#<- not that there are no questionable scenes or something

[firingstars]

passion project

bucky barnes x reader

summary: based on this request — as bucky’s best friend, you had the honor of being subjected to his constant teasing and charms, none of which you thought were truthful. it all comes to a head when he starts distancing himself from you after a night out.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, piv, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, pull out game is very strong, praise, pet names (sweetheart, baby, doll, pretty girl, handsome), alcohol consumption, language, bucky big flirt in this fic, reader is a little dramatic, jealous bucky, you and bucky have an? argument?, no use of y/n

word count: 11.6k

a/n: YIPPPEEE my first request finished <3 (everyone disregard that it took me like two weeks to finish this i got stuck at the argument scene and didn't know how to progress bc i didnt wanna make bucky an asshole)

masterlist

Distance is not something that you know when it comes to Bucky. In fact, your first meeting with him was him pretending to be your boyfriend.

You had a particularly rough day at work. You weren’t with your friends or anyone else– you just wanted to spend a night alone at the bar near your apartment before going home for the night. However, men in New York just didn’t enjoy giving you a chance of peace.

You leaned away from the man that was giving you advances that you didn’t want, trying to deny drinks that you were sure he had tampered with. You gave dry responses to the man that you don’t even remember anymore, but you supposed you have to thank him.

A scent of cedarwood and clean soap filled your nostrils as a warm arm gently slipped over your shoulders. A body was beside yours, standing protectively. Someone that you didn’t know. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, giving you a small smile. His words were spoken loud, as if he was giving a performance. “Thanks for waiting for me. Who’s your friend?”

You blinked at him, momentarily thrown off. Then, you saw the look in his eyes. He was giving you an out. In a matter of a few seconds, you weighed your options. It was either this man with dangerously striking blue eyes that smelled good, or the drunkard that smelled like throw up and shit. So, you leaned into this stranger’s embrace, gave him a pretty smile, and hummed.

“Didn’t wait for too long, baby,” you sighed. “Missed you.”

You didn’t even answer the question about your “friend,” and the two of you just ignored him until he took the hint, and walked away. Except the hint was your savior glaring at him with murderous intent in his eyes. You didn’t know it at the time, but Bucky was fully capable of committing those kinds of crimes for you. 

When the drunkard was far enough away, his arm slid off your shoulders, his hand moving down your back, but not low enough to make you uncomfortable.

“Can I buy you a drink?” you asked him, grateful. “You kinda saved me back there, handsome.”

He laughed at your words. “I was going to ask you if you wanted a drink since you just went through something traumatizing, pretty girl.” 

“I’ll pay for yours, you pay for mine?” you offered. 

“Deal,” he grinned. 

The two of you introduced yourselves to each other not too long afterwards, toasted, and found out that you were both alone that night. Bucky spent the rest of the night by your side at the bar, the two of you just chatting. 

It was the start of a friendship that you weren’t looking for, but welcomed easily with open arms. Bucky was easy to talk to, easy to get along with, and he was comfortable for you to be around. 

Around the beginning of your friendship, you noticed he would sometimes come to hang out with you with a busted lip or a cut on his face. You were sure there was another injury somewhere under the layers of clothes he was wearing, too. When you finally asked– when you finally felt ready to ask, he was honest with you when he told you what he did for work. At first, you thought he was shitting with you. Then, he told you to look up his name online. 

“You’re ancient,” you said, your eyes falling on the birthdate of the man titled as Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th Infantry Unit in World War II. Then, the name of the Winter Soldier came next on the articles you were reading. 

“Yes, because every man wants a beautiful woman to call them old, sweetheart,” he said, rolling his eyes at you.

“You look good for being over a century old though, handsome,” you grinned.

“I’m like, ninety-something. Don’t age me up.”

Bucky showed you his metal arm that night. He took off the gloves he wore, and took off the jacket that seemed to be glued to his body. You inspected the dark metal in awe– asked if you could touch it.

He was patient with you. Answered all of your questions. You learned that he could feel sensations on the prosthetic– that his friends in Wakanda made sure of it. He told you it was made of vibranium, which was the same material made of Captain America’s shield– his best friend.

You learned a lot about Bucky that night. That night, you became more than just his friend. You became someone important to him. He didn’t know it, but he was already important to you before the confessions of his past. 

He asked you if you were scared of him. If you wanted him to leave. 

“Where would you go if you left?” you asked, frowning at him. “We’re supposed to watch those shitty reality shows tonight. Are you going to leave me to watch them by myself?”

You’ve never felt more relieved to see that smile come back to his face, to watch the tension leave his shoulders. Bucky shifted on the couch, assuming the same position that you two always did. 

Distance was not something that you two were familiar with from the start of your friendship together. Whenever you waited for him at your meeting spots, he would come up behind you like some sort of ghost. You started to get used to it– being randomly held by him.

“Sweetheart,” he would greet you, an arm slipping over your shoulders. “Missed me?”

“Take a lap, Sarge,” you’d tell him, shoving his arm off of you only to loop your arm through his. “Who would miss your face around here?”

“Ouch,” he chuckled, shaking his head at you. “And here I thought– I believed you when you said I was handsome.”

“Oh, you are,” you hummed, tugging him along to get in line for the aquarium– Bucky’s choice for your hangout that day. “I’m trying to keep you humble.”

Most of your time would be spent hanging out in your apartment. The two of you would talk about anything and everything. Well– you were talking. Bucky was listening to you. 

“Sounds a little stressful,” he said, patting his lap once you were finished with your long winded tirade about how your girl friends were horrible on night outs, and you weren’t looking forward to next Saturday night.

“Very,” you agreed, and dropped your head on his thigh, just as he was indicating for you to do.

You closed your eyes, sighing deeply as he started to card his hands through your hair, gently massaging your scalp. To comfort you, maybe. You were certain that he had no idea how to navigate the struggles of a friend group of five women– your four friends– that were trying to get laid, while you were desperately trying to make sure none of them ended up kidnapped or dead by the end of the night. 

“You gonna find someone to spend the night with on Saturday, too?” he murmured to you, and you opened your eyes. 

You raised an eyebrow at him, and smiled teasingly. “Why? You want me to include you in the same girl talk debrief that the other girls get on Sunday mornings?”

“Gross,” he scoffed, clasping his entire hand over your face, making your entire body jolt with surprise. 

“You’re the one that asked,” you huffed. You grabbed his wrist, pulling it away from your face and raising it up in the air. Bucky let you, his limb being pliant under your touch as he allowed you to flail it around like it was made of nothing at all. You watched as his fingers moved like noodles in the air, mildly amused for a few moments. “I’d tell you if you’re really interested, y’know.”

“I’m just asking so I know where you’ll be, doll. You’re stressin’ about your friends, so let me stress about you,” he said, his voice going softer for just a moment. 

You stopped thrashing his hand around the air, and looked at him. He was looking down at you, eyes never leaving your face. There was something unreadable in his gaze that made you pause. Your lips parted, closed, then you gave him a smile. 

“I’ll text you if I go home with someone, handsome. I don’t think I will, but I’ll let you know if I do,” you promised him, dropping his hand to your stomach. 

Bucky hummed, a little noncommittally as he patted your abdomen a few times before resting completely. His other hand continued to run through your hair, sending shivers down your spine. 

“I’m sure it won’t be difficult for you if you do decide for it,” Bucky said. “Guys flirt with you all the time.”

“That was one time, and I was alone at the worst bar on the street, Buck. It wasn’t even flirting. That was harassment,” you corrected him, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky shrugged. “You’re a little oblivious when people flirt with you, pretty girl.”

The rest of the night was spent arguing over the fact that you were not oblivious towards men flirting with you. Bucky was very adamant that you were. You denied all accusations like a politician that had something to hide. 

Neither of you managed to find common ground, and you ended up falling asleep on his lap. Woke up the next morning to find that Bucky didn’t leave. In fact, he didn’t even move you off his lap. He fell asleep, sitting upright, and refused to move in fear of waking you up. He refused to accept any apology from you and swore your couch was comfortable. You disagreed, but quickly shut up when he said that it was better than the hard dirt grounds of World War II. 

You hated it when Bucky pulled that shit on you. Bucky loved doing it. He always had a smug grin on his face.

Other times would include quieter moments. Where you both ended up in your bed. By this point in your friendship, Bucky had a drawer in your dresser of spare, comfortable clothes. He would get changed in pajamas for the night, and you two would be laying in bed. Bucky would be reading one of your more raunchy fantasy novels with confusion all over his face as to why you read these books, but still continued to turn the page. He’d have his head against your shoulder, and you’d scroll through your phone watching videos before falling asleep.

Flirting and touching was his default, you believed. Your assumption was only strengthened when he told you stories about the forties, and how he used to try to get Steve to go out on dates with girls that he set him up with. You managed to get him to admit that he was quite the charmer back in the forties. 

The only time there wasn’t any flirting was when he opened up about himself– when the conversation went serious on both of your ends. Then, the banter would stop and you both would give each other your undivided attention.

The touching wouldn’t stop, though. Even if he was the one leading the conversation, exposing you to the depths of his mind, he would play with your fingers. Touch your hair. You figured it was to busy himself from the fact that he was being so vulnerable with you. You never brought attention to it, allowed him to do what he needed to get through the words that he was forcing out of his throat– to tell you the things that he wanted you to hear.

You generally assumed that Bucky was just a touch starved man once you learned about his past. Coupled with him returning to the world and coming back to his personality, you figured he was just returning to his roots as a charismatic guy. You never thought anything of it, if you were being honest. Until you did. 

You should’ve realized it when you started taking pictures of him during your outings together. Your camera that only shot still life or animals gravitated towards him without even noticing. Your very first photo of him was a candid shot.

Bucky wasn’t looking at you. He was smiling at the cat that you both had taken interest in, that was at the park that you two were strolling through. He had crouched down, holding a hand out for the cat to come to him if it wanted to. And it did. Came and sniffed his palm, then nuzzled the warmth of his hand. Bucky smiled. A soft, gentle smile that took your breath away– and you took the picture without thinking.

It started your collection of photos of Bucky.

Bucky, the only person you had ever taken pictures of. The only person you wanted to take pictures of. He became your subject matter overnight. Your phone camera roll was filled with photos of him from your apartment— pictures of him on your couch, in your kitchen cooking, asleep in your bed. 

Your favorite picture of him right now was when the two of you went out to a bookstore together. He was walking down the aisles in front of you, and you meant to take a picture of his back. Another candid photo, another photo where he was unknowing. Except, he turned around. He was going to point out something to you, but stopped when he saw you had your camera in hand. You were caught. 

“What are you doing, pretty girl?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Smile. You’re looking exceptionally handsome right now,” you said, lifting your camera to your eye, so you could see him through the viewfinder. 

Bucky let out a small laugh, shaking his head at your words. However, he didn’t argue. Didn’t fight back. His hands found their way naturally into his pockets. He tilted his head at you in a kind of boyish way that reminded you of the old photos you saw at the Smithsonian when the two of you went together. 

And just like you asked him to, he smiled. Not at your camera, but at you. Your heart stuttered for a few moments, your finger froze over the button, and you had to remind yourself to take the picture. 

You were forever glad that you did. 

You stared at the photo for a long time, smiling to yourself– smiling back at Bucky’s face caught in time. You had the picture printed out on a mini Polaroid printer, and attached it to the back of your phone, but turned around so only you would know what was there. That was enough for you. You simply wanted to carry his smile with you wherever you went.

“What does it mean when your closest guy friend is always touching you, but doesn’t seem to like… make a move?” you brought up one day during a Sunday brunch with the girls. 

Your friends looked up at you, raising an eyebrow. It was only the three out of the five of your group– you’d known the two of them since the beginning of high school. The three of you were generally closer since the other two had joined your little circle during the last couple years of university. 

“Is this about your mysterious best friend that you won’t tell us anything about?” Leah teased you, a fat grin on her face. “What was his name again? Jamie?”

“James,” you corrected, clearing your throat. “And there’s nothing to tell about him. Just answer the question.”

“Well,” Mel hummed, picking up her mimosa. “What kind of touches are we talking about? Like just accidental hand brushing or…?”

You were thankful that Mel was taking you seriously at least. 

“Like… Cuddling on the couch during movies. Head on each other’s lap when we talk. He has a drawer at my place because he sleeps over sometimes– not intentionally. It just gets late, and I tell him it’s fine and to just stay over. So I told him to just bring a change of clothes, and I just wash his stuff whenever he uses them.”

“He sleeps… on your couch?” Leah asked slowly.

“No, we sleep in my bed together. Like when you guys come over…” you trailed off, voice dying down, looking down at your breakfast. 

“Like when we— when all of us cuddle in your fucking bed? Like when we were in college cramped onto a twin bed?” Leah demanded, eyebrows shooting to her hairline.

You don’t answer her. You stab a fork into your pancakes, and poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue awkwardly. You can’t look at either of them in the eyes right now. They’re a little too judgmental for your taste.

“How does he talk to you? Like sweetly or?” Mel asked, frowning at you.

“I mean– he calls me all these pet names. All the time. Calls me pretty and beautiful.”

“So you sleep next to the guy in the same bed, he’s always touching you, calls you all these sweet and cute things– never popped a boner or anything? Never tried to get a little handsy with you?” Leah asked.

“Leah!” you hissed, looking around at the other patrons in the restaurant to see if anyone heard her. “We are in public. Can you keep your voice down?”

“No, but she’s right though,” Mel said quickly, placing a hand down on the table. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she leans in, “Is he gay?”

You’re taken aback for a moment. “Uh– I… I don’t know. It never came up. I don’t think so? He’s had girlfriends before.”

You’re suddenly brought back to memories of your conversations with Bucky where he talks about Steve and Sam very fondly. 

He has plenty of memories with Steve that he speaks of with nostalgia. There are times when he talks about not Captain America, but Steve Rogers with so much pride in his voice that you can’t help but smile. At this point, you were certain that you could meet Steve on the street at any time, and you would know him like he was your own childhood friend.

Then there’s Sam. Bucky swears he hates the man, but you can hear the smile trying to crack through his words. Like he’s trying to hide how he really feels for a long winded bit that he’s doing. Despite all his sharp words, Bucky still talks about Sam. That has to count for something. 

“He might swing both ways, maybe leaning towards men,” Leah hummed, leaning back in her seat like the code was just cracked. “I mean, has to be, right? You’ve known him for almost what, an entire year now and nothing’s happened? Men don’t just befriend women at this age just to be friends.”

“I disagree with that last statement, but I do think that you’re reading too much into him,” Mel quickly said, nodding. “Men and women can definitely be friends without expecting anything from each other.”

You drown out the rest of their talk– the debate of whether or not men and women can just be friends. You’re spiraling. The polaroid hidden in the back of your phone case is weighing your purse down exponentially as the realization hits you. 

You were in the perpetual friendzone. Bucky didn’t bat an eye at you. He flirted with you, touched you without flinching, and laid down next to you in your own bed without his gaze lingering.

This was a man that was raised in the forties, and if you were correct in the little that you knew about that time period, anything premarital was some sort of sin. People were shamed. Disowned. Stoned. Excommunicated from the church.

And here Bucky was– doing just that. Doing all that and much more.

Yeah.

You were fucked. 

A light buzz within your purse caught your attention. You reached for your phone, eyes falling onto the notification of the man you were just talking about. 

You read the message over and over again, unable to believe what you were seeing for a few moments. 

Handsome [11:32am]: Stark’s throwing a party next Friday night. Do you want to come meet everyone?

The jet landed down, and the sound of the decompressors of the jet doors opening signaled the end of a successful mission. 

While the others clambered off with ease, good moods, and joy, Bucky couldn’t help but feel a wave of irritation wash through his body. The mission wasn’t difficult by any means, but the load of missions was what pissed him off. 

It’d been two weeks since he last saw you.

Bucky was simply surviving off of stupid images that he learned were called ‘memes’ that you sent him every day. That, and your cute good morning! and sleep well :) text messages which never failed to truly make him have a great morning and a well rested sleep.

Sometimes, if he got lucky, you sent him a picture of yourself. The first time that you did, he had to Google how to save images to his camera roll. After that, it was over for you. It didn’t matter what kind of picture that you sent. Even if you weren’t the full subject, he saved it. 

There was a picture where you were only partially in it, and you were trying to show off the matcha lavender drink that you bought. Another photo where your face was cut off at the top because you were cuddling with Mel’s puppy at her house. Some more stupidly angled photos of just your eyes— Bucky learned those ones being sent to him meant you wanted his attention. 

He also had pictures that he took of you. None of which, you were aware that he took. It was easy to hide. You often walked ahead of him when you were together, or your attention was focused on something else. It wasn’t difficult for a trained assassin to steal a photo or two.

Besides that, you slept like the dead next to him. Slept on his shoulder, and his lap like you owned the space. Bucky had a collection of you sleeping, though he wouldn’t admit it. It sounds creepy, but he found it endearing. 

The first time he was in your bed, and you sleeping beside him— he couldn’t fucking close his eyes. 

Were you stupid? That oblivious?

Bucky knew that you were comfortable with him, but to invite him into your bed without assuming anything? Yes, he was your friend, yes he was respectful, but he’d also been flirting with you for months on end waiting for you to pick up on the hints. 

