can’t believe you remembered,” I continue.

”Course I did,” she huffs, leaning her head on the wall behind us, cracking her knuckles. Terror washes over me. I realise how badly I need our plan to work. Because if it doesn’t I’ll lose her forever.

Paige opens her mouth before closing it, and opening it again.

”I meant what I said, y’know.”

I lift my gaze from my crossed ankles to her, to find her already looking over. She seems hesitant, gathering courage.

”In that note,” she adds, cheeks red. ”I’m not going anywhere.”

I can feel it in the way my heart throbs, the way my eyes burn, the way my eyes are glued on her angular face, the way my slender fingers slide between her’s like a habit I could never break and the way her touch send shivers up my spine - I love her. I do.

Paige’s breathing is shallow, glancing downward to our hands that are locked together. Neither of us have to say it. We both feel it.

The moment I wish would go on forever is cruelly interrupted by the buzzing emerging from the pocket of her shorts. With one hand she digs the phone out, reading the screen grip remaining on mine.

”Shit, I got practice,” she whispers, as to not disrupt the moment. Her voice is hoarse and vulnerable. I wanted to listen to it forever.

”Okay,” I hum, standing up with her. ”I’ll wait for Trey here.”

Paige looks at me once more before enveloping me into her arms, nose buried into my hair and inhaling unashamedly. I do it too, allowing myself to breathe her in. Sandalwood and musk and deodorant.

”It’s all gonna be okay,” she whispers. And I believe her.

Paige kisses my forehead before pulling back, letting go of my hand. Her touch leaves my skin burning. Even before she goes, I already miss her.

”I’ll call you Paige,” I hum softly.

”Okay. I’ll see you later Iz.”

And she walks away, leaving me alone in the hallway.

I’m nearly nodding off in my chair, head lulling back as my eyelids grow heavy. I glance at my phone once more. No text, no call. Just the sent receipt under the tens of texts I had sent Trey. Our one missing link to get this all to be over.

Standing up, I roam around the office, finding Caleb and Ava editing a video for Youtube.

”Hey, have you seen Trey?” I ask, rubbing my face tiredly.

”You lost me 20 bucks,” Caleb jokes, having bet against me and Paige being romantically involved. Ava chuckles.

”It’s not on her if you’re completely blind.”

I wish I had it in me to find this as fun as they did, but I just wanted to finish this and go home.

”Trey? You seen him?” I ask again, ignoring their jokes.

”I think he’s upstairs,” Caleb answers. ”Some sorta meeting.”

Finally. ”Thank you.”

In a rush, I hurry to the elevator, impatiently spamming the button to the upper floor.

“C’mon,” I mutter to myself, ready to get this over with.

Finally the doors slide open. Stepping out into the new floor, I begin to hurry along the corridors when from around a corner Trey emerges, his face buried into his phone nearly bumping into me.

“Trey!” I say with relief. “I’ve been looking for you!”

He looks uneasy, avoiding my gaze. Much like he had ever since I rejected him.

“You know I’ve been texting you too,” I huff lightheartedly, poking his phone.

“I saw,” he murmurs, voice uncharacteristically low and quiet. I chase his gaze, finally catching his brown eyes.

“I need to talk to you,” I say more seriously. Trey bites down on his lower lip, shutting his eyelids and rubbing his face.

“I’m in a hurry okay?”

“It won’t take long,” I tell him, placing a hand on his forearm so he won’t walk away.

“Zari, I gotta go,” he spits, pushing past me. Wow, I knew I hurt him when I rejected his kiss but I didn’t realise his ego was that fragile.

“Seriously?” I ask, annoyed now. “Trey, it's been weeks. Let it go.”

He turns, growing irritated. “Nah, I’m sick of you and your little mind games.”

“Mind games?!” I hiss condescendingly, crossing my arms over my chest.

“You been toying with me and Paige ever since you moved here!”

He knows? I glance around before shushing him, praying to God nobody heard. Of course he knows.

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” I whisper angrily.

“I saw your little video.”

Shit. Heart throbbing in my chest I swallow, wanting to crawl into my skin and disappear. Kissing my teeth I look down trying to find the words.

“Look, Trey-“

“Save it. Can’t wait for you to be back in London.”

Hold on. “What?”

I take a step closer to Trey, who’s looking at me heavy lidded.

“You broke the rules Izara,” he says with a low voice.

The realisation hits me like a ton of bricks. No fucking way. Of course. My stomach drops. My pulse thunders in my ears.

“You told her,” I whisper, waves of anger washing over me. It took a lot for me to be enraged - but right now I was livid. I dig my nails into the palms of my hands, nearly drawing bloos.

Trey looks uneasy, eyes flickering away from me. “Rules are rules Izara.”

Tears fill my eyes, welling up by my bottom lashes. I should’ve listened to everyone who hated Trey. Because they were right. He’s disgusting. I truly hate him.

“Don’t act like you care about rules. You did this because you couldn’t handle the fact that I do not have feelings for you,” I hiss, pointing a finger at him. “You’re disgusting.”

The ringing of my phone breaks off my voice, like a bad omen. Trey grins. I want to kill him.

“Must be Linda,” he says before turning and disappearing into the elevator.

My hands shake as I grab my phone - the screen lit up, proving Trey right.

Paige,

Remember that roadtrip we took? Driving with no plan or destination with the windows down, being stuck in that gross hotel, the storm, the night we spent together? I think about that all the time. With anyone else I would’ve been terrified. I’m no good without a plan (Lord knows). But with you I never cared about a plan. You’re so sure, so certain, so comfortable and steady it made it safe to feel out of control sometimes. That’s a gift I’ll carry with me forever. I never had that with anyone.

I never thought this is how my time in Dallas would turn out. Deep inside I want to blame someone. I want to blame Trey, and maybe when you hear about what happened you will too. But we shouldn’t. Because there’s no one to blame but me. I’ve been smart all my life. I should’ve been smarter. But something about you makes it impossible to be smart.

Still, despite everything that happened I don’t regret any of it. This summer has been the best of my life. Getting to know you has been the greatest blessing. I’d never say it to your face, but you’ve taught me more about myself than anyone. I’ve never been loved so well, and I’ll never forget that. But my past is still haunting me. It’s just not our time.

I’m sorry it turned out this way. I know you’ll find someone and make her the happiest girl in the world, like you did me. And I’ll always regret not doing more to make us work. For not telling you how I love you. And I’ll have to live with that.

I hope you find your person who can love you how you deserve. Just know there are no hard feelings with you and me. I think no matter what it wasn’t meant to work. I don’t belong in Texas… but then again does anyone?

I’m sorry. I told you I’m not good at goodbyes.

Yours, Izzie

Reading through the letter one more time, I fold it in half and slide it into Paige’s apartment through the mail slot. For a moment I lean my forehead against the wood panels on the door, as if it’s Paige. But it’s not. And I’ll never lean my forehead on her again. I’ll never look into the blue of her eyes, I’ll never taste her lips.

A tear falls down my cheeks as the elevator takes me to the ground floor for one last time. I bite down on my lower lip to stop it from trembling, watching the driver lift my bags into the trunk.

The cab drives through Dallas, through the neighbourhoods that had once been unfamiliar. Now I know the streets and the weather and the drive-thru barbeque place that has the best ribs. But London was calling me home. There was nothing left for me here anymore.

My heart aches, thinking about the disappointment in Linda’s voice, telling me she had no chance but to let me go. That she expected more of me.

But the ache is nothing compared to what I feel when I think about Paige. My sweet, funny American girl. Her laughter echoes in my head, and I let her linger. My nails dig into my seat, like they did into Paige’s skin.

I wouldn’t forget the summer I spent with Paige Bueckers until the day I die, that I know for certain. She would haunt me for the rest of my life, pieces of her existing in every person I meet. But no one will ever measure up, no one will ever be her. And maybe in another life we’ll grow old and grey together. And that’s the only thought comforting me as the clouds part, the plane circling above Thames, the London Eye and Buckingham Palace when we approach Heathrow.

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#so it goes #lilas writing yaps #paige bueckers fanfic #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x reader #wlw x oc #wnba x oc

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dreamwritesimagines · 18 hours ago

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Declassified [3] - Working Overtime

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 Please let me know what you think! 🩷

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader

Summary: It's a skill to remain calm in stressful situations.

Warnings: Mentions of injuries, mentions of sex, explicit language

Word Count: 4137 (why is each chapter getting longer, ✨help✨)

Masterlist

“Do you ever see yourself in something like this?”

You pressed the phone between your ear and your shoulder while waiting for the assistant to put you through, and shoved the mini sandwich into your mouth to chew vigorously. It was Sam’s nephew AJ’s birthday party, and of course Bucky was here, which meant that you and his team were here as well. You weren’t complaining; you admired Sam, Sarah was so lovely, and Cass and AJ were probably the sweetest kids you’d ever met.

The only issue was that Bucky had cleared out his whole day so now you had to move his schedule on top of the meetings he already had. You had started working at 5 a.m. today, already had four Red Bulls and three cups of coffee on an empty stomach, so needless to say you were starving while your heart tried to climb out of your chest.

And for the record, your heartbeat had nothing to do with the fact that for the last half an hour, you were trying to ignore just how good Bucky was with kids, letting them hang from his vibranium arm to entertain them. You stole a look at him as he pretended to run from the kids with water guns, making them giggle excitedly as they went after him.

“Um….” You trailed off and swallowed your bite, dragging your gaze from Bucky to grab another mini sandwich. “I don’t remember the last time I watered the cactus on my desk. I don’t think I’d be very successful with—hi Ms. Miller! Thank you so much for agreeing to take my call, I know how busy you are.”

Kelsey smiled when Bucky grabbed AJ to place him on his shoulders with a monster roar, AJ’s laugh echoing in the garden as they started chasing Cass together.

“Is this what baby fever is?” Kelsey wondered out loud and you covered your other ear so that you could focus.

“Yes, Mr. Barnes would really appreciate it if we could move it to another time—absolutely, Friday 3 pm works for us. It’s a family thing—yes, it’s Captain America’s family but you know how close Mr. Wilson and Mr. Barnes are, his family is Mr. Barnes’ family too. Mm hm. Thank you so much again, have a wonderful day!”

You hung up and popped the mini sandwich in your mouth, then eyed the cup in Kelsey’s hand.

“Is there caffeine in that?”

Kelsey held it out of your reach. “It’s mine, go get your own from the kitchen.”

“Sharing is caring—”

“I don’t share my caffeine,” she told you and you heaved a sigh, then made your way to the kitchen, your eyes still glued to the phone. Sarah and her friend Emily whom you had met before were in the kitchen and you smiled at them.

“Hi.”

“Hi there,” Sarah said. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh yeah, I just came to see if there’s any coffee— just one moment please,” you said and pressed your thumb on the screen to send Paul a voice mail. “Paul! Hey, I talked to Miller, she’s fine with Friday 3 pm, which means you need to move the interview to 4:30 at least. You can contact Ryan, he’s on good terms with Caleb and has a soft spot for Bucky, he should be fine with it. If he’s not available, I’ll make a phone call to Tim, but you need to let me know in half, okay?”

You sent the voicemail and sent a quick text to Caleb, then lifted your head from your phone to look up at Sarah.

“Sorry. Um—I was wondering if there’s any coffee left, please?”

“Sure thing,” Sarah said with a small smile and filled a cup for you, then handed it to you.

“You’re an angel,” you said and your phone buzzed in your hand. You took a look at the text, then typed in your response while Sarah tilted her head to the right.

“You look a little jittery.”

“Oh yeah, I had four Red Bulls and this is my fourth cup of coffee,” you said and Emily raised her brows.

“It’s barely noon.”

“I started the day at 5 am,” you said, taking a sip of your coffee and Sarah shook her head.

“You need to take a break.”

“I’ll take a break when we put Bucky in DC,” you said. “Oh fuck. That reminds me, I still haven’t asked Kelsey for the latest poll—”

“I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever seen you without your phone in your hand,” Sarah mused and you sent a text to Kelsey, then looked up from your phone.

“Hm? Oh!” You let out a laugh. “I don’t remember either, to be honest with you. I hang onto this thing halfway through sex.”

Sarah and Emily exchanged glances and you made a face.

“Sorry,” you said. “TMI. I just, I barely have friends outside work and we talk about everything so it became a habit. I’ll need to take classes like that one Julia Roberts movie, did you guys watch that one? It was—”

“You have your phone in hand during sex?”

“Halfway through, and it’s not that weird,” you said with a nervous laugh. “My boyfriend works like 100 hours a week, so we managed to minimize the time while maximizing the effect. It takes us like 5 minutes, and then we both check our emails.”

“Oh you poor thing...”

“No, I’m totally fine with it!” you said in a rush. “It’s a great arrangement because, I mean obviously if it’s sex vs work, it’ll be work. Sex can wait, work just doesn’t.”

“I barely know you, but I know that you need to dump that man,” Emily said. “I bet I can find someone for you.”

“Don��t worry, I already have someone in mind for her,” Sarah muttered to her with a knowing smile and you scoffed.

“No no, thank you so much,” you said. “Max and I have been together for years and like I said, our expectations match.”

“Don’t get me wrong but if you’re this tense every day, those five minutes aren’t doing much,” Emily pointed out and you took a deep breath.

“I’m a tense person in general,” you said. “Has nothing to do with anyone. I lost spelling bee when I was in first grade and then it turned me into this as a grown up.”

“Can I see your phone?” Sarah asked and you handed it to her, but your eyes widened when she put it in her pocket.

“Sarah?”

“Go socialize.”

“What?” you exclaimed. “No no no, you don’t understand, I need my phone—”

“I’ll give it back to you after half an hour. Go eat something, drink something healthy,” she said, taking the coffee cup from your hand, making you gasp. “There’s orange juice. Take some time for yourself, and I’ll give it back to you.”

“But…” you started but she walked out of the kitchen with Emily and you threw your head back, then rushed after her.

“Sarah! Sarah I can’t just go cold turkey, I will have withdra—”

“What is going on?” Bucky stopped you before you could walk past him and you looked up at him, then at Sarah who stepped out of the hallway into the garden. Your brows pinched together in frustration and you let out a breath, fanning yourself with one hand.

“I think I’m having withdrawals.”

“Over what?”

“My phone, Sarah took my phone!”

Bucky frowned. “Why?”

“Because I hold it while I have sex,” you said. “Do you think you can get it from her?”

He gawked at you.

“You hold your phone while—”

“Okay, everyone needs to stop making that such a big deal!” you snapped. “It’s more of an emotional support thing, it’s not like I check my emails during sex, I check them right after!”

“Alright, let’s just…” Bucky gently steered you out of the hallway. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, still fanning yourself. “Is this how alcoholic people feel?”

“I don’t think they feel it within the first minute, Birdie,” Bucky said and you rubbed at your eyes.

“Can I borrow your phone?”

“No.”

“But listen, what if—” You pointed at him. “What if something goes wrong at work?”

He looked almost amused. “I’m standing right here,” he told you. “What would go wrong?”

“Your dick pics come out.”

“Impossible,” he said and grabbed a glass to put it in your hand. “Drink this.”

You looked down at the clear liquid, then shook your head.

“I can’t drink vodka, Bucky, it’s AJ’s birthday and I’m literally working—”

“It’s water,” Bucky deadpanned and you paused for a moment, then shrugged your shoulders and took a huge sip.

“Emily said I look tense,” you said, barely aware of the pout on your lips. “Do you think I look tense?”

“Absolutely.”

“I don’t look tense!” You hissed through your teeth and motioned at Sam who approached you and Bucky. “Let’s ask Sam, he’ll be honest. Sam, do I look tense?”

“I’ve never seen you not tense.”

Bucky let out a chuckle at the look of betrayal on your face. “Told you.”

“Sam, can I borrow your phone?”

“Do not give her your phone,” Bucky said and Sam’s eyes darted between you.

“Do I want to know what’s going on?”

“Sarah took my phone because for some reason she thinks I’m tense.”

“And how much caffeine is in your system right now?” Sam asked and you scoffed, waving a dismissive hand in the air.

“Four Red Bulls, three and a half cups of coffee. I’m totally fine.”

Sam turned to Bucky. “If you keep doing this to her—”

“I swear on my ma’s grave that I’m not doing anything,” Bucky said and you had to bite back your smile at the old Brooklyn accent that slipped through. “She refuses to listen to me. I sent her out of the office three times the other day so that she could take the rest of the day off, and each time she flat out said no and went back to her desk.”

“I was in the middle of going over your speech for the press,” you defended yourself. “I wasn’t going to just go home.”

“At least this way I can keep an eye on her,” Bucky told Sam while you sipped your water, looking up at him.

Bucky in casual clothes never failed to impress you. Yes, he could pull off a suit like no one else, but the fact that he could look this handsome with little to no effort, just with a t-shirt, leather jacket and jeans, had to be studied at schools in your opinion.

You opened your mouth to speak but as if on cue, sirens started going off and you frowned.

“Is that in my head or does anyone else hear that?”

Everyone’s phones started beeping and vibrating, multiple ambulances and police cars wheezing by, and both Bucky and Sam checked their phones while parents went to their children to get them inside.

“There’s been an attack,” Sam said, his eyes darting on the lines on his screen and Bucky nodded, his jaw tightening.

“Let’s go.”

“Wait, what?” you exclaimed while Sam ran to Sarah who was assuring Cass and AJ that everything was fine despite the worried look on her beautiful face. “Bucky no, it could be dangerous—”

He was already walking away from you. “Stay with Sarah.”

“But—”

“Stay with Sarah!” His tone held none of the softness it usually had for you, instead it sounded like an order, making you furrow your brows. The stern light in his eyes melted away when he took in your puzzled expression and he licked his lips, then stepped closer to you.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, his voice low. “I just need to know you’re safe, alright?”

“Buck, let's go!” Sam called out as he grabbed his shield and Bucky took off his leather jacket, his vibranium arm gleaming under the sun before they both ran out of the garden in the direction of sirens.

You could swear the whole garden was spinning around you as you stared at the road, then turned your head when someone gently touched your arm.

“Here.” Sarah handed you your phone. “Call your boyfriend, I’m sure he’s worried about you.”

“Thanks,” you said, fear twisting your stomach. “Sarah, he’ll—Bucky will be fine, right?”

Sarah gave you a calm smile and squeezed your arm in an assuring manner.

“I think you’re forgetting what he used to do before he got into politics,” she told you. “This is what he and Sam do best. They save people.”

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat and nodded your head, blinking back the tears.

“If he—” you started but stopped talking when your phone started buzzing in your hand, Max’s name flashing on the screen. “I’ll be right back.”

You walked away from her and answered the phone. “Max?”

“Babe, hey. You okay?”

“Yeah!” you said. “Yeah, I’m at Sarah’s house. You?”

“At work,” he said. “Can you see anything from there?”

You walked to the fences, then shook your head.

“No,” you said. “Do you know what’s happening?”

“They’re saying there are multiple people injured, they closed down a street,” Max said. “Do you want me to pick you up after I’m done?”

“No, stay where you are,” you said. “Don’t go outside until it’s clear out—” You took a look at the screen when your phone beeped. “My mom is calling, I’ll text you.”

“Okay, see you later,” he said and you hung up, then answered the call.

“Mom?”

“Oh thank God, your father and I have been so worried!” Your mother’s voice reached you. “Are you okay, sweetheart? You’re on speaker by the way.”

You rubbed the back of your neck, then nodded as if she could see you.

“Uh, yeah! Yeah I’m safe.”

“See, this is why I do not want you in New York,” your father said. “That place is a goddamn madhouse, something happens every day.”

You closed your eyes, familiar anxiety churning your insides.

“I mean honestly honey, what is wrong with here? Why did you have to move there?”

“Sweetheart, while I was on my retreat, I talked to Leah. Do you remember Leah?”

You rubbed your temples. “Mom...”

“Well you see, she says she can add you to the list for the next one when you—”

“I’m not going to go up on a mountain to listen to my inner thoughts and scream at the sky around bonfire, mom,” you cut her off and she heaved a sigh.

“But it’d be good for you! You are too tense.”

“What’s with everyone and saying I’m tense?” you asked, your voice going high-pitched. “I’m so relaxed!”

Fine, maybe screaming into a phone didn’t exactly prove that you were relaxed.

“Your boy seems to be doing well in the polls so far by the way,” your father commented. “Too much idealism, that one. DC isn’t exactly New York, did you tell him that they will eat him alive the moment he steps a foot in that congress?”

“He’s been around for over a century and broke through decades of brainwashing,” you said, your voice defensive for some reason. “I’d say he can handle a couple of politicians.”

“Oh do not talk about politics around me!” your mother said. “You know what it does to my nerves—Hannah? Hannah can you get me a Xanax please?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“I uh….I gotta go guys, it’s work,” you said. “I’ll call you though, love you.”

You hung up before they could say anything else, and Kelsey grabbed your arm, waving the phone in your face.

“Bucky!”

Your heart dropped to your stomach. “Is he okay?”

“Yes and the internet is going crazy,” Kelsey said and you took a look at the screen, a shaky recording of Bucky stopping a huge chunk of a wall from falling on a small girl while Sam pulled an elderly man out of the car, firefighters and medics running around. You let out a breath as you watched Bucky carry the small girl to her mother, then go back to rip the door off a bus to help the people trapped inside.

“Holy shit,” Kelsey muttered. “I think he just won the election.”

Somehow, the election had become the last thing in your mind as you watched Bucky on the screen, a warmth dripping inside your chest but you swallowed thickly, then tried to smile.

“Right,” you rasped out. “Yeah. It’s good optics. Or something.”

It was indeed an attack but thankfully, there were no casualties. People were lucky that Bucky and Sam moved as quickly as they did, and apparently all the news channels and people on the internet agreed with you.

And Kelsey was right.

There were multiple videos of Bucky saving people all over the internet, and you were sure you had read thousands of comments by now. After things got calmer, you had decided to go back into the office to get your mind off things and throw yourself in work, but needless to say, it wasn’t working.

At least your phone was back in your hand.

And you were sitting on the office floor.

You sniffed and reached out to put another paper on the floor, then changed it with the one on its right. You scribbled a footnote at the bottom of the page, still holding your phone tightly in your other hand, but your head shot up when you hear the door open and someone stepped into the bullpen.

And as if on cue, your heart started beating in your throat.

“Hey,” you managed to rasp out and he tilted his head.

“What are you doing on the floor?”

“I ran out of space on my desk,” you said. “And I’m trying to decide on the order of these meetings, so…”

Bucky lingered in his spot only for a moment like he was trying to figure out how to react, then cleared his throat and approached you to sit on the floor as well.

“You don’t want to be home after today?”

“I’m fine, Max is probably working anyway.”

“Birdie—”

“But hey, you’re back,” you said, swallowing the lump in your throat. “From your—your superhero stuff. Kels has a point, you’ve just won the election.”