Obviously, he wasn’t going to do anything. With each repeated time, it got a little bit easier. He found himself being able to take a small nap beside you in your bed. 

It was a comforting feeling— the warmth radiating off of your body. He was surrounded by the smell of your clean sheets, the scent of the laundry detergent that you used mixing with the shampoo you washed your hair with, and the perfume that stuck to your skin.

You moved in your sleep. Towards him. He would wake up to find you curled up beside him, like you would be if the two of you were cuddling on the couch and watching something. Bucky never pushed you away during these moments, but he never pulled you closer. 

Part of him felt guilty, if he really thought about it. 

You were normal. Someone that trusted him outside of the heroics. You treated him like any other guy on the street. You didn’t expect him to be anything else other than your friend. 

And Bucky was. He was a damn good friend to you, and he considered you one of his closest friends, too.

Simply, somewhere along the way… it shifted. He couldn’t tell when. There was no epiphany. Just a quiet realization one day. When he looked at you… he saw peace. A possible future with him, as something more than just a weapon.

Beside you, he felt different. As if the years and the war hadn’t affected him, hadn’t altered his brain in some sort of way that made him headstrong and tough around the edges the way he acted with the rest of his friends. 

With you, he felt softer. As if the walls were broken down without any fanfare or gracious ending. There wasn’t anything special that you needed to do or say to him. You just existed, and made breathing easier for him. 

Bucky quietly decided that even if you never looked his way, that it was okay. He would stay by your side, simply as another friend of yours if that’s all you’d ever want from him. Your presence alone was all he needed. You, without even realizing it, gave him something that he didn’t know was possible anymore. 

You gave him hope.

“We’re gonna meet your so-called friend that you always bail on us tonight?” Sam asked as Bucky came out into the common areas. 

The mission was finally showered off of him, and Bucky felt a bit lighter now. He just needed to change into that semi-formal attire that Stark shoved into his hands— the same clothes that were tied with a threat if Bucky didn’t wear it. 

“She said she would,” Bucky replied.

“Are we sure she’s even real?” Natasha asked, walking by to grab an apple from the fruit bowl. “Pretty sure Barnes is just strolling through New York getting fresh air by himself these days.”

“Sure,” Bucky shrugged, ignoring the chuckles of laughter at Natasha’s half-hearted jab. 

Bucky fished his phone out of his pocket, turning it back on. There should be some texts from you, waiting for him after his mission. And he was right. 

Pretty Girl [12:03pm]: what do the other girls wear 

Pretty Girl [12:05pm]: i googled iron man parties and they look rly fucking fancy sarge WHAT DOES BLACK WIDOW WEAR 

Pretty Girl [12:27pm]: i think ur saving the world… save my outfit when ur free pls </3

Bucky couldn’t help the smile that came onto his face, trying to imagine the panicked look on yours as you floated through your closet. 

Bucky [6:42pm]: Natasha and Wanda wear dresses. 

Your reply comes instantaneously. Bucky still can’t understand how you text so quickly.

Pretty Girl [6:42pm]: like?? floor length??? 

Bucky [6:45pm]: No. I’m wearing just a button up and slacks, if that makes you feel better. 

Pretty Girl [6:45pm]: what color

Bucky [6:46pm]: Black

Pretty Girl [6:47pm]: mmm.. very nice. brings out your eyes

Pretty Girl [6:47pm]: i’ll see you in a couple hours :) 

Bucky hated Stark’s parties with a passion. Despised them. This time? He couldn’t wait for it to come any sooner. 

In fact, he turned straight back to his room and got ready like a teenager waiting for his very first date to come. And he sat there, on the edge of his bed, waiting for the time to come. 

When the sounds of the party started, he went outside. Slowly but surely, guests started filtering in. Tony put on his best facade, greeting everyone with much vigor. Bucky didn’t understand how he could do it every single time. 

“Why are you hanging by the door for?” Sam asked, clapping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “She’ll come when she comes— and she’ll find you when she does.”

“Just… making sure she gets in safe,” Bucky grunted.

“Ugh. Just drink, dude,” Sam groaned, pushing a glass of amber liquid into his hands as he guided him towards a group of them— Natasha, Clint, and Rhodey. All three of them were sitting together at the conversation pit, chatting together. 

Bucky supposed he could wait here. You would text him if you didn’t find him right away, too. He relaxed beside Sam, though he was still on edge. 

He couldn’t focus too much on the conversation in front of him. They were talking about Rhodey’s most recent date, if he was correct. A disaster, by the sounds of it. Bucky let out a chuckle when they all laughed, just to sound like he was absorbed into the conversation just like the rest of them. 

“Speaking of dating— looks like Cap’s found someone he’s finally interested in,” Natasha said, a smirk on her face. “She’s cute. Anyone know who she is?”

Bucky’s eyebrows raised. “No way. Steve?”

“Turn around,” Natasha said, pointing behind him. “They’ve been chatting for the past ten minutes.”

Both Bucky and Sam turned to look, only for a pit to form in Bucky’s stomach.

You were there. Absolutely beautiful— dressed so effortlessly stunningly in a way that made the breath get caught in his throat. Then again, you could be in pajamas and an old hoodie, and Bucky would be a fool for you. 

You sat at the bar counter, absolutely flushed. Not from drinking too much alcohol, no, the drink in your hand was completely full. The skin of your cheeks are tinted a shade of red from embarrassment and shyness in a way that Bucky had never been able to see before. Your eyelashes are fluttering against your cheeks as you struggle to maintain eye contact with Bucky’s oldest and longest friend. 

Steve stood beside you, so fucking close. He leaned onto the bar counter with an elbow, a small smile on his face as he talked to you. His eyes never left your face, even when you couldn’t look him in the eyes. 

The conversation between you two is never ending. You’re both responding in quick succession despite the fluttering party around you, ignoring the noise and the chatter. You two are completely absorbed in each other’s words. It’s like nothing else matters. 

You say something that makes Steve chuckle. His head hangs low just for a moment, and he shakes his head. You have a shy smile on your face as you trace the rim of your glass, speaking to him softly. You’re nervous. You’re shy. You look almost a little scared of what he’ll say next. 

When he does respond, you let out a soft laugh, pulling your lip between your teeth before shaking your head shyly. Your cheeks are getting redder by the second.

Then, Steve leans in— whispers something in your ear. 

You freeze for a second, your lips part, and you stare at Steve. You’re flustered. Steve’s grin goes even wider as he pulls back to look at you, and he finishes the rest of his drink. 

Steve looks quite satisfied with himself for your reaction, the pure flushed and embarrassed look on your face. You’re unable to react for a few moments before you’re turning away from him quickly, unable to look him in the eyes— and Steve is laughing at you while you’re fanning your face with your hands. 

“Since when has Steve had moves like that?” Sam asked, eyebrows raised. “She’s like butter for him.”

Bucky has never seen you like this before. There’s never been a moment where you have ever acted like this for him before. Not once, not ever. 

Despite the fact you’re so embarrassed at whatever he had to say to you, you’re still talking to him. You can’t even look him in the eyes, but you’re responding to each and every single thing he’s saying to you. Just like Sam said— you’re melting for his words. 

Bucky has a pit of despair in his gut. He has to look away. He can’t watch the scene in front of him anymore. A long breath enters and exits his chest as he slowly tries to think rationally. 

Rationality fully leaves when Sam’s voice breaks his meditation. 

“There he is!” Sam exclaimed, standing. “Introduce us to your friend, Steve!”

Steve’s walking over, with you. Steve’s hand is on your back, leading you over to the group of them. You look relaxed, the blush is mostly gone from your cheeks, but Bucky can’t focus on anything except for the fact you’re extremely close to Steve. 

Sam moves to greet Steve, and two hands clap together before chests hit in a brother hug, their other hands hitting each other’s back. 

“Well, I’m not the one who should introduce her,” Steve chuckled, shaking his head.

You give Sam a polite smile before sidestepping both men, going around them, dropping onto the couch beside Bucky. Immediately, he shifted over to give you space. You notice, and Bucky tries not to react to your gaze. 

As you settle, you give a nod to Natasha and Rhodey on the opposite couch. Natasha gives you a smile in return, but she looks a bit confused. 

You introduce yourself as Bucky’s friend— the one that Bucky goes to see all the time. 

“The one that’s not real?” Sam asked, surprised. 

“You tell them I’m not real?” you asked, looking at Bucky as you lean back into the cushions.

“They say it on their own,” Bucky muttered. You stared at him for a few moments. You heard the edge to his voice, and he cursed in his head for being so blatant with his irritation. 

“Are you okay?” you whispered, your voice softer, only for him to hear. He wanted to scream. Not at you, but at himself. 

Bucky doesn’t look at you. Instead, he gets up, handing you his drink before walking away without another word. He can feel your eyes on him, feel the way you straightened on the couch in panic as he left without warning. 

He fucking hates this. 

Only two tells. He only needed to do one thing, say one thing, and you immediately could tell something was off about him. He hates even more that he just walked away from you without even saying a word, but he needs a second to collect his thoughts. 

For the rest of the party, Bucky avoided you like the plague. He felt your eyes on him. He refused to look at you. Even when the crowd thinned out, and the party dwindled down to just the team and you, Bucky avoided you. 

Eventually, you took your leave. 

It was Steve who saw you to the door. Steve offered to give you a ride home. You rejected, giving him a smile and saying you’ll just call an Uber or something, and wait in the lobby. Steve wasn’t having it. Something about it being too late at night, and he was right. 

Bucky could see, out of the corner of his eye, you looking at him. He didn’t look back. 

So, you left with Steve, Steve’s jacket on your shoulders to keep you warm for when the night air hit you. 

Shortly after, Bucky excused himself to his room, and his phone went off in his pocket. He re-read your text, feeling more and more like a fucking asshole with each read. 

He tossed his phone to the side, dragging a hand down his face. Bucky couldn’t answer you. Not tonight. 

Pretty Girl [1:32am]: is everything okay?

Just like you thought, you and Steve became extremely good friends right away. You practically knew him and everything about him right away from the very beginning, thanks to Bucky. 

You didn’t even mean to approach him first, but your eyes found him when you were looking in the crowd when you arrived. He was attempting to get a drink when you dropped in on the bar, and opened up with—

“Is Bucky gay and not telling me?”

Steve choked on the water he originally had in his hands before looking at you. You belatedly introduced yourself to him, telling him who exactly you were to Bucky before repeating yourself, asking him if he and Bucky were dating or if Bucky and Sam were dating or if all three of them were in some… throuple… situation. 

Thankfully, Steve took it like a champ. He laughed so loud it made you grin before he shook his head and confirmed that Bucky is indeed single, and has been since the forties. 

Then, he asked you why you even assumed. 

Your next question—

“How the hell do I get your dumbass friend to like me then?”

Steve looked intrigued at that point. Leaned against the bar, hooked on your every word. You told him about your situation with him— how touchy Bucky was with you. The cute names he called you. How he was always at your place.

You told him how your friends thought he must not like girls, which is why you even had to ask Steve in the first place. 

Then he whispers to you, in your ear for only you to hear—

“I’m certain he’s already in love with you if he’s doing all of that.”

Steve had such a big grin on his face after saying it— and he couldn’t stop telling you how happy he was to meet you. How he’d noticed how Bucky was just a generally brighter guy these days, but wouldn’t say much about you, as if he wanted to keep you to himself. 

Steve said he understood why Bucky fell for you, from how you were talking about him.

“My words don’t mean much,” Steve said, smiling at you, “but thank you for looking at Bucky like this. Like he’s a man.”

That first half of the party was almost like a blur for you. You had practically reached enlightenment just by speaking to Captain America. All of your world’s issues had been solved by your conversation with the man, and you could only remember bits and pieces from how scrambled your brain was.

You were so embarrassed from admitting all of it to Bucky’s friend. Your feelings about having to ask for advice on how to get Bucky to look your way to Steve telling you that you already had Bucky wrapped around your finger. All of it had you on a euphoric level that you had never experienced before.

Yet, if Steve’s so fucking certain, then why is Bucky ignoring you? 

You remembered the second half of the party better than the first. Bucky moving away from you on the couch. At first, you thought it was because his friends were around. You tried not to let it bother you– the way that he created distance between the both of you. 

Despite the fact your heart was racing because you received verbal confirmation from Bucky’s best friend that Bucky had feelings for you, you tried acting normal. The same way that you always acted with him. Touchy. Casual. The same flirting routine that you two always use.

Yet, you don’t think he looked your way once the entire night. You tried. You desperately tried to corner him, to talk to him. You should’ve known better to try to get the former Winter Soldier alone.

Bucky doesn’t know this because you’ve never told him, but he has read receipts on. You know he’s seen every single one of your text messages. You know he’s read every single one of them the second you’ve sent them, which means there’s no mission.

You’ve gone over a week without contact with him. You’ve gone longer without seeing him, but never without any form of communication. There was always some sort of text or call, something to connect the two of you together. 

You didn’t have the clearance to go in and out of the Avengers compound. You couldn’t just waltz in there. All you could do was text and attempt to call him, and wait for him to text you back. 

But you don’t want to bother him if he doesn’t want to talk to you anymore. You’re better than that— you’re not going to chase attention from someone who clearly didn’t want yours. You’re still not sure what you did to offend him, but you’d try one last time. 

Feelings aside, you valued him deeply as your friend. You thought he felt the same way. You weren’t sure if you were hurt from feeling a friend breakup, or having to get over your crush over him. Either option fucking sucked.

You call him one more time during your lunch break, only for the phone to go immediately to voicemail. You let out a deep sigh, and wait for the prompt to allow you to record your message. 

“I’ll stop calling and texting you now,” you said, your heart beating so wildly in your chest you’re certain that your phone’s microphone can pick it up. “I don’t know what I did, but… Yeah. I’ll leave you alone now. I wish you the best, I guess. Stay safe, handsome.”

You hang up, sending the message. You turn your phone off next. You don’t want to know if he’s texted you or called you back, and you don’t trust yourself by just simply turning on the do not disturb feature on your phone. You’re the type to still look at notifications to see if you were disturbed. 

You try to power through the rest of your day on autopilot. 

Your plan is to complete your menial work tasks. Tasks that should have been so easy to complete without a single bat of an eye, but no. The universe wanted to make your life harder. As if to just laugh at you, add onto your plate, and make you feel even more miserable.

The emails you received from your team were full of dumpster fires that you needed to put out for your clients. You were pulled into emergency meetings that you didn’t have time for. Those same clients were calling you, frantic and fucking pissed that your company wasn’t delivering what you had promised them. 

All at the same time, your upper management was cracking down on your boss, who was then taking it out on all of you— and you had no time to deal with his tantrum. You were one fucking person, dealing with your own meltdown in your own personal life, but expected to deal with everyone else’s. 

You didn’t get out of work on time. You couldn’t. It was impossible. You had a mountain of tasks that had no end in sight. You didn’t take your final break at the end of the day. Honestly, your head was pounding. 

Still, you didn’t go home right away. Didn’t turn your phone back on. You went to the grocery store instead. You couldn’t handle the thought of sitting in your lonely home, by yourself with your own thoughts. 

You should’ve just gone home. 

You roamed up and down aisles that you didn’t need to go down, only for a rambunctious child to slam into you with an open container of fruit juice in his hands, spilling all over your clothes before falling backwards. The kid’s parent had the audacity to yell at you.

You barely had half the mind to walk away before breaking down in tears yourself because why is your kid drinking unbought juice in the store and running around unsupervised? while the kid’s mom screamed at you to pay for the juice. 

You didn’t even buy anything at the store. Just dropped your basket off at the register and left before you ended up exploding. Apologized to the cashier for the inconvenience before making the walk home. 

A soft curse fell from your lips as you shoved your key into the door— it was fucking jammed again. You shook the door, tears prickling in your eyes. You were sticky, uncomfortable, angry, overstimulated, and so fucking sad. You’re about to slam your fist into the door in utter rage and frustration when it opens.

“You really need to tell your landlord to fix your door, doll,” Bucky murmured to you, “Even I had trouble getting in earlier.”

You’re staring at him, like a deer caught in headlights. He looks sheepish, eyes trained on the ground at your feet. For a moment, you wonder how the fuck he’s in your apartment. Then you remember you gave him a key a long time ago for emergencies.

Your silence must’ve alerted him. His eyes finally drag upwards, and widen when he sees the state you’re in. His eyebrows furrowed. He’s quiet, for just a moment. Then, his inner thoughts come forth.

“You look like shit.”

“Yeah. Because that’s exactly what I want to fucking hear from you after uncalled for radio silence,” you said dryly, coming to your senses. You watch him cringe at your tone before you push past him, walking into your apartment. 

Your work bag is unceremoniously dropped onto the nearest chair, and you shrug off your cardigan next. You can hear Bucky shuffling behind you as you make your way to your bedroom for another change of clothes before you drown yourself in hot water. 

By the time you come out of the bathroom, no longer sticky, muscles slightly relaxed from the spray of the water, you find that Bucky had made dinner for the two of you. It’s nothing fancy or extreme– just some pasta and chicken that you definitely didn’t have in your fridge before. You vaguely wondered if he had gone shopping before he even came over. 

You want to press him. Tell him to get the fuck out of your house. But God, the food smells good, he looks good in his stupid fucking sweatshirt and jeans that screams boyfriend material, and you’re so tired. 

You can feel his eyes on you, cautious. The tension in the air is thick. You could probably eat it for dessert, if you wanted to. For now, you take your time stabbing into the pasta in front of you and bringing it to your lips. You fill your stomach, ignore his stare, and ignore the way that he doesn’t eat his own share of food. 

“I got your message,” Bucky finally spoke.

“Great. Why are you here then?” you replied, dropping your fork onto the plate. It clattered loudly against the ceramic, and you finally sat back in your seat. Your arms crossed over your chest as you finally looked at him.

Bucky was still looking at you. His lips were parted, as if he was trying to come up with the words to speak. His fists were clenched on either side of his plate, and then his mouth shut. He took in a deep breath from his nostrils, and shook his head, lowering it as he did.

“Are you here to return my apartment key? Didn’t have to make me dinner to do that. You could’ve slipped it through the mail slot, but whatever. Hand it over,” you said, holding out your hand to him.

His head immediately snapped up, and a crease formed between his eyebrows. He looked hurt– but not in a kicked puppy kind of way. Almost scandalized, like he was offended that you even suggested that to begin with. 

“I’m not returning your fuckin’ key,” he responded, voice a little tight. 

You frowned, raising your eyebrows at him. You lowered your hand back down, and tilted your head at him as you observed him for a few moments. You were both in a quiet standoff, one that you didn’t fully get. 

 “I’m sorry, did I misunderstand something between us?” you finally asked, tone clipped. “I’ve texted you. Called you– like an obsessive fucking girlfriend for nearly two weeks now. I can’t even say that you ghosted me because ghosting is a term that you use for people in relationships or people in talking stages, and we clearly aren’t in either of those–”

“What the fuck is ghosting?” he cut you off, exasperated. 

“I just fucking told you!” you shouted back, throwing your hands into the air. 

Then, you looked at him. Really looked at him. Despite his tone, he was genuine. Confused. He wanted to know, and you were going off on a tangent on him. It wouldn’t be fair to him or you to keep going if he had no clue what you were saying. So, you took in a slow breath of air before you explained. 

“It means you ignored me. Fell off the face of the Earth without any explanation– no rhyme or reason. I had no clue what happened to you, or if I did something to hurt you. There was no closure, no understanding. I don’t know what I did to piss you off, so now I’m pissed off at you,” you said, trying to keep your voice as even as possible. “And now, you come into my fucking apartment, make me dinner, and try to act like everything is okay? That’s just a load of bullshit, James. I have to get texts from Steve to make sure that you’re alive, and not dead in some random country!”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched, and he sat back in his own seat. You watched as he sucked on his teeth, and slowly exhaled. 

“You and Steve text? How often does that happen?” he asked, his voice low.

“Are you for real?” you asked, a laugh escaping your lips. You couldn’t even try to mask the confusion that was on your face now. You stared at him, blinking. “Out of everything I just said– that’s what you’re going to take away from that? Not that I’m mad– you’re not even going to apologize?”

“Just answer the question, please,” he murmured, his shoulders rising as he took in another, small breath.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you stared at him. You couldn’t read his face. There was something distant in his eyes. He was guarded, far away, and not the Bucky that you knew. 

“I’ve texted him more than you’ve texted me these past couple weeks,” you answered, clenching your jaw. “Which, by the way– you texted me absolutely nothing. So you can guess how often me and Steve text.”

“So you two really hit it off then, huh?” Bucky said, though it sounds more to himself than to you. He’s looking down at this full plate of food now, avoiding your gaze as his tongue is poking at his cheek. He almost looks pissed off. 

“What the hell are you even talking about?” 

His eyes flickered up. “You and Steve. At the party. That’s where you met, right? He brought you home, didn’t he?”

“He did, since the person that I assumed was going to be my ride home avoided me all night,” you shot back. You could feel your already thinning patience dissolving into nothing at all. “How is this relevant to the conversation that we’re having?”

Silence settled like a stone wall as you stared at each other. The two of you met another dead end to your conversation, with nowhere to go. This was the first time you had ever argued with Bucky like this, and you could feel your relationship with him slipping through your fingertips. You don’t know this side of Bucky. Your agitation was already through the roof, and Bucky was mad about something that you didn’t even understand, but you could see it in his eyes. 

Then, you watch his anger dissipate. It cracks, like he’s conceding. Like he doesn’t want to be mad. He’s fighting an internal battle, struggling with himself in his mind. You don’t know which part of him is winning yet.

Bucky scrubs a hand down his face as he slouches in his seat, and rests his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands for a few moments. He takes two, slow, deep breaths as he tries to compose himself. 

“Steve’s a good guy,” he finally spoke through a clenched jaw. “A great guy even. I’m glad you two seem to be getting along.”

Your temper freezes in its place as you stare at him. What?

Bucky lifts his head, lacing his fingers together in front of his mouth. He’s still not looking at you, eyes trained somewhere behind your head. 

“I– I haven’t seen someone make him laugh like that in so damn long, and I know you really well, so I don’t doubt that you’ll make him happy either. And I’ve never seen you act so fucking shy in front of guy before, and I’m glad it’s Steve that made you act like that–”

The words are spilling out of Bucky’s mouth faster than you can comprehend. Your mind is trying to keep up with the clusterfuck of information that you’re suddenly receiving from him. You’re doing your best to decipher what he’s saying to you, while sitting in front of you, looking like a sad, lonely, kicked fucking puppy. He looks like you’ve just abandoned him. 

“–and God I just wish that it was me that you looked at like that because I’ve been with you this entire time for over a year now, and I’ve been flirting with you every single fucking day that I’m with you and you never seem to notice–”

“You’re jealous?” you finally cut him off, your mind finally catching up with his words. “You’ve been ignoring me because you’re jealous that I was talking to Steve at the party?”

You watch as Bucky’s lips part, and he slowly falls backwards into his seat. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he attempts to catch his breath from the long winded, incoherent rant. He clenches his jaw like he’s about to break his teeth into pieces. Then, he nods once, swallows thickly, and looks you in the eyes. Nervously.

You can't believe what you're hearing. He's jealous. The guy you've been ripping your hair out over, the one you've embarrassed yourself in front of Captain America over is jealous.

You got up from your chair, and went over to your bookshelf. You could feel him watching you as you pulled out one of your photo albums– a black binder. Sleek, inconspicuous, unassuming. You brought it back to the table, dropping it down in front of him before sitting back in your seat, taking a slow breath. 

Silently, you gestured for him to open it, looking down at it before looking back at him. You watched as he slowly reached for it, moving his plate away to make more space. 

Then, he saw it. 

Your possession of candid photos, spanning over the last five months. Just Bucky, and Bucky alone. In nearly all of them, Bucky wasn’t looking at you. You thought that he would have been aware that you were taking the photos, with his assassin senses, but Steve told you otherwise– he trusts you, he said. 

You watched as Bucky continued flipping through the photo album, page by page, confusion riddling his features with each turn, each new photo that he saw. There were photos from your excursions together.

The photos taken on your DSLR camera were the ones where he wasn’t facing you. Where he had no clue that you were even pointing the camera at him. These photos were taken outdoors, when you were outside doing something else in the world. At an aquarium. At the park. At a nice cafe that you saw online that you dragged him to. You had made sure the flash was turned off on your camera, made sure that he wouldn’t be able to see you sneaking photos. You always tried to be sure there was something near him that you could pretend to be taking a photo of instead, too. 

In some of the recent photos, his face was clearly shown. At some point throughout your process of sneaking photos of him, you realized that he thought you were just tapping away at your screen. It was one of the many benefits that you had from the fact that Bucky didn’t use his phone often, other than to contact you. 

These were photos of him in your kitchen when he made dinner or of him on your couch, your legs on his lap. Some photos were of him sleeping on the other side of your bed, completely unaware that you had put your camera to his face

“You don’t take pictures of people,” he murmured, fingers brushing over the photos. “You told me you think people become the fakest version of themselves on camera.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I fucking hate it,” you answered with a shrug. “And they do.”

“Then what’s all this?”

“Photos of you through my eyes– exactly how I see you. An entire collection of it, actually. I hoard those photos. I have more of them that I need to go get developed, and add to that album, actually,” you admitted. 

“Why?” 

You could only stare at him for a few moments, your heart thumping wildly in your chest, threatening to crawl up your esophagus and show itself to Bucky. He looked like he was putting together the pieces, just as you had done yourself. But he needed the confirmation.  

“I asked Steve if you two were dating. That’s what we were talking about at the party.”

You watched as Bucky’s head snapped up towards you, eyebrows raised up to his hairline. You’re certain that if he had water, he would’ve choked like Steve did. 

“Sweetheart, what the fuck–”

“And then we kept talking about you,” you cut him off, looking away from him, clearing your throat. “And I asked Steve how I could get you to like me– to notice me– and stop just flirting with me like a friend. He told me that if you were flirting with me at all, there’s a pretty good chance that you already like me. Which is why I got shy.”

You can feel heat crawling up your neck, blossoming under your cheeks, and on either side of your head to your ears. It was your turn to avoid his gaze. You kept your eyes down on your hands, which were folded onto your lap. You could hear your heart in your ears. Your stomach flipped over in your body in unnatural ways, and you wish you didn’t eat any of the food Bucky made. 

Then, you saw Bucky’s metal hand on top of yours. You didn’t even hear him stand or get out of his chair. It was moments like this that you forgot how quiet he could be– how he made himself loud for you, how he made his presence known for your own comfort. It was one of the many things that he did for you without you even realizing it. 

Your breath hitched as you turned, finding him on one knee beside your chair, looking up at you. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, gently, comfortingly, sweetly, in a way that made your heart stutter in your chest. 

You met his eyes. They were soft. Just like how he had looked at you that day in the bookstore, when you told him to smile for you. A small smile was on his lips as he looked up at you, unguarded and raw. 

“I’m really sorry, doll,” he whispered, and you released a soft breath. “I didn’t– I should’ve just talked to you instead of running from you. I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I… didn’t want to be rejected by you.”

“So you thought pushing me away completely would be better?” you shot back with a frown, but there was no real anger to your words, and Bucky could tell.

“Can I make it up to you?” he asked. “Take you on a date? An actual date– maybe one where we can take a photo together instead of you taking ones of me like a creep hiding something.”

A laugh fell from your lips as Bucky squeezed your hands. His smile only grows at the sound of your laughter, and you can’t find it in you to be a brat to him. Not when he’s kneeling beside you, holding your hands, and asking so nicely. Then again, you were always soft for him. 

Then, you reached for him. You grabbed him by the collar of his sweatshirt, pulling him up as you leaned down, meeting him somewhere in the middle. His lips are on yours within seconds, and they’re as soft as you had imagined– as you know they are because you’ve put your lip masks on his lips with your fingers more times than you can count. But God, feeling them directly on yours is a different sense of euphoria that you never would’ve known until now. 

You slowly slink out of your chair for comfort, until you’re on the floor with Bucky, body pressed against his. Your hands are on his shoulders, his wrapped around your back to hold you tight against him. You’re breathless against his lips, slotted against him perfectly like he was made for you. You could probably stay like this forever. Kissing him slowly in the dining area of your apartment. 

When you finally parted, his forehead pressed against yours. Your breaths mingle, fanning against each other’s faces as you look at each other. The tension is back, but different. You both react at the same time.

Bucky dives back in for another kiss, a hand coming to cradle the back of your neck to support you. You can feel his tongue swipe the seam of your lips, requesting entry that you would never deny him. He immediately takes the chance to explore, while your hands explore underneath his clothes, searching for skin.  

A low, guttural groan escapes his throat. “This is backwards, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “We should be going on dates first before all of this.”

“Are you complaining?” you asked, hands moving up his abdomen, and resting on his sides. 

“No, but I wanna be a gentleman for you, make it up to you for the bullshit I put you through–”

“Technically, we have been going on dates this entire time,” you reassured, peppering a series of kisses along his jaw and down his neck. Bucky lets out a soft sigh, moving his head to the side to allow you space to keep pressing your lips to his skin. “Since we both liked each other, we just never said it out loud.”

You can feel his resolve of being a gentleman breaking with each kiss. His hands tighten around you, and you can feel his pulse quicken under your lips. Gently, you nip onto a soft spot, listening to him let out another groan before you placate the ache with your tongue. 

Then, you’re being hoisted off the floor with a shriek falling from your lips. You grab onto Bucky’s shoulders quickly, and you look at his face– there’s determination all over his features as he makes his way down the hall to your bedroom. The resolve has shattered. You’ve broken him. 

Bucky’s been in your bedroom before. He’s been in your bed before, been under your sheets, slept comfortably through the night with him on the other side of the bed– but God, this is so much better.

Clothes are thrown off, damn near ripped at the seams, littered all over your floor, and Bucky’s hands are all over you. He’s laid you down onto your pillows, and his head is between your legs before you can come to your senses– and you feel the warmth of his tongue flattening against your aching core.

You both moan into the room at the same time, almost in harmony. You weakly push yourself onto your elbows to look at him, to watch him, and he’s hooking your thighs over his shoulders, pulling you deeper into him to lock you in place. Then, you meet his eyes as he takes another pass. 

Bucky doesn’t need to say a single word for you to understand that he’s been waiting to taste you on his tongue for months. He eats like a man that’s been starved, like a man that had spent years in the desert, and you were the first drop of water that he’s had. 

You can only fall back against the pillows, reaching for him, grabbing onto his hair– which makes him groan against you. The vibrations alone make your body tremble against him. He’s enjoying every single moment, eyes falling shut. His hand shifts, thumb moving to press against your clit, and your body reacts instantly, thighs clenching around him. 

“Bucky– fuck–” you gasped out, and you fall apart instantly. He groans into you, almost in approval as he licks up all of your arousal and juices until there’s nothing left. You’re twitching, sensitive, and pushing on his head– damn near sobbing for him to give you a break. 

Reluctantly, he does get up. And he looks like he’s the one who just came. He’s breathless, chest rising and falling, expression fucked out and beautiful. Bucky licks his lips, then wipes the area surrounding his mouth before he slots himself between your legs, lowering himself down to you.

“So good for me, baby,” he praised softly, kissing your forehead as his elbows rested on either side of your head. His kisses moved further down your face until his lips met yours again in a slow, gentle kiss. “So, so good for me. Can you keep going?”

“God, if you don’t fuck me I might kill you.”

You could feel him grin against you as he slowly shifted, and you felt him slowly drag the length of his cock against your folds, coating himself in your slick. A soft gasp fell from your lips as he moaned out your name. He dropped his head into your shoulder, trying to ground himself as he lined himself up with your aching hole, and pushed in.

You can feel him deep– every ridge and vein, pulsing inside of you. He’s thick and girthy, long, stretching you out more than you’d ever been before, and it’s too much, and not enough at the same time. You need him painting the inside of you, staining you, claiming you– you can’t tell him that right now. Not yet. You just got the man. 

You know that you’re not much better. You’re wet around him, walls twitching and crying at the feel of him. Your legs are trembling around his hips, fingernails clawing at his shoulders and digging deep as you try to catch your breath. You’re impossibly full, but you need him to move.

And he does.

The first pull back has you seeing the gates of heaven. When he sinks all the way back in, you’re sent straight to hell. 

Bucky fucks you into the bed like a man on a mission, full of sin and no regrets. His hands are all over you, grabbing at your waist to hold you in place while his lips are busy marking your chest in places where only you and he will know. When your back arches off the bed, his lips close around a stiff nipple, tongue lapping around the hardened peak and sucking. 

You’re sensitive, breaths erratic, and he’s too good. 

“I can’t– I can’t–” you whimpered, fingers digging into his chest. 

“Oh, but you’re doing so well, baby,” Bucky praised softly. 

You can barely open your eyes to look at him, but when you do? There’s a light sheen of sweat that’s coating his skin, and his eyes are on you, watching every single part of you, burning you into his memory– the way you look under him as he fucks you– how your breasts move in correspondence with each thrust of his hips, how fucked out and cock drunk you look, how your body spasms and twitches under his ministrations. He’s compartmentalizing every single detail of you. 

“Bucky, please,” you moaned out, a shaky breath escaping your lips.

“Gimme one more, doll– Can you do that for me?” he groaned, his hips picking up speed, “Need you to cum on my cock, pretty thing.”

There’s a neediness in his voice that makes your walls flutter around him, that shoves you off the edge a second time that night– just like he wanted you to. A curse falls from his lips as his hips stutter against you, and he rides out your orgasm as long as possible before he’s pulling out of you, his own release spilling all over your stomach and chest. Bucky catches himself on his elbows before he collapses on top of you, breathing heavily.

Part of you wants to tell him what a waste. You keep it to yourself for now. 

“Kiss, Bucky,” you muttered instead, reaching for his face.

He chuckles, almost breathy, and leans back down to you. He’s careful to avoid the hot, sticky mess that he’s left behind on your body, but he kisses you regardless. A sigh escapes your throat as he meets your lips.

Before long, he’s completely leaving you, muttering something about needing to clean you up. You stay there, boneless and sated, drifting off to sleep. You don’t even realize he’d come back until you feel a warm washcloth on your skin, wiping away the remnants of misdeed that you two had committed just moments prior. 