From the clueless look on his face, it was clear that Bucky had not thought about that.

“What?”

“You haven’t checked social media?”

“You know I don’t do that.”

“Well, everyone is impressed with your heroic actions, a lot of journalist want to—”

“It wasn’t a heroic action, it’s the least I could do.”

“That makes it even more heroic.”

“And I’m not going to use it to win the election.”

“All your opponents would.”

“I don’t care.” Bucky shook his head. “No one should use helping the people in need as some sort of PR bullshit. It’s what everyone should do.”

“I figured you’d say that,” you murmured. “Well, it doesn’t matter if you want to use it or not, people are all over it. I think I watched like a thousand thirst traps of you since the afternoon.”

“What’s a thirst trap?”

You bit back a smile and grabbed a paper on the floor, then put it on top of the pile.

“That leaves out this press release then,” you muttered. “You should still talk to a journalist we trust, about what happened.”

“No.”

“Bucky, there’s nothing wrong with addressing—”

“They will turn it into a PR stunt if I do,” he said. “No.”

You heaved a sigh and grabbed the file on your left to shuffle through it, taking out a couple of pages as you sniffled again. His eyes found the crumpled tissue beside you, his gaze softening while you nibbled on your lip, forcing yourself to focus.

“Are you okay?”

The nod of your head wasn’t even convincing to you, so you weren’t really surprised that he didn’t believe you. You dared steal a look at him, your cheeks warming when you did so you lowered your glances to the phone in your hand, your nail pushing at the screen protector.

“Were you scared?”

You could feel the tears threatening to burn your eyes so you blinked fast, pursing your lips and shaking your head.

“Does your family know you’re safe?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled. “They called.”

“That’s good,” he said gently, like he was talking to a skittish animal. “They must’ve been relieved, huh?”

“I think so.”

“They’re okay? Back home?”

“Okay is a stretch but they’re—they’re them, I guess,” you said with a small laugh. “My dad and I fight every time we talk, and my mom can’t handle it. She can’t handle much, to be honest. That’s why she keeps going on these spiritual retreats and popping Xanax like candy.”

Bucky hissed in a breath. “Ouch. Sorry.”

You waved a hand in the air.

“Don’t be, it’s expected,” you said. “It’s such a cliché. How does that old song go? My daddy’s rich, my ma is good lookin’.”

His head shot up in excitement, a hopeful light glimmering in his eyes and the sight was so sweet that you couldn’t help but smile, your stomach doing a happy flip.

This right there, this was Bucky.

Bucky back in the 1940s, the guy who you saw in black and white pictures with the devilish charm and carefree grin, this was him.

“You listen to Billie Holliday?” he asked and you nodded your head fervently, sitting up straighter.

“Yeah! And Ella Fitzgerald too!” you said, pride laced in your tone. “I know all their songs. My grandfather had this huge collection, he had a bunch of signed records too, he displayed them on—”

“Babe?” Max’s voice cut through your rant and you turned your head, a frown pinching your brows together. You grabbed the papers and Bucky stood up, then offered you his hand to help you up. A warmth shot from your fingertips to your whole body the moment you placed your hand in his, your eyes locked in his, your heart leaping but you forced yourself to pull your hand back as the footsteps came closer before Max appeared in the doorway.

“Max?” you asked, trying to ignore the tingling in your hand. “What are you doing here?”

“You mentioned you’d be here, and I figured I could pick you up after today,” he said. “It’s been a weird day. I talked to your mom, she’s very worried.”

Right.

That was normal. He was your boyfriend after all, and you had no business feeling this warm and fuzzy around Bucky, who was your boss and also was not, in fact, your boyfriend.

Max shot you a look before giving a tight lipped smile to Bucky and you snapped out of your daze, then cleared your throat.

“Right. Um—Max, this is Bucky. And Bucky, this is Max,” you said. “My boyfriend whom I—whom I love very much.”

What.

The.

Fuck.

You had no idea why you felt the need to add that detail. Discomfort churned your stomach as soon as the words left your mouth but you swallowed the lump in your throat, plastering a lovesick smile on your face and grasping Max’s upper arm to squeeze it gently. Bucky held your gaze in his, his expression unreadable as he turned to Max who held out his hand.

“Hello Mr. Barnes,” Max said as Bucky shook his hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Likewise.”

“We should go,” you said before Max could say anything else. “It’s been a weird day, like you said. I’ll see you tomorrow, Bucky?”

“What’s the rush?” Max asked with a laugh and you shook your head, grabbing your purse and the files off the desk.

“No rush, just want to be home.”

And have an existential crisis.

“But—”

“Have a nice night Bucky!” you chirped as you all but dragged Max out of the bullpen, stepped outside and made your way to the car. Max got on the driver’s seat while you buckled your seatbelt on the passenger seat, and he turned to you.

“That was weird,” he commented. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nibbled on your lip, turning your phone in your hand as he started the car, then waved a hand in front of your eyes.

“Babe?”

You took a deep breath, then forced yourself to smile.

“Sure,” you said and slipped a little to lean your knees on the dashboard, your hand still warm with Bucky’s touch. “I’m fine. Just a long day.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #congressman barnes #congressman bucky #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#congressman bucky barnes #congressman!bucky #congressman!bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x y/n #bucky fanfic

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delugyu · 3 days ago

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I LOVE U SO BADDDDD 😭😭🤍🤍🤍🤍 thank u so much for reading bae!!!!

eek i’m so glad that u found yj cute and awkward in an endearing way hehe that’s exactly what i was going for! writing men that are lowkey losers and kinda pathetic is everythinggg like that’s my bread and butter… writing yeonjun this way specifically was super fun, especially cause he really is clumsy and silly irl and i love bringing out that side of him for a fic 🙈

the soobin yeonjun roommate dynamic was sooo based on me and my roommate from my first year of college tbh LMAOO so writing that came easily. hehe yup while they’re a little quiet around each other, they’re still comfortable and, as u mentioned in the scene where soobin makes sure yeonjun’s okay, caring for the other

ackkk i loved writing that scene w taehyun lol!! it was so short but revealing towards yeonjun’s character. he cares about his responsibilities, but he doesn’t always have his priorities straight and is prone to making impulsive or poor decisions lol. this is seen again when he carries his phone with him while doing his spidey activities, or leaving the lab instead of cleaning up the mess from the failed experiment... etc lmfao. i loved breathing life into his character, he was just so real and entertaining to write

hehe the party scene is one of my faves of the whole fic. i loved writing their dialogue and developing their relationship. esp when kai came in lol, im glad u liked that scene too 😇

aghhh that whole scene where jjun talks to gyu was so difficult to get the way i wanted!! but it came out decent after like… three total revisions LOL but yes yeonjun’s disappointment was so palpable, poor boy ☹️

MUAHAHA the apoptosis line was one of the only things i didn’t have to look up to make sure i wasn’t totally wrong… thank you neuroscience! hated that class but was good for this one sentence in this one fic<3

glad u liked that ending line cause i thought of it like midway thru writing this fic and had to write around it to make sure it fit LMAO. i never write in scene order but tbh i think that actually helps me a lot in terms of foreshadowing!

anyway i’m geeking out rn thank u friendddd hehe this was a joy to read 🙈 so flattered that u like my writing style eek!!! also i’m so happy to hear the fic feels seamless cause i def tried super hard to make sure each scene felt like it had its place, that the transitions were smooth enough, and that it had a steady flow !! sending u kisses rn ily hehe tysm again 😚😚😚😚

by a string

summary: Yeonjun’s got a lot on his plate. Not only does he have to worry about being a star student, but he also has to be the city’s web-slinging hero. And a lab intern. And a semi-decent roommate. And a little bit in love with you.

pairings: yeonjun x fem!reader

word count: 18.9k

tags: fluff, smut (mdni), some angst, spiderman!yeonjun, his webs shoot from his actual wrists like tobey maguire’s spiderman, college au, yeonjun is a cute awkward charming nerd, inaccurate science stuff sorry, blood, physical violence, lots of spidey shenanigans, campy weird action scene teehee, small arguments

smut tags: making out, heavy petting, webs as cuffs LOLLL, thigh riding, edging, fingering, praise, unprotected sex, cum eating, oral (f rec.), yeonjun is so playful and such a tease

notes: omg she’s finally here!!! i am so excited to get this out to u guys hehe<3 tysm for all the love on the teaser, i hope spideyjjun steals ur heart. enjoy the fic !!!

Saving the city can suck sometimes. Homework sucks significantly more. If Yeonjun had the option to zip through the city chasing some bad guys instead of sitting here trying to finish his calculus assignment, he’d be flying out his window in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, responsibility is a virtue, and Yeonjun cannot swing through the city for no good reason.

The one good thing about this tedious, awful calculus homework is that if it’s hard enough, he always gets a text from you. His body springs to life when he hears his phone buzz, rushing to pick it up and check the notification.

[you] have u done the calc homework

[you] how do you solve #4 :(

Do most of your conversations revolve around your shared class? Yes. Does Yeonjun ever get tired of teaching you the concepts? No, never. In fact, he stretches out his explanations as long as possible to keep you talking to him longer. Yeonjun never knew before that math talk could make his heart flutter.

“So, does that make sense?” he asks after a long-winded explanation. He’s almost out of breath after spewing out so much math jargon, but being on a call with you for ten minutes has similarly breathtaking effects.

“Yeah. Thanks, Yeonjun.” He bites back a giggle upon hearing your words. “You should seriously be teaching this class,” you say with a laugh.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t—I mean, I’m—I’m more of a science guy,” he stammers out, lips tightening into a thin line at the embarrassment of stumbling over his own sentence. “Our professor’s pretty cool, too,” he adds as if that saves him at all.

“Is he? Maybe I should start going to his office hours,” you muse.

Oh. Well in that case, your professor sucks. Yeonjun can’t have you stop coming to him for math help; you’d never talk to him at all if it came to that!

“He’s not that cool,” Yeonjun says. You laugh, and he huffs out a short chuckle too.

“Noted. I’m gonna go now, but thanks for helping me. You’re the best.” Your praise goes straight to Yeonjun’s head, making him feel like the greatest man to ever live. He doesn’t even feel this accomplished after going out on his little spidey-missions.

He’s a beat too late to say goodbye or good night to you, the call already hanging up as he opens his mouth to speak. He melts into a puddle over his desk, sighing out as he plays back his conversation with you in his head. He thinks you have the prettiest voice he’s ever heard. You’re so smart, too. He never has to over exert himself to get you to understand, though he would happily do that for you.

He jolts up as his roommate walks into his dorm. Yeonjun glances at him quickly as he straightens out his posture, picking his pencil back up and returning to his homework.

“Hey,” his roommate, Soobin, greets quietly. Yeonjun didn’t know Soobin prior to this semester, but he’s been pretty nice. He’s very quiet, but very respectful of Yeonjun’s space. It’s much appreciated, considering Yeonjun’s hiding a few of his red and blue spandex suits in his closet.

“Hey. How was your day?” Yeonjun asks, only half-interested in the conversation.

He watches Soobin shrug from his peripheral as he slides off his shoes. “Normal,” he answers.

Yeonjun nods. “Cool.” The conversation kind of dies after that, which is fine. Soobin isn’t the most extroverted person, and Yeonjun doesn’t push him to talk more than he’s willing to. He sometimes forgets he even has a roommate with how quiet it gets in the room.

Yeonjun regains his focus a minute into the silence. His eyes widen when he realizes that there’s now a doodle of your face on his calculus homework—when did that get there..? His face heats up as he grabs an eraser from his desk’s drawer. Thank god he didn’t do this assignment in pen.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Yeonjun’s not really paying attention to the professor, finding more interest in taking quick glances at you. You’re wearing a different bracelet today. It’s really pretty—maybe he should compliment you on it. Is it weird to lean in and tell you that? Are you close enough where he can compliment you without looking weird and creepy?

He rests his head in his hand and starts doodling in his notebook, mindlessly scribbling on the page while he waits for the lecture to end. He thinks of quick conversational things to say, something to discuss in a few minutes when it’s time to pack your bags and leave. Interesting class, right? Who would’ve thought—Yeonjun looks up at the projector to see the professor’s notes—the shell method… would be so cool… Maybe he shouldn’t say that, actually.

He’s honestly better off not trying to strike up a conversation with you at all; the chances of it leading to total and utter embarrassment lean greatly towards one hundred percent. He just wishes he had a little more spine, or that he was naturally a little cooler. The only interesting thing about him is something he can’t even talk to you about, or with anyone at all.

Yeonjun barely registers it when the professor dismisses class. He steals one last glance toward you, lips parting like he finally built up the courage to speak, but the words build up in his throat and die on his tongue. He seals his lips and focuses his gaze back on his own things, closing his notebook and shoving it in his bag. It’s not worth it. He decides he’ll just keep his mouth shut.

“Hey Yeonjun?”

Yeonjun almost jumps out of his seat, and he has to fight away his nerves as he turns to you. You’re packing your things back into your bag, not even looking at him. A part of him thinks he might be hearing things until your eyes meet his, waiting for an answer.

“Yeah?” he responds, voice coming out strained. He clears his throat.

“We’re friends, right?” you ask. He blinks, feeling like this is some kind of trick. He analyzes your face, making sure there’s nothing snide or teasing hidden in your question. You look honest enough, which puts him at ease.

“Yeah, for sure.”

“I hope that’s not sarcasm,” you say, getting up from your seat and adjusting your bag over your shoulders.

“It’s not! Really, we’re friends,” he reassures. You walk past him and he follows, leaving the classroom and entering the busy hallway.

“Well, good. I wanted you to go with me somewhere.” Your statement is wildly cryptic, and it leaves Yeonjun’s mind whirling with the possibilities of what you might offer.

“Right now?” he asks. “I-I have class…” As much as he likes you, he really can’t risk dropping his grade due to missed attendance.

You laugh, “No, tonight. There’s this party, and I”—you keep talking, but Yeonjun barely registers it. He’s never partied in college before. What would he even do at a party? He can’t handle his drinks well, and he’s not sure how well he’d blend into that kind of environment. He’s scared he’d make a fool of himself.

As you leave the academic building, you turn to Yeonjun, raising a brow in question. You must have asked him for his confirmation. Yeonjun forces his brain to rack up a response.

“Could you text me the details..?” Yeonjun asks. You relax a little at his words, nodding happily. You pull out your phone, ready to text him now. Yeonjun feels his heart pounding. He catches sight of the time on your phone, noticing he’s only got five minutes until his next class. The hall he’s supposed to be in is at least a three minute walk from here.

“There,” you say, awarding Yeonjun with a grin so bright that being late to class might just be worth it. “I really hope to see you there.” You tilt your head a little, and Yeonjun feels starstruck.

“You will,” he promises mindlessly.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Yeonjun feared he might’ve been in trouble when his professor asked him to stay after class. Turns out, it’s something much worse.

“Yeonjun, do you think you could help in the lab later today?”

Yeonjun doesn’t think much before he nods. “Yeah, of course, how much later?”

“Around 6 this evening,” his professor answers. Yeonjun’s heart drops. That would be perfectly fine any other day, but he promised to go out with you today. Of course the party would start at the same time Yeonjun’s professor wants him to stop by the lab.

“I’m not sure I have the time,” Yeonjun says quickly, suddenly fidgety and feeling antsy to leave the room. “I’ve got this… thing to do.” His professor doesn’t look too convinced. Yeonjun wants to facepalm himself. Yeah, great excuse.

The professor sighs, but Yeonjun starts up again before his professor can say anything. “I can come in earlier! I’m free right now, so I could just go over after this.”

“The cells we’re working with need a full 24 hours in culture for the sake of our research. Are you sure you can’t push your plans forward? Or back?” he asks.

Yeonjun’s stomach twists with guilt. He knows he shouldn’t let his professor down. Yeonjun’s kind of counting on him to write his recommendation letter for a graduate program, too.

“I’ll push the plans back,” Yeonjun says, giving in. He hopes the dejection isn’t too evident in his voice. His professor smiles and pats Yeonjun’s shoulder in thanks. He half-listens as his professor gives him the usual rundown of what to do during and after the process, nodding along and holding back the frown that tries to tug at his lips.

When Yeonjun finally leaves the building, he lets out the heaviest sigh of his life. His shoulders sag, and he feels like he might be the unluckiest person in the world. You finally give him attention outside of just asking for homework help, and the universe just had to intervene. This is laughable. It’s also stupid. Annoying. Frustrating.

There’s a pout etched onto Yeonjun’s face as he walks back to his dorm. He’s got a couple hours until he needs to go to the lab, so maybe he can take a nap or tidy up his room a little. His head hangs low, gaze transfixed on the sidewalk, kicking along a small pebble that keeps him company on the way.

He only picks his head back up as he walks past a certain field of grass, one he often finds you sitting in. Sometimes you’re on your laptop, sometimes you’re taking notes in a textbook, but most of the time you’re just lounging and doing nothing. It’s almost inspiring. Yeonjun would probably benefit from relaxing and decompressing more.

You’re there, sitting cross-legged on the grass, peaceful and silent. You look up suddenly, making eye contact with Yeonjun. His face flushes, but before he can turn his head in embarrassment, you raise your hand and wave. Yeonjun almost stops in his tracks. You’re waving at him, acknowledging his existence yet again.

He smiles and waves back, failing to tame his heartbeat as he takes the sight of you in. He’s forced to look away when he nearly stumbles over the pebble he’s been kicking around—“Oh, shit!” he utters, quietly enough to not draw attention to himself.

He glances back at you casually, making sure you didn’t witness him tripping. Fortunately, you’re on your phone, no longer paying him any mind.

Back at his dorm, Yeonjun stands by his closet, contemplating what exactly to wear tonight. He also has to make sure his outfit is lab-friendly, so the loose sweater he’d been eyeing is a no-go. He sighs, looking at himself in the mirror. Maybe the t-shirt and jeans he’s wearing now will suffice.

Time passes slowly, slow enough for Yeonjun to clean his half of the room, make himself a small meal in the communal kitchen, and even read a chapter ahead in his calculus textbook. He almost feels relieved when his alarm sets off to go to the lab, eager to get his work over with.

He’s determined to get this done quickly enough to still see you tonight. The thought of letting you down the one time you ask him to hang out is almost painful. He imagines the frown you’d wear next time he sits next to you in class. He can’t let that happen; he has to make sure he gets to you.

He throws on his lab coat and adjusts the goggles to fit onto his face. He sighs as he grabs containers of various chemical compounds from the cabinet, leaving them on the counter as he fetches the other materials he needs. With everything set out in front of him, he grabs the petri dish of cells and glances at the procedural note his professor left.

Yeonjun’s done this enough times to get into the swing of things, so he’s not too concerned with double checking his every move. His bigger priority is getting this done as fast as possible so that he can get to you. Lab work is never particularly fun or interesting, so he passes the time thinking about you.

The smell of the chemicals burns Yeonjun’s nose a little, and he wonders for a second if he’d been zoning out too much. He picks up the procedural note and glances over the measurements again, making sure he’s been adding the right amounts of everything. If he does something wrong and messes with the cell culture, he risks not being allowed back in the lab. He should probably slow down a bit, even if it means making you wait longer.

He’s more careful throughout the rest of the process, pushing back the worries that he might’ve messed something up. He continues to reassure himself that everything’s okay as he finishes up his work, placing the lid back on the petri dish and storing it away. He writes the date and time on a piece of tape that he sticks onto the lid, then finally lets his body relax as he steps back.

He cracks his knuckles to alleviate the stiffness that had been building there and rolls his shoulders back, groaning at the soreness of his muscles. All the fine motor movements from working in a lab does a number on his arms and fingers.

He hears a rattle, and he turns quickly to make sure he didn’t knock anything over in his haste. His eyes scan the room, but nothing looks amiss. He shakes the feeling and sheds himself of his lab gear, eager to head to you at the party already.

It’s been over an hour, and the thought of you waiting so long for Yeonjun’s arrival strikes guilt inside his chest. He opens his phone to find the path he needs to walk to get to the house the party’s being held in, eyes bugging out when he sees that it’s a twenty minute walk from the lab. Shit, by then you’ll have been waiting an hour and a half for him to show up!

He groans, trying to think if there’s a better way to get to you. The buses around campus don’t stop at the street he needs to get to, and it’s not like he has one of those electric bicycles or scooters that everyone seems to love. He wonders now if it might be a worthy investment. He pouts and throws his head back, totally drained from everything happening today. His eyes land on the tops of the academic buildings and the tall trees overhead. Maybe there is another way to get there after all.

No, he shouldn’t. That would be way too reckless. He’s already gone through the whole power and responsibility spiel, and he’s not in the mood to get himself in trouble for acting rashly. But if no one sees…

He turns his head and scans for people in each direction. No one’s around. No one would know, and he really needs to get to the party before he makes himself look like an asshole. He checks for anyone one last time, then aims his wrist towards the sky.

“Yeonjun! What’s up!”

Yeonjun startles and brings his arm back to his side hastily. He whips around to see who’s talking to him and lets out a breath when he sees his friend who had just exited the lab building. “Taehyun, hey man,” he says, ignoring the anxious pounding of his heart. That was way too close. Lesson learned.

“Didn’t catch you at the physics meet last week. Everything alright?” Taehyun asks. Yeonjun really hopes this conversation doesn’t take too long. The last thing he needs is another ten minutes piled on top of how late he already is.

“I’m good, I was just”—controlling a fire set by some idiot arsonist, then trapping said arsonist with his webs until the cops arrived—“uh, kind of sick.”

Taehyun hums and nods. “Well, we missed you bro, hope you’re feeling better. I’ll see you around!” Yeonjun waves and returns the smile his friend gives him, then walks as fast as he can to the location you sent him. He manages to get there in fifteen minutes instead of twenty, only at the expense of heavy breathing like he just finished a marathon.

When he gets to the entrance, there’s two men Yeonjun has never seen in his life guarding the door. He almost scoffs. What is this, some kind of nightclub?

“You got the money?” one of the guys ask.

“What?” Yeonjun scrunches his brows and leans his head forward a little, thinking he might have misheard him.

“No money, no entrance,” the other man says.

“Dude, come on!” Yeonjun whines.

“House rules. Stop wasting our time and get out of line.”

“No, no, I’ll”—Yeonjun sighs, reaching into the back pocket of his pants to fetch out his wallet. “How much?” he asks. The men tell him, and he bites back the complaints that almost push past his lips. Yeonjun slaps the bills into the guy’s open palm. They finally open the door for him, and Yeonjun steps inside.

He’s taken aback by how many people are cramped into this place. The house is pretty big, but there’s at least a hundred people mingling around, which makes space tight. He squeezes past the crowd with muttered apologies, but no one seems to pay him any mind. He scans every room for you, but it’s a little hard to do it efficiently when there’s so many faces to check. A part of him fears you might’ve left already.