Then, you’re being hoisted into his arms again, and the sheets are pulled over your bodies. His lips press against your forehead as his arms wrap around you, tugging you closer to his chest. Once again, Bucky is in your bed. Like he’s been countless times before, but this is different. It’s changed. You like it better this way.

You’re listening to the steady beat of his heart, allowing it to be your lullaby for the night when he breaks the silence. 

“Is this a yes to the date?” Bucky whispered.

A grin breaks out on your face, and you press a kiss to his bare chest. “Yes, handsome. You can take me out on a date.”

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx @herejustforbuckybarnes @djotummy @star-yawnznn @gallifreyansass @nanikio @jmclouds @sundaepoet @the-salty-asian

[pucksandpower]

Empires and Emperors

Toto Wolff x Cadillac team principal!Reader

Summary: the old adage says “don’t mix business with pleasure,” but Formula 1 requires pushing boundaries … both on the track and off of it

Warnings: mentions of a career-ending crash

The Bahrain sun is merciless, already scorching the tarmac at ten in the morning. Camera crews buzz like flies, microphones aimed at anyone in team gear, but the paddock doesn’t truly snap to attention until the Cadillac garage doors roll up and you step out — aviators low, Americano in hand, ponytail like a loaded weapon.

You don’t flinch when the press crush starts.

You barely blink.

Toto watches from the Mercedes garage with the faint smirk of a man who’s seen every variety of hype crash and burn. But this … this is different.

“Christ,” mutters a race engineer, watching the growing commotion. “She’s not even driving.”

Toto hums. “That’s the point.”

You stride past Sky Sports, nod at a reporter who tries to corral you into an impromptu hit. You say, “Sorry, I’m not caffeinated enough to be charming yet,” without breaking pace. They laugh. You don’t.

Your white Cadillac team shirt is immaculately crisp, tucked into tailored black trousers that mean business. Your name is embroidered over your heart like a signature. There's something terrifying about how calm you look. You pass McLaren, Ferrari, Red Bull. Eyes track you like hawks. You’re not even trying to cause a scene, you're just unapologetically here.

By the time you reach the team principals’ press conference, the seats are mostly filled. Toto’s already on stage, seated with Christian, Fred, and Andrea. You take the last chair, perfectly on time, and thank the moderator like you're doing him a favor.

“Welcome, Y/N,” the moderator says, clearly over-eager. “Exciting moment for Cadillac today. First day of testing. First American-led team since Haas. How does it feel?”

You lean into the mic, flick your gaze across the room — sizing it up.

“It feels like everyone wants to see if we crash or combust. I plan on disappointing them.”

A ripple of laughter. Christian chuckles like he’s amused, but Toto watches your fingers tap idly on the desk, left ring to index, again and again. A tic? A tell?

Fred leans forward. “A lot of buzz around your car. You think it’s ready?”

You arch a brow. “I think our car’s been ready since before you all started noticing it.”

Toto finally speaks. “Strong words for a car that hasn’t run a lap.”

You look at him. Really look. The moment hangs.

“I’ve seen plenty of cars run laps and still not show up when it counts.”

Christian makes a low, “Oof.”

Toto tilts his head, amused. “Hopefully your strategy is better than your temper.”

“My strategy,” you say sweetly, “is to keep everyone guessing. Starting with you.”

Laughter, again. Louder this time. Cameras flash.

Your phone buzzes in your lap. A text from your PR Officer.

Calm down. You’re going to give the FIA a stroke.

You ignore it.

The questions move on. Andrea is saying something about wind tunnel data. Christian’s lobbing vague insults at the cost cap. But you’re still aware of Toto. He doesn’t look at you anymore, but you can feel his attention like static.

The press conference ends. Everyone stands. There's the shuffle of paper, the awkward murmurs of media trying to corner principals before they vanish. You take your time. You’re about to walk off when-

“I take it you’re not planning to make many friends in here,” Toto says, low enough that only you hear.

You don’t smile. “I’ve got a team. That’s enough.”

He nods once. “Mm. Must be nice.”

You blink. The look in his eyes is fleeting, but something sharp lives behind it. You know it when you see it — resignation, maybe. Or regret.

“I don’t do politics,” you say. “Not anymore.”

“Then you’re in the wrong sport.”

You smirk. “I’m not here to fit in, Toto.”

He doesn’t flinch at the name. Most people don’t say it like that — like a challenge.

“Clearly,” he says, dry as sand. Then, with a glance at your lanyard, “You ever think about going back?”

The flashback hits like a punch.

A wall of flame. A split-second decision to pit. Your engineer shouting too late. The impact sharp enough to rattle your soul. The sound of carbon shattering. The way silence follows trauma like an old friend.

And after: the meetings where they called you difficult, aggressive, uncooperative. When you pushed back, you were “a liability.” Not marketable enough. Not compliant enough.

You left IndyCar with trophies and screws in your shoulder. You left knowing you’d never crawl back.

“Not even if it paid double,” you say.

He nods. “Fair.”

You pause. “You actually care?”

He shrugs. “I’ve been watching motorsport long enough to know when someone gets chewed up.”

You look at him differently, then. Not soft, not grateful. Just ... seeing him, maybe for the first time.

“You think I’ll get chewed up here?” You ask.

“No,” he says, turning. “I think you’ll bite back.”

You watch him walk off, all precise posture and tailored black. An engineer falls into step beside him, murmuring something. He answers without looking back.

“She’s going to be trouble,” Toto says. His voice is just loud enough for the words to carry.

The engineer frowns. “What, like — media trouble?”

Toto’s mouth curves. “No.” Then, quieter, with a smile that’s almost fond, “The interesting kind.”

***

The FIA meeting room smells like stale coffee, over-conditioned air, and the permanent tension of eleven egos shoved into one overlit box. There’s a bowl of untouched almonds in the center of the table. You wonder if they were here yesterday. Or last season.

You’re seated between Andrea and Christian, who are both smiling like diplomats but vibrating with the low-level condescension of men who are used to being the most interesting person in the room.

“Let’s talk about your diffuser,” Christian starts, as if the word diffuser is a veiled insult. “Interesting interpretation of the regulations.”

You don’t look at him. “Everything we’ve done is legal.”

“Legal’s not the same as sporting,” Andrea chimes in. “There’s a spirit to these things.”

“Oh, please.” You finally turn. “The spirit of the sport died the day you all decided performance was negotiable and politics were a KPI.”

That earns a few raised brows. You glance at Fred, who just shrugs like he’s too old to pretend any of this isn’t performative.

“The FIA cleared our design. If you have an issue with it, file a protest,” you add, sipping from the coffee you brought in yourself because the FIA’s is undrinkable. “Or better yet, copy it like you usually do.”

Christian lets out a short laugh, more amused than offended. “You’re not interested in playing nice, are you?”

“I’m interested in winning. I don’t know what you all are doing here.”

Andrea leans back. “You’re new. That’s fine. But you’ll learn — this isn’t just about the car. It’s about relationships.”

You glance around the room. “Funny. I thought it was about racing.”

Toto hasn’t said a word. He’s across from you, fingers interlaced, watching with the infuriating patience of someone who’s not here to win the argument, he’s here to win the war. You meet his gaze once. It’s unreadable. Then he looks away.

The meeting drones on. Brake ducts. Tire allocations. Something-something sustainability. Everyone has opinions, none of them productive. You say less as the hour drags. You’re learning the rhythm of this room — the pauses, the fake outrages, the knowing glances exchanged over your head.

At the end, as everyone rises and starts gathering notes they won’t read again, Toto approaches.

“Coffee?” He says, tone almost offhand. “Neutral ground.”

You raise a brow. “Why? You bored of watching me set fires in here?”

He doesn’t smile. “Just curious what you’re actually trying to burn down.”

You should say no. You don’t.

***

The paddock lounge is quiet when you arrive twenty minutes later. Cool-toned, clean lines, suspiciously good espresso. There’s an understated confidence in the way everything is exactly where it should be. Nothing flashy. Just efficient.

Toto’s already seated at a small table in the back, a steaming cup in front of him. No assistants. No PR. Just him, white shirt rolled at the forearms, reading something on his phone with that same unsettling stillness.

You slide into the seat across from him.

“Still neutral?” You ask.

He sets the phone down. “That depends on how you define neutral.”

“I define it as: no offers, no threats, no press leaks.”

He nods. “Then yes.”

A pause.

You take in the lounge. The screens showing pit lane footage, the muted international voices from a side room, the slow drip of espresso behind the bar. Controlled. Precise. Familiar, if you squint.

“You remind me of Penske,” you say, almost to yourself.

Toto lifts a brow. “In what way?”

“Quiet until it matters. Never without a plan. Likes to watch before you strike.”

He folds his hands. “You’ve studied me?”

You shrug. “I study everyone. Occupational hazard.”

“I’ve studied you, too.”

You lean back. “That sounds ominous.”

“I don’t mean it to be.” He pauses. “You were fast. In Indy. Efficient. Cut through the noise.”

You laugh once. “They said I was difficult. That I didn’t smile enough.”

“They say that about anyone who doesn’t need approval.”

You don’t say anything to that. Not yet.

The coffee arrives, and you both thank the lounge staff at the same time — reflexive, polite. You clock it. He does, too.

“So,” he says, resting one arm on the table. “What’s the endgame, really? Visibility? Disruption? A Netflix arc?”

You blink once, slowly. “You think I came here to be an influencer?”

“I think you came here knowing exactly how much attention your appointment would cause.”

“Of course I did,” you say. “But that’s not the end game. That’s just the noise.”

“Then what’s the signal?”

You study him. His eyes are sharp, sure. Not cruel, but relentless. There’s no wasted motion in the way he speaks, listens. You don’t hate it. You recognize it.

“The signal is innovation,” you say finally. “The car, the structure, the tech we’re developing — Cadillac didn’t join to sell more SUVs. We came because the sport needs a hard reset.”

He doesn’t flinch. “And you think you’re the one to do it.”

“No,” you say. “I know I’m the one who’s not afraid to try.”

Silence, but not heavy. Just considered.

Then he leans forward a little. “You don’t recognize tradition.”

You tilt your head. “And you don’t recognize innovation unless it’s wearing silver.”

He smiles, just barely. “That’s not true.”

“Oh? You didn’t try to bury the DAS system in regs the second someone else used it?”

“It wasn’t safe.”

“It wasn’t only yours anymore,” you say, sipping your coffee. “There’s a difference.”

He chuckles softly. “You’re not wrong.”

“Of course I’m not.”

Another pause. You watch people come and go behind the glass — engineers, interns, drivers. Nobody interrupts you. They all know better. This is what you came for. The real meetings never happen in FIA rooms. They happen like this — two people sitting across a table, pretending not to size each other up.

Toto finally speaks. “You could’ve joined any team. Taken an advisory role. Sat back. Why Cadillac? Why a full team principal position with a rookie team and a target the size of a billboard?”

You stir your coffee. “Because I’m tired of fixing other people’s broken systems. I want to build something from scratch. Something that doesn’t need politics to survive.”

“You think that’s possible here?”

You meet his gaze. “Not yet. But it will be. Eventually. Maybe not this season. Maybe not for a few. But it’s coming.”

“You’re going to get hit hard.”

You nod. “I’ve been hit harder.”

A flicker of something moves across his face — approval? Curiosity? You’re not sure.

“You were right about one thing,” you add. “I don’t care about fitting in. But I do care about impact.”

He nods slowly. “Then I suggest you learn how to play the long game.”

“Oh, I’m playing it. But not with the same pieces as you.”

He stands. Not abruptly. Not coldly. Just … finished.

You rise, too.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you say.

He inclines his head. “Thanks for not flipping the table.”

“Yet.”

That earns a real laugh, short and clean.

You pause at the door, glance back. “By the way — your wind tunnel data’s off by 0.2 percent. Rear aero.”

He raises a brow. “How do you know that?”

You wink. “I read.”

Then you’re gone.

***

Back in the Cadillac garage, your lead engineer looks up from the pit wall.

“How was your playdate?”

You throw your headset down gently. “Exactly what I expected.”

He grins. “And?”

You shake your head. “He’s testing me.”

“Did you pass?”

“No idea,” you say. “But I think he did.”

The sun is lower now, but still sharp. You can feel the paddock humming again, whispers curling around your name, your car, your meetings. You let them talk.

Toto watches from across the way as you rejoin your team.

“She’s good,” says Shov, standing beside him now.

Toto doesn’t answer immediately. He watches as you lean in to talk with a mechanic, one hand on the front wing, completely in control of the chaos you’ve created.

“She’s dangerous,” Toto says.

He doesn’t sound worried. Not even a little.

He sounds … intrigued.

***

The Melbourne circuit is a festival of chaos and sunscreen. Fans draped in American flags chant CA-DIL-LAC like they’re tailgating a college football game, not watching a brand-new F1 team fumble its way through its first real Sunday.

You knew this race would be hard. You planned for it, trained for it, told everyone — including yourself — that the only goal was to finish clean.

But watching both your drivers sink like stones after Lap 15 is a different kind of pain.

The car looks fast on Fridays. Hell, it is fast in qualifying. Top ten for both drivers. You’d been calm on the pit wall then, headset snug against your ears, fingers steady on the tablet. You even let yourself believe it might hold.

But now, with ten laps to go, you’re crouched low beside the wall, headset slung around your neck like dead weight, watching the times drop sector by sector. The Caddy’s chewing through tires like they’re made of tissue paper. The balance is off. There’s understeer in the mid-speed corners. One driver is already radioing in frustration, the other’s silent. You hate the silence more.

“Y/N?” Your lead strategist calls, voice tinny in your earpiece. “We could try offsetting the stint, pit now and pray for a safety car-”

“No,” you say.

“It could-”

“No.”

He goes quiet. Everyone always goes quiet when you use that voice. The one you used in IndyCar when you were flying at 220 mph and someone told you to back off. The one that means: I’ll take the blame, but I’m not gambling just to gamble.

You don't speak for the rest of the race.

The checkered flag drops. P13 and P15. No points. You don’t move.

Eventually, the garage begins to wind down, packing gear, muttering half-hearted debriefs. You remove your headset. Stand. Leave the garage without a word.

You walk until you’re behind the pit wall again, away from the paddock, from the PR handlers and tech directors and sponsor-friendly excuses. You crouch low, same as during the race, elbows on knees, eyes on the empty straight like it might still hold some kind of answer.

It doesn’t.

Footsteps crunch softly behind you. You don’t look up.

Toto doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, looking out at the track beside you like he owns the whole place. Maybe he does.

Finally, his voice cuts through the still air.

“You don’t trust your engineers.”

You exhale through your nose. Not laughter, not quite. “That’s the problem, huh?”

He nods once. “One of them.”

You stand, slowly. Turn toward him. Your face is unreadable, but your eyes … your eyes are flint.

“I don’t trust anyone yet.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just studies you. Like a problem worth solving.

You cross your arms, lean your shoulder against the pit wall. “You think I don’t want to trust them? You think I enjoy second-guessing every call from the box, every predictive model that tells me what I should do while I watch my drivers skid through corners like amateurs?”

“No,” Toto says. “I think you were trained not to.”

That silences you. Just for a moment.

Then, voice low, “I was trained to win. In a world that didn’t expect me to survive, let alone lead.”

Toto nods. “And now?”

“Now I’m trying to lead a team that still thinks leadership means shouting louder than the telemetry.”

“You hired them.”

“I hired who was willing to jump off a cliff with me. Some of them are good. Some are bluffing. And I don’t have time to wait and see which is which when every second on track costs us ten in the media.”

Toto studies your face. You hate that he can see through you. Even more than that, you hate that you don’t want to hide.

“You miss being in the car,” he says.

The admission sits heavy in your chest, like a truth you didn’t mean to bring to the surface. You don’t answer.

“You think if you were driving, you’d have made up the time.”

Now you look at him. “I know I would’ve.”

“You would’ve overdriven it,” he says. “Tried to outmuscle the problem. It’s not the same up here.”

“I know it’s not the same.” The words come out sharp, bitter. “You think I haven’t figured that out every day since I handed my race suit to a kid half my age and told him to go make headlines?”

Toto doesn’t push. He just waits. You hate that, too.

You pace a few steps, then stop. The paddock is quieter now. The race over, the noise receding. Just the hum of logistics and engines cooling down. You’re too wired to sit, too angry to leave.

“You know what it is?” You say finally. “It’s not just the car. Or the engineers. It’s that I still see everything. Every line, every brake point, every corner entry. And I see where it’s going wrong in real time, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“You can do something about it,” Toto says. “But not everything.”

You glance at him. “That sounds suspiciously like advice.”

He smirks. “Just an observation.”

“You like doing that. Observing.”

“People reveal themselves when they’re losing.”

“And what have I revealed?”

He’s quiet for a beat too long.

“That you care more than you let on.”

You scoff. “That’s not a revelation.”

Toto shrugs. “Maybe not to you.”

A long silence stretches between you. Then you ask, almost idly, “Do you remember your first real loss as a team principal?”

He nods. “Nürburgring. 2013. We lost a front wing in Turn 2. Strategy failed. P9 and DNF.”

“And what did you do after?”

“I rebuilt the strategy department from the ground up. And hired someone who knew how to say no to me.”

You nod slowly. “Smart.”

“Painful,” he corrects. “But necessary.”

You glance down at your hands. They’re steady. They weren’t earlier, mid-race. You’d clenched the tablet so hard you left marks on the casing.

“Everyone told me to hire safe,” you say. “Experienced. People who’d been in the paddock for a decade.”

“Why didn’t you?”

You meet his eyes. “Because those people helped build the system I want to break.”

Toto’s expression shifts — something between surprise and admiration.

“And yet,” he says, “you still chose to play in the system.”

“I’m not here to burn it down. I’m here to prove it can be better.”

“And if it can’t?”

You hesitate.

“Then at least I’ll go out knowing I tried.”

There’s something raw in your voice now. Not broken. Just exposed. Toto sees it. That unrelenting belief in what this could be if you just had enough time, enough patience, enough people who gave a damn. But beneath it is the fear you don’t say aloud.

The fear that they won’t follow you.

Or worse, that they will and it still won’t be enough.

“You’re not going to get many more races like this,” Toto says, voice low. “Where no one expects anything. Where you can fail quietly.”

You nod. “I know.”

“So use them.”

You glance at him, a flicker of something like gratitude in your eyes, but it’s gone in an instant.

“Thanks for the unsolicited coaching.”

He smirks. “You’re welcome.”

You both linger in the quiet a moment longer.

Then he turns to go, footsteps slow and deliberate. Just before he disappears back toward the Mercedes motorhome, he calls over his shoulder — 

“Get some sleep. You’ll need it before Jeddah.”

You don’t answer. Just stare out at the track a moment longer.

The silence feels like failure. But beneath it, if you listen closely, there’s something else.

Resolve.

Because the difference between a broken team and a building one is just time.

And you’re not done yet.

***

The invitation arrives sealed in creamy card stock, embossed with the gold FIA crest as if that somehow softens the blow. You stare at it for a full minute before tossing it onto your desk like it’s radioactive.

“Absolutely not,” you tell your assistant without looking up.

“They said attendance is strongly encouraged.”

“So is hydration. Doesn’t mean I go to Dasani’s Christmas party.”

But hours later, after three different calls, two sponsor nudges, and one not-so-subtle email from an FIA board member about “team visibility,” you find yourself pulling on a sleek navy dress and walking into a dimly lit ballroom in London filled with too much money and too little sincerity.

The lighting is designed to make executives look interesting. It fails.

Waiters drift by with expensive wine and tiny hors d’oeuvres no one knows how to eat. Conversations bloom and die in corners. You scan the room. Everyone is here. Christian, already holding court like he’s emceeing his own eulogy. Andrea, pretending not to look bored. Zak, laughing too loudly.

You steel yourself. You can do this. Smile. Shake hands. Laugh politely at someone’s joke about American engineering.

Then you see the place card at your assigned seat and feel your stomach drop.

Y/N Y/L/N … right next to Toto Wolff.

“Of course,” you mutter under your breath, sliding into the chair just as he arrives, tall and too composed, dressed in black like he’s attending a private funeral for the concept of relaxation.

He sits with the grace of someone who’s done this too many times. “Evening.”

You nod. “They ran out of neutral corners?”

“I requested the seat.”

You blink. “Did you.”

“I was curious if you’d still try to escape halfway through the salad course.”

“That depends. Is the salad course edible?”

The corners of his mouth twitch, and just like that, the chill between you begins to thaw.

The dinner begins with toasts from people you don’t care about, celebrating values they don’t uphold. “Innovation.” “Excellence.” “Legacy.” You sip wine through the speeches and feel your spine calcify.

Toto leans in, voice low. “Do you think they rehearse those?”

“Oh, for sure,” you whisper. “Some poor intern had to time that speech to match the fireworks on the highlight reel.”

He chuckles softly, and you hate that it warms something in you.

By the second course, the wine is flowing freely and the table’s conversations splinter off. You swirl your glass, lean back, and eye him.

“So what made you request the seat, really? Curiosity? Strategy? Morbid fascination?”

He shrugs. “You interest me.”

“That’s vague.”

“So are you.”

You look away. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like you think we’re similar.”

“We are.”

You snort. “You think you’re like me?”

“I think we both don’t sleep,” he says, without missing a beat. “I think we both control more than we show. And I think we’ve both lost something that changed the shape of everything after.”

You go still.

He doesn’t push. Just sips his wine and looks out over the room.

You let the silence linger before asking, carefully, “What did you lose?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, finally, “Control. In 2021. The final race.” A pause. “I thought we were prepared for every scenario. We weren’t.”

Your voice is quieter now. “How long did it take to come back from that?”

He thinks. “I’m not sure we have.”

You nod, slowly. “I remember watching it. I was halfway through rehab. Crutches, ice machine, full of pain meds. Screamed at the TV like it was a horror movie.”

His brow lifts. “Rehab?”

You glance down. This part you don’t talk about often.

“There was a crash. IndyCar. Mid-season. Rear suspension failure at speed. Hit the wall at 220. Didn’t wake up for three minutes.”

He says nothing. Doesn’t pity. Doesn’t interrupt.

You keep going.

“Broke my femur. Collapsed lung. Grade three concussion. They told me I’d walk with a limp. I told them I had a sponsor dinner in three weeks.” You smile faintly. “The sponsor was Cadillac.”

He’s watching you now with a different kind of intensity. Not evaluative. Something softer. Earnest.

“They brought me on after,” you say. “Not just as a driver, but as part of the R&D think tank. I couldn’t race, so I built. Helped design simulator feedback loops, performance modeling.” You pause. “Three months later, they offered me a job that didn’t involve a steering wheel.”

Toto is quiet for a long moment.

“And you said yes.”

“I said I’d think about it. Then my former team tried to pin the crash on me to cover the parts failure.” You laugh once, dry. “Suddenly, I didn’t feel so sentimental about staying a driver.”

He studies you. “So this wasn’t your dream.”

“No,” you say. “This was my decision.”

That lands between you like a stone in water. Heavy, slow, true.

You glance around. The dinner’s winding down. Someone’s giving a speech that no one is listening to. Laughter bubbles at another table. Glasses clink.

Toto leans in again. “Do you miss it?”

You nod. “Every day.”

“And would you go back?”

You take a breath. “If I thought it would change anything? No. I gave everything I had to a system that didn’t protect me. Now I want to build something that does.”

His gaze softens. “And you don’t trust anyone to help.”

You meet his eyes. “Would you?”

“No.”

You laugh. This time it’s real.

Something shifts in the space between you. The air feels quieter. The noise of the room fades. It’s not romantic — not yet — but it’s intimate. Honest.

You realize you’re still looking at him. And he’s still looking at you.

That’s your cue.

You stand, smooth your dress.

“Leaving already?” He asks.

“I hate long goodbyes.”

You don’t say goodbye.

You leave through the side entrance, past the press, into the cold London night. Your car’s parked by the curb, driver waiting.

You open the door, slide in, close it-

A knock on the window.

You blink. Lower it.

Toto.

“I’m walking,” he says. “But I figured I’d see you off.”

You look at him, uncertain.

“I meant what I said,” he adds.

“About what?”

“You don’t trust anyone-”

You open your mouth to argue.

“But I’d like to change that,” he finishes.

You stare at the hum for a second too long.

He doesn’t smile. Just waits.

And for once, you don’t know what to say.

The driver asks, “Shall we go, ma’am?”

You nod.

But you look back at Toto once more before the car pulls away.

And he’s still there. Still watching.

Like maybe, just maybe, you’re worth believing in.

***

The news breaks on a Tuesday. Always a Tuesday.

You’re mid-strategy call, marker pen in hand, sketching out a race-weekend plan across three whiteboards when someone clears their throat behind you.

“Y/N,” your assistant says, hesitant. “You might want to see this.”

You glance back, ready to wave it off. You hate interruptions. But then you see her expression — careful, cautious, like she’s delivering news about a death in the family.

“What is it?”

She hands you a tablet. You don’t recognize the site at first. Not motorsport. Not serious. But the headline is loud enough to punch through:

PADDOCK POWER COUPLE? F1 INSIDERS WHISPER ABOUT CADILLAC’S Y/L/N AND MERCEDES BOSS WOLFF

You scroll. The article is trash — pure speculation, stitched together with blurry photos from the FIA dinner in London and a conveniently timed sighting of you both walking near the paddock in Jeddah. But the tone drips with implication. Power imbalance. Bedroom politics. A sidebar wonders aloud if your rapid climb in F1 might have “benefitted” from “strategic alliances.”

You feel your stomach clench.

“Who leaked this?” You demand, voice cold.

“We’re still checking. But it’s … making rounds.”

The article’s already been picked up by a dozen smaller outlets. Social media’s chewing on it like raw meat. You know how fast this kind of thing spreads. Especially when you’re the only woman in the paddock running a team. Especially when the man in question happens to run Mercedes.

You head straight for the Mercedes hospitality.

Toto’s in a meeting when you arrive. You don’t wait. You walk straight in.

The room goes silent.

“Toto,” you say, curt. “Now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Everyone out,” he says calmly.

The engineers file out quickly, eyes flicking between the two of you like they’re fleeing an earthquake.

Once the door shuts, you round on him.

“You leaked it.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Excuse me?”

“You think I wouldn’t notice the timing? The angle? It frames you like some kind of generous kingmaker and me like a fame-hungry idiot with good hair.”

“I don’t write gossip columns.”

“No, but you have people. And you like to control the story.”

He stands, slow and deliberate. He’s taller than you, but you don’t back down. Not even a millimeter.

“I don’t use people like that,” he says, voice low, tight. “Not even you.”

You blink. The sharpness of it cuts through your anger. But you don’t let it go yet.

“I’ve been here three races and already someone’s trying to rewrite my career into a tabloid plotline.”

“Yes,” he says. “Welcome to F1.”

That sets you off again. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. I’m telling you that if I wanted to manipulate you, you wouldn’t know until you were already dancing to my music. And you’re not.”

You narrow your eyes. “Flattering. So you admit there’s a game being played.”

“There’s always a game being played.”

“And what’s yours?”

He meets your gaze, unwavering. “I don’t like what they’re saying about you. Not because of me. Because you’ve earned better.”

That stops you.

You step back, slightly. Your heartbeat’s too fast, your jaw tight. You hate how much the article got to you. How much it still matters what people think, even after everything you’ve survived.

He doesn’t press.

You leave without another word.

***

It’s nearly 9 p.m. when the truth comes out.

Your head of comms calls, voice tight.

“We traced the leak. It was your junior driver’s agent. The oldest one. He tipped off a reporter. Was trying to get him a reserve driver slot with Mercedes. Thought the buzz would make him more marketable.”

You stare at the floor of your office, fury blooming again — but now it’s cleaner, more directed. And shame colors the edges. You’d aimed at the wrong target.

“Did Mercedes bite?”

“No,” she says. “Toto shut it down personally.”

You hang up. Let the phone sit heavy in your lap.

Then you stand.

***

The paddock is quiet at night. Crews have mostly gone home. The media’s packed up. The motorhomes hum softly under security lights, like sleeping giants.

You find him in the Mercedes motorhome. Lights dim, one lamp glowing in the corner. He’s alone, reading something on his phone. A glass of wine at his elbow.

He looks up as you enter. Says nothing.

You cross the room and stop beside his table.

“You were right,” you say softly.

He tilts his head. “About which thing?”

You hesitate. “Not using people.”

He gestures to the empty seat. You sit.

“I’m sorry,” you say after a long pause. “I was angry. And humiliated. And I thought-”

“You thought I was like everyone else.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He takes a slow sip of wine, then sets the glass down.

“You said it yourself,” he murmurs. “You don’t trust anyone yet.”

You glance at him. There’s no judgment in his voice. Just fact. Like he’s holding it up, not to shame you, but to understand you better.

“Why did you shut it down?” You ask.

“Because I wouldn’t want someone like that on my team. And because … I care what they say about you. Even if you don’t care what they say about me.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“I didn’t say it was your fault.”

A long silence stretches between you. The kind that used to feel awkward, but now feels full — weighted, not empty.

You reach for the bottle between you and pour a second glass. He slides it toward you, fingertips brushing lightly against yours.

You don’t pull away.

Another beat passes.

You take a sip. Then ask, quietly, “Do you miss when it was simple?”

He chuckles. “It was never simple.”

“When you were still just … managing people and not empires.”

Toto leans back in his chair. “The first time I sat on the pit wall, I thought, this is it. This is the dream. Then I realized the dream was mostly budgeting spreadsheets and answering questions about tire strategy on live TV.”

You smile faintly. “Still. You’ve built something.”

“So have you.”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

You look down, quiet again. The warmth of the wine lingers in your chest. So does his voice.

After a long stretch, you whisper, “Sometimes I feel like if I stop moving for one second, it’ll all fall apart.”

His voice softens. “And what if it doesn’t?”

You shake your head. “I can’t afford that kind of hope.”

A silence falls, but it’s not empty.

It’s full of everything unsaid.

You glance at his hand — resting on the table, fingers splayed. His other cradles the wine glass, but he isn’t drinking anymore. Just watching you.

He reaches out — lightly, deliberately — and his fingers brush yours. Just a whisper of contact.

You don’t pull away.

Not tonight.

There’s no kiss. No dramatic gesture. Just quiet. Contact. A kind of peace neither of you are used to.

He doesn’t say anything more.

And for once, neither do you.

***

The skies over Imola threaten rain all weekend, but never follow through. It’s worse than an actual storm — this looming, suspended tension that makes everyone twitchy, including you. Your engineers bicker over tire strategies, your drivers don’t trust the brake upgrades, and the data simulator is doing its best impression of a brick wall.

By the time Sunday arrives, you’ve slept four hours total in three nights and consumed more espresso than should legally be allowed.

But something clicks.

Maybe it’s the revised pit strategy. Maybe it’s the aggressive tire call on Lap 32. Maybe it’s just sheer, stubborn Cadillac will. Whatever it is, the car flies.

You don’t dare breathe during the final ten laps.

P3 is right there. Right in front of you.

When your lead driver crosses the line in fourth — just half a second off the podium — you swear the collective scream from your garage could level the surrounding trees.

It isn’t a trophy. But it’s proof.

Cadillac belongs.

You belong.

The moment feels … huge. Humbling. Everyone’s hugging. Someone pops a bottle of something probably not FIA-legal. Your driver tackles you in a sweaty embrace and you laugh for the first time in what feels like a month.

You stay late, long after the broadcast ends, surrounded by the people who have been pulling miracles from underfunded wings and sleepless nights. Mechanics. Data analysts. Your aero guy who hasn’t taken a full weekend off since Bahrain.

You’re still in the garage when the paddock starts emptying out. Your hair’s in a messy bun, race suit tied around your waist, black Cadillac t-shirt soaked with beer and effort.

You don’t notice Toto standing across the way, outside the Mercedes garage, arms folded, watching you.

He doesn’t interrupt. Just smiles to himself. Quiet. Almost proud.

You’re not his, he thinks. You belong to yourself.

And that’s so much better.

***

You stare at the hotel ceiling for thirty minutes before giving in.

You don’t want to be alone. Not tonight. Not with this weird ache in your chest that’s part adrenaline, part exhaustion, part something you can’t name.

You don’t even think about it. You just throw on a hoodie over your sleep shirt and walk down the hotel corridor barefoot, still slightly buzzed on the ghost of the race.

His door is ajar.

He opens it before you knock.

You blink. “Were you expecting someone?”

He leans on the doorframe, not smiling. Not serious. “Not exactly.”

You exhale. “Can I come in?”

He steps back. “Always.”

His suite is quiet. Low lighting. A decanter on the table, half-full. A few race notes open on a tablet, abandoned. He closes it as you walk in.

“Sorry. I should’ve — this was probably stupid.”

“You want to be alone but not alone,” he says, like he’s read this chapter before.

You nod. “Is that allowed?”

He tilts his head. “With me? Yes.”

You sit on the edge of the couch. He offers you a drink. You decline. He pours you water instead.

Silence stretches.

“So,” he says eventually. “P4.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “I didn’t think we’d make it out of Q2 this weekend. Then the car just … worked.”

“It was aggressive,” he says. “Risky strategy.”

“I had to trust the numbers. And my gut.”

“Did it feel like being back in the car?”

You glance at him. “Exactly like that. Except worse. Because now I’m responsible for six hundred people and not just me.”

“Do you regret it?” He asks. “This life?”

You think about it.

“No,” you say. “But it’s lonelier than I thought it’d be.”

He doesn’t answer. Just sits next to you on the couch, not close enough to touch, but not far either.

You lean your head back.

“I used to think even the little wins would feel more final. Like they’d fix something. Or earn back everything I lost.”

“And now?”

“Now I think they’re just proof you survived long enough to try again.”

He nods. “That’s all this sport is. Trying again.”

You’re quiet.

And then, because it’s late and you’re exhausted and this version of the world feels gentler than the one outside, you ask, “What were you like before all this?”

He smiles faintly. “Angrier. Less patient. I thought I could control everything.”

“Bet that worked out well.”

“I crashed a GT3 car into a wall at Red Bull Ring once because I didn’t want to lose to a guy half my age. Broke three ribs. Didn’t tell anyone.”