He pulls out his phone, ready to text you and ask, before he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns at the action and smiles when he’s met with your pretty face. “Hey, you!” you exclaim. “I thought you bailed on me.” There’s no real bite to your words, but it still makes Yeonjun frown.

“I’m sorry. I had to do this lab thing, and”—

“It’s alright, don’t explain. You’re here now!” you say. “Did you have anything to drink?”

Yeonjun shakes his head. “I don’t drink much.”

“Me either,” you say. You look out the window, then grab onto Yeonjun’s hand. His brain short-circuits, and he has to stop his eyes from going all dumb and wide. “It’s kinda stuffy in here. Let’s go outside.”

Yeonjun puts up no fight as you lead him out the back door, walking out into the yard. There’s almost as many people out here as there are inside, but the lack of walls means there’s more space to move. It’s much more breathable.

He takes quick glances at your face, trying to decipher what you’re staring so hard at. Your gaze is fixed on a small group of people just sitting and laughing. All the guys have girls in their laps, and a few girls stand around them, sipping their drinks. They all look happy. And drunk.

“Did you want to join them?” Yeonjun asks. He doesn’t know any of those people, but he’ll go if that’s what you’d like. It’s not like there’s much else to do when you’re not drinking or dancing.

The LED lights that line the house reflect in your eyes, making them dazzle extra bright. Your eyes dart to the group one last time before you shake your head. “Nah. Let’s just sit down and talk.” Yeonjun gladly obliges.

You find an empty spot to sit at, looking up at Yeonjun after you situate yourself. He laughs a little, “You really like sitting on the grass, huh?”

You smile at him and pat the ground next to you. “Don’t act like you’re too good to connect with nature.”

“It’s more about getting grass stains on my pants,” Yeonjun says, but sits beside you anyways.

You turn your head to him, and something about seeing your face this close makes it hard for him to keep eye contact. It’s quiet for a few seconds before you speak up, “So how come you said yes to the party?”

Something about your question strikes fear inside Yeonjun. Did you find him out? Do you know he likes you? Maybe this is some kind of humiliation ritual you’ve set him up for.

“Cause you asked,” he answers, voice a little meek as he fidgets with his hands in his lap.

“And if it was someone else who asked?”

Yeonjun thinks for a second, but he can’t come to an answer. “I don’t know. Like who?”

You hum and look into the crowd of people. Your head turns back to him after a couple seconds. “Like Yerim,” you say.

Yeonjun laughs as if the scenario is ridiculous, mostly because it is. Yerim would never even give him the time of day. She’s notorious for being cold to anyone who she isn’t interested in. Somehow, that seems to attract a bunch of guys to her. Not Yeonjun, though.

“No chance I’d go,” he says.

“So what makes me different?” you ask.

A lot of things. You’re nice, and you’re smart, and you’re down to earth, and you’re a beacon of warmth. Everything makes you different.

“Cause we’re friends,” he says instead. He wants to punch himself after the words leave him. This was his chance to flirt with you, yet he couldn’t even muster up the courage to give you a single compliment.

You nod. “I’m just asking cause… well, I guess I’m just surprised you agreed to come.” Your eyes meet his, warm and kind. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

Yeonjun’s stomach does flips when you look at him like that. “You’re welcome.” It goes quiet for a moment, so he continues, “I think this was worth handing over the last of my cash for.”

You burst out laughing. “They made you pay?! Why didn’t you just say you’re here with me?”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” he says. He bites his tongue after the words leave him. Who is he to assume there will be a next time? He hopes you don’t call him out on it.

“We should just go somewhere else next time. There’s a lot of places downtown that I want to visit,” you suggest, bumping his shoulder with yours. Yeonjun almost explodes.

“We should do that then,” he agrees. He’s not sure what suddenly drew you to him as more than some kind of tutor, but he thanks the universe for bestowing him with all this luck.

“There’s that bakery that opened a couple months ago,” you mention.

Yeonjun lights up. “Oh my god, I’ve been wanting to go there too!”

You squeal in excitement and clasp your hands together. “Let’s do that next. Tell me you’re free on Sunday,” you say.

“I don’t know, things come up last-minute sometimes. I’ll let you know.” It’s hard to make plans when he’s basically living a double life. Then again, he did agree to going out with you tonight on a whim. He’s not very consistent with his rules. He pushes the thought back.

Your eyes land back on the group of people hanging out and laughing. Yeonjun frowns, and he wonders if he’s not entertaining you enough. He doesn’t want to keep you from having fun.

“Why do you keep looking at them?” he asks, curious and soft. He hopes he’s not prying.

“They’re just some friends,” you answer.

“Oh. Why don’t we go say hi, then?” he offers.

You pull your lips into a tight line. “I’d rather not.”

“That’s alright,” Yeonjun says. You give a small smile in appreciation.

“What about you?” you ask. He tilts his head, not knowing what you mean. You continue, “Who’s in your friend group?”

Yeonjun laughs awkwardly and shrugs. “I mostly hang out with the physics honor society,” he admits.

“That’s cool. You must have a good bond.”

“We do,” he says. “How’d you meet your friends?”

You smile at him, and something in your face tells Yeonjun that it’s a complicated story. You sigh dramatically and lean back a little, “I met them at parties. Does that surprise you?”

Yeonjun’s not sure if that’s a rhetorical question. “No. You’re friendly. I can see why people come to you,” he answers.

“Thanks,” you say, voice a little quieter.

“Are you friends with your roommate?” he asks.

“I don’t have one. I live in a single dorm.”

Lucky. If Yeonjun had the extra money to spare, he’d be dorming alone too. It would definitely make heading out as Spider-man easier; he’d just be able to change in his room and jump out his window. Assuming no one is around to see, that is.

“That must be nice,” he says.

You shrug. “It’s alright. What about you? You got a roommate?”

“Yeah. We’re…” Yeonjun struggles to find a word to describe his relationship with Soobin. They’re not exactly friends, but they’re peaceful with each other.

You laugh and finish the sentence for him, “Roommates and nothing more.” There’s a lilt to your voice when you say that, and you wiggle your eyebrows like that’s supposed to suggest something.

“Ignoring your insinuations, yeah, pretty much.”

“I’m just kidding,” you say. He’ll let you make jokes at his expense all you want, it doesn’t bother him. Especially not when it means he gets to see you all giggly and happy. He thinks that you look the prettiest like this. Yeonjun would stare at you smiling up at him forever if he could.

The sound of a guy calling your name pulls Yeonjun from his stupor. He blinks at the man standing before the two of you, then looks at you with scrunched brows as if to ask who is that?

His unspoken question is answered the next second. “Hey, Kai,” you say. When Yeonjun gets a better look, he realizes that this is one of the dudes in the group you kept looking over at.

“Who’s this guy?” Kai asks, jutting his chin toward him.

“I’m Yeonjun.” He goes to hold out his hand for Kai to shake, but quickly puts it back down upon realizing that might be weird.

“Oh, Yeonjun from calculus. I know you,” he says.

“I didn’t know you’re in that class too,” Yeonjun muses.

Kai laughs, “I’m not. Y/n just talks about you.”

Yeonjun nearly melts. You talk about him. This is the best day of his life.

“Anyway,” Kai continues, looking at you again. “I need a couple more people on my beer pong team. You guys down?”

Yeonjun turns to you to gauge your reaction. He can’t really tell what you're feeling, not even when you face him as you contemplate your answer. Yeonjun shrugs, as if to tell you that he’s down for whatever you want to do.

“I think I’m good,” you say.

“Ah, alright, you bummer,” Kai jokes, stepping back and sending you a bright smile. “Continue your convo with the calc lord, I insist.” He’s gone after that, jogging off to the rest of his friends, setting up the game.

“Calc lord?” Yeonjun repeats, amused.

Your laugh is accompanied by a roll of your eyes. “He means it nicely, I swear.”

“Well, depending on how well he does in this game, I might start calling him beer pong lord,” Yeonjun says. You push at his shoulder as your laughter continues.

Yeonjun already knew he likes you a lot, but as the night goes on, he finds out that you’re even better than he thought. Conversation unfolds easily with you, even if Yeonjun’s answers are dorky and awkward at times. He feels exactly how he thinks you look when you sit in the grass alone: content and peaceful.

He’s not sure how many minutes or hours have passed when you ask him to walk you back to your dorm. All he knows is that tonight could have stretched into infinity, and that would’ve been fine. He follows you into the building, then into your room. He’s not sure why. It just feels right.

“Thanks for bringing me back,” you say. Yeonjun smiles and nods. He leans against the wall and stares out the window. You live on the top floor of your building, so the view’s pretty different from Yeonjun’s second story view. This would be a fun room to swing out of.

“Do you need anything else?” Yeonjun asks. A smile slowly takes over your face, and you cross the room to stand in front of him. You blink up at him, and something about it feels flirty. If he wasn’t biting his tongue so hard, his thoughts would have slipped right past his lips: you look cute.

You break the short moment of silence with a giggle. “Just for you to promise me we’ll hang out again,” you say, voice barely over a whisper.

Yeonjun has to remind himself to breathe and be normal. “I promise,” he says. He even holds out his pinky to seal the deal. You curl your pinky around his, accepting the playful gesture.

“Did you want to stay?” you ask. You look out the window, then back at him. “I’m okay with sharing my bed.”

That definitely flusters Yeonjun. “Oh, no, I’m—I was gonna just walk back to my dorm or something. Or take a bus. I don’t know. Thank you, though.”

You laugh. Hopefully not at his sputtering and rambling, but Yeonjun has a feeling that might be why. “Alright, then. Good night, Yeonjun.”

Your soft voice has Yeonjun wanting to backpedal and say he’ll stay the night, but he swallows down the words. He smiles at you as he backs away toward your door. “Good night,” he says, standing in your doorway.

“Yeonjun,” you call, stopping him before he could leave. He turns, waiting for your words. He’s surprised to see that you look a little shy. “I’m really happy I asked you to come with me. Tonight was fun.”

Butterflies erupt in Yeonjun’s stomach, and he feels like he could float from how giddy he is. “I’m happy too,” he says.

He steps out into the hall, thoughts lingering on how overwhelmingly good his time with you was. His mind is clouded with rosy memories of his night with you, and he finds himself repressing the urge to twirl around and jump for joy. He’ll probably be skipping all the way home, imagining all the possibilities of what could come next between you.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

It’s Sunday, and Yeonjun knows exactly why you’re calling. He stares at his phone, then back at the man in front of him tangled up in webs. Yeonjun shoots another web over the guy’s mouth.

“Sorry, gotta take this,” he says. “Stay right here.” He slings himself onto a branch of a tall tree nearby, just to make sure no one can listen in as he accepts your call.

“Hey Yeonjun!” Your voice is so cheerful that it makes Yeonjun giggle. He even swings his feet in the air as he sits on the branch.

“Hi Y/n,” he greets, hoping his voice isn’t too muffled through the mask of his suit.

“Did those last-minute plans end up showing, or are you down to try out that bakery?” you ask. Yeonjun frowns, hating to let you down when you sound so happy.

“I’m really busy today, I’m sorry,” he says, shoulders sagging from how awful he feels. He’s got a whole lab procedure to write once he’s done sorting out the crime scenes of today.

“No worries, maybe we can go after class sometime.”

He frowns. “I wish I could, but I got another class right after ours. Let me check my schedule, I might be able to”—

“Are those sirens?” you interrupt, and Yeonjun looks out to the street. He’s grown so accustomed to the sound of those things that it didn’t even register. “Where are you?” you ask.

“I’m… uh,” Yeonjun stammers, focusing on the cops getting out of the car and making their way towards the criminal.

He tunes into the cops’ conversation. “Looks like Spider-shit’s been here already,” one of them comments in a gruff voice.

The other cop huffs out a laugh. “He’s always meddling in with petty crimes. What do you think this guy did?”

“Jaywalking?” The cops chuckle.

“Not like he can explain with that over his mouth.” He points to the web Yeonjun placed on the man a minute ago.

Yeonjun scowls. He’s not sure why the cops hold so much scorn for him, but if they’d like to know, then the petty crime that Spider-shit helped stop was an armed robbery. If these guys were a little better at their jobs, he wouldn’t have to meddle in all the time.

“Hello?” you ask, and Yeonjun reels his attention back to his conversation with you.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m just coming back from the store. Crazy stuff going on today.”

“Oh. Well, stay safe,” you say.

“Thanks, I will.” He sees the cops looking around, probably trying to spot him, so he flattens his back against the tree and tries to talk a little quieter. “I’ll see you in class, I gotta go.”

“See you!”

Yeonjun sighs once the call ends. His suit doesn’t even have pockets, he just carried his phone with him today in case you contacted him. Stupid? Mildly. Inconvenient? Very. He had one less hand to work with when dealing with today’s crime culprits. To hear your voice, though? Worth it. He smiles like an idiot as he swings over to the next nearest building, making his way back to his dorm.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Yeonjun’s professor accompanies him to the lab today, overseeing the procedures for the day. The feeling of his professor watching over his shoulder is more nerve-wracking than any day spent fighting crime on the streets. He’s usually careful with his work in the lab, but he’s extra, extra careful on these days.

He pauses when he retrieves the petri dish of cells. He briefly considers the possibility that he’s crazy and just seeing things, but Yeonjun’s pretty sure that the clump of cells just moved. Like, uncanny movement. He holds his breath.

He stares at the clump, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. It doesn’t jerk around anymore, so maybe it was just his imagination. Fear still creeps up his neck at the idea of the research going wrong. He remembers feeling like he messed up at some point last time he was here, and the realization is making his skin grow clammy.

“What is it?” his professor asks, taking a step closer to Yeonjun.

“Nothing, I was just thinking,” he quickly responds, keeping his voice calm and steady. He brings the petri dish to the table and does his best to forget what he saw earlier. Yeonjun fears how his professor would react if he told him something unprecedented might be occurring. It happened so quickly that he can’t even tell if his mind was just playing tricks on him. Maybe he’s just extra nervous today.

He wipes the sweat off his palms onto his lab coat, bringing the necessary materials to the table to continue the research. His professor reads off the instructions slowly, and Yeonjun pretends he doesn’t feel his stomach twisting as he works with the cells.

He tries to calm down as he walks back to his dorm, but there’s a permanent chill shooting down his spine. There’s no way the clump should have moved like that—it shouldn’t show any observable motion at all, not without some kind of electrical stimulation.

Maybe he just jerked the dish too harshly. He was pretty nervous, so it would make sense. He must have been shaking and just didn’t realize. That would explain it. That would put Yeonjun at ease.

He can try to convince himself that everything’s fine, but he can’t stop the anxious thrum of his heart. Apparently the fear reads on his face, too, because Soobin’s quick to notice it when Yeonjun enters the dorm.

“Are you okay?” Soobin asks. Yeonjun’s not sure what must have given himself away. He pays more attention to breathing slowly and talking casually.

“I’m good,” he answers. He doesn’t expect Soobin to push the subject considering how quiet he always is, but Soobin’s gaze isn’t leaving Yeonjun. He must be really concerned.

“Did something happen?” Soobin asks. Yeonjun sinks into his desk chair, covering his face with his hands as he groans. “Sorry,” his roommate apologizes, turning away from Yeonjun to look at his laptop instead.

“No, you’re good, it’s just…” Yeonjun sighs. He might as well get this off his chest. “Some lab thing.”

Soobin nods, not asking any further. Now that Yeonjun’s started though, he doesn’t feel like stopping.

“I think I might’ve fucked up,” Yeonjun admits.

“How?” Soobin’s playing some video game on his laptop as he talks, which actually puts Yeonjun at ease. It feels less pressing, less like an interrogation or a confession and more like a normal conversation.

“The cells I’m working with are being weird. I don’t know. I don’t even know if I saw it right. I just feel crazy now.” Yeonjun rubs his palms against his eyes in frustration and exhaustion, soothing the headache he’s got building up.

Soobin hums. The little shooting sounds and animated voices coming from Soobin’s game fill the room until Soobin speaks again, “Did anyone else see?”

“No. My professor was there, but he didn’t notice.”

Soobin shrugs. “You’re probably fine then.”

Honestly, Soobin’s nonchalance to the situation eases Yeonjun’s worries a lot. He knows he can get in his head sometimes, especially when it comes to doing everything right, so to hear he’ll be fine lifts a weight from his shoulders.

“Yeah, probably,” he agrees. He basks in comfortable silence for a minute now that his heart isn’t beating so hard.

“By the way, have you bought more laundry detergent yet?” Soobin asks.

Ah, shit. “Tomorrow, I promise.”

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Being Spider-man is tasking, but it’s usually pretty cool. Not everyone gets to zip around the city and restore peace in people’s neighborhoods. Not everyone, however, has to worry about getting stabbed by a criminal in the middle of the night.

Yeonjun always stays until the cops arrive. It almost feels essential, just to make sure justice gets served. This time, he can’t.

He has to stop himself from groaning too loud when he feels the knife pull out from his side. The man in front of Yeonjun is already stuck to the side of a building, held there with a thick layer of web, so there has to be someone else. He turns around to look at the perpetrator, but the world moves a lot slower than normal.

Yeonjun blinks hard, focusing on breathing and staying conscious. The coward who stabbed him is wearing a ski mask, and he’s running away quickly. Yeonjun can’t let him leave. He moves forward and ignores the searing pain that sets his body alight. He straightens out his shaky arm and aims his wrist at the man, but the web that shoots out is just as weak as Yeonjun is.

Frustrated, Yeonjun growls and forces himself to move faster. It burns, he’s never felt any kind of pain like this, but he can’t let this man walk free. He can’t let this man stab another innocent person. Even with his staggered pace, limping as he tries his best to catch up to the man, he advances quickly.

He breathes hard and holds the air in his lungs as he aims again at the man, brows furrowed with angry determination beneath his mask. He lets out a loud grunt as he shoots his web out, and finally, it lands. The criminal falls as the web captures his ankle, keeping his leg stuck to the ground.

Yeonjun huffs as he traverses the rest of the way toward the man, nothing but fury in his veins as he shoots another web out. This one’s bigger, covering the man’s back and securing him to the pavement. He picks up his head and looks at Yeonjun with fear in his eyes, but he doesn’t care. He can’t. All he feels is pain and anger and pain and pain and so much fucking pain.

Yeonjun’s not the vengeful type, but getting stabbed really tests a person’s limits. He shoots more webs over the guy, making sure he won’t be able to move a muscle until the cops arrive.

Yeonjun doesn’t waste his breath making snide comments, though he does have a few choice words for him. He takes off the man’s ski mask and resists the urge to deck his face. He’s got fear etched into his expression, but Yeonjun finds it hard to feel sorry for him. The man starts begging for his life, and Yeonjun scoffs. Of course he’s not going to kill this man—no matter what, he doesn’t end people’s lives. A city’s hero shouldn’t get to decide who lives and dies.

Yeonjun stumbles away after finding a passerby to call the police. Now that the adrenaline’s gone, Yeonjun feels less mad and more scared. He’s really bleeding now; his hand comes up soaked when it presses against the wound. What the hell does he do? He can’t die like this.

He can’t go to the hospital with a stab wound. There’s no way for him to make up some alibi that wouldn’t just trace Spider-man’s identity back to him. He hisses through gritted teeth as he frantically scans his surroundings, looking for somewhere to go. The only thing that’s coming to mind is you, and it’s aggravating. He could be dying right now, and all his useless mind can do is think of you. Maybe it’s all the blood loss, and he’s just getting delirious, or maybe it’s a sign. It’s not like he has many good options right now.

There’s not enough time to think about it. He zips through the city and back onto campus as fast as he can, ignoring the splitting pain in his side that shoots up his body every time he moves. It’s getting harder to breathe, suddenly feeling suffocated by his mask, but he has to hold on. He’s not far away now.

He remembers the view from your window. He remembers exactly which room to shoot himself up to. He adheres himself to the wall outside your room and pulls his mask off, leaning his forehead onto the cold glass of your window with a sigh of relief. He catches his breath and knocks with a shaky fist. He’s really sorry for having to wake you up at this hour, but he has a feeling you’ll understand.

He doesn’t wait long. You're trudging out of bed and making your way toward the window, tired eyes blinking slowly. You look really cute. Everything is spinning around him, but he focuses on you. You’re still groggy and out of it until you meet Yeonjun’s eyes through the glass. As soon as you see him, it’s like you wake up immediately.

He watches your jaw drop, your frantic hands racing to open your window. His vision is nearly blacking out, and he tries to blink away the dizzy feeling in his head the best he can.

“Yeonjun?!” you squeak as he drags himself through your window and into your room. He can’t even hold himself up anymore, weak body collapsing to the floor. He groans and leans against the wall, clutching his side. He ignores the sickening feeling of blood dampening his hand, sticky and warm against his palm and between his digits.

You pick him up by the underarms, grunting as you heave him toward your bed. He notices how shaky your arms are, and he tries his best to pick up his own weight, even if it hurts like hell. He’s burdening you enough as is coming here so late.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to go to,” he says, catching his breath as you guide him to lay on your bed. He’s half-aware of how bloody and dirty he is, but you seem fully ready to let him stain your sheets. Concern and confusion fill your wide eyes, and Yeonjun can hear every word that you don’t say.

Luckily, you save the unnecessary questions for later. “What do I do?” you ask. Your hands tremble as they peel the shirt of his suit up, just enough to expose his midriff and the nasty damage to his side. You gasp upon seeing how bad it is, hardly able to stomach it, opting to look into his eyes instead.

He wants to respond to you, if not to answer your question then just to comfort you, but breathing is enough of a chore on its own right now; talking seems almost impossible. Watching you panic about this is shattering him. He makes an effort to move his arm out toward you, just to hold your hand and reassure you, but he doesn’t have enough strength.

You lift from the bed and open up a bottle of water, pouring some of the cool liquid over his head. It’s relieving against his burning skin and keeps him from losing consciousness. It also makes him realize how dehydrated he is.

“Please sit up,” you beg, placing a hand underneath his head to lift it a bit. He comes up just enough to drink some of the water you feed to him, swallowing down the rest of the bottle. He collapses back against your pillow once he’s finished, feeling much better just from that.

You come back with another bottle of water and pour small bits at a time over the gash in his side. He hisses and tenses up each time it hits his skin, but he knows you have to do this. He doesn’t want to make it harder by thrashing around and complaining, so he bites his tongue and keeps his body stiff.

The sheets soak beneath him as you continue emptying the water bottle over the wound. He should help you clean up after this; he doesn’t want you dealing with his mess all alone. A few minutes pass before you discard the plastic bottle and grab a t-shirt from your dresser.

You press the bunched up cloth against his injured skin gently, and he holds back any grunts that threaten to slip out. It’s like you can sense his pain despite his efforts to hide it, because you keep murmuring apologies to him.

“I’m okay, don’t be sorry,” he reassures. He doesn’t think you believe him, judging by the way lips stay tugged into a frown.

A quietness falls over the room. You pull your t-shirt away from his body and observe the wound, and your fingertips on his torso send electricity throughout his body. It doesn’t hurt so much now.

“You’re not bleeding anymore,” you point out.

He hums. “That’s good.” Your hand grazes the skin just outside the gash. There’s a soothing effect in the way your fingers glide against him, pressure so light that it’s barely there.

“You need stitches,” you say quietly, like you hate to break the news to him.

Yeonjun doesn’t mind. “You got a needle?” he asks. You fidget with the fabric of Yeonjun’s suit as you sigh and look away.

“I do,” you say. You don’t sound too confident, though. He doesn’t know what to do to make you feel better.

You grab his hand like it’s second nature to do so, and the action would be romantic if only you didn’t have that nervous look on your face. He can practically feel your heart pounding, and he’s dying to let you know that everything’s okay.

“I trust you,” he breathes out. He makes sure he’s looking you in the eye so you can see how much he means it. He’s risking everything by trusting you, but he’s not scared. He feels safe even with his life in your hands, his secret identity in your knowledge. If there was something more sacred and dangerous to give up than that, he’s sure he’d be okay lending that to you too.

It feels much more real when you have your needle and thread in hand. Yeonjun can’t contain his noises anymore, whimpering in pain when he feels the sharp tip pierce his skin.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you say quickly and desperately. “I’ll do it fast.”

He hisses as he feels the thread start to tug his wound shut. He throws an arm over his eyes, as if not watching you treat him will stop the piercing feeling. All his muscles are tensed up no matter how much he tries to relax, but he keeps his breathing steady and lets you do your work.

It’s not too long before you’re tying off the final knot and discarding your needle onto your nightstand. You run your thumb over the stitch, gentle and slow. Yeonjun takes his arm off his face and fixes his gaze on you, watching you scrutinize your work with scrunched brows.

“It feels fine. You did perfect,” he says, wanting to keep you from judging yourself too harshly. He wants to thank you, but the words feel so awkward building up in his throat.

“I don’t have a big enough bandage to put over this,” you say, still fixated on his injury. Yeonjun tries to sit up, but your hand on his shoulder eases him back down. “Don’t move too much.”

“Y/n…” he starts, but you give him a pointed look, and he decides to shut up and listen. He relaxes against your mattress.

“I wish I had some clothes to change you into,” you mutter after he pulls the shirt of his suit back down. The spandex isn’t super comfortable against his fresh stitches, but it’s easy to ignore in comparison to the searing pain of the open wound. He’ll have to throw out this suit; it’s bloodied beyond repair, and he has plenty of back-ups anyway.

“It’s alright,” Yeonjun says. You shuffle on the mattress until you’re laying down beside him. “Aren’t the sheets wet?” he asks, surprised at how unfazed you seem.

You let out a small laugh, and that frown finally leaves your face. “I don’t mind. I wanted to lay down.”

“I’ll buy you new sheets,” Yeonjun promises. “And a new needle. And I’ll explain everything to you, I swear. Please don’t”—

“Yeonjun,” you cut off. He shuts his mouth. “That stuff doesn’t matter. Are you okay now?”

He nods. “I’m okay.”

“That’s all I care about.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence. Yeonjun stares at the ceiling and wonders how much this is going to change things between you. He has some hope that this will make you two even closer, but a small part of him fears that you won’t want to associate with him anymore. He wouldn’t blame you; it’s not like being close to Spider-man isn’t a riskless situation. He doesn’t regret coming to you tonight, though.

He feels your eyes on him a moment later, and he can only bring himself to look at you for a second before returning his gaze to your ceiling. You must find that funny, because he hears you chuckling beside him.

“You know, I wasn’t expecting this when you said you’d hang out with me again.” There’s a softness in your voice that makes Yeonjun feel lightheaded. Not the losing-too-much-blood kind of lightheaded, but the oh-god-I-really-like-her kind—this one’s much more preferable and much more welcome than the former.

“I’ll have to make it up to you,” he says.

“How do you plan on doing that?”

He turns his head to face you, and something feels awfully domestic about getting to lay this close to you in your bed. It’s hard to breathe when you’re smiling at him so eagerly, when there’s a glint in your eyes that tells Yeonjun you’re having fun. There’s an itch all the way down to his bones that begs him to push forward and kiss you already, but he resists.

“I’ll find a way,” he whispers.

The room gets quiet again, and Yeonjun supposes he should leave. It’s not like he can wait for the sun to rise and walk out of your room in his bloodied Spidey-suit glory. He’s not sure what time it is right now, but he knows that if he doesn’t leave soon and get some sleep, he’ll be passing out in his classes.

“Thanks for fixing me up,” he says, pushing himself off your bed and stretching his limbs. He feels beyond sore, wincing at the pain that shoots through his body. You sit up immediately, scrambling to stop him.

“You’re leaving? Are you crazy? Stay here!” you insist, trying to drag him back to the bed. He turns his head to you and smiles, and something about the silent plea in your eyes lights up his heart. He keeps his feet on the ground and resists your efforts, even though he wants nothing more than to spend the night with you. It’s just not smart and not worth the risk.

“I can’t,” he says. You pout and stand before him, blinking up at him so prettily that he almost changes his mind. “It’s dangerous.”

“I know. I just wanted to keep you.” That makes Yeonjun giggle.

“Sorry. Maybe next time.”

You swat his chest. “Don’t let there be a next time. You almost scared me to death.”

“I’ll make sure to tell the next knife-bearer you said that,” Yeonjun jokes. It gets the laugh that he was hoping for out of you.

“Well…” you start, eyes darting between his own. He barely has time to register it when you press a kiss against his lips, your movement so hesitant and shy. It’s soft. It’s sweet. It’s over before he knows it. He blinks at you dumbly—it’s all he can do to not pass out like a dork in front of you. Your smile is just as soft and sweet as your kiss was. “Just stay out of trouble,” you finish, patting his chest gently.

“I’ll try.”

“I guess I’ll see you in class, then,” you say.

“Yeah,” he agrees. He should go now. He should make use of his feet and back away, but he stays planted in his spot. You sway girlishly in front of him, hands clasped behind your back.

“Good night,” you whisper. Yeonjun can’t help it—he pulls your face in so he can feel your lips on his again, more properly this time. They’re pillowy and dreamy, and Yeonjun could just melt into you. He doesn’t linger longer than he has to, backing up just enough to see your face. You mirror the glee that he feels in his own expression.

“Good night,” he echoes. He backs away and grabs his mask, slipping it back on. He opens your window back up and slings himself to the nearest tree. Each time Yeonjun looks over his shoulder, he sees you leaning at your window smiling right back at him. His heart does a little flip. On second thought, maybe getting stabbed is kind of cool.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Despite how well last night went, Yeonjun wakes up with a heavy weight on his shoulders. Every ounce of confidence that his interaction with you last night might have given him is completely gone the moment he remembers it, and sheds away at itself further when he notices you skipped class. A dreadful thought creeps up his spine: are you avoiding him?

Maybe you woke up regretting it all. Maybe you realized how ridiculous and stupid getting involved with Spider-man is, and you’re just protecting yourself before you can be burdened further. The classroom feels hot and suffocating, and fresh air sounds really nice right now, but Yeonjun stays put in his seat. He doesn’t want to make a scene and start freaking everyone out. To the best of his ability, he pushes his fears down and saves his panic for later—preferably for after he talks to you and gets some answers.

He doesn’t even open his notebook in his last class of the day. He shows up just for attendance purposes, then zones out staring at his desk for the rest of the hour. Time passes far too slowly; Yeonjun’s itching for the lecture to end so he can talk to you already. He’s practically running out of class as soon as it’s dismissed, but finds himself slowing down the moment he’s outside the building.

He’s pretty sure he knows where to find you. The bigger issue is figuring out what the hell he’s going to say. Is there any way to start this conversation without being awkward? Hey, thanks for saving my life last night. Also I am indeed that hero or whatever taking care of criminals in the city, hope you don’t mind! He feels so lame.

It’s wishful thinking to hope that you won’t care about what happened last night—well, except for the kissing part, but that’s probably not as important right now. He’ll push aside that conversation until the more important one happens.

He wants to run away the moment he sees your figure in the distance, sitting exactly where he thought you’d be. His tongue suddenly feels like lead, too heavy and useless to try talking to you. He gathers his breath and walks across the field, not letting himself back out now. You deserve to be given a little peace of mind. He’s sure today must have been confusing for you, that clarity hit you like a train this morning the same way it did to him.

You look over your shoulder when he reaches you, staring up at him and squinting your eyes from the sun. “How’d I know you’d come find me?” you ask, half-amused.

Yeonjun gives you a short laugh, unsure of himself as he sits on the grass beside you. It feels a little like he’s invading your space. He’s seen you sitting alone on this field as if it was all yours so many times.

“I thought I should thank you again,” he says, a little shy. He feels like he owes you a lot for last night. The whole city probably owes you a lot for saving him, honestly.

You look at him with a small smile, leaning your head on your bent knees. “Mhm. Shouldn’t I be thanking you, Spider-man?” There’s a teasing quality to your voice, and it makes Yeonjun laugh nervously. He should probably address that.

“I really hope you won’t tell anybody.”

“I won’t. I’m still finding it hard to believe anyway,” you say. Your sentences are all laced with a tiredness and exhaustion that Yeonjun can’t help but to feel at fault for. “It’s just weird to know it now.”

Yeonjun hums. He can sympathize with you on that—it must be really bewildering to know your classmate is the one swinging around town shooting webs at criminals. He just hopes you can forgive him for dragging you into this.

“Spider-man’s a little less cool now, huh?” he jokes, keeping his voice quiet even though no one’s around.

Your smile is full and genuine, and Yeonjun’s heart skips a beat. “I always thought he was a little lame,” you answer. Yeonjun’s ego bruises at that. You continue, “But I think he’s kind of interesting now.”

He can only hope that you don’t see the blush that takes over his face. He looks away to hide it, but he feels your gaze on him. “I don’t know if I’m that interesting,” he says, acting all humble. It’s clearly bait, and he hopes you’ll catch it.

“I can be the judge of that. Let me get to know you more,” you offer. Yeonjun bites his cheek to stop himself from grinning at this massive win.

“Well, we still have that bakery to go to,” Yeonjun mentions, and judging by the way your eyes gain a new sparkle, you seem to like the idea.

“You don’t have any more classes today, do you?” You already look ready to go.

Yeonjun doesn’t bother hiding his excitement anymore, letting his smile take over his face. “I don’t.” You’re standing up the next second, and Yeonjun’s quick to follow.

The bakery is a cute, cozy little place near some other restaurants downtown. There’s no seating inside due to the lack of space, but that’s made up for by the giant row of sweet selections to choose from. Yeonjun’s stomach rumbles in anticipation as his eyes jump around to look at each confection.

After buying your treats, you lead Yeonjun to a nearby bench. You both open your pastry boxes and bite down on the baked goods eagerly. You hum in satisfaction, nodding at the taste. “Wow, we should go here again,” you say, going in for another bite.

Yeonjun chose a sweet cheese bread, which he completely devours within a couple minutes. You don’t eat as fast as him, but he doesn’t mind waiting for you. He makes conversation in the meantime: “How come you skipped class today?”

You laugh a little around your mouthful of food, swallowing before you answer, “I barely slept. There was no way I could’ve focused if I went.”

Yeonjun hums in understanding. “I barely slept too,” he says.

“But you still went,” you add. “I guess you’re better than me.”

Oh god, he hopes you didn’t take it that way. “Not at all!” he rushes to say.

You smile and pat his shoulder. “I know. You’re just a star student, that’s all.”

Is that a compliment? Yeonjun blushes anyway. “I like to do well,” he says.

“I mean, considering everything you’re balancing, yeah, you are doing pretty well.”

Yeonjun laughs awkwardly in response, barely able to take your praise. He’s pretty sure you’re alluding to what you found out about him yesterday. “Thanks,” he mutters, all humble.

“Do you wanna talk about last night?” you ask, finishing your last bite.

“Sure,” Yeonjun answers, feeling a smidge of nervousness returning to him. It’s quiet for a few seconds. “Did you have any questions?” he asks. He feels more bashful than anything else, but it’s better than coming off as braggadocious.

You hum in thought, pouting your lips while you conjure up some ideas. “Was that your first kiss?”

He’s completely taken aback by your question—and a little embarrassed, quite frankly—and he scrambles to spit out a response. You’re stifling your laughter before he can even get his defense out. “No! I had my first kiss in, like, high school!”

“I’m just teasing,” you admit. “You’re a good kisser.” The compliment goes to Yeonjun’s head, playing in a loop while he floats on cloud nine. You liked kissing him. He should do it again and again, just to keep you happy. And for more selfish reasons, too.

Your voice breaks through his thoughts when you speak again, “Do you feel better today? Are you healing alright?” The joking tone leaves your voice, replaced with genuinity and care.

“I feel fine,” he answers. He pulls up his shirt to show you the wound, all stitched up and starting to heal over.

You wince. “Good thing I finished my food already. That killed my appetite.” Yeonjun laughs at your grimace and releases his shirt, falling back into place. “You should really put a bandage over that,” you suggest.

“I don’t have any.”

You shake your head in disbelief, though your amusement reads on your face. “You should be more prepared.”

Your concern is cute to Yeonjun. “I know,” he says.

“So who stabbed you?” you ask.

He shrugs. “No clue. He’s probably in a cell now.”

“Did it hurt?” you ask, though the answer is obvious.

“Like hell,” he says.

“How’d it even happen?” Honestly, Yeonjun’s not too sure about that either. He can usually sense imminent danger before it comes, but maybe he was too focused on the crimes he’d already been dealing with.

“He came up behind me while I was handling another criminal,” he answers.

You hum, getting off the bench and tossing your trash in a bin nearby. You start walking off then, and Yeonjun follows mindlessly. “Must be tough being Spider-man,” you say.

“Careful how loud you say that.” Yeonjun tenses as someone walks past the two of you, praying they were out of earshot when you said that. He sighs in relief when he sees the person had headphones in.

“Right, sorry. There’s just so much I wanna know now.” You turn a corner, taking a path leading back to campus.

Your curiosity excites Yeonjun, and he’s ready to answer whatever question you come up with. Some of his stories have serious entertainment value to them.

“Ask me, then,” he invites. You twist your head to smile up at him for a second.

“How’d you get like this? Were you just born this way?”

Yeonjun laughs at the idea. He swings his head around to make sure no one’s around when he answers, “No, a radioactive spider bit me.”

“When did that happen?” you ask. Yeonjun reminisces the first few weeks after the bite, thinking back to those initial feelings of fear and dread when he realized something had happened to him.

“In high school,” he says. It was super bewildering back then to change so drastically, yet be forced to act so normal. It’s much easier now—he’s had years to adjust—but he was a teenager when it first happened. That’s a lot for a kid to take on. He had to act like he was the same Choi Yeonjun his classmates had grown up with, and not some mutated superhuman dealing with the stresses of his new identity. Of course, he did that whole Spider-man thing to himself, but it was the right thing to do. He doesn’t regret it.

“Does anyone else know?”

“My uncle did, but he’s gone, so now it’s just you.” He looks at you, lips twitching upward.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you apologize, voice growing soft. He realizes that you’re in front of your dorm building now, and he supposes this is where he should leave. His eyes dart between yours, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to go. To ask him to stay.

“Are you doing anything today?” he asks. Maybe he sounds desperate. He doesn’t really care.

“Catching up on some work,” you say.

“I’ll give you my calculus notes.”

You smile. “That would be nice.”

Yeonjun didn’t even take notes in calculus today. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“Can I stay?” He’s teeming with hope and bravery today. You open the door to your building and signal him inside, and he has to hold back the victorious giggle that almost escapes him as he trails behind you.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of questions and answers. Yeonjun’s never talked so openly about being Spider-man before, and a part of it feels healing. You study hard while he rambles about stories of the little things he’s done throughout the years. Some are funny and make you cackle, and some draw your attention away from your textbook so you can look at him in shock. It’s impossible for Yeonjun to wipe the grin off his face—not when he bids you good night, not when he walks back to his dorm, not even when lays in bed to sleep. His heart never lets up on that jittery rush it has for you.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

A quintessential part of the college experience, Yeonjun’s come to find out, is trying out all the different ramen brands to see which one is the best. He’s a fan of whichever one he’s chowing down on right now, and a 5-pack of this barely puts a dent in his bank account. Seems like a winner.

He glances over at his dorm’s door when it opens, curious to see that Soobin brought someone over. Yeonjun isn’t bothered by that, though; if this guy is anything like Soobin, he’s not worried about getting annoyed.

“You can remember to buy ramen but not detergent?” Soobin asks, chuckling. Yeonjun chooses to read that as a joke instead of a passive aggressive comment.

“Ugh, dude, I keep forgetting, I’m sorry,” he apologizes. Yeonjun points at Soobin’s friend and continues, “This your friend?”

“Yeah, I’m Beomgyu,” the friend introduces. Something about him looks a little familiar.

“Nice to meet you,” Yeonjun greets with a nod.

Soobin grabs some clothes from his closet then turns to the door. “I’m gonna go change and then we can head out,” he says to Beomgyu, then heads off to the bathroom.

When the door shuts, Yeonjun returns his attention to his ramen and ignores Beomgyu’s presence as best as he can. That doesn’t last too long, though, cause soon enough, Beomgyu’s breaking the silence: “Are you still hanging out with Y/n?”

Yeonjun turns in his seat to face Beomgyu. He’s not sure how Beomgyu would know that, but Yeonjun entertains the question nevertheless. “Yeah. You know her?” he asks.

“She’s my friend,” he says. “Kind of.”

Yeonjun already feels something weird in the air. He’s waiting for the turn that this conversation is bound to take. He finally pieces together why this guy looks so familiar; he’s one of the boys at the party in the group that you kept looking over at. Now Yeonjun’s really curious.

“Why do you ask?” The question comes out a little hesitantly.

“I’m telling you this man-to-man, I think you might be getting played,” Beomgyu says.

Yeonjun’s immediate reaction is only confusion. How would you be playing him? You’ve been nothing but sincere with your feelings—or, that’s what it seemed like, at least. Now Yeonjun’s doubting himself. A part of him doesn’t believe it and doesn’t want to indulge in this conversation any further, but he’d start spiraling whether or not Beomgyu explains himself now. Worry swirls in Yeonjun’s stomach.

“Why?” he asks despite himself.

“This is just what I’ve heard, but apparently she had a thing with Kai, and he started talking to another girl, so she wanted to get back at him. I don’t know, though.”

Kai. That boy who came up to you at the party. Yeonjun remembers him.

He doesn’t want to show how much those words affect him, but shit. Hearing that hurts. His body feels weightless, like he’d be falling over if he wasn’t sitting at his desk. He nods as he exhales slowly, keeping his heart from going haywire.

“Huh,” is all he says. Soobin comes back the next second, and Beomgyu heads out with him after that, and the world keeps spinning on, but Yeonjun feels trapped in that moment. He waits to wake up in a sweat, hoping this is all some nightmare that’s going to end, but the wake never comes. He’s forced to deal with his whirling thoughts instead.

None of this can be true. It wouldn’t make sense. You kissed Yeonjun. You said you were interested in him. If this was all a lie, how will Yeonjun ever trust anyone again? When he came to you bleeding out, you saved his life. When you found out his secret identity, you kept it safe. Yeonjun miscalculated something that night—there is something more sacred and dangerous to trust you with than those things: his heart.

He doesn’t even want to finish his ramen anymore. His fingers brush against the wound that’s healing pretty well thanks to you, and a thought crosses his mind. The night that you kissed him was the night you found out he was Spider-man. An especially sickening question starts to haunt him. Did you only start liking him because of that?

Yeonjun feels played. He’s always known that he was a fool, so he doesn’t know why he’s so surprised, but really? Beer pong lord?

Five minutes is hardly enough to process the information Beomgyu dumped onto Yeonjun, but that’s all he gets, because now his alarm is going off and telling him to go over to the lab. He drops his head to his desk with a groan. It’s like an anchor’s been tied to his heart, sinking further and further until it makes him his stomach churn.

The fresh air feels good in Yeonjun’s lungs as he walks over to the lab. A permanent pout is etched onto his lips, unable to stop thinking about you. Good things. Bad things. Everything. Each memory hurts now.

He probably looks like some depressed college kid, walking around with his hood up and head down. He should be less pathetic, pick himself up and get himself together. It’s not like you two were really anything anyway. A kiss doesn't always mean something to everyone. Maybe it’s his fault for assuming that for you, it did.

It’s not just that, though. Yeah, kissing you made Yeonjun feel alive in a way that only swinging through the city could compare to, but there’s so much more to you than that. It’s the way you talked to him, the way you cared for him, the way you looked at him. How the hell do you fake that kind of connection? Hurt splits him at the seams like he’s being torn in two, but he keeps walking like nothing’s wrong.

“Yeonjun!” He recognizes that voice immediately. He pulls his eyes off the sidewalk and catches sight of you walking up to him. He almost forgot that he walks past your little field on the way to his lab.

It feels like he’s the one keeping a secret, palms clamming up as you stand in front of him. He stops in his tracks to allow you the conversation. “Hey,” he says.

“What are you up to?” you ask. He fidgets with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Should he just act normal? Should he let you get away with using him? When he thinks about it like that, it puts a sour taste in his mouth.

“I’m headed to the lab. Got some stuff to do, and it’s time sensitive, so…” he trails off awkwardly, looking off into the distance instead of at you.

“Oh, okay,” you say, sounding a little dejected. Yeonjun shouldn’t be feeling bad for you right now, but he can’t help it. It makes his chest clench to hear the joy leave your voice. “Maybe we can hang out after? Just to study or something,” you offer.

Yeonjun sighs, “Maybe.”

You’re quiet for a second as you assess him. “Are you okay?” Concern fills your voice, and when he brings his vision back to you, he can see it in your eyes too.

“I’ll talk to you about it later,” he says.

You frown, taking in his flat expression. You must gain some insight from that, because then you’re asking, “Did I do something?”

He wants to hold his head, feeling defeated and frustrated and sad and a million other different things. He’s not sure how to label it. He’s never felt emotions this complex before, probably because he’s never liked anyone this much before.

“Oh god, did I?” you repeat, more fear in your voice at Yeonjun’s lack of a response. It strikes him and deflates his will to be dismissive about it, not wanting you to sit here worrying for the rest of the day. Curse his soft heart.

“Just come with me,” Yeonjun says, continuing on the path to his lab building. You follow beside him, taking long strides to match his quick pace. He notices you struggling to keep up, so he slows down, even though it might make him a few minutes late.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize. He can feel you looking at him, but he keeps his eyes ahead.

“You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for,” he mumbles.

“Tell me then,” you plead. The thought of having to talk about this with you makes him feel sick. He doesn’t know if he can even choke up the words without getting nauseous.