You laugh. “Seriously?”

He nods. “Pain is a better teacher than pride.”

You watch him for a moment.

“There’s something I haven’t told anyone,” you say. “Not even my team.”

He looks at you, waiting.

“I still hear the crash sometimes. In my dreams. It’s never loud. Just … this sharp silence before everything shatters. I wake up before the impact.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just sits still.

“It’s not that I want to drive again,” you continue. “I just want to stop remembering.”

Toto’s voice is quiet. “That doesn’t go away. But it stops owning you.”

You look down at your hands.

“You know,” you say softly, “for someone so famously calculating, you’re weirdly good at this.”

“At what?”

“This. Being … human.”

He shrugs. “Takes practice.”

You don’t realize how close he’s sitting until your shoulders brush.

But he doesn’t make a move. Doesn’t touch you. Just sits with you.

You fall asleep like that. On the couch, legs tucked under you, head tilted back, listening to the sound of his quiet breathing beside you.

***

When you wake, it’s still dark.

You’re not on the couch anymore.

You’re in his bed. Still fully clothed. The covers pulled gently around you.

Toto’s on the couch now, asleep, arms folded, as if he’s been guarding something.

The ache in your chest is different this morning. Deeper.

You slide out of bed quietly. Pad over to him.

He stirs.

“You should’ve let me stay on the couch,” you whisper.

“I didn’t think you’d sleep like that.”

You hesitate.

“Thank you,” you say.

He nods. Doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t ask for anything.

And that’s somehow what unravels you most.

Because for the first time in a long time, someone wanted nothing from you except to let you rest.

And you have no idea what to do with that kind of kindness.

So you just stand there, caught in the early morning light and everything unsaid between you.

Not lovers. Not yet.

But something real.

And quietly — terrifyingly — you realize you don’t want to lose it.

***

Toto pulls away the next weekend.

No message. No follow-up. Nothing.

He nods at you in the paddock like you’re just another team principal. His smile is neutral, professional, precise. Mercedes posts their usual press photos — clean, sterile, branded to hell. Your name doesn’t pass his lips.

And you know what this is.

He’s building a wall.

You see it in the stiff set of his shoulders at the team principals' meeting in Spain. The clipped tone he uses when you pass him in the paddock in Montreal. You say “morning.” He says “yep.”

You want to punch something. Preferably him.

But instead, you bury yourself in upgrades. Your tech director calls it obsessive. Your engineers call it inspiring. You call it survival.

The new front wing design works in the wind tunnel. You burn through simulations like caffeine, throw out half the aero plan and rebuild it from scratch. Every sleepless night, every ignored text, every time you walk past Toto and feel nothing from him fuels you like gasoline.

You tell your team: Silverstone is ours. They believe you.

It starts raining during FP2.

You grin at the sky like it’s personal.

***

You don’t speak to Toto all weekend.

Not during track walks. Not during press conferences. Not even when your drivers both qualify in the top six and the entire paddock starts whispering that Cadillac might actually do it.

And then race day comes.

And you finally snap.

He’s in the pit lane before the race, talking to someone from Pirelli. You see him out of the corner of your eye as you’re checking tire pressures with your race engineer.

You don’t even think about it.

You march across the line.

“Hey.”

He turns. Sees you. Hesitates. “Y/N.”

You’re already furious. His voice — his face — ignites something in your chest that feels suspiciously like heartbreak but tastes like gasoline.

“I get it,” you say. “You pulled back. You’re scared. Fine. But at least have the spine to say it to my face.”

He glances around. The pit lane’s crowded, noisy, full of mechanics and techs and photographers. It doesn’t matter. You’re locked in.

“I’m not scared,” he says.

You step closer. “Then what is it? You changed overnight. One minute I wake up in your hotel room, and the next you’re acting like I’m a PR liability.”

“You’re not.”

“Then stop treating me like one.”

“I’m treating you like someone who terrifies me.”

That halts you.

You blink. “What?”

Toto runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. “You terrify me. Because you make me forget how much this job costs. How many knives are out. How easy it is to lose everything.”

“And?”

“And I like it. I like you. Too much.”

You stare at him.

“Then say it,” you demand.

“I just did.”

“No. Say the part where you let yourself want something. Say the part where you’re not a control freak running scared because someone finally sees you.”

“You don’t get it,” he says, voice low. “I can’t afford the distraction.”

“You think I can?” You snap. “You think I can afford to feel anything and still wake up every morning knowing the sport I bled for will never respect me the way it respects you?”

Toto’s jaw tightens.

“I see you,” you say, softer now. “Even when you hide. I still see you.”

He doesn’t answer.

Then the call comes over the loudspeaker. “Formation lap in thirty.”

You walk away first. No dramatic exit. Just one last glance.

His eyes are still on you.

***

The rain starts on Lap 23.

It’s light at first — enough to make the track glisten, not enough for inters. Half the grid hesitates. The other half spins.

Your radio explodes with chatter.

“Front’s going — too slick — should we box?”

Your lead driver’s voice is ragged with tension.

Your race engineer is mid-debate when you pull the headset off him and grab the mic yourself.

“Box now,” you say. “Full inters. Don’t argue.”

The pit crew isn’t ready. You scream at them through the rain.

“Get the tires! Now! Get the goddamn tires!”

It’s chaos. But somehow, your driver’s in and out faster than the Red Bull next to him. Two laps later, half the grid is pitting. The other half is aquaplaning off the track.

You take a deep breath.

“Tell him to defend like hell. We are not giving this away.”

***

Cadillac wins its first Grand Prix on Lap 52 of a rain-soaked Silverstone.

Your driver screams across the radio. Your garage erupts. Mechanics cry. Engineers kiss. Your comms chief sprints into your arms like a lunatic and you let her because right now you’ve done it.

You did it.

You lift the headset off, rain slicking down your arms.

The trophy is heavy and ridiculous. Champagne stings your eyes. The Star-Spangled Banner plays, and for a moment, the sound of thousands of people screaming drowns out everything else.

You scan the crowd from the podium.

Toto isn’t there.

You search for him anyway.

He’s already gone.

***

Back at the garage, they replay the race on the screens while your team takes selfies with the trophy. Someone made an edit out of your pit wall scream. You’re soaked and exhausted and still vibrating with adrenaline, but all you can think is he wasn’t even there.

Your assistant hands you a towel. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you lie.

“You sure?”

You look up at the sky. Rain’s easing now. The world smells like wet tarmac and victory.

“I’m not sure of anything,” you say. “But we won.”

She smiles. “That’s something.”

You nod.

But it’s not everything.

Not tonight.

***

It’s Friday. Spa. The garage smells like rubber and heat and stress, like it always does when qualifying’s creeping up and the sensors keep glitching. You’re elbow-deep in a conversation about tire deg curves when someone taps your shoulder.

You turn, expecting your race engineer or maybe a PR rep with bad news.

Instead, it’s Toto Wolff.

You blink.

He’s standing there in black Mercedes team kit, sunglasses hooked in his collar, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only person in the damn paddock.

You say, sharp as ever, “Lost, Wolff?”

“No.”

“You’re in enemy territory.”

“I’m aware.”

Your crew is watching from the corners of their eyes, pretending not to. Someone coughs awkwardly.

You nod toward the back. “Office.”

He follows you through the garage, past spare parts and laptops and the low hum of tension. Inside your office, you shut the door. The silence is sudden and thick.

You cross your arms. “What?”

Toto doesn’t sit. Doesn’t pace. Just stands in front of your desk like he’s about to confess to corporate espionage.

“I watched Silverstone,” he says.

You arch a brow. “Congratulations. You and seventy-five million others.”

“I watched you.”

Something in your stomach tenses.

He swallows. “I left because I was afraid. Of the distraction. Of what this could cost me. Of how easily you could undo me without even trying.”

You stay still.

He takes a step closer.

“But I’m tired of safety,” he says. “I’m tired of guarding everything I’ve built like it’s sacred when it’s already broken. You make me want to risk things I’ve spent over a decade protecting.”

You feel the breath leave your body.

“Toto,” you start.

“No,” he interrupts, voice low and serious and unmistakably yours. “Let me finish.”

You let him.

“I haven’t slept right since Imola. I think about you when I watch your pit wall react to strategy calls. I read your press conferences just to see if you mention me. I see you with your team, and I think this is what it’s supposed to look like. Not the polished machine I’ve kept running on habit and fear.”

You don’t move.

You can’t.

He steps even closer.

“And the worst part is, I don’t want to stop.”

You inhale, slow and sharp. “Then don’t.”

The kiss isn’t soft.

It’s not gentle or delicate or romantic in the storybook sense.

It’s need. Weeks of it. Months, maybe. Pinned under frustration and silence and professionalism.

His hands find your waist like they’ve been waiting to memorize it. Your fingers dig into his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear again. His mouth is warm, urgent, a little desperate. Yours is no better.

You pull back once. Just enough to say, “Close the door properly.”

He does.

***

His suite smells like coffee and paper. His race notes are scattered across the desk. You don’t even get halfway to the bed before he’s kissing you again — slower this time, but no less hungry.

He doesn’t rush.

And neither do you.

Because if this is a bad decision, you’re going to make it the best bad decision either of you has ever had.

You undress him carefully. He does the same, unhurried, reverent. He touches your shoulder like it’s something holy. You run your hands down his spine like you want to remember how his body fits against yours.

The bed is large and too white, but he warms it like he’s made of fire.

The intimacy isn't in the sex itself — it’s in the way he kisses your throat afterward, in the way you curl into his chest without asking, in the way his hand finds yours under the covers like a reflex.

You fall asleep with your head on his shoulder.

He breathes evenly for the first time in months.

***

You wake to the smell of coffee.

His room is flooded with pale Belgian morning light. Your clothes are still scattered, but you don’t care. You find his white Mercedes button-up hanging over the back of a chair and shrug it on. The sleeves drown your hands. The collar smells like him — clean, expensive, slightly burned espresso.

You walk barefoot into the suite’s kitchen area.

He’s standing over a French press, eyebrows furrowed, as if he’s trying to solve an engineering problem with the water temperature.

He glances up. His expression softens the second he sees you.

“You’re stealing my shirt,” he says.

“It’s not stealing if you weren’t wearing it.”

He hands you a mug. “That’s not how shirts work.”

“It is now.”

You both sit at the table, quiet for a few beats. It’s domestic. Too domestic. You in his shirt, him sipping coffee in boxers and half-mussed hair.

You glance at him over the rim of your mug. “So. What now?”

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I’m not going to disappear again.”

You nod slowly.

“I’m still Cadillac,” you say.

“I know.”

“You’re still Mercedes.”

He nods. “Yes.”

“And this is … very stupid.”

“It’s the stupidest thing I’ve done in years.”

You grin. “Good. I hate being the only reckless one.”

He leans back, watching you. “I’m serious, Y/N. This won’t be simple.”

“I know.”

“There will be questions.”

“There always are.”

He watches you for a long moment. “You’re not scared?”

“I am,” you say honestly. “But I’ve been scared before. Didn’t stop me then either.”

He smiles.

You drink your coffee. The silence between you isn’t awkward anymore. It’s thick with possibility.

Eventually, you stand. “I should go. FP3 in a few.”

He stands too. “I’ll see you on track.”

You smirk. “Try not to stare too hard.”

“I’m not making any promises.”

You walk to the door. He follows.

Before you leave, he says, voice low, “I meant what I said. You make me want things I thought I buried.”

You kiss him one more time — just soft enough to make him curse under his breath.

“I’ll see you out there,” you say.

And then you walk back into the world, still wearing his shirt, heart beating faster than it ever did in a race car.

***

It starts with a headline.

Love in the Wolff Den: F1 Power Couple or Conflict of Interest?

Then come the blurry photos. Your hand on his chest. His fingers brushing your jaw. Grainy, flash-washed shots snapped from across a Stavelot hotel lobby that make everything look sleazier than it was.

It spreads like wildfire. Not just gossip sites, but major outlets — Sky, Motorsport, Bloomberg, for God’s sake. Everyone with a byline and an opinion suddenly thinks they understand what this is, what you are.

And then come the calls.

Not from your comms team. Not from PR.

From the board.

You’re standing in the middle of Cadillac’s race operations suite in Indiana when it comes in — your CFO, voice clipped, polite, fake. He phrases it delicately, like it’s your idea. Optics, you understand. Just a temporary step back, maybe for the rest of the season. Let things cool off. He uses the word “professionalism” three times in one sentence. You count.

“You’re asking me to sideline myself,” you say, tone dangerously calm. “Over a man.”

“It’s not that-”

“It is that.”

“There’s pressure. External. The headlines are framing it as a conflict. You’re both decision-makers. If this were a boardroom-”

“It’s not a boardroom. It’s a goddamn pit lane.”

He doesn’t argue. Which pisses you off more.

***

Toto’s phone doesn’t stop buzzing either.

He ignores it until it starts vibrating his desk.

Shaila barges in. “You need to respond.”

“I have,” he says, flipping through tire comp analysis. “I told them I wasn’t leaking strategy to my girlfriend over breakfast.”

She blinks. “You called her your girlfriend?”

He glances up. “That’s the word everyone else is using.”

“Okay,” she says carefully. “Well. The shareholders want a closed-door call. Today. They’re throwing around words like ‘governance’ and ‘interteam transparency.’”

He exhales through his nose. His jaw tightens.

“Tell them I’ll take the call after I finish reviewing the telemetry,” he says. “But if they suggest I pull back from managing the team over something that hasn’t affected a single race outcome, I’ll remind them that Ferrari and McLaren literally ran a married couple in engineering for five years.”

“Noted,” Shaila says, and walks out with the speed of someone who wants to live.

***

You don’t talk for three days.

Not because you’re angry at each other.

Because you’re both working.

Because the world is watching.

Because you’re trying — maybe futilely — to hold your ground.

You’re staring at a mockup of the new rear wing, not really seeing it, when Derek, your number two, comes into your office.

“You’re going to want to see this,” he says.

You look up. “Is it a fire?”

“Sort of.”

He turns the monitor toward you.

You squint.

It’s a live press conference. Mercedes-branded backdrop. Toto behind the mic.

Someone off-camera asks, “Toto, with recent rumors about your relationship with Cadillac’s team principal, how do you respond to those saying it presents a conflict of interest?”

He doesn’t even flinch.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that it’s interesting how quickly some people invoke ‘conflict of interest’ when a woman dares to take up space at the same table.”

Your breath catches.

“In this sport,” he continues, “we celebrate cutthroat negotiations. Aggressive contracts. Power plays. But the second a woman builds something formidable, people start calling it a threat.”

He’s calm. Surgical. But you can see the steel under his words.

“I have not compromised my team. She has not compromised hers. We are professionals. We are rivals. And if anyone believes the existence of mutual respect — or affection — between two team principals undermines the integrity of the championship, perhaps their issue isn’t with governance. It’s with equality.”

Someone tries to interrupt. He cuts them off with a single glance.

“And for the record,” he adds, “she’s done more in four months to shake this sport out of its stagnation than most of us have in ten years. I suggest we stop punishing her for succeeding.”

The clip ends.

Derek looks at you. “That was a choice.”

You stare at the screen for a long time.

Then you stand.

“Cancel my dinner with marketing,” you say. “And get me a driver to the hotel.”

***

It’s late. You don’t knock.

Toto opens the door like he’s been expecting you.

You step inside. Neither of you says anything for a beat.

He closes the door behind you. “I didn’t do it for a thank you.”

“Good,” you say. “Because you’re not getting one.”

A pause.

You look at him, all carefully unbuttoned collar and tired eyes, and say, quieter now, “But I saw it.”

“I meant it,” he says simply.

You sit down on the edge of the couch. Your hands are still curled into fists.

“You know I almost agreed to step back?” You admit. “Just for a second. I thought maybe it would make everything easier.”

“And then?”

You look up. “And then I realized I didn’t fight this hard to build something just to let them push me out the second I’m inconvenient.”

He watches you. “No. You didn’t.”

You swallow. “You didn’t have to speak up.”

“Yes,” he says, crossing to you, “I did.”

He kneels in front of you, hands resting on your knees.

“This sport chews people up,” he says. “It makes us choose between the parts of ourselves we care about most. But you … you make me remember why I cared in the first place.”

You study him. His face is open, unguarded in a way you don’t think he’s ever allowed himself to be on purpose.

You speak slowly. “We’re both trying to build empires.”

He nods. “Yes.”

“Let’s see if we can share one.”

His smile is small. Real. “God help Formula 1.”

You lean in.

This kiss is different.

It’s not born from tension or defiance. It’s something else. An alignment. A decision.

You don’t say you love him. Not yet.

But it’s there. In the way your hand rests on his cheek. In the way he kisses you like he’s found a home.

***

The next morning, a headline reads:

WOLFF AND Y/L/N: FORMULA 1’S NEW POWER COUPLE GOES PUBLIC

You sip your coffee and shrug.

Toto glances over. “You’re not going to throw your phone this time?”

You grin. “Depends. Did you leak it?”

He raises a brow. “Did you want me to leak it?”

You laugh.

And then the day begins.

Because empires don’t build themselves.

But maybe you don’t have to build them alone.

[hearts4hughes]

THE INTERVIEW

clark kent x journalist!reader | note: POSSIBLE SPOILERS!! (writing is similar/based off of an actual scene in the movie). this movie altered my brain chemistry permanently!!

“clark,” you groan, head in your hands. “you agreed to the interview.” you squeeze your eyes shut, pinching the bridge of your nose for the tenth time in an hour. clark stands across from you, still clad in his work clothes. one hand is on his hip, the other is tangled in his hair.

when you walked into your apartment after work, the kitchen smelt like your favorite bacon and unconditional love. he stood at the stove, scrambling eggs in that shirt that hugged his muscles in all the right places, his glasses thrown to the side. and you weren’t sure if it was your new perfume or how your white blouse exposed a little too much cleavage, but he somehow proposed the idea of you interviewing him…as superman.

that idea didn’t age well.

“yeah, yeah,” he murmurs, hands coming up to rub his face. a beat or two passes before he exhales deeply and plops down onto the couch near you. “ok, you can go on.”

you nod, relaxing your shoulders, and pressing the button on your recording device. your voice stays even, press trained and merciless. you don’t flinch as you speak, though he’s sitting barely two feet away, practically vibrating with tension. “last week,” you say, not looking at him, “you destroyed three city blocks in centennial park. witnesses say the fight lasted six minutes. forty-two injured. six in critical condition. care to comment?”

clark’s jaw tics. he shifts forward, forearms resting on his knees, spine bowed like he’s trying to make himself smaller in the space. as if that’s possible. “there was a creature,” he says carefully, like the words themselves might fracture. “from off world. i tried to lead it away, but-”

“but you didn’t.” you cut in, eyes sharp. he freezes, glancing down at the red blinking device. the recorder sits on the coffee table between you like a bomb waiting to go off.

his brows draw together. “i couldn’t.”

“you could’ve gone higher. you could’ve left the planet. civilians say you threw it through a school.” he flinches, barely, but you catch it, and for a second you hate yourself for it. as much as it pains you to talk to him like this, someone has to. after all, the only other person who gets to interview superman is clark kent.

clark runs a hand through his hair. his tie’s gone, his collar’s unbuttoned, and he looks like he hasn’t slept since the fight. which, knowing him, he probably hasn’t. not with the guilt. not with the way he carries the world like it’s stitched into his skin. “i did what i had to,” he says lowly. “if i hadn’t stopped it there, it would’ve reached the reservoir and poisoned the whole water supply.”

you press your pen to the pad. “so the ends justify the means?” it’s a routine question. you would’ve asked anyone. it’s something meant to keep the ball rolling, but to him, it was so much more.

his head snaps up. his eyes go from blue skies to deep storms. now his voice isn’t soft. “is that really what you think?”

you hesitate. “i’m asking questions.”

he laughs under his breath, humorless, and taut. his hands are clenched, his jaw flexed, and he’s walking a thin line between patience and anger. “no—you’re making judgments.”

“i’m doing my job.” you retort, eyes widening as you make your point. “and you’re on the record, superman.”

he springs to his feet, the floorboards creak under his weight. and then he’s pacing. it’s back-and-fourth and relentless. his finger is pinching his chin as he wonders how superman would respond. he drops his hands to his sides, flexing them out. “i had to do something.” he finally says. his voice is hard and closed off. “if i didn’t, there would be a lot more in critical condition than six.” his tone is direct, but there’s a quiver you catch. “at least i did something.” he’s saying it to you as much as he is to himself.

you watch him pace. that infuriating, gorgeous back-and-forth like he’s dragging the weight of the world in every step. the floorboards are seconds from giving out under the pressure of who he is.

at least i did something.

the words hang in the air like smoke—thick and impossible to absorb. “you think i don’t know that?” you shoot back, rising to your feet before you even realize it. your voice isn’t measured anymore. it’s hot and breathless. you’re not reading off your notepad anymore. all the HR training courses that have been nailed into your head disappear within a second. “oh, wait—maybe i don’t know,” you stifle out a laugh, “because you don’t fucking tell me anything!”

his shoulders go rigid. “i didn’t tell you,” he says, still not looking at you, “because i didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“like what?” you demand, stepping forward. “a man who bleeds?”

“a man who fails.” the silence swallows everything. he finally turns to face you and he looks wrecked. not bruised or beaten, but cracked straight down the center. his hair’s a mess from his hands, his mouth drawn tight, his eyes a battlefield.

you should sit back down. get control of the conversation, but your body doesn’t move. “you didn’t fail,” you say, voice low. “you were brutal. you were messy. you scared people. but you didn’t fail.”

clark’s chest rises, sharp and heavy. “but i scared you, didn’t i?” his words are dangerous. he’s teetering on the edge of something he hates to consider.

you don’t answer. you don’t have to. it’s in your stance. it’s in the way your hands tremble—clenched and alive with too much adrenaline. it’s in the way your eyes haven’t left his mouth since he started talking like that. like he’s more man than myth, and he knows exactly how much you want to break your own rules for him.

“maybe,” you whisper. his breath catches. you don’t know who moves first, but suddenly he’s there, right in front of you, and you don’t remember closing the distance. you don’t remember dropping the recorder. it’s just him, one hand cupping your jaw like you’re something fragile, the other curling around your hip, and he’s looking at you like he’s about to go to war for the right to keep you. “you scared me,” you admit, softer now. “but that’s not what this is.”

he swallows harshly, eyes scanning yours for some kind of hidden message. “what is this?”

you hesitate, “this is me not knowing whether to kiss you or scream at you.”

clark lets out a shaky, near-broken laugh. “you can do both.”

then his mouth crashes into yours. he kisses you like he needs you to stay anchored. like the fight never ended, and you’re the only thing in the world strong enough to hold him down. his lips are soft but unrelenting, tongue sweeping against yours with a kind of urgency you’ve only ever experienced with him, hands moving from your jaw to your waist, gripping like he wants to memorize every angle of you.

you gasp into his mouth, and he swallows it, groaning low in his throat. your fingers fist in his shirt, pulling at it until it’s untucked, until you can get your hands under the hem and feel that heat. he’s solid under your palms, warm in a way that doesn’t feel human. he pulls back just enough to murmur, “bedroom?” against your mouth.

you nod with no hesitation. but he doesn’t wait for directions. he knows—he’s memorized the layout of your apartment, of your body, of the sound you make when he touches you just there. he lifts you like you weigh nothing, like he’s done it a thousand times in dreams he’d never admit to.

and when your back hits the mattress, and he settles over you, eyes dark and devout, breath shaky, you know this isn’t about the interview anymore.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey @katiebby04 @kelbrave @bebebambs @leviathan0000 @yolgart @jkmylove97 @blushhbambi @lightreadingty

[mk-wizard]

Agreed.

It also reminds me of a gag comic I saw where a vampire had just killed a guy and he is about to be slain, but then he demands to be treated like a person and not like a monster just because he's a vampire. The crowd thinks on and they're like... "Ok, we'll treat you just like we do a human."

Then the scene changes to a courtroom and the vampire being tried as guilty for manslaughter. In other words... we ARE judging the creature in this case by their actions and even if they were human, what they're doing is still bad. I mean, there is a lot fiction out there where vampires don't hurt anyone and those ones do get recognized and as well as amnesty as long as they abide by the law, but if a vampire or something is killer, it's not bigoted to recognize that they are dangerous. It's reality because there is absolutely no situation where it's ok to kill a person just for the heck of it.

If you're siding with a vampire who never hurt anyone and their entire life and they just want to be left alone while feeding off of animals, ok. I do too. But if you're siding with a vampire who kills humans when they don't have to and just wants a free pass at treating humans like food or toys, it makes me question who's side you're on.

the reason "robot racism" is often a really stupid metaphor is the same reason that like. discrimination against demons or vampires or whatever doesn't work, is because there's often a pretty justified reasons humans are scared of vampires or robots or whatever, in a way that doesn't apply to real life minorities, like a fantasy author will be like "the reason vampires are discriminated against is because most of them and kill and eat people for fun and pleasure, and so humans respond by trying to kill them, isn't that so sad" and like no that's a perfectly fine reason to not trust vampires i think.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 || 𝚗𝚒𝚔𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚑𝚕 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you didn't need to be loud to show your love

There was no pregame ritual. No lucky socks, no handshake choreography, no superstitious playlist. Not for you. You didn’t need any of that, not when you had her eyes.

Every time she stepped onto the court, Nika didn’t have to look for you. She just… found you. Like muscle memory. Like instinct. Like gravity, except heavier.

You weren’t anything loud. You didn’t wear her jersey. Didn’t paint your face or wave signs and make a scene. Most fans never even noticed you. That was the point.

But Nika always did.

It would start during warmups, right after she peeled off her shooting shirt, hair pulled back tight, her expression somewhere between mischief and menace. She’d glance once toward the student section, then again, slower. She never smiled. Never waved. But you’d catch it—the shift in her shoulders, the flicker behind her eyes. That subtle straightening of her spine.

She saw you. And you gave her that one nod.

It wasn’t performative. You weren’t her cheerleader. You weren’t even technically supposed to be there this early before the game. You were just… you. Tucked quietly behind the bench, hands in your jacket pockets, holding your breath every time she drove the lane.

Tonight was no different.

Big game, packed crowd at home court. The kind of electricity that made the floor hum under your shoes. Reporters everywhere, cameras everywhere, murmurs about this being one of those games. The ones people remember.

Nika’s jaw was tight during introductions. She bounced on her toes during the anthem. You saw the flick of her eyes once, side to side, and waited.

During a timeout, she sat on the bench, towel slung across her neck, water bottle resting against her knee. Coach barked something she didn’t really hear. Her chest rose once, tight and shallow. Her gaze drifted past the scorers table, past the crowd and landed on you.

You didn’t blink. Just gave her the nod.

Nika exhaled through her nose, jaw loosening, expression shifting from clenched to locked in. Like your nod rewired her. Like her nerves short circuited and recalibrated just from seeing you.

It was your thing. Your language.

She never talked to you during games. Not once. Not even when she dropped 20 points in a half. Not when she slipped on a slick spot under the basket and popped up like nothing happened. Not when she got in a ref’s face or broke a press or hit a buzzer beater that made the entire crowd levitate.

But she always, always found you.

Even if it was just a glance before a free throw. Even if it was just that single moment of connection across the arena chaos.

And somehow, even in all the noise, you were still the quietest thing she knew.

You first met on a Wednesday.

Not a remarkable day or a meet cute. You were just finishing an extra lifting session in the athletic facility gym when she wandered in looking for the trainer. You were sweaty, annoyed, and elbow deep in re-racking weights that weren’t yours.

Nika squinted at you like she was trying to place you, like your presence irritated her. You thought she’d turn around and leave, but she didn’t. She crossed the gym, leaned one forearm on the bench beside you, and said, “You do this every night?”

You didn’t look at her. “Only when people leave their mess behind.”

That made her smile, barely. “You mad at someone or just… angry in general?”

You arched an eyebrow. “Do you always start conversations by insulting people?”

She didn’t flinch. “Do you always answer questions with questions?”

You turned to her fully, half daring, half curious. “Do you always flirt with people while they’re benching?”

She blinked. Something in her expression shifted, more intrigue than offense. “Who says I’m flirting?”

You stood, towel in hand, pulse low but charged. “No one. Just a guess.”

You started wiping down the bench, pretending her stare didn’t follow your every motion. She stayed silent, watching.

“What’s your name?”

You gave it.

She didn’t offer hers. She didn’t have to.

You already knew who she was.

It wasn’t some epic love story from the jump. You didn’t fall into each other in one night. It was more like, you kept showing up. And so did she.

Late nights. Shared workouts. Unspoken respect. Your schedules didn’t match but your tempo did. She never asked questions she didn’t already know the answer to. You never pretended to be impressed when she flexed.

You matched each other’s pace. two intense, private people who found peace in silence and fire in eye contact.

She didn’t flirt traditionally. No sweet nothings or romantic clichés. She flirted through action. Through how she adjusted your form during squats. Through how she always refilled your water bottle without asking. Through how she’d walk behind you during late-night lifts, quietly mouthing the count of your reps, like she knew you’d hit failure before you did.

And slowly, your silence turned into something warmer. Something woven.

Something that looked like love.

In the next timeout, she glanced toward you again.

You didn’t nod this time. Just tilted your head slightly. It was a small shift, almost imperceptible. But Nika caught it.

She smirked.

It was gone in half a second. But you saw it.

She was locked in now. Which meant the game was about to get dangerous… for the other team.

You didn’t need to cheer. Didn’t need to wave your arms or mouth ‘let’s go’ or send a wink. Nika knew. You were there. She was seen. That was enough.

Always was.

[zerocoded]

summary: your estranged grandmother left you exactly one thing in her will: a sprawling luxury apartment in the heart of seoul — the kind of place that could singlehandedly cover your entire college tuition if you ever decided to sell it. now you had a penthouse all to yourself, a pink-tiled kitchen you weirdly adored, and a hopeless, slow-burning crush on the absurdly attractive neighbor who barely looked your way.

authors note: double update yayyyy! i hope you guys enjoy it, have a nice read! 😎

disclaimer: tumblr has a limit paragraphs block and i didn't know about that until now 🤡🤡, so when i tried to upload this chapter as a whole, it didn't let me. so this chapter was splitted in two (4th and 5th chapter of this story). this the direct continuation of the last chapter. the warnings will be only copy and pasted, so they are the same for the two parts. the word count was originally 35.1k.

warnings and tags: mommy issues • cancer treatment mention (chemotherapy) • sunghoon is whipped • sunghoon and reader are so domestic on this one i swear • chef sunghoon and menace niki (as usual) • again, i should remember everyone that jungwon is fully tatted in this au • poor attempt at comedy • suggestive! • we're horny i'm sorry • desperate!sunghoon • sunghoon calls reader doll, i'm sorry if you don't fw that • a tiny bit angst if you squint • fluff and drama • the whole last scene is a little bit cringe and i won't apologize for it • graphic description of making out, but no smut 😈

word count: 17k (pls read the disclaimer)

previous chapters: series masterlist.

cleaning up the screening room was quicker than you expected.

not because the mess was small — half the floor was covered in popcorn and questionable throw pillows, and someone had somehow spilled grape soda behind the couch — but because jungwon took over like a mob boss assigning hits.

“niki,” he said, pointing at the soda disaster, “clean that before it stains.”

“sunoo, take the mugs.”

“you—” he turned to you, already holding a dustpan— “actually, you can sit down.”

you blinked. “i can help.”

jungwon raised a single eyebrow. slowly. like he wasn’t surprised, just vaguely disappointed in your predictability.

“you’ve had a long day,” he said — not unkind, but in that final-sounding tone that made you feel like you’d just been handed a polite command wrapped in velvet.

his voice didn’t bite. it didn’t scold. but it didn’t leave much room for argument either.

still, you stepped forward anyway, crouched near the low table, and started picking up the nearest trail of snack wrappers like your pride depended on it.

“i’m fine,” you said — too quickly, probably.

jungwon watched you for a second longer, then sighed through his nose like someone spiritually tired of your nonsense.

“we’re aware,” he muttered. “but just because you’re fine doesn’t mean you need to be on your feet right now.”

his hand reached over to take the wrappers from yours — gently, like he wasn’t trying to make a point, just take something heavy off your plate.

then he wiped a small smudge from the table with the edge of his sleeve, as if that was just part of the job.

and walked away.

you stayed kneeling there a moment longer, blinking down at the spot he’d just cleaned, weirdly touched by the whole interaction.

he hadn’t treated you like glass. not quite. but he’d seen something in you worth protecting — and that wasn’t something you were used to.

you straightened slowly, glancing toward the others. they were still half-engaged in the great dishwashing debate, with jake now arguing that “soulmate hospitality” legally absolved you of chores for at least a week.

sunoo had started organizing mugs into categories by aesthetic. niki was hiding behind the couch. poorly. heeseung was pretending not to notice any of it.

and then —

“you’re not supposed to be doing that.”

you turned your head just in time to see sunghoon reappear from wherever the hell he’d vanished to after the movie ended.

leaning against the big screen now, arms crossed again, hair slightly tousled like he’d run a hand through it on his way in.

his eyes locked on yours immediately.

you narrowed yours. “doing what?”

he tilted his head. “anything.”

you huffed. “okay, but that’s vague and unreasonable.”

“it’s what we agreed,” he said, like that settled it. “you rest. we take care of it.”

you crossed your arms to match him, even if yours were slightly less intimidating and significantly more hoodie-covered. “i don’t remember agreeing to that.”

sunghoon didn’t flinch. didn’t even blink.

“that’s what i was going to talk to you about,” he said, voice quieter now. “it’s your first night here. we should talk.”

you paused.

just for a second.

“oh, right.”

you pushed off the couch slowly, brushing imaginary dust from your borrowed hoodie, suddenly too aware of how small you must’ve looked kneeling on the floor like that.

you weren’t exactly nervous — but there was a flicker of something, somewhere between tension and anticipation, winding itself low in your stomach.

you tucked your hands into the sleeves, just for something to do.

“okay,” you said, meeting his gaze again. “then talk.”