“Let me clock into my lab first.” The rest of the walk is silent; you keep quiet even as you enter the room with him, watching him take off his sweatshirt and put on his lab coat. You’re quiet even as he goes through the study procedure, not even lingering near him to see what he’s doing. He feels a little cruel for it, wondering if he’s just torturing you by forcing you to stand silently and worry about what he must be upset at you for.

He steals a glance at you. You’re leaning against the wall by the door, so many steps away, keeping so much distance. He bites his lip and looks away, figuring it’s time to start the conversation.

“I want to talk to you, but I don’t want you to lie to me,” Yeonjun says, breaking the long stretch of silence. He walks toward you, stopping before he gets too close.

“I won’t. I’m not gonna hide anything from you.” It’s funny you say that.

“Do you like Kai?” His question catches you off guard, your frown leaving your face.

“No,” you answer.

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay. So why did Beomgyu tell me you used me to get back at him?”

He watches you stiffen at the question. “How do you know Beomgyu?” you ask.

“Please just answer me,” Yeonjun says. He doesn’t want to run around in circles, he just wants to hear the truth from you.

“I don’t like Kai anymore.” Something about that sentence hits like a stab to the gut. Yeonjun would know the feeling.

He tsks and shakes his head, ready to walk away and end the conversation, but you continue, “Please let me say the whole story.” Yeonjun sighs and meets your eyes. He decides to hear you out, only because a part of him is dying for you to make this right.

“Go ahead,” he says.

“I invited you to the party because you’re my friend, and I think you’re cute, but also for really petty, stupid revenge. It was so dumb and I’m so sorry, I feel so fucking bad for that now,” you explain. Yeonjun thinks back to how excited he was when you asked him. He remembers the rush of butterflies, the nervousness that pooled in his stomach, the adrenaline through his veins when he realized he finally had your attention.

You continue, “But I swear on my life, Yeonjun, the second we went outside at that party, I realized how unfair it was. I wanted to make Kai jealous, but when we were standing out there, I couldn’t do it. You’re a good person, and I felt fucking awful, and I didn’t go through with anything, and I’m glad I didn’t. You gave me one of the best nights of my life that day. I mean that. Seriously.”

There’s sincerity in your eyes, so Yeonjun knows you’re not lying. The ache in his chest is dull now, but still there. He can’t believe you planned to use him as some pawn to get back at Kai.

“Why’d I have to hear it from someone else? Why couldn’t you tell me yourself?” he asks. It’s pathetic how his voice carries more heartbreak than anger.

“Cause I didn’t want you to misunderstand and leave!” you explain, desperate. “Yeonjun, please. I don’t care about Kai anymore. I haven’t even talked to him since the party.”

Yeonjun wishes he could feel comforted by your words, but all he feels is hurt. He has this terrible thing where he can’t stop asking questions that will only batter him worse. “So you didn’t really like me?”

You take a step closer to him, placing both hands over your heart. Yeonjun’s not blind; he can see the fear in your eyes, the worry that he might walk away. He doesn’t have it in him to relieve your stress right now.

“I always liked you. I like you more every day,” you answer. There’s honesty in your words, which Yeonjun appreciates. It doesn’t quite melt away his insecurities, though.

Yeonjun can’t bear looking at you any longer, dropping his gaze to the floor and stepping back. He’s ready to leave, thinking he needs the night to himself to stare at the ceiling and contemplate this whole situation.

You stop him before he can get too far. Your hand hooks onto the sleeve of his lab coat, shaking as you cling to him. It’s so pitiful that it ruins the monstrous image Yeonjun’s trying to fit you into in his mind. Against his better judgment, his eyes meet yours again.

He’s about to speak—maybe to console you, to get some of that sadness out of your eyes—but the sound of glass breaking behind him makes him turn with wide eyes, searching for the damage. He’ll be the one stuck replacing any broken equipment; he can only pray that it wasn’t a more expensive piece.

His eyes flit across the room, but he finds nothing. Is he seriously losing his mind? Every time he’s in this lab, there’s something new giving him a mini heart attack. He brushes this off as some kind of paranoia. He considers talking to his professor about taking a break from the lab, just until he can restore his sanity.

“Let’s just head out of here,” Yeonjun says, unable to rid himself of the chill down his spine.

“Do you still like me?” you ask, unable to move on from the conversation. You stay planted in your spot as Yeonjun takes off his lab gear. He groans internally at your question—of course he still likes you. Do you think his feelings are so malleable? His adoration for you feels like an immovable boulder. He can’t even stay mad at you for as long as he wanted to, though he tries not to let you win too easily.

He sighs out your name instead of answering. He waits for you at the door as he throws his sweatshirt back on, and you trudge forward with a pout. Once his sweatshirt is slipped over his head, he catches sight of something behind you, heart stopping entirely.

“What the hell—?!” he emits, eyes growing wide as the cell clump he’d been working with expands out past its storage spot, spilling out onto the floor. The broken glass earlier must’ve been from the petri dish—shit, he should’ve checked. It’s discolored now, so dark it’s nearly black, and growing more rapidly than it should be able to.

You spin on your feet to see what Yeonjun’s looking at, yelping when you see the growth. You back up quickly and bump into Yeonjun’s chest. “What’s happening?” you ask, turning your head back to look up at him.

“I don’t know,” he answers. He has to think fast, because it doesn’t look like the cell replication is stopping any time soon—if anything, it looks like it’s growing exponentially. The clump is a goo-like substance, slowly spilling out further and further onto the floor, looking something like tar as it expands out. “We’ll have to trigger rapid apoptosis,” he says.

“How do we do that?” you ask. Yeonjun’s not sure either, so he doesn’t bother to answer. He opens one of the cabinets and pulls out all the different liquid chemicals he can find. One of these is bound to do something.

You hold yourself and watch him carefully, still looking shy and desperate and nervous from your argument. Yeonjun’s not sure why you seem to be more bothered by him not reassuring you that he likes you than by the clump that grows behind you. Your attention remains on him the whole time.

“Are you mad at me?” you ask.

“No,” he answers sharply and quickly. He has bigger issues to be worried about than staying mad at you.

“I promise I wasn’t lying. I won’t talk to Kai ever again.”

“Why are we having this conversation right now?!” Yeonjun asks, frustrated.

“Because it’s important to me that you know!”

He ignores you in favor of unscrewing the lid to one of the acids, hoping it could digest the cells. When he pours it onto the clump, a loud hiss rings through the room and smoke comes up from the mass. It doesn’t seem to dissolve the cells, though.

He emits an exasperated groan, opening the lid to another chemical substance, and you rush to do the same. He can’t stop to think about how dangerous this is, too focused on controlling the problem before it gets irreparable. You and Yeonjun pour chemicals onto it at the same time, and it seems to react. The tar-like blob thickens now, erecting itself up from the floor languidly.

You and Yeonjun back up, watching with fearful eyes as it stands. It moves like it’s alive, like it’s a living organism. It’s eerily silent for a room as you two stare at the mass in shock. Then, rapidly, it comes charging at you, attaching itself to your cardigan as you shriek. Yeonjun acts fast, running to you and grabbing your waist, adhering his feet to the floor to keep you from getting dragged any more. You shed your cardigan quickly before tugging it back from the blob. It tears from how harsh you pull it, but you don’t seem to care, chucking it to the opposite side of the room.

This is an unfortunate time to see you in a tight-fitting tank top. Your chest heaves from the panic of being grabbed by the organism, rising and falling as you start to steady your breath. You look over at him, and he finds himself blushing and removing his gaze from you in embarrassment. God, now he’s the one struggling to focus on the bigger problem.

Yeonjun directs his wrist at the blob, shooting a web at it to keep it from charging at you again. The web sends the mass flying back until it collides with the wall. Though it can’t remove itself from the confines of the web, it still slowly grows, and it will be able to expand enough to attack again soon. Still, this should buy you two some more time.

“You should leave,” Yeonjun says, coming to you and cupping your face. His eyes beg you to go, strung up on the possibility of you getting hurt.

“I won’t,” you say, grabbing onto his wrists.

“Please. You’re too important.” His hand strokes through your hair like you’re something precious.

You take his hand and kiss it. “You are too. I won’t leave.”

He sighs. He knows he’s not winning this, there’s too much determination in your words. Before he removes his focus from you, he thinks he should tell you one last thing. “Just so you know, I like you too.”

You’re barely able to hold back your smile, but Yeonjun can’t stay and watch your reaction. The mass continues to grow over the confines of the web, and he has to find a way to control it before it overcomes the binds. He opens the binder that holds the descriptions of all the lab materials, hoping he can find something useful in there. His eyes flit across the words, scanning for the chemicals that will be his saving grace.

He stops when he reads the description for nitric acid. The words digest and dissolve kick his body to life, hope stirring inside of him. “Come here with the nitric acid!” he shouts over his shoulder.

“Which one is that?” you ask hurriedly, scanning through the different bottles of chemicals.

“It’s in a brown translucent bottle. Quick!” Before he can panic further, you’re racing to his side with a bottle of the acid. Yeonjun quickly pours it over the mass, watching it shrivel when the liquid hits its surface. A weight lifts off Yeonjun’s shoulders when he realizes he finally found something that works. The bottle doesn’t hold nearly enough, though, because Yeonjun empties it out before he can melt the organism completely.

He turns to you expectantly, and you’re rushing back to the counter where all the chemical substances are held. You’re turning each to read the labels, growing more aggravated as you fail to find another container of nitric acid. You curse as you swing the cabinet doors open, checking if there’s any stored away in there.

You pull out a bottle from the cabinet, reading it quickly. “Would sulfuric acid work?” you ask, looking at Yeonjun like you need him to say yes.

“It would react with the nitric acid,” he answers. You groan.

“You think I know any of this stuff?!” You go back to searching through the cabinet.

“Yes! You’re, like, the smartest girl I know!” Yeonjun exclaims, equally as frustrated.

“You must not know a lot of girls then,” you huff. You finally pull out a bottle that seems to match, running over to Yeonjun. He takes it from your hands and pours the liquid over what remains of the clump, watching it dissolve until all that’s left is a murky puddle on the floor. He plops the nitric acid onto a table, finally letting himself take a full breath. He tastes the chemicals swirling in the air, but he can’t bring himself to care about any toxins filling his lungs. He’s worn out, crouching down in exhaustion with a groan.

When he picks his head up from between his arms, he searches for you. You’re bent over one of the tables, head tucked between your arms as half your body rests over the surface. You must be just as drained as him. He stretches his body out as he stands back up, then approaches you at the opposite side of the table. He rests his elbows onto the tabletop, leaning forward to be closer to you.

“You get feisty when you’re working under pressure,” Yeonjun teases, breathless laugh escaping him. You lift your head to look at him, and he can see how you hold back your amusement.

“I could say the same about you,” you respond. You seem winded, still breathing hard as you push yourself off the table and pick up your cardigan from the floor. You hold up your cardigan and examine the damage. It’s stained and ripped and looks disgusting. You pout. “This was my favorite one…”

“Don’t worry, you’re pretty good at stitching things back up,” Yeonjun says, coming up to you and taking the cardigan from your hands to tie it around your waist. You look up at him, something fond shining in your eyes.

“I guess I am,” you say, tugging on Yeonjun’s sweatshirt to pull him closer to you. You wear a dopey smile as you stare at him, hands resting on his shoulders, and Yeonjun really hopes that you do what he knows you’re both thinking about right now.

You don’t leave him waiting long; your hand comes to his jaw to bring his face to yours, and the next second, Yeonjun’s having the best kiss of his life. It feels like a reward after the shitshow that today’s been. For it to come to this, he’d relive it a dozen more times.

“Wait,” Yeonjun says, pulling back. “Are we dating now?”

“Haven’t we been dating?” You look at him like he’s a fool, and it endears Yeonjun endlessly.

“I mean, boyfriend-girlfriend dating,” Yeonjun explains.

“Oh, I’ve already told, like, three people that you’re my boyfriend.” There might be real hearts in Yeonjun’s eyes right now.

“Good,” he says, coming in for another quick kiss. “I’m all yours.” His words are uttered against your lips, since he can’t seem to pull himself away from you.

You gladly accept his kisses, and he has to keep himself from getting too drunk off your taste. He has to remember he’s still in a lab with a bunch of chemicals filling the air—it’s probably a good idea to get out. Even though he doesn’t want to, Yeonjun steps back and looks around at the mess throughout the room. Given everything that happened, it’s not awful. A mop would take care of ninety percent of the problem.

“We should clean this up,” he sighs.

“Yeah,” you agree. Neither of you make a move. You start laughing after a few seconds, and Yeonjun returns his attention to you with a cheeky grin.

“No, let’s just leave,” he suggests. He’s exhausted. He’ll explain everything to his professor tomorrow, he can’t take any more of this today.

“Should we go back to my place then?” you ask. Yeonjun does a very poor job of hiding his excitement. He wants more than anything to hold you to his chest and zip across campus to get to your dorm, but alas, he does the smart thing instead. A ten minute walk has never felt more like ten hours in his life, and seeing your dorm building finally come into view has his heart racing in anticipation.

Yeonjun’s all over you the minute your door closes behind him. He doesn’t let your lips disconnect for a second—not to talk, not to breathe, because nothing’s more important than tasting your lips on his.

Your back falls to your mattress, and Yeonjun’s mind briefly wanders to the last time you two were here. Having you sprawled out beneath him is quite different than you patching him up above him. In a way, that moment felt like the start of something bigger between you. The initial spark came long before it, but that night is what caused fire to catch. He feeds the flame now, fingers untying the cardigan at your waist and throwing it to the floor. Your shirt’s the next thing to go, and he only pulls away long enough to shed the cloth off of you.

His mouth on yours is ravenous and unwilling to waste any more time. He feels up your stomach, cherishing the warm flesh with eager fingers. He trails his hands up to your chest, feeling your breasts over your bra. You gasp when he squeezes experimentally, and it encourages him to continue, movements growing hungry.

You break away from the kiss, panting for air while Yeonjun latches onto your jaw. He’s insatiable, sucking your skin and placing kitten licks over the mark after. He hovers his face over yours, biting back his grin when he sees how hazy your eyes have become.

You catch his face in your hand, cupping his jaw and thumbing his cheek. The action makes his heart soar, and he leans into your warm touch. Your smile turns from soft to wicked when you push your thumb between his lips, and he engulfs the digit without a fight.

“I like you,” you say as he sucks your thumb, blinking up at him adoringly like he’s not doing some lewd act right now. He swirls his tongue around you before popping it out of his mouth, kissing your fingertip then taking your hand in his own.

“I like you too.” His free hand goes behind your back to search for your bra clasp, fumbling with it clumsily until he gets it to disconnect. You pull the material off, and Yeonjun’s cock twitches in his pants when he takes in the sight of you. A part of him feels wrong for doing this, like this is too dirty, but a larger part of him can’t wait to indulge in you. He’ll just make sure to take you out for dinner after.

Yeonjun throws his sweatshirt and shirt to the floor, pride swirling inside him when he sees the way you ogle at his skin. You lay your hand over his chest, trailing your fingers over the expanse teasingly. He takes your wrist and drags your hand away.

“You don’t deserve to touch me. I’m still upset about Kai,” he says. It’s a lie, but he’s in a playful mood. Your hand makes its way back to his chest despite that, so he grabs it and brings it to the bed, shooting a web over your wrist so you can’t move it. He giggles. The whole web-slinging thing comes with some perks.

“Oh, come on,” you sulk as he does the same to your other wrist. He leans back for a moment, looking down at you all proud. A few different sights flash through his mind, endless possibilities of how he could make the most of your hands being restrained. Maybe he should punish you for ever liking Kai in the first place, keep you on the edge until you’re chanting apologies into the air. He could also just indulge in your body greedily, taste every inch of you without your hands pulling him away. The ache in his pants grows at the thought.

You sigh in satisfaction when his hand meets your clothed core. Your hips grind against his hand, and he allows you to use him to find your pleasure. Your hands close into fists as Yeonjun lets you ride his open palm, still fighting against your restraints.

“How much do you like me?” Yeonjun asks. His free hand holds your waist, fingers brushing against your skin gently.

“So much,” you answer, never abandoning your rhythm. “You’re so smart, and handsome, and funny, and—nngh—and good to me…” Yeonjun’s hand travels from your waist to your chest in reward, thumb rolling over one of your nipples.

“Yeah, I am good to you. I stay with you even though you’re mean to me.”

You shake your head at his statement. “I’m not mean to you,” you say.

He laughs at how you try to control yourself, how serious your tone gets. Your hips slow, so he takes measures into his own hands and moves his palm against your cunt instead. If he presses down hard enough, he can feel how wet you are even through your pants.

“You are,” he says. “You use me to get other men.” He knows that’s not true now, but a part of him is still a little bruised by the idea. He figures that airing out his insecurities like this might help him, and it makes him feel less vulnerable.

“No! That’s not true!” Yeonjun ignores you and takes off your pants, letting them join the other articles of clothing on your floor. He short circuits when he sees the wet patch on your panties. A sense of shame must fill you then, because your legs clamp shut to block his view.

“Hey, be nice,” he says, opening your legs back up. He holds you open as he presses his knee to your folds, and he can feel your arousal even through the fabric of his sweatpants. He’s squealing internally, overjoyed to have you soaking for him, but he keeps his calm on the outside.

Your hands push against the webs again, shaking the mattress a little. You pout at him. “I want to touch you,” you whine.

“Sorry about that,” he says. He matches your pout as his hands smooth down your legs, lazily exploring your flesh. He grabs your hips and positions them up a little so that you’re pressing into his thigh. He hears the moan that gets caught in your throat as he drags your cunt against him, holding back a satisfied smirk.

“Should I tell you what I like about you?” Yeonjun asks, something silky and smooth in his voice. You nod, rolling your hips over his thigh. “Say pleaseeeee,” he prompts.

“Please,” you echo. He giggles.

“Again.” He’s having fun.

“Please, Yeonjun,” you beg, sweet voice dripping with need.

He releases your hips so he can pull off your panties, tugging you back onto him once you kick the cloth off your ankles. He can really feel how wet you are now, and it makes a knot form in his stomach. He wants you more than anything.

“I like how pretty you are,” he starts, leaning over you to press kisses against your neck. “And I like how cool you are.” His mouth travels a little lower, sucking at your collarbone. “And I like how I can talk to you for hours and never get bored.” His lips smother your chest, just above your tits, familiarizing himself with every inch of your skin. Your hips buck against him when he presses his thigh more firmly between your legs. “And I like how wet you get,” he laughs.

His mouth finds your breasts then, tongue swirling teasingly around one of your buds. Your nipples perk up, begging for his attention. He drags his tongue over to your other mound, sucking at the swell of flesh, moaning against you. The taste of your skin in his mouth makes him feel high.

You whine, hips rolling more fervently against him, chasing your approaching high. Yeonjun busies himself with delivering kitten licks to your nipples, watching the way they glisten with his saliva after he runs his tongue across them a few times. He peels himself off of you when your rhythm gets unsteady, not wanting you to cum yet. There’s a look of betrayal on your face as he disconnects from you, not touching you at all anymore.

“Yeonjun,” you moan, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him in. “I need to cum.” Your needy cunt grinds against the tent in his boxers, hungrily trying to get yourself off. He lets you have your fun for a minute, enjoying the feel of your warm, wet slit coating his clothed cock, before holding your hips still and keeping you from moving. That doesn’t stop you from digging your heels into his back, pushing him harder against you.

He removes your legs from him, holding you open as he plunges two fingers into your cunt. Your heat takes him in so nicely, the slide of his digits inside you made so easy from how slick your cunt is. You arch your back, moaning out as he curls his fingers inside you.

“Tight girl, gotta stretch you out,” he says, scissoring his digits to prepare you. Your arousal pools out of you, dripping onto the mattress as Yeonjun fucks you on his fingers. “Need to get you ready for me.”

“Mhm, need your dick,” you say. You look so helpless like this, laying back and letting Yeonjun fuck his fingers into you however he wants. He increases his speed just because he can, knowing you can’t pry his hand away, grinning when you emit a surprised gasp. Your walls start tightening around his fingers, a warning of your orgasm, and Yeonjun pulls his hand away before you can get there.

You’re whining his name again, thighs clamping shut to relieve the pressure. He shushes you as he tugs his boxers out of the way, stroking his cock as he watches the way you tremble. Poor thing.

“You want me to fuck you?” he asks. Your legs spread open immediately in invitation. He watches as a glob of arousal drips out from your core.

“Yes,” you breathe out. He pumps his shaft a few more times before bringing it to your folds, letting your wetness coat his tip. “Put it in,” you beg, jerking your hips up. He ignores your plea, bringing the head of his cock to your clit to tap on it a few times. The stimulation sends a buzz through you, and Yeonjun coos at you sweetly.

“Want you to feel so good,” he says, aligning his tip to your hole and starts pushing in. You throw your head back and groan, and he gives your neck a wet kiss. “Wanna be the best you’ve had.” He sinks in slowly, letting your walls adjust to him inch by inch. You feel like heaven around him, and his fingers dig into your hips to keep himself from losing his mind. He wants to meld himself into you.

He grinds his pelvis against you when he bottoms out, steadying his breaths so he doesn’t lose himself too quickly. His moans are deep and airy, while yours are whiny and pathetic. He trails a hand up your body until he’s cupping your face, bringing your attention to him. You look dazed, and he wants to watch you fall apart. He needs to see your perfect face scrunched up with pleasure, eyes glassy and mouth open, going stupid from how fucked out you are.

He presses a light kiss against your lips, then leans his face into the crook of your neck. He finally starts pulling back, slamming back into you with a whimper. Your cunt takes him so readily despite how tight you are, your arousal making him glide in and out of you so easily.

“Gonna be perfect for you,” Yeonjun promises. “Be a good boyfriend. Fuck you every day. Keep you happy.” He lifts himself up to watch your mouth fall open as he thrusts into you. He presses against your stomach to feel himself inside you, moaning whorishly when he does. It makes him fuck you harder, desperation coursing through his system.

You can barely speak from how far gone you are, stuttering out curses and whimpers of his name. He brings his thumb to your clit, rubbing at the swollen bud to get you clenching around him. He groans at how tight you get, sucking him in like your body was meant to take him.

“Need you to cum now,” Yeonjun says, feeling his high looming over. “Gotta feel you milking my cock, let me see it.”

“Kiss me,” you say breathlessly, mouth hanging open as you wait for him to take it. He obliges eagerly, shoving his tongue into your mouth with a needy whine. He licks into you as if this will coax your orgasm out, and it does. Your walls clamp around him, and he’s barely able to move from how tight you get. He circles your clit diligently, only letting up when your body jolts in overstimulation.

He pulls out soon after, only having to stroke himself a few times before he’s spilling his seed onto your stomach. He groans as he milks himself for every last drop, hand shaking as he releases the last of it. You look hot painted with his cum; he bites his lip and squeezes your thighs, needing more and more of you.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he says, making you turn your head away shyly.

“Thanks. You are too.” His stomach flips, feeling proud that he earned your praise. He lowers himself to your torso, lapping at the milky strands of his cum. He cleans you nicely, swallowing down his own release until your stomach’s coated in only his saliva. He brings himself to your slit to lap at it languidly, loving the little whines you emit at the sensation.

“Did so good for me, thank you,” he murmurs into your cunt. He pushes his tongue into your entrance, slowly fucking the muscle inside you. You sigh and roll your hips against his face, relaxed and melting into the feeling.

“Y-you’re good too,” you praise. He licks his way up to your clit, taking it into his mouth and letting his tongue roll over the bud. He likes to hear that he’s being good for you, it makes him feel like he’s worthy of you. He thrives off your happiness, so he feels content as he pleases you with his mouth.

He never wants to let you go. He wants you in his arms forever, he wants to stay in this room and live the rest of his life with just you by his side. This much is enough for him. He glides his hands down your thighs, letting his fingers lightly drag along your skin. He opens his mouth a little more to taste more of you, to kiss your folds more hungrily. He presses the tip of his tongue to your bud, focusing the pressure right against it until he hears you mewl.

“Right there!” you gasp out, pressing yourself further into Yeonjun’s face. He hooks his arms around your thighs to keep you in place, making sure you don’t jolt away when your orgasm creeps up on you. He flicks his tongue over your clit repeatedly, feeling your thighs shake in his grasp. He doesn’t stop until you’re releasing on his face, coating his mouth and chin with your essence.

He detaches himself after a minute, licking his lips and letting go of your legs. He sits up and smiles at you, taking in how pretty you look. He holds your jaw so he can kiss you, and he can’t help but to giggle into the kiss. This is so surreal. He would have fainted if he knew one month ago that this would be happening to him.

“Hi,” you say when he finally pulls his face from yours. This feels like a dream.

“Hi,” he echoes, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. He cherishes the smile you give him.

“So when does this dissolve?” you ask, tugging at the webs holding your arms in place. Yeonjun scratches his neck bashfully. That's enough of an answer for you. “Yeonjun…” you sigh, body deflating.

“Less than two hours!” he rushes to say.

“Two hours?!”

“It’s not that bad. I think we can pass the time,” he says, failing to hold back his smile.

Your eyes flit down to his stirring cock. “I guess I have nothing better to do,” you give in. Yeonjun sees right through your nonchalant act, but he lets you get away with it. He has better things to busy himself with than arguing about that.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

You bring Yeonjun to the market after learning about the laundry detergent debacle. You place the item in your basket, shaking your head at him as you do. “I can’t believe your roommate had to tell me to get you to buy this.”

Yeonjun raises his hands in defense. “I get busy sometimes,” he says.

“With coming to my dorm every other night?” you ask with a raised brow, walking into the next aisle.

Yeonjun drops a candy bar into the basket alongside the detergent. “No, with lab stuff, and class stuff, and Spidey stuff,” he corrects. He picks up a bottle of your favorite drink as he passes by it on the shelf. “And with girlfriend stuff,” he adds sweetly.

“Right,” you say unconvincingly, smiling as you nod your head.

Yeonjun grabs a pair of sunglasses off a rack, placing them on his face and turning to you with a grin. “How cool are these?” he asks, pointing at himself.

You laugh and lift the sunglasses up so they rest on his head. “So cool,” you answer. You tilt your head to check the price on them. “You should totally spend the last of your money on them.”

He pulls the glasses off his face to check the price tag, eyebrows raising in reaction. He puts them back on the rack. He can’t get rid of the smile on his face as he watches you shop, endeared and swooned by every little thing you do. It’s small moments like these that make him feel like the luckiest guy on earth.

“We should get bandages. I can’t believe you don’t have any,” you say, looking for where the item would be in the store.

“There’s a lot of things I don’t have. I’m operating on a limited budget,” he explains. It’s not like he can tackle a job on top of everything else he does. He’s grown accustomed to his ways of living, accepting that he’s become the male college student stereotype.

“I’m glad I stepped into your life then,” you say, throwing a box of bandages into your basket. “I’m actually scared you’d die without me.”

Yeonjun can’t help but to laugh at that. “I would die without you,” he agrees. He follows you as you continue walking around the store, aimlessly searching for anything you might need. You stop when you feel your phone buzz, pulling out your phone upon receiving a notification, checking it curiously. He reads the message over your shoulder; it’s an alert from your local news station about some rescue mission for a bunch of dogs that ran loose from their shelter just now. You turn to him with a knowing smile.

“That’s your cue, Spider-man.”

notes: god i loved writing this so much…. i hope u like spideyjjun just as much as i do<3 i would love to hear ur thoughts if u have anyyy!!! tysm for reading hehe

taglist: @ambsphoria @bananasdiary @beaabz @beomgyusluver @beomsdoll @brrytears @bumgyuz @dawngyu @enhastolemyheart @estrnrea @fancypeacepersona @fatbixchwithanopinion @heejamas @heesmiles @insanityz @i4tzy @jellyyjn @kejingken @lilbrorufr @lovesickchoi @mrsjohnnysuh @raspberrii @sanscupid @saraalovestxt @soobinieswife @starrynightgyu @starstrucktae @taebatu @taysfairies @tubatukimoa @tyongyuta @usuallyunlikelyfox @verco @vvjolyneee @xylatox @younbeanz @yourenzoo @yunverie 🤍

#alsoooo 600 notes! i’m doing carnival tricks for u guys rn #super grateful! tysm!#i’m so happy w the feedback i’ve received so far 😖🫶#seriously i appreciate it hehe

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emmiesoverthemoon · 23 hours ago

Text

bloom

pairing: ot8 x reader

word count: 4.1k

summary: my description of what i think each stray kids member's primary and secondary love languages are

tags: established relationships. tooth rotting sweetness. requested! thank you anon, i hope u enjoy :3

chan

primary: acts of service – chan’s love slips in quietly, like sunlight through kitchen curtains on a slow morning, drowning the room with comforting warmth and melting the dewy chill from the previous night. he ties your shoes without asking, scribbles your name on your takeaway coffee lid with a tiny heart when you're looking the other way, fixes the things you did not get the chance to know were in need of mending before you could ever worry your pretty head about them. his care is pre-emptive, almost psychic. he wakes early to prepare your favourite things for breakfast—eggs just how you like, toast the right shade of golden—so you can rise slowly, stretch into the day without rush. he memorises your schedule like a devotional hymn so he can meet you halfway through your hardest days, arms open, smile soft, always prepared to ease the weight before you ask him to. he is a man of many burdens, yes—but he never lets you carry yours alone. his habit is simple: he notices. always. your yawn becomes his cue to fetch you water and ask how long you have been pushing yourself. your silence becomes his reason to stay close, quiet, and steady beside you. his hands are always doing, always giving—braiding your hair because he saw a tutorial and wanted to try, massaging your shoulders with firm, thoughtful pressure when he senses the tension creeping in. this is how he proves he loves you—through small, constant acts, each one stitched with intention, each one an echo of those sweet three words he will say freely, often, and at the most unexpected but perfect moments. and sometimes—when he thinks you are not looking—he will dance a little silly in the kitchen just to hear you laugh. he will send you links to the strangest memes, claiming they “reminded me of you,” and if you tease him, he will feign offense with his hand to his heart before immediately folding into bashful laughter. chan’s love is not loud, but it is ever-present—steadfast, patient, and quietly blooming in the way he stays, every single day.

secondary: words of affirmation (giving) – and when the words come, they fall soft and certain, like prayers that never ask—only give. “you’re doing so well, angel,” he’ll say as he hands you a cup of tea, fingers brushing yours like punctuation. “i’m so lucky to love you,” murmured in the tranquillity of a sleepy moment in bed, his voice low and raw with sleep, head nestled against yours. he weaves love into the everyday, lets it live in the pauses between your tasks, in the soft inhale before sleep, in the breathless hush after a kiss. chan never lets a moment pass without turning it into a reason—to remind you of your worth, to anchor you to his love, to pull you back to the truth when your own doubts get too loud. his habit is simple: he says what he feels before the feeling can ever go unspoken. before the feeling could even have the chance to think about becoming a doubt in your mind. he leaves you notes in the pocket of your coat, on the fridge, beside your mirror. not just “i love you,” but “you’re brilliant. you make every day lighter. i’m proud of you always.” he’ll text you from those extra busy late nights in the studio at 2:17 a.m.—“you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me”—even if you have not said a word. he senses your silence and fills it with light. with warmth. he does not speak to impress; he speaks to witness, to hold up a mirror to the version of yourself you sometimes forget to believe in. chan’s love is constant, but his words are the thread that sews the softness into your skin. you don’t have to ask for reassurance with him—it’s already been woven into the way he says your name.

minho

primary: acts of service – minho’s love is tucked inside the quietest parts of your day. he makes sure the fridge is stocked with your favourite essentials, and then a few more. he changes your pillowcases before you even think to. love, to him, is precision—remembering the way you like your tea or coffee, the sound of your footsteps gradually growing a little heavier when you are tired, the look on your face when you need something but don’t say it. he has a habit of checking the weather forecast before you wake, if it's predicted to be sunny, the high spf level sunscreen is left obvious and visible on the bathroom counter where he knows you will look upon entering. if it's predicted to rain, an umbrella is noticeably propped by the door next to where your shoes are stored without a word. when it’s predicted to be cold, your favourite hoodie—his favourite hoodie, the one he knows you borrow—is laid out atop the bed like an invitation. there is no announcement. no expectation. just care, in its purest form. he irons your clothes when you oversleep. leaves your laptop charging when he knows you forgot. places snacks on your desk during long days like offerings of devotion. and when you thank him, he only shrugs—“it’s nothing,” he says, eyes soft and amused. but it is never nothing. every act is a sentence he is too shy to say aloud. you’re mine. i see you. let me take care of you. minho moves through your world like a secret guardian, tending to your life like a garden he wants to see bloom—never loud, never forceful, but always, always there.

secondary: giving gifts – his presents are never random. they are always too perfect. the exact notebook you wanted that you thought to be just out of budget for this pay period; the sweater that matches your favourite shade of your favourite colour, dressed on a mannequin in a shop window that you passed one day and hummed positively at; a snack from the convenience store you mentioned you had yet to try but were interested to once in passing. he protects your preferences like treasure, and his habit is this: he shops like he’s building a map of your heart. sometimes he leaves little things at your door, unsigned but unmistakably from him. other times, he’ll drop something in your lap with a soft “thought you might like this,” and walk away before you can even say thank you. he does not need the attention. he just needs you to feel remembered. to feel adored.

changbin

primary: acts of service – changbin’s love is in his hustle. he wants to help, always. he picks up your misdelivered package from the post office even when you said you’d go after work, so that you can get home sooner because he knows you're exhausted. he organises your playlists in a way he thinks could be optimal for listening, but only in a copy of it just in case you wanted to preserve the original order. he carries every bag without asking, even before second to complain about the straps slipping off your shoulder. his habit is one of constant motion: keeping your keys in the bowl by the door, heating your leftovers so you don't forget to eat, opening doors before you reach them. he wants your life to feel easy, smooth, touched by his presence even when he is not there. loving you is being your foundation—and if he can be your calm, your steady, your shield, then he is already happy.

secondary: physical touch – his hands are warm, always reaching, always comforting. he loves using the strength he devotes himself to build to lift you into hugs that make you laugh, feet dangling, nose pressed into his neck while he holds you like he could keep the world at bay if he just squeezes hard enough. he drapes himself across your lap with a dramatic sigh after long days, content to melt into your touch like a blanket freshly pulled from the dryer. “hold me, i’m tired,” he mumbles, even though you were already reaching for him. even though you always do. his habit is proximity—if you are near, he needs to feel you. fingers tracing idle shapes along your back when you lie beside him, kisses to your cheek during pauses in conversation, his arms looping around your waist from behind as you cook. he rests his chin on your shoulder and hums nonsense songs. presses his cold nose against your neck and giggles when you squirm. he is sunshine and safety, all wrapped in the warmth of skin against skin. he plays with your fingers like they are the most interesting thing in the world. he kisses your temple when you pass him something. for changbin, your touch is both comfort and confirmation. it says i’m here, i’m yours, louder than any words could. being close to you reminds him that love is not just something you say—it is something you feel. and every time he reaches for you, he is quietly reminding you that you are home.

hyunjin

primary: quality time – hyunjin’s love language is his presence—full, romantic, and unfiltered. when he loves you, you feel it—not in grand declarations, but in how he puts down his phone when you speak, how his eyes follow you like you hung every little star that sprinkles across the inky sky that is nightfall. he wants you in his moments, in his space, in the air around him—reading beside him on slow afternoons, sitting cross-legged on the floor as he paints, napping in the same room just to breathe the same stillness. silence with you is never empty. his habit is building rituals, sacred little rhythms between just the two of you. sunset walks where your hands swing together, pinkies linked; late-night tea sipped from mismatched mugs while your voices melt into the dimness. there is a playlist you both add to, full of songs that remind him of the way you blink when you are sleepy or laugh when you do not expect to. he treats time like a love letter—always addressed to you. when you laugh, he records it in his heart. (and, sometimes, also on his phone. the first time you caught him playing it back, he flushed pink and claimed he was just checking audio quality—but you both knew better.) he is serious and dreamy, but he is silly too. he will make heart shapes out of your snacks and pout when you eat them without noticing. he will nudge his cold toes against your leg under the blanket and grin when you shriek. he will say, “i need you near me to recharge my energy,” even when he just wants to lie on your lap like a sleepy cat. with hyunjin, time is how he worships you—both quietly and with a joy that spills into everything he does.

secondary: physical touch – his hands are poets. they find your skin like it is something sacred, like each inch of you is a line he wants to learn by heart. he links your pinkies under the table when no one is looking, brushes your lower back when he passes behind you, smooths your hair as you drift off beside him like your peace is something he wants to tend with his fingertips. hyunjin’s habit is to linger—his touches are slow, soft, careful, like he is memorising you with his hands and afraid to miss even a breath. when he kisses you, he holds your face like you are something he is grateful for, something too fragile to rush. he rests his palm over your heart when he tells you he misses you—not to be dramatic, but because he wants to feel it beating beneath his skin. feel you alive. feel you still here on earth with him. but his love is not always serious—it is also shy giggles against your neck when he tickles you from behind, forehead bumps when he forgets how close he is, half-tackling you onto the couch just to trap you in his arms. when he is especially sleepy, he becomes all limbs, draping himself over you like a warm, clingy blanket. he mumbles into your skin, kisses your shoulder and says things like “you are mine forever” in a voice that sounds almost bashful—like he means it with everything he has but still cannot believe he gets to say it aloud. hyunjin touches like a man in love, touches like every moment with you is a small miracle, touches like your warmth is the only home he has ever needed.

jisung

primary: words of affirmation (receiving) – jisung lives off your voice like it's his lifeline. your praise is of equivalence to sunshine to him—he blooms under it, seeks it out, and keeps it in the quiet corners of his heart for the days when the noise gets too heavy to bear alone. he stores your compliments like pressed flowers between the pages of his soul, delicate and cherished. “you’re proud of me, right?” he will ask with a sheepish grin, trying to sound casual—but there’s always that flicker in his eyes, that silent question behind the words. he needs to hear it to believe it. his habit is fishing for your love in ways so obvious it becomes endearing—“did i do good?” when he knows he nailed it, “you really like me that much?” said half-laughing but fully hoping. every “you’re brilliant,” “i love your brain,” “i’m lucky you’re mine” wraps around him like armour, and he glows in it. he becomes more himself when he knows you see him—not the version he performs, but the soft, anxious, dazzling heart underneath. and oh, when you whisper it to him when no one else is around? that's when he melts completely—eyes wide, smile small, voice caught somewhere in his throat as he tries to play it off like he is not about to combust.

secondary: quality time – jisung wants you like background music: always there, steady and sweet. he craves your presence the way others crave solitude, wants you with him through everything—even if you are just sitting in the same room doing completely different things. his habit is curling into your side like it is instinct, draping himself across you when he is sleepy or bored or just feeling extra soft. feet in your lap while he games, head resting on your stomach as you scroll through your phone, half of his focus always on you. he shows up unannounced with snacks, or says “come over?” with a pout that already expects yes. jisung thrives in the kind of love that exists in shared silences and interrupted laughs, in hours spent doing nothing and calling it perfect. he does not need fancy dates or grand plans—just you, your voice, your time, your warmth. and maybe your hoodie, too, because he has a habit of stealing it and then denying it with a grin and glittering eyes that give everything away.

felix

primary: gift giving – felix’s love glows in the things he offers. everything he gives you is wrapped in warmth, in thoughtfulness, in the soft kind of care that says i see you. i think of you. i love you, even in the smallest ways. he makes gift giving an art form—handmade cookies shaped like both of your initials, surrounded by little hearts on a pretty platter. bracelets woven with delicate patterns, each colour chosen with purpose. fresh bouquets of flowers continuously stocked in your favourite vases—which he also bought—because he likes watching your expression soften as you smell their aroma when you pass by. his habit is turning his affection into tangible magic: tiny jars of folded paper stars with notes tucked inside, stickers for your journal that reminded him of your smile, dried petals pressed into the pages of a book he picked up on a whim, because he thought the story would feel different in your hands. you are a constant in the forefront of his mind. during brand shoots, he finds himself tucking aside the newest items just because he knows they would suit you—“you’d look so beautiful in this,” he says with a sparkle in his eye, like there is not a version of the world where you wouldn’t. felix thrives when he gets to treat you. you are his girl, his favourite person in the world, and if he can make you happy with a gift—big or small—he will do it without hesitation. anything. say the word, and it is yours. the sky is not even the limit. he loves to watch your eyes light up and tucks that moment deep into his heart like something sacred. giving is how he loves out loud, how he places pieces of his soul into your palms—sweet, soft, and full of sincerity. you never have to earn it. he gives because loving you is the most natural thing in the world.

secondary: physical touch – felix is all cuddles and sunshine, a golden glow wrapped in arms that always reach for you first. he leans into you like gravity itself pulls him there, like your side is the only place he ever wants to be. his habit is slipping his hand into yours in crowded places, always with a little squeeze like i’ve got you. he rests his cheek on your shoulder with a quiet hum, his voice low and warm in his chest, kisses the top of your head like it is just part of his breathing. he touches to soothe, to share, to remind you that you are never alone—i’m here. i’m yours. i’m not going anywhere. but felix is not only just soft, he's silly with it, too. he likes to fall on top of you dramatically when he's tired after a long day, arms flopped across you like a human blanket, giggling childishly into your neck because “you’re comfier than the couch.” he traces little shapes on your arm—stars, smiley faces, a lopsided heart with your initials in it. sometimes he bonks your forehead with his own just to make you laugh, then kisses the spot and proclaims that he “healed it” like some kind of chaotic wizard doctor who uses love as his magical medicine. he turns hugs into spinning twirls in the kitchen, wraps around you from behind while you brush your teeth, and insists on holding you in bed even if he overheats and kicks off the blanket five minutes later. when felix loves you, his touch is constant—not clingy, but full of quiet devotion. his hugs are tight, his kisses are everywhere, his hands always reaching. he holds you like something precious, like he knows how lucky he is, and he never wants to let go. in his arms, you are safe. adored. home.

seungmin

primary: quality time – seungmin’s love is subtle but steady, like the hush of rain against your window as you curl up together under the same blanket. it is not grand declarations or showy gestures—it is presence. he does not say “i love you” with words nearly as often as he says it with time. his love is sitting next to you through hours of quiet, eating lunch beside you even if it means squeezing it into his schedule, tagging along on errands just because he wants to be near. his habit is choosing you in the small ways—always choosing you. slipping his hand into yours in the grocery store. brushing shoulders with you as you walk. resting his head on your lap while you both scroll through your phones in silence. his love is the comfort of routine with a softness just for you. he plans evenings around you without ever saying it—your favorite dramas cued up before you even ask, your side of the bed turned down, a hoodie tossed your way with a casual “you’re cold, right?” he does not demand your attention, only hopes to exist within your world. and somehow, that makes his presence feel all the more precious. he keeps a toothbrush for you at his place. learns how you take your tea. remembers the names of your coworkers even though he claims they are not interesting. and even when he teases you, it is never cruel—his loyalty is a thread that runs through every look, every laugh, every quiet moment shared. with seungmin, time is love written in lowercase: soft, constant, true.

secondary: acts of service – seungmin notices everything. he is always three steps ahead of your needs, like he has studied you in secret and taken notes on the way you live, the way you forget to charge your phone or skip meals when you are stressed. he folds your laundry before you get to it, refills your cup halfway through a movie without a word, plugs in your charger when you fall asleep on the couch. his love is not loud—but it is efficient, meticulous, and impossibly kind. his habit is in the hands-on care he offers without expecting praise: quiet gestures that carry the weight of devotion. he takes care of you like it is second nature, like your comfort is built into his daily rhythm. he might roll his eyes when you gush over how sweet it is—“it’s not a big deal,” he’ll mumble, already fluffing your pillow. but his smile lingers when he thinks you are not watching. he will never say he is romantic—but the way he reads your needs before you speak, the way he remembers every offhand comment and turns it into something thoughtful later... it is romance, just wearing a hoodie and a soft scowl. and when you kiss his cheek and whisper, “thank you for always taking care of me,” he pretends to groan—but his ears go pink, and he looks at you like you are the softest thing he has ever known.

jeongin

primary: quality time – jeongin loves like golden hour—soft and slow, warm around the edges, full of quiet wonder. he wants you in every version of the day: sleepy-eyed mornings where you brush your teeth side by side, long lazy afternoons filled with shared snacks and tangled limbs, late nights spent lying on the floor whispering about nothing and everything. he does not need constant plans, just your presence—your voice humming beside him, your laughter rising like music into the still air. his habit is pulling you close when he plays games, making space in his world for you to belong. he offers you bites of his snacks without asking, hands you a second controller and lights up every time you join in—even if you lose. especially if you lose, because then he gets to nudge you with his shoulder and say “i’ll carry you,” all smug and soft at once. he wants to share what he loves because he loves you. his playlists, his favourite comfort shows, the weird videos he replays until they are inside jokes only you two understand. to jeongin, time is the sweetest gift, and he gives it to you in hours that feel like seconds. being with you, beside you, near enough to hear your little sighs and watch your face light up—that is his favourite kind of love. and sometimes he will just stare at you, eyes soft and unfocused, and when you catch him, he only shrugs, smiles, and says, “you’re just really nice to look at.”

secondary: words of affirmation (receiving) – though he jokes and plays it cool, your words mean more to him than he ever says out loud. he acts like compliments slide right off him, grins and brushes them away with a shy laugh or a teasing quip—but he holds onto them. all of them. he saves your voice notes and replays them at night, clutching his phone to his chest when you whisper, “i love you,” like it is a secret spell only he gets to keep. he does not always ask directly, but his habit is in the sideways questions—“do you really think i looked good today?” with a tilt of his head, or “you’re not tired of me yet, are you?” half-laughed, but threaded with a hope too soft to name. he wants to be enough for you. he hopes he is. and when you tell him he is—when you say “you make me so happy,” or “i’m proud of you,” or “i’d choose you over and over”—he goes quiet for a second, like his whole heart has paused to feel it properly. your praise is a balm to the parts of him he hides behind jokes. your affection is the light that melts his shyness. he listens even when you think he is not, remembers every sweet thing you say like a treasure map he reads in the dark. and when you kiss his cheek and tell him, “you’re everything to me,” he pretends to grumble—but his ears go pink, and his smile could outshine the stars.

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icallhimjoey · 2 days ago

Note

what if.......... we were seen? if joe really saw us? eh???

ok so shes rusty, and also omg pls i dont EVER want to be perceived, but, you know what its like, leave a beautiful vague request and i'll weirdly fill in some gaps for you <3 thanks for sending this in! hope you enjoy! Wordcount: 2.5K

---

Seen

“How do you always... just, know?”

One day you’ll learn what exactly it is that he sees. What changes.

“Hm? Know what?”

What minuscule little differences he notices in your face. You have no idea what your expression does exactly, but you know it must be practically undetectable, because no one else ever mentions it. Ever questions it. Questions you.

Meanwhile, Joe will spot it from across a busy room without issue.

“How do you know when the alarms in my brain are getting scarily close to going off? You always catch it just before... I don’t—... how do you know?”

He had caught it tonight at a small party that organically happened after you’d all had dinner together. He’d hauled you home just before anxiety was going to start making you breathe a little different. You had let him pull you by the hand into the cold air that instantly made you feel calmer, even though you weren’t even fully aware of any looming issue yourself.

“I don’t know. I just do.”

“Yea but—... how?”

You had been talking to some of the girls as you’d all huddled together in the kitchen, one of them showing pictures on her phone, scrolling through, whilst all of you marveled at the badly decorated rooms of the house she just bought.

“Oh my God, this is massive?”

“So much potential!”

“It’s got great bones, doesn’t it?”

It was all girls, having a loud girl-conversation, all holding girl-drinks, and making girl-comments which suddenly got broken up when Joe stepped into the circle.

“Hey—”

“Joe, look how much space you could’ve had for like, half the cost.”

The phone got twisted so that Joe could see a photograph of a large back garden that showed the back of this newly purchased house. Joe frowned at it, had to squint a little to get a good look, and then joked, “But live in Croydon? No thanks.” before grabbing the arm that held the phone, smiling, and telling her it was actually lovely.

He easily got sucked into the conversation, knew exactly what to say to make the majority laugh with a silly comment and a silly face. After scrolling through a couple more pictures, he looked up and gave you a questioning look.

You gave the questioning look right back, unsure of what he meant exactly. Do you want another drink? What do you think about this house? Are you all right? Are the dirty dishes that clutter up almost all of the kitchen counters bothering you as much as they are bothering me? He could mean anything.

Instead of explaining himself, Joe let his eyes rake over your body, paying close attention to the way your fingers held onto your glass. To your overstretched knees. Your tapping foot. Eventually his eyes landed back on your face and he carefully scanned your features. He was quick and efficient about it. No one in your little group really noticed the silent communication followed by a full body scan.

“I’m sorry girls,” Joe suddenly said, interrupting three chats that were happening at once. “I’m stealing this one away.”

You got grabbed by the hand and after a few very quick but polite goodbyes, you were lead outside. Taken away from the party by a strong arm that curled behind your back and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Not that you would ever tell him no.

Not anymore, anyway.

You’d learnt that the hard way, unfortunately.

You knew exactly why Joe was making you leave, and you accepted the flimsy excuse Joe gave others without any questions, easily following him out. The party was over for you. Done. The safety of home, of peace and quiet, was what the rest of the night was going to have in store for you, courtesy of Joe.

“How are we doing?” he asked casually, even though you knew he wasn’t treating the situation as such.

Quite the contrary, actually.

“Fine,” you smiled, completely aware that the reason you felt fine was because you’d just left. “That was fun.”

“Yea?”

“Yea.”

You took a deep breath, the air pleasantly cool in your lungs, and then softly added, “Busy though… long evening.”

Joe squeezed your hand at that, one side of his mouth curling up into a small smile.

“Yea. It was busy.”

It hadn’t been that busy. Nothing overwhelming, not really. Just a small flat with a number of people in that made you feel a little uneasy. What made your anxiety silently grow was hidden in small things. Like, how there weren’t enough seats for everyone, which wasn’t an issue, some of you had eaten their dinner sat on the sofa, but it was something you had taken notice of anyway. Or how a sip or two of a drink made everyone else feel a lot more relaxed, but also a lot louder and a little more careless.

You hoped that one day, maybe, you wouldn’t feel the need to take on the responsibility that was sliding down everyone else’s shoulders. That you wouldn’t constantly be eyeing up everyone in the room just to take inventory of where potential accidents were waiting for you.

Joe had seen you push past your own boundaries one too many times and over time had figured out exactly where they lied. Ever since then, he somehow had gained the ability to predict the future and would remove you from a stressful situation before it was too late.

This was a struggle at first.

There’d been a time where all you’d do was push back.

Joe could see how you looked calm, but he’d be able to hear the subtle fraying in your voice. It wasn’t unlike watching someone smile whilst they bled from the edges.

You, on the other hand, felt a little like someone was trying to wrestle the steering wheel from you whilst you were still confidently driving. Like being told to calm down when you didn’t even feel worked up— it made you question whether you should be panicking or not, and thus triggering anger within your system.

You had learnt the hard way to trust Joe and to follow his lead.

You wish you hadn’t.

Especially not at one of your favourite restaurants.

“Yea, no. We’re leaving.” Joe had said before you’d even had a good look at the menu you’d just been given.

“What?”

“Come on. Let’s go.”

Joe made the executive decision after you hadn’t even heard what he’d said about the waiter when he walked off. This was going to go sideways, and it was going to go sideways fast.

Your small, confused “What?” surprised him slightly, but not enough to change his mind.

You weren’t going to have dinner at this place.

“We’ll get something on the way home.”

He had good reason to want to leave, he thought. There was the clatter of cutlery, the swell of voices all raised because once one table started, every other table had to join in if people wanted to be able to hear each other. You got placed close to the open-concept kitchen, which looked great, but meant the temperature was way higher than he felt comfortable with. There was a large group of people sat behind you, loud laughter coming from them, sharp, endless. He had seen how tight your grip was on the glass of water the waiter had just poured for you. And he’d only mentioned how he’d said no to water but had gotten some any way, but you already seemed mentally too far removed to have even heard him.

Joe knew that in no time your pulse was going to be a loud drumbeat in your ears. Knew how your chest would tighten up and how, seemingly without warning, you’d suddenly find it impossible to breathe.

“What are you talking about?” you scoffed a small laugh. “We’re not leaving.”

Joe scanned your features, his expression worried yet unsure.

“We’re not?”

“Well... I’m not. I booked this table weeks ago.”

This was your favourite restaurant. Joe’s suggestion was laughable at best.

You got eyed suspiciously, and couldn’t help how that made your skin crawl. Joe’s tone, his worry, it carried the weight of a warning you hadn’t earned. You stubbornly let your eyes glide over the menu in front of you and tried your best to read it.

“Okay.”

And you really tried to read the words and to process them in your mind.

You had to try really, really hard.

It wasn’t like your denial made Joe doubt what he saw. Instead, it made him doubt whether he was allowed to care out loud like this.

So, he dropped it.

Wasn’t going to force to you leave.

Didn’t comment on how he’d noticed you couldn’t seem to relax your shoulders.

Repeated his comment about the water he had been given even though he had clearly said he didn’t want any, and saw how, once again, you didn’t really hear him.

When eventually someone came to take your order, you had to ask the waiter three times to repeat himself, stuttered your way through your order and, once the waiter was out of earshot, you seemed to already regret the choice you’d made.

And it’s hard to watch a glass tip toward the edge of the table, you know? Joe could see that it was about to fall right off, but if he reached out too quickly to try and catch it, he might knock the whole thing over himself.

You said you’d wanted to have dinner here, seemed determined enough for the both of you, and so he’d dropped it.

Until suddenly you announced, “I just, I need the bathroom— I’ll be right back.”

Your chair scraped loudly.

You stood up too fast.

Your bag got caught on the table leg.

You clumsily left it.

Just hurried off.

Joe watched you weave through the maze of tables, watched you disappear around the corner, and sat back in his chair with a sigh.

He waited ten seconds.

Twenty.

Rubbed his face.

Thought maybe he should wait for ten more, just to give you some space, but found that he simply couldn’t, and then he stood and followed.

Joe found you just outside of the toilets in a narrow hallway, lit with harsh, cold light. You had pressed yourself against the wall, breathing like you’d just ran half a marathon, eyes wide and entirely unfocused.

“Hey— are you okay?”

Your breath caught in your throat. Shallow, sharp, and painful. You shook your head, a small and panicked little jerk of your chin that was hidden by your hands that hovered near your face, not quite covering it, but trying to obstruct your vision enough so you could escape this awful reality for a moment.

“Hey… hey. It’s all right. You’re all right. Can you look at me? Look at me a sec.”

You tried your best not hide how his tone made you flinch. Tried to answer him, lips parting, but somehow it felt impossible to get any words out – just air, like you’d forgotten how to use your voice entirely.

“Deep breaths, remember? Deep breaths. You’re good.”

Joe’s hands softly pressed down on the tops of your shoulders for a few seconds. Then the moved down where they grabbed hold of your biceps, squeezing for the same amount of time. Your elbows followed. Then your wrists.

“W-will you hold my hand, p-please?” you shuddered, voice paper-thin.

“Yea, of course. Yea.” Joe quickly shot into action, strangely proud of how you asked for something you needed in the moment. Something to ground you. “We’re here, remember?” Joe fought for eye-contact, ducking, bending, following your gaze until he caught it, and then asked again, “Remember?”

“Y-yea,” you nodded, choking on your breath as you forced your shoulders to relax.

With one of your hands wrapped in both of his held closely to his chest, Joe shushed you as you closed your eyes and tried to focus on Joe and Joe alone.

Not on any of the noises.

On any of the other people that walked past.

On any of the smells.

Or on the constricted feeling inside of your chest.

Just Joe and the way he raised your hand up to his mouth to press against his lips.

“You’re okay, shh. Shh.”

It took a little while, but Joe’s words helped and slowly but surely he balanced your nervous system with his own.

“Coming out of it?” Joe asked when he felt like you’d calmed down enough.

You nodded, a quick brief little thing.

“Yea, you’re easing out of it.” Joe confirmed, and somehow, just him saying it, made it more true. Made you aware of how you were no longer feeling quite so scared.

“You got it. You’re okay.”

“I’m fine. I’m fine. I just need— just— I don’t—...”

Joe swallowed, scared he was witnessing you sinking back into a place you seemingly had just crawled out of. He wanted to scoop you up, wanted to say something, to fix something... but he knew better.

You just needed to breathe.

Just breathe until your lips stopped trembling.

Breathe until your fingers stopped twitching.

Breathe until your brain stopped throwing static at you.

“Shh, shh, shh. Just breathe. S’all you got to do. Deep breaths.”

You’d kicked yourself for it after.

For all of it.

For ignoring Joe’s worries, for not telling Joe he was actually right, for just getting up and leaving, and for not listening in general.

You told Joe you should have listened.

Told Joe that you thought you were fine, and Joe had kissed you as he reassured that you were! You were fine, had been fine, just... right up until you weren’t, just for a second, you know?

He’d said then that he didn’t want to tell you ‘he told you so’. Hadn’t wanted to push you when you so clearly didn’t accept the mirror Joe had tried to hold up to you.

You explained that you just hadn’t recognised the reflection yet.

Joe didn’t blame you.

It wasn’t your fault.

But he hadn’t enjoyed watching you silently unravel whilst denying that you were. He’d seen it coming. Knew it was about to all go pear-shaped, and wished that you’d just trust him when he’d tell you.

So you’d learnt to listen.

If Joe said it was time to leave, you knew it simply was just that: time to leave.

You just wondered how.

“How do you always know?” you’d question him again and again.

And Joe would smile and think of the hundreds of little tells you had, obvious to anyone who paid a little closer attention to you. It was easy if they just... looked.

If they watched you for a moment.

If they really saw you.

There were so many things he could tell you about your face, your shoulders, your fingers, your voice... but all Joe would do when you asked him how he knew, was smile a little smile, press a small kiss to your temple, and give a slight shrug.

“I don’t know... I just... do.”

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson, @dailyobsession

@eddie-munsons-balls, @eddies-puppet, @elvendria, @emotionaldreamer, @everythinghasafacee

@ferfan14, @figmentofquinn, @gri959, @hazelenys, @joesquinns

@keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia

@mandyjo8719, @munsonluvrr, @munsonssweets, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles

@overthinking-raccoon, @pepperstories, @pinchofhoney, @readergf, @royale1803

@sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson, @sweetberry47

@take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @witchwolflea

@xxladymjxx, @yunirgo

Add yourself

#joe quinn #joseph quinn #joe quinn x reader #joe quinn x you #joseph quinn x y/n #joseph quinn x reader #joe quinn x y/n #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn fanfiction #joseph quinn fanfic #joe quinn fanfiction #joe quinn fanfic #icallhimjoey #seen

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ssa-dado · 3 days ago

Text

Awwww THANK YOUUU so so so so muchhh!!! She’s literally just us. Like, what else would you even do with someone like him*?? Be normal?? Please. Cardio’s important, especially at his age... reader’s just being proactive about his health, okay? She’s caring. Almost as much as YOU ARE!!! Srsly thank u for reading and the fact that you love the fic???!?!?!?!? It means the entire world to meeeeee

*someone like him: 1. the kind of selfie Hotch sends when you beg him because you miss his stupid face (slightly blurry & taken at a weird angle because #boomer) 2. a photo he sends unprompted because he’s having a crisis about whether this tie makes his neck look weird. he will not elaborate. 3. Hotch. in glasses. that’s it. that’s the whole post.

Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

masterlist

The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he still hasn’t taken off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

Oh, you feel it.

The wet, sticky sound of your cunt swallowing him with every thrust. The soaked spot you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking of hitting you over and over again while you’re naked.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

#all of this is just to say that his mere existence actively raises my libido #suddenly the concept of 4-5 rounds of sex isn’t just understandable it’s relatable #hotch cats shared pin folder w bin save me

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 day ago

Text

butterflygirl738 (6)

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, sickness, medical bills, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You love butterflies and your mother, but life isn’t that simple. As life gets complicated, and expensive, you find yourself in need and an unexpected miracle presents itself.

Characters: Steve Rogers (CEO/Sugar Daddy)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

"It was a nice day," S says as he checks the rear view mirror.

You twitch out of your trance. Your eyes are itchy, the way they get after a double shift. You suppress a yawn and nod.

"Very nice, thank you," you agree and twiddle your fingers in your palm.

"But you're anxious to get home..." he says.

"Well....my mom..." you begin. "I'm not trying to ditch you--"

"Ha, I know. I'm selfish. I've had you all day." He keeps his eyes on the road. "Should we stop and get her something?"

"Um, that's. Mm. I'd love to but..."

"Might be suspicious. Got it." He clucks. "Well, what about tomorrow? You got plans?"

"She has an appointment," you say. "Check-up."

"Ah, makes sense," he says. "When is it? Maybe after..."

"Yeah, er maybe. But... how long are you here? What about New York?" You wonder. The big city, his company, all that is still a mystery to you.

"It can wait. Besides, the hotel has wifi. I got all night to catch up emails."

"Oh, right." You stare at the street ahead.

"Tomorrow?" He prompts before the silence drags.

"Tomorrow. After noon? Should be done by then," you assure him, twisting your fist around your finger.

"Can I ask you a favour?" He slows as he gets to your street.

"A favour?"

"Yeah. Nothing big. Promise." He turns the corner and keeps a snail's pace.

"Alright," you utter.

"Will you bring a few bills tomorrow? We can go through them. Sort that out--"

"S. No. I can't--"

"But that's the deal," he insists. "How can I help if I don't know the situation?"

"I... I don't know. It's a lot."

"A lot you shouldn't be worried about. You should be focused on your mom. Not money." He stops in front of your building. He angles in his seat and puts his hand on the back of yours. "This is what I'm here for. To take all that off your shoulders."

You exhale and swallow dryly. "It feels like too much."

"Not to me." His thumb rubs the seat, close to your shoulder. "Look, I'm just me. I got more than enough for that. I want to do this. I want someone to share this with. To spoil, if I can."

You look at him. He's too good to be true. After all the bad days, all the set backs, all the red numbers, you just can't believe it's what he says it it.

"I'll bring one," you offer.

"One?" He echoes.

"Mhmm," you nod.

"The highest one then," he says. His tone is even but demanding.

"Okay."

"Okay," he repeats and clears his throat. "Look, sweetheart, let's not ruin the day. Go inside, spend some time with mom. I'll text you."

You chew your lip. You should tell him. It won't help if he thinks you're ignoring him.

"Maybe not." You fidget. "I'm... I'm almost out of... I uh, the internet is down and I pay per message."

"Hm, why didn't you mention it before?" He challenges.

You sink down, pushing your shoulders high. "It's embarrassing."

He sighs.

"No problem. Tomorrow. After noon," he pats the seat and rescinds his hand. "Hope the appointment goes well."

"Me too," you murmur in dread.

You undo your seat belt and grab your purse. You sit up and glance at him. He watches you expectantly but you're not sure what he's waiting for.

"Good night," you say.

His jaw ticks, "good night, sweetheart."

You smile weakly and get out. You shut the door gently and turn to step over the curb. You march up to the front doors and peek back. You wave then go inside.

You feel bad now. Like you're abandoning him. After such a nice day, you're just strutting off without giving him anything...

Your chest knots up as you climb the stairs. It isn't just him, it's the lies. You're not sure you can keep this up but if you don't, what are you going to do? You can't pay him back and the missed hours at work won't do much to help that. And if you keep calling in, well, you might not have time to make up for what you missed.

You're confused. This was supposed to make it all easier but it all feels so much more complicated. Why can't life be as simple as the chrysalis in the hamper?

🦋

"Will you come in with me?" Your mom asks as they call her name.

You nod and stand with her. It's not like the early days. When she went on her own. She didn't tell you the diagnoses right away. Not until the first treatment. That was a horrible day and there's been many of those since.

You follow the nurse to the sterile room. You sit in the chair in the corner and your mother sits in the chair by the small counter top. You're silent. Both anxious.

Dr. Vincent enters. You almost feel like you should stand. You cross your legs and return his greeting. It's not a very good morning but you won't say so.

"So, Noreen," he says to your mother. "I have some news."

Your mother looks at him from her chair. She looks small like a child. You've never seen her afraid but in that moment, you see her eyes gleam.

"You're a candidate for stem cell transplant." He says.

Your mom looks at you and back to him. You don't know what that means either. You remember they mentioned it early on but it never came back up.

"No more chemo. At least for now. We think this is the opportune time and it could help with recovery in the long run," he explains.

"Oh, right," she breathes.

"We'll send you for a few scans to see how things are looking but your last images were positive."

"Uh huh, okay," she blinks. "Is it very expensive?"

He hums. "It can be. Depending on insurance. Of course, it would be my recommendation for you to go with it. Chemo is showing results but in my experience, this is the best course of action. If you wish to continue as you are, it's entirely within your discretion."

You're both quiet.

"I'll provide you some information on it before you go. How about that? Give you some time to think." He says.

"That's good," you say as your mom stays silent.

"Alright, then, we'll do the usual," Vincent diverts. "Let's get you on the bed."

You sit patiently as he checks your mother over. He's quick and efficient. He has a full waiting room, even this early in the morning. You thank him after your mother does and he leaves the room.

She steps onto the stool and down to the floor. As you approach her, she sighs. She doesn't say anything as she leads you out of the room.

As she stops at the admin desk to get the folder of pamphlets, she bids them a good day. As you come out into the gloomy of the rainy day, you take her hand. She stops and stands at the curb, looking out into the distance.

"I'm tired, pie."

"I know, mom," you say.

"What do you think?" She asks.

"I don't know. Maybe... we should read the stuff."

"It'll be expensive."

"It's all expensive," you mutter.

She drops her head. "My last days and I have to watch my daughter work herself half to death just to suffer more and more."

"Mom, please, he said things are looking good--"

"Maybe but I don't know how much longer I can keep this up."

You swallow as your eyes burn. "It's... it's your choice. Always your choice." You look away, trying not to cry.

"Honey," she squeezes your hand. "I don't want to give up. I know you won't, either, but you're tired too. It hurts me to see you like this."

"Mom," is all you can eke out.

She lets go of you and looks at the folder. She exhales. "I'll read it over."

"We'll read it together," you offer.

"When's work?" She wonders.

"Noon," you answer. Not work, per se. Just an obligation.

"Enough time for breakfast," she says. "My treat."

"Mom," you say.

"I know, I know. But I just want one last cinnamon bun before I go," she insists.

🦋

You're trembling. You haven't been able to stop since you left the apartment. You couldn't let your mom see the panic. She's already having a rough day.

You stand under the awning of the building, waiting. S drives up and you run out without pulling up your jacket hood. You feel in your pocket for the pamphlet.

You get in the car and flick the moisture from your cheeks. You gasp. "It's really coming down."

"You don't have an umbrella?" S says.

"Forgot," you shrug.

"Mm, well, looks like a day best spent inside. I was thinking, they got pretty good food at my hotel. We could have lunch."

You hesitate. The thought of his hotel room makes your stomach stir. You remember what he said. 'We'll see where it goes'. It's feeling more and more like there's only one way this goes.

"Sure, whatever you like." You sniff.

You buckle up and sit back. You tilt your head up.

"Long morning?" He asks as he pulls into the street.

"Yeah... a little."

"Bad news?" He asks cautiously.

"Mm, news... stuff to think about."

"Right," he steers on as the wipers swing back and forth. "Well, just relax. Once we get to the hotel, you can get dry and clear your head."

"Yeah. Thanks."

You close your eyes, content to let the rain and the motion soothe you. It's a moment to prepare yourself.. Maybe once you tell him, he'll change his mind.

When the car stops, you snap up as if you were sleeping. Your mind slows as the world does the same. S smiles at you and reaches behind your seat. He grabs an umbrella out of the back.

He gets out, shielding himself from the downpour, and comes around to open your door. He walks you up to the hotel doors and folds up the umbrella before he enters the lobby. He points you to the elevators.

"Got some work done this morning," he proclaims as you get on. "You were asking about my company."

"Oh, right. I was. Curious, I guess. I don't know anyone who owns one."

"You do now," he chuckles. "It's not as glamourous as it seems. This is as much time as I've had to myself in... a decade?"

"Really?"

"Not to complain. I mean, certain things I don't have to worry about. It's not a bad life. Solitary," he shrugs and the doors open.

He guides you along the hallway to his suite door. He lets you in ahead of him. He puts the umbrella in the tall vase by the door.

You unzip your jacket and hang it. You look down at your jeans. They're soaked. You rub the damp fabric.

"I got a spare robe in here, if you want to let those dry," he says.

"Sure, uh, probably," you agree.

He takes off his shoes and you step out of your boots. You linger by the door, shyly glancing into the suite. He stands up and combs his fingers through his hair.

"I'll get the room service menu," he grins and struts away. "Make yourself at home."

As he looks around, you reach into your jacket pocket. You hide the pamphlet behind your back, clasping your wrist tight, and tiptoe further inside. He waves the laminated menu at you.

"Right here," he puts it on the small round table between two chairs. "I'll get that robe."

"Sure."

You wait, reluctant at the edge of the sitting room. A couch and a clamshell chair in velvet. It's all so nice.

He comes back in.

"If you want to change before you make up your mind--"

"Uh huh, yeah."

You keep the pamphlet behind you and take the robe. He points you to the bathroom and you scurry into it. You lock yourself inside and strip off the wet jeans. The texture leaves your skin itchy. Ugh.

You hang them on the bar meant for towels and pull on the robe. It's soft and roomy. You tuck the pamphlet into the pocket and face the door.

You emerge as S sits at the table. You walk carefully, paranoid that the robe might fall open despite the tight knot around the middle. You sit down and lean over to read the menu. It's a good distraction.

"I recommend the mac and cheese, as simple as it sounds," he taps with his finger.

"Oh, I like mac and cheese," you say.

You continue your perusal. You'll probably just go with what he says. Your appetite is lost in the storm of your inside.

"So, uh, did you bring that bill?"

You sit up stiffly and blink at him. Your hand goes to the pocket of the robe. You gape at him. How do you do this?

"We can wait--"

"No, I can't. Not-- no. Because..." you stammer as your heart races. "Because it's... it's too much and... you can say no and... I'll be okay. My mom will be okay. I'll figure it out. I will."

"Woah, woah, sweetheart," he gets up and comes around the table. He gets down to his knees as he puts his hands on your arms, his thumbs caressing you. "It's alright. I asked you to--"

"No, no," you jitter as you reach in the pocket and slide out the pamphlet, slightly damp from the rain. "It's... it's more... it's..." you look down at the paper as you clutch it in your hands. "The doctor said it will be good but..."

He drags his hands down your arms to your hands. He eases the pamphlet free. He sits back on his heels and opens it. He reads it over as you cover your face.

"I think I should go--"

"I can do it," he says calmly. "One hundred? Easy."

"One hundred thousand!" You drop your hands. "S!"

"It's just money. This isn't about that. It's about your mom, isn't it?"

You stare at him. You don't understand how he can be so generous. It's just take, take, take, and you have nothing to give. And the more he gives, the more you depend on it. The hole only gets deeper and deeper.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #butterflygirl738 #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #marvel #mcu #captain america #avengers

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bbokicidal · 3 days ago

Note

Hello!

How are you?

Could I pretty please have a Strawberry Cheesecake cone with Sea Salt and Coconut Flakes?

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Sea Salt - A roleplay scenario he wants to try;

I think he lowkey really wants to try the whole professor x student roleplay dynamic. One time he can be the professor and tell you what to do, spank you because you're 'failing his class' & another time you can be the professor and tell him to be a good boy and behave for you. <3

Coconut Flakes - How he likes it

He likes it soft most of the time; He's a gentle guy in bed and he gets off on the notion that he's servicing you and pleasuring you first and foremost. A pleasure dom/service dom, if you will. Though there are times he gets rowdy and needs a rough quickie in the dressing room with you.

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#skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz smut #stray kids smut #han jisung smut #han x reader #skz imagine #bboki's ice cream parlor

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unabashegirl · 3 days ago

Text

Love Island — part 3

AU. Based on the TV show.

Author's note: I just want to say a huge thank you for all the love and support you’ve shown for the first part of Love Island! Every like, reblog, message, and little comment has genuinely meant the world to me

Also! Please, please don’t hesitate to send in your requests — whether it’s blurbs, one-shots, or even just a fun idea you want to see come to life. If you're feeling a little shy, no worries at all — you can always send them in anonymously through Tumblr! I’d love to hear from you and create more content you’ll enjoy 🌞💌

⭐️ Please consider joining my Patreon -> Patreon

The couples began to drift off into quiet conversations around the villa, but Tom stayed rooted to his spot, his fists clenched as he watched Harry and Y/N exchange glances. Beside him, his friend Lucas, a tall, lean guy with sandy blond hair, noticed the tension and nudged him.

"Mate, you alright?" Lucas asked, voice low so the others wouldn’t overhear.

Tom exhaled sharply, his gaze still fixed in Harry’s direction. "Not really, no."

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Didn’t think it’d bother you this much. You two weren’t exactly, you know… Romeo and Juliet."

Tom scoffed, shaking his head. "It’s not like that. It’s just—I thought we were solid enough to stick it out a bit longer, you know? This is barely the second week and she’s already runnin' off with Harry."

Lucas gave him a sympathetic look. “Can’t blame her too much. You said yourself you weren’t feeling that spark with her.”

“Yeah, but…” Tom struggled to find the right words. “It’s just a kick in the teeth, that’s all. Feels like I’m bein’ made a mug of.”

Lucas patted him on the shoulder. "Look, you’ve still got options. The girls are already buzzing about you—Layla’s practically been eyeing you since the first day. And don’t forget Max and Callum, they’ve got your back too.”

Tom’s jaw tightened as he looked around, catching Max and Callum’s sympathetic glances from across the pit, while Jamie joined their little group, clapping Tom on the back. "Forget it, Tom," Jamie said. "This whole thing's a game, right? Y/N's just playing it. Tomorrow, find a way to play back."

Tom forced a smile, trying to brush it off. "Yeah, maybe. Guess we’ll see."

As the boys exchanged a few more quiet words, the rest of the villa settled into their new dynamics, unaware of the brewing tension that would no doubt play out with even more intensity in the days to come.

“Ah, the sweet sting of rejection,” the narrator's voice chimed in with a touch of mischief as the camera panned over Tom’s tense expression. “Looks like not everyone’s feeling quite as ‘coupled up’ as they were this morning. But hey, this is Love Island—where loyalties change as quickly as the cocktails get poured.”

“With Tom stewing by the fire pit and Harry sharing stolen glances with Y/N, it’s safe to say we’ve got ourselves a love triangle in the making. So, who’s playing the game? And who’s about to get played? Only time will tell… and maybe a few sneaky chats by the pool tomorrow.”

As the night settled in and the villa quieted down, Y/N and Chloe slipped away from the others and made their way into the dressing room, heels clicking softly on the tile floor. Chloe nudged her with a cheeky grin as they reached the mirrors, settling in front of them with makeup bags and brushes scattered around.

“Alright, spill it,” Chloe whispered, eyes sparkling. “What’s going on with you and Harry?”

Y/N laughed, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Chloe raised a brow, smirking. “Please, everyone saw the way he was looking at you during the recoupling. You’re both already causing a stir, you know.”

Y/N’s cheeks warmed, and she bit her lip, trying to play it cool. “Look, Harry’s… well, he’s a bit different, isn’t he? There’s this energy about him—it’s easy to talk to him. He makes you feel like the only person in the room.”

“Mm, dangerous.” Chloe teased, reapplying a bit of lip gloss. “So, does that mean you’re done with Tom?”

Y/N sighed, leaning on the counter. “I think I am. Tom’s sweet, but it just feels too… comfortable, you know? And then there’s Harry. I just don’t know where it’ll go. But it’s Love Island, right? I’ve got to see what happens.”

Chloe nodded thoughtfully, nudging Y/N with her shoulder. “Fair enough. Just don’t let Georgia or Lila get in your head—they’ll be on him like hawks.”

Y/N laughed, brushing it off, but there was a hint of nerves behind her smile. “I know”.

t’s the end of a long day in the villa, and with the recoupling finally done, couples are settling into bed—some with more excitement than others. Y/N and Harry, freshly paired up and very much the center of attention after Harry’s bold choice, head to the bedroom together, laughter and nervous smiles exchanged between them.

They climb into bed, adjusting the duvet and settling in. The tension is thick, a mix of nerves and excitement crackling between them as they lie shoulder to shoulder. Harry glances over at Y/N, a cheeky smile tugging at his lips.

“Quite a day, yeah?” he murmurs, turning to face her a bit more, his hand resting between them on the duvet.

Y/N grins, brushing a bit of hair behind her ear as she looks back at him. “Yeah, wasn’t expecting that.” She pauses, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Didn’t think you’d pick me.”

Harry chuckles, his eyes meeting hers in the low light. “You’re surprised? Really?” he asks, feigning shock. “Couldn’t you tell?”

“I mean…” she shrugs, but her smile widens. “Maybe a little. But you’ve got the whole villa talking now, you know. Even Georgia was making claims.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” he says, rolling his eyes with a grin. “But I’m here, aren’t I?” He leans a little closer, their faces only inches apart. “Thought it was obvious I wanted to get to know you. Really get to know you.”

They share a charged look, each of them feeling the spark in the small space between them. Y/N’s pulse quickens, but she keeps her cool, meeting his gaze with confidence.

“Alright,” she teases. “Let’s see if you’re as smooth as you think you are.”

Harry laughs, playfully nudging her shoulder before leaning back. “Careful, or I’ll start showing off,” he whispers. Then he lets the moment settle, his hand gently resting near hers under the duvet, their fingers almost brushing.

They lie in companionable silence for a moment, each of them acutely aware of the other’s presence, as the lights dim throughout the villa.

The narrator’s voice floats in, a knowing chuckle evident.

“It looks like our newly-minted couple are starting to find their rhythm… but this is Love Island, after all, and things never stay simple for long. With Y/N catching Harry’s attention, will sparks fly, or will rivalries start brewing? Get ready for some sleepless nights and see who’s getting closer... and who’s getting jealous.”

As the morning sun rises over the villa, Y/N is the first to stir, carefully slipping out from under Harry’s arm as he sleeps soundly beside her. She lets a small smile escape as she notices his relaxed expression, feeling a flutter of excitement as she heads to the kitchen to make herself a smoothie. The villa is peaceful, the calm before the inevitable storm of another day.

Taking her smoothie out to the sun deck, Y/N settles in with her book, enjoying the quiet moment alone. She relishes the warmth of the morning sun and the rare stillness in the villa, her mind drifting back to the night before, replaying the feeling of Harry’s arm around her as they fell asleep.

Half an hour later, the villa begins to come alive. She can hear voices and laughter drifting over from the bedrooms, and soon enough, footsteps approach her.

“Y/N,” Tom’s voice cuts through her quiet time. She looks up to see him standing beside her, his expression intense.

“Oh, morning, Tom,” she greets, setting her book down and bracing herself for what she knows is coming. His brows are furrowed, and it’s clear he’s got something on his mind.

“Do you mind if we have a chat?” he asks, hands on his hips as he stares down at her.

She gives a small nod, gesturing for him to sit. “Sure, let’s talk.”

Tom sits beside her, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, looking almost nervously at the floor before meeting her eyes. "Listen, Y/N, I’ve just got to ask… after last night, where’s your head at?” He exhales, clearly unsettled. “I mean, after Harry chose you like that, I just… I need to know where we stand.”

Y/N pauses, feeling the weight of his gaze on her. “Tom…” she starts carefully, gathering her thoughts. “I won’t lie, things are a bit… complicated now.” She sighs. “Last night didn’t exactly go as expected.”

Tom shifts, swallowing, but nodding, his jaw set. “So… are you still interested? Or are you moving on?”

She looks at him, appreciating his honesty but feeling the awkwardness of the situation. “I’m just figuring it out, you know? I think we owe it to ourselves to see how things feel with other people too. That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

Tom’s expression shifts, his eyes narrowing as he processes her words. His posture straightens, and he crosses his arms, clearly frustrated.

“Wait—so that’s it? You’re just… seeing how things feel with other people now?” he asks, his tone edging into anger. “After everything we’ve been building? Just because Harry waltzes in, you’re ready to throw it all away?”

Y/N lets out a small sigh, trying to keep her voice steady. “Tom, it’s not about throwing anything away. We both came here to meet people, right? I thought we were on the same page.”

Tom scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, but I didn’t expect you to just… drift off the second someone else showed interest.” His voice rises slightly, his frustration boiling over. “Feels like I’ve been wasting my time if you’re just going to move on that easily.”

“Tom, I’m not just moving on,” she says, trying to keep her tone calm despite his anger. “We’re meant to be exploring connections here. That doesn’t mean what we had wasn’t real. It just means… I have to be open to the process.”

Tom shakes his head, his jaw clenched. “Open to the process? Sounds like an excuse. You know what? I’m not buying it.” He stands up, his face flushed with anger as he glares down at her. “Maybe I should’ve seen this coming. Maybe you’re just like everyone else here, out for yourself.”

Y/N flinches at his words, feeling the sting, but before she can respond, Tom turns on his heel and storms off, leaving her alone on the sun deck, her peaceful morning now shattered.

“Looks like Y/N’s got her work cut out for her, and with Tom on edge, it’s only a matter of time before the villa feels the heat. Will Y/N be able to smooth things over, or has Tom’s fuse finally burnt out?”

Y/N’s gaze follows Tom as he strides toward the kitchen, his jaw tight, shoulders tense. Harry, blissfully unaware, is busy preparing two cups of tea, one for himself and other, for Y/N. He’s humming softly, a faint smile playing on his lips—clearly in a good mood.

Tom approaches him with an air of simmering frustration and barely contained irritation. Without missing a beat, he nods at the extra cup in Harry’s hand.

“That’s for her, isn’t it?” Tom says, his tone sharper than usual.

Harry glances up, his brow lifting in mild surprise at Tom’s confrontational tone. “Yeah, it is,” he replies, unfazed, as he continues stirring the tea. “Why?”

Tom huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just didn’t peg you as the type to swoop in the second someone’s available.”

Harry’s smile falters, and he sets the spoon down, giving Tom his full attention. “I don’t think I’m swooping in, mate,” he says, his tone calm but with a slight edge. “We’re here to see if there’s something there, yeah? Same as everyone else.”

“Right, of course,” Tom says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “But she and I were building something. And now, you’re what? Just gonna step in and see if you can do better?”

Harry’s jaw clenches for a second, but he keeps his voice steady. “Look, Tom, I didn’t come here to cause any issues. I’ve got to trust that Y/N knows what she wants. So if she’s interested… well, that’s her choice, isn’t it?”

Tom’s eyes narrow, the frustration boiling over. “Choice? Yeah, well, maybe I think it’s a bit easy to make that choice when you’ve got someone like you throwing yourself at her.”

Harry’s eyes flash, but he remains composed, taking a calming breath. “Listen, mate,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “I’m not throwing myself at anyone. I respect Y/N, and if she wants to spend time with me, I’m not going to stop her. Simple as that.”

There’s a tense silence between them, each refusing to look away.

“Ooh, trouble in paradise! It seems Tom’s feeling a bit threatened by our new islander, and let’s just say Harry’s not exactly backing down. With two guys eyeing the same girl, it looks like sparks are set to fly—just not the romantic kind.”

As Tom’s frustration starts to draw even more attention, Lucas steps in, placing a firm hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Mate, c’mon,” he says, guiding him away from the kitchen. “Let’s get some air, yeah? Cool off a bit.”

Tom clenches his jaw, but after a beat, he allows himself to be led away, shooting one last glare in Harry’s direction. As the two disappear toward the sun deck, Harry lets out a quiet sigh and turns his attention back to the tea he was making. Just then, Y/N approaches, having seen most of what transpired from across the villa.

“Hey,” she says softly, offering him a small, apologetic smile as she glances in the direction Tom had gone.

Harry hands her the cup he prepared, his expression softening the moment he looks at her. “Morning,” he says, a little smile creeping back. “Here, thought you could use a good cup of tea after… all that.”

Y/N takes the cup gratefully, blowing on it before taking a sip. “Thanks. And… sorry about that,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Tom’s just… well, he’s been feeling a bit blindsided, I think.”

Harry gives a little nod, leaning against the counter and watching her. “No need to apologize,” he says gently. “It’s not your fault if he’s upset. Besides, it’s not like you owe anyone anything here.”

Y/N gives a soft, contemplative nod, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “Yeah, I know. It’s just—Tom’s comfortable, you know? He’s a nice guy… but I’m not sure there’s anything beyond that.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re too sure,” Harry says, a hint of a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Just a little comfortable, is he?”

She chuckles, shrugging lightly. “Maybe too comfortable. There’s no spark, no real excitement.” Her gaze lifts to meet his, and for a moment, they both linger in the silence. “With you, though,” she starts, feeling her cheeks warm a little, “I think I do feel something… different.”

Harry’s grin widens, his gaze locked on her with unmistakable interest. “Is that right?” he says, his voice soft and low. “Glad I’m not the only one, then.”

She bites her lip, glancing down for a second before looking back at him. “Guess we’ll have to see where it goes, won’t we?”

Harry takes a small step closer, his voice dropping even lower. “I’d like that.” His hand lingers by hers, almost touching but not quite, as if savoring the tension between them.

“Looks like the tea’s not the only thing heating up this morning! With Tom sidelined and sparks flying between Y/N and Harry, it seems our villa’s newest couple might just be on the verge of something big. Stay tuned, because in here, anything can happen…”

Y/N takes a slow sip of her tea, glancing up at Harry with a slightly nervous smile. "So," she begins, setting her cup down on the counter. "What made you come here? To Love Island, I mean."

Harry leans back, crossing his arms as he thinks about her question. “Guess I just thought it’d be a bit of a laugh, to be honest.” He chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “Never done anything like this before. My sister convinced me, actually—said I needed to do something that’d take me out of my comfort zone.”

Y/N smiles, intrigued. “So what is your comfort zone, then?”

He smirks, thinking. “You know, work, mates, a good pint at the local…” He pauses, his gaze softening. “I guess I don’t usually put myself out there, especially with relationships. I’m… guarded, I s’pose. I don’t let people in that easily.”

She nods, understanding. “I get that. It’s hard to open up, especially when you’ve been hurt before.”

Harry’s eyes meet hers, something vulnerable in his gaze. “Yeah, it is. That ever happen to you?”

She hesitates, looking down at her cup. “Yeah,” she says softly. “Had one or two of those, too. I’ve always felt that… if I’m gonna be with someone, I want it to be all-in, you know? Like, I don’t want to waste time on half-hearted feelings.”

“Exactly,” he replies, his voice steady. “That’s it for me, too. People are so casual these days, like everything’s disposable. But I want someone who actually wants to be there, through all of it.”

Y/N looks up at him, feeling the intensity of his words sink in. “I didn’t expect you to say that.”

“What? Thought I was just here for a holiday fling?” he teases, a grin breaking through the serious moment.

She laughs, shaking her head. “Not exactly. But it’s nice… to see you’re after something real.”

Harry tilts his head, studying her. “What about you? Is there anything you’re hoping to find here?”

She takes a deep breath, then nods slowly. “Yeah, I think there is.” She looks away for a second, gathering her thoughts. “I’ve spent so much time focused on what everyone else wants from me, you know? And I think… maybe it’s time to figure out what I actually want.”

Harry’s hand rests on the edge of the counter, close enough that she can feel his presence. “ It’s like, everyone has expectations. Sometimes, you just want a clean slate, a chance to be yourself.”

They hold each other’s gaze, the air thick with something unspoken. Harry leans in just slightly, his voice a soft murmur. “I reckon we’re both looking for that spark, then. Something that feels real… not just ‘comfortable.’”

Y/N swallows, her cheeks warm. “Seems like we’re on the same page.” Her smile turns playful as she raises her eyebrows. “Guess that means you’ll have to impress me, though.”

Harry laughs, eyes twinkling. “Oh, I’ve got my work cut out for me, have I? No pressure, then.”

They share a laugh, but beneath the humor, there’s a sense of understanding, a spark that neither of them can deny.

The girls gathered on the sun loungers, sipping their drinks and chatting about the day’s events. Georgia, with her sharp gaze fixed on Harry and Y/N across the yard, leaned in closer to Lila and Amber, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Look at them, all cozy and sweet over there,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Can you believe it? Y/N really thinks she’s won the jackpot, doesn’t she?”

Lila squinted towards the couple, where Harry and Y/N shared a laugh, the sunlight catching Y/N’s hair. “They do look a bit... comfortable, don’t they?”

Georgia scoffed. “Comfortable? More like she’s turned him into her little puppet. I mean, really—what does she even have?’

Amber leaned back on her lounger, a smirk forming on her lips. “You’re just jealous, Georgia. You’ve made it pretty clear you’re interested in Harry too.”

“Jealous? Please,” Georgia shot back, crossing her arms. “I wouldn’t waste my time on someone who’s already taken. It’s pathetic. She’s just playing the sympathy card”.

Lila shook her head, frowning slightly. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think? She is nice.”

Georgia raised an eyebrow, her tone dismissive. “Nice doesn’t get you anywhere in here, Lila. Nice girls finish last. Harry deserves someone who’s actually worth his time, not some sad little backstory.”

Amber leaned forward, intrigued. “What’s the real issue here, Georgia? Is it just about Harry, or do you feel threatened by Y/N?”

Georgia’s expression hardened. “I’m not threatened. I just don’t think she belongs here. She’s too soft. This is Love Island, not a charity case. And let’s be real, Tom was way better suited for her. But she just had to run off with Harry, didn’t she?”

Lila shook her head, glancing between Georgia and Amber. “But that’s how this whole thing works, right? If there’s a connection, you go for it. It’s not her fault Tom couldn’t keep her interested.”

Georgia huffed. “Whatever. I just think it’s weak. And I’m not going to sit here and pretend I’m happy for her when she’s clearly trying to stake her claim on Harry like it’s some kind of prize.”

Amber raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “So, what’s your plan? Just sit here and sulk while they flirt?”

Georgia smirked, the corners of her lips curling in mischief. “Oh, don’t worry. I have a few tricks up my sleeve. I’m not done just yet. I’ll make sure Harry knows exactly what he’s missing. And if that means shaking things up a bit, so be it.”

Ah, the sweet scent of jealousy in the morning! Someone get Georgia a mirror—she clearly needs a reality check!

let me know if you want to get added to the tag list xx

TAGLIST: @st-ev-ie, @harrystyleshotwife, @valuunit, @familyshow-orisit, @ellaorchard, @loverrryxo, @dashingday

-> part 4