“you should eat something first,” sunghoon said, voice low and steady — not a suggestion, not quite a command, but something in between.

you blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “i’m not hungry.”

he tilted his head slightly, eyes steady. “you should.”

you stared at him, ready to push back. to tell him that you were fine, that you didn’t need anyone worrying over your appetite — that you hadn’t needed that kind of attention in years. but the words caught in your throat before they could land.

because now that he’d said it — you should eat — you realized… you hadn’t.

not since before the hospital. not since you woke up sweating and confused. not since the shower.

your brows furrowed. you did the math in your head. twenty-four hours. probably more.

no meals. no snacks. not even water.

you should have felt faint. weak. aching with emptiness. but instead, you felt strangely level — not energized, not sleepy, just… regulated. like your body had decided not to need anything without asking your permission.

and sunghoon — of course — noticed your silence before you could speak.

he didn’t press. just studied your face for a moment longer before offering, quietly,

“it’s the bond.”

your breath hitched. not from surprise — you were already suspecting — but from the way he said it. gentle. like it wasn’t just a fact, but a truth he didn’t like forcing you to carry.

“your body knows i’m near,” he went on. “it’s adjusting to that. regulating what it thinks you need, based on me.”

you looked down at your hands. flexed your fingers slightly, like you expected to feel something shift. you swallowed down the cringiness of his words.

“so what?” you asked, softer now. “if you’re close, i won’t feel hungry?”

“something like that,” he said. “your system doesn’t think you’re in danger. so it… puts itself on pause.”

you swallowed, not sure what to do with the tight feeling rising in your chest.

you hated how much sense that made. hated how creepily efficient it was. and hated most of all how it made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t asked for.

sunghoon didn’t add anything else. just watched you — not hovering, not crowding — like he was giving you space to be mad, or weirded out, or scared.

you let out a breath.

“…something small, then.”

his expression didn’t change, but there was something almost satisfied in the way he nodded — like that was the right answer. the only answer, really.

then he turned and gestured for you to follow.

you hesitated for half a second, then stepped after him.

high ceilings stretched above you, broken by sculpted beams and recessed lighting that bathed the space in a soft, golden warmth. floor-to-ceiling windows lined one entire wall, overlooking the glittering lights of seoul at night. thick curtains were drawn back just far enough to catch the glow.

the living room flowed into the kitchen with that seamless kind of design that screamed money. velvet armchairs clustered around a sunken fireplace framed in black marble. the floor was warm under your socks — heated, maybe? of course it was.

you followed sunghoon through the arched doorway leading out of the screening room, your steps slow, almost cautious — not because you were afraid, but because this place still felt like something out of a dream you hadn’t caught up to yet.

the hallway split in two: one direction faded into a darker corridor lined with closed doors — bedrooms, maybe, or more rooms you hadn’t been trusted with yet — while the other opened wide into the heart of the penthouse.

sunghoon took the latter.

the air shifted as you stepped in behind him.

gone was the dim, enclosed coziness of the movie room. the space here was open, sprawling — a soft echo followed your footsteps, barely cushioned by the polished dark wood floors beneath your socks.

the living room was sunk slightly lower than the rest of the space, separated by a few shallow steps. it looked like the kind of place people posed for magazines in but never actually lived.

built-in bookshelves framed one side, filled with hardcovers and old records, interspersed with small, sculptural lamps that cast ambient light across the walls. a record player sat nestled in a custom alcove beneath a piece of abstract art you didn’t understand but kind of respected.

everything had that curated, timeless quality — not cold, just impossibly intentional. like every piece had been placed for a reason.

the kitchen stretched beyond it, elevated by a wide platform of dark slate tile. there were no upper cabinets to block the view — just open space, warm lighting, and surfaces so clean they looked untouched.

sunghoon walked like he’d done this a hundred times, navigating the small change in elevation with fluid steps as you hesitated just a beat behind him, still taking it all in.

the countertops were a deep, matte charcoal, cut in sleek lines and accented with soft gold fixtures. a wide island separated the kitchen from the living area, with minimalist stools tucked neatly beneath it. the sink was built into the far end, next to a panel of floor-to-ceiling glass that framed a quiet sliver of skyline.

you realized, distantly, that there wasn’t a single overhead cabinet. everything must’ve been stored below — drawers, hidden panels. the design was too seamless to be anything but expensive.

sunghoon didn’t say a word as he opened the fridge, bathed briefly in its pale, chilled light. he pulled out something — leftovers, you guessed — and moved to the stove with quiet confidence.

you lingered near the edge of the island, unsure if you should sit or just… exist.

sunghoon moved like he belonged here — which, you guessed, he did.

he pulled out a glass container of rice, set it gently on the counter, then grabbed a small frying pan. didn’t ask what you wanted. didn’t make a fuss. just… started.

the stove clicked once, then flared to life. you watched as he stirred leftovers into the pan with slow, practiced movements, adding a splash of sesame oil, a pinch of salt, eyes never leaving what he was doing.

his silver chain caught the light again when he leaned forward, collar dipping slightly — and for one long second, you didn’t feel overwhelmed or hunted or tired.

you just watched a boy make you dinner.

the scent of toasted sesame and warmed rice filled the kitchen, soft and familiar in a way that made your stomach clench — not with hunger, exactly, but with a kind of recognition. something your body had been too busy to register until now.

you stayed still at the edge of the island, watching his movements — precise, fluid, quietly practiced. 

there was no hurry to it. no rush to fill the silence between you.

from somewhere down the hallway, laughter echoed — quick and breathless. niki’s voice, unmistakable, followed by heeseung’s sharp gasp of protest and a thump that sounded suspiciously like someone being shoved into a sofa.

you glanced over your shoulder at the noise, a small smile twitching at your mouth.

sunghoon didn’t turn.

but you could tell he was listening.

there was the faintest shift in his posture — a pause in the way his wrist turned the wooden spoon — like part of him was tuned in to the chaos, keeping track of it even while his eyes stayed fixed on the pan.

heeseung padded in at some point, barefoot and quiet, crossing the kitchen to grab a glass of water from the tap.

he nodded at you. didn’t say anything, just offered a soft, polite smile before slipping back out as quickly as he came.

the silence that followed wasn’t awkward. it wasn’t heavy, either.

it just was.

you could hear the soft clink of the spoon against the pan, the occasional pop of oil, the hum of the ventilation system hidden somewhere overhead.

and sunghoon — steady and still and strange in how gentle he could be — never broke rhythm.

you couldn’t explain why that moved you. but it did.

maybe it was the change in scenery — finally free from his room, finally somewhere with open space and warm light and a view of the city that looked too expensive to be real.

or maybe it was just the overload of everything — all the velvet and marble and glass, the glowing floors and ridiculous architecture, the quiet.

but more than anything, maybe it was the fact that after the ridiculous stinkiness argument and the truce-by-towel gesture, sunghoon didn’t feel like a threat anymore.

he didn’t feel like a mistake. or an enemy.

he felt like… someone who’d been trying. awkwardly, maybe. but sincerely.

and somehow, that shifted something in your chest. just slightly. just enough to notice.

after a couple of minutes, he slid a plate in front of you — still warm, neatly portioned, the edges of the rice just starting to steam against the cool air of the kitchen.

you just stared at it at first. not because you were hungry — you still weren’t, weirdly — but because something about the gesture itself made your chest feel tight. he didn’t say anything. didn’t ask for praise or point out the effort. he just placed the plate in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world — like taking care of you was becoming a habit.

you didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until the scent hit you — savory and clean, like comfort food pulled from someone’s memories and offered up without explanation.

sunghoon leaned back against the counter again, his voice quiet: “eat slow.”

you stared down at the plate, a little stunned.

for a six-hundred-year-old vampire who probably hadn’t touched a stove since electricity became a thing, it… wasn’t bad.

actually — no. it looked really decent. 

warm rice mixed with bits of egg and veggies, a few carefully arranged side dishes that definitely hadn’t just been dumped onto the plate. he’d even sprinkled a little sesame on top like it was intentional, like he’d done this for someone before.

the thought that he might’ve — or worse, that maybe he hadn’t, and this was just for you — made your chest pull tight in a way you didn’t want to unpack right now.

so you picked up the spoon instead.

he didn’t say anything. didn’t ask if you liked it, didn’t hover or wait for a reaction. but you felt him watching.

you took the first bite.

warm. savory. not oversalted. the kind of food that tasted like it had been made by someone who’d been paying attention — not just to ingredients, but to you.

you glanced up and met his eyes.

he looked… cautious. like he wasn’t sure if you’d like it, and even though he’d said it didn’t matter, it clearly did.

and that?

that was maybe the cutest thing you’d seen all night.

you chewed slowly, just to mess with him a little. then nodded. “it’s good.”

the tension in his shoulders dropped immediately, just enough for you to see it.

he gave you a small nod back, as if to say of course it is, but the corners of his mouth twitched, betraying him.

he stayed where he was, standing beside the island, arms folded loosely now — not guarded, just… there. like a guard dog in expensive knitwear. like he was watching over you instead of just watching you.

you took another bite. then another. it was better than good. 

“you know,” you said, still chewing, “for someone who scowls at me in ninety percent of our interactions, you sure put a lot of effort into feeding me.”

his brow twitched. “you needed food.”

“aw,” you said, spoon hovering. “so you care.”

he blinked slowly, like he was weighing whether or not to argue.

you grinned. “sunghoon… you’re whipped.”

he immediately looked away, face angled sharply toward the cabinets like they’d just said something fascinating.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said flatly.

you laughed — a real one, bubbling up before you could stop it.

because he did care. and the fact that he couldn’t lie about it — not well, anyway — made it so much worse for him and so much funnier for you.

your cheeks were already warm, but the smile stretched wide across your face now.

“sure,” you said, dragging the word out, “whatever helps you sleep in your vampire coffin at night.”

“we don’t use coffins.”

“but you didn’t deny being whipped.”

he shot you a look.

you bit back another laugh and shoved a bite of rice into your mouth to keep from teasing him further — but god, it was getting so easy. too easy. 

he wore his defensiveness like armor, but it didn’t quite fit when it came to you. and now that you’d found the cracks, it was hard not to want to press every single one.

he didn’t move from his spot beside the counter. just stood there, steady as ever, as if making sure you ate was some kind of mission he couldn’t abandon halfway through.

a few minutes passed in that comfortable, charged quiet — then soft footsteps padded into the kitchen from down the hall.

“hyung,” jake called, his voice casual and low. “i’m heading out.”

you turned as he appeared in the doorway, hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp like he’d just come from the shower. his sneakers squeaked faintly against the tile, and his car keys spun lazily around one finger like he was used to never being in a rush.

he caught your eye and offered a grin — easy, familiar. “gotta run,” he said. “my girl’s waiting.”

you blinked. “oh.”

he chuckled, like your reaction was exactly what he’d expected. “yeah. she’s patient, but not that patient.”

you nodded slowly, unsure why that made your stomach twist in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

sunghoon didn’t say much, but his voice was quiet when it came: “be careful.”

and jake… jake nodded like that meant something more than it sounded — like he’d heard more than the words.

then he was gone, slipping out with a wave and a soft clack of the front door closing behind him.

the kitchen went quiet again.

not awkward — just still.

you finished the last few bites of your food in silence, not because you felt pressured, but because something about the quiet felt important now. like breaking it too fast would shift the weight of the moment.

sunghoon didn’t leave your side.

he stayed where he’d been all along — one hand braced loosely against the counter, gaze drifting somewhere just over your shoulder like he wasn’t watching you, even though you knew he was.

you pushed your empty plate slightly forward, letting your spoon rest against the edge. you didn’t speak. didn’t move much.

and still — he didn’t look away.

“this is why,” he said quietly, after a long moment.

his voice wasn’t sharp. it didn’t rise above the soft hum of the appliances or the wind brushing against the windows.

but it reached you all the same.

“this is why we need you to sleep here this week.”

you glanced up. his eyes met yours then — steady, unreadable in the way that used to scare you, but now just… held.

“because even if you don’t feel hungry,” he continued, “your body will still shut down if it doesn’t get what it needs. it won’t warn you. it won’t scream. it’ll just stop.”

you swallowed. something in your chest prickled, heat curling on your low stomach that should make you feel embarrassed.

“you were running on instinct earlier. adrenaline, maybe. the bond numbs things — that’s part of it. it makes you feel like you’re okay when you’re not.”

his jaw shifted slightly. not clenched, just tight. restrained.

“but i’m here to make sure you survive it.”

the words landed like a stone dropped in still water. not loud. not dramatic. just true.

you opened your mouth to respond — to say something sarcastic, maybe, or brush it off like he was being overly dramatic again — but nothing came out.

before you could even think about standing, sunghoon was already moving.

he reached across the counter, his fingers brushing the edge of the plate like he’d been waiting for the moment you’d finish.

the sound of the spoon clinking against the ceramic was soft — barely louder than the low hum of the appliances or the faint wind against the windows.

he took the plate without a word. not rushed, not performative. just… casual. practiced.

like this was always going to be part of his evening — not something to fuss over, just something to do.

you stayed still.

watched him move toward the sink, roll up the sleeves of his sweater with quiet efficiency. he rinsed the plate, stacked it in the dishwasher, wiped his hands on a cloth draped over the edge of the counter.

he didn’t ask you to help. didn’t glance back like he expected you to stand or follow or do anything at all.

it wasn’t a show of dominance or control — more like muscle memory. like keeping you from doing the small things had already become second nature to him.

you stood there, fingers lightly skimming the edge of the counter, watching him with a strange shyness that didn’t quite feel like you. not after everything.

the hoodie and joggers clung comfortably to your skin — soft, worn in. a little too big in the sleeves, but they wrapped around your frame like armor. not yours, but not foreign anymore either.

you hadn’t lifted a finger all night. hadn’t helped clean, hadn’t done anything but exist while the rest of them picked up after the movie and argued over chores like some chaotic domestic sitcom.

part of you still felt guilty about it.

but standing here now — barefoot in a kitchen that smelled like sesame oil and soap, watching sunghoon move with all the quiet grace of someone who didn’t expect anything from you — that guilt softened into something else.

comfort, maybe.

you shifted your weight slightly, the thought surfacing without much warning.

“can we…” you started, hesitating just long enough for him to glance over. “can we go to my apartment tomorrow?”

his hands paused mid-rinse, but only for a second.

you cleared your throat. “i want to take some things. make a bag, you know… for our, um. sleepovers.”

you braced for a smirk. a quip. some sarcastic one-liner about the bond or the word sleepover.

but sunghoon just nodded. like you’d given him a task. something to file under important.

“sure,” he said easily, drying his hands on the cloth. “whenever you feel like it.”

his tone was calm. matter-of-fact.

“i was going to talk about that anyway,” he added, leaning back against the counter. “you should feel comfortable here. i don’t know how many days you’ll be staying over — but we should keep things calm. slow.”

you nodded. a small, shy bob of your head.

“sure. yeah.” your voice came out a little lighter than you meant it to. 

heat crept up your neck. you didn’t know why that word felt so… loaded.

but sunghoon didn’t seem to notice. or maybe he did and just didn’t call you out on it.

“you’ll be staying in my room,” he continued, tone still even. “if that’s okay.”

your eyes widened slightly, that same heat from before still pooling on your stomach.

“we usually go to bed when the sun’s up,” he added. “i’ll be in the guest room, if you need anything.”

you swallowed.

“thanks…” you murmured. “niki said it’d be better if i stayed there. so i guess it’s fine.”

sunghoon nodded again, like that confirmed something he’d already decided. and maybe that should’ve been the end of it — one of those simple, quiet moments that fade out with nothing left to say. but your body had other ideas.

a flutter began near your neck, that spot right behind your ear again, subtle at first, almost like a trick of the air — but then it bloomed into something warmer, sharper. a thrum that pulsed just beneath your skin, right behind your ear, steady and strange like it was knocking for attention from the inside out. it wasn’t painful. not exactly. just… noticeable in a way that made your breath catch and your shoulders go stiff.

your hand moved before you could think, pressing gently over the spot like you might be able to flatten the sensation, or hide it. 

the skin was warm, almost embarrassingly so, and you realized just how fast your heartbeat had climbed without permission. the rush of blood behind your palm pulsed steady and loud, like it had been waiting for this moment to make itself known.

you dared a glance up at him, expecting indifference — or maybe just mild confusion. instead, you found sunghoon watching you with a focus so quiet it startled you. 

his gaze was steady, unreadable at first, but then he cleared his throat and shifted slightly, stepping around the sink with a kind of carefulness that made the floor feel smaller between you.

“do you feel this too?” you asked, your voice softer than you meant it to be. 

the space between you suddenly felt too charged — two steps, maybe less, and yet still enough to ache. 

you were painfully aware he was standing exactly where you’d told him to earlier. he’d listened. of course he had. and god, part of you wanted to roll your eyes at that — at his ridiculous self-control, at how seriously he took your boundaries. 

you wanted to tell him that was before. before you made up those rules just to feel in control of something. before you saw his brothers treat each other like family. before your brain accepted the possibility that vampires could love, too.

you meant to say all of that — right there in that stupid, expensive kitchen — but then the pulse behind your ear surged again, hot and sudden.

“oh…”

sunghoon’s eyes flicked toward your hand — not sharply, but like he couldn’t help it. like the sight of you touching the mark was something that pulled his focus whether he wanted it to or not.

“i noticed it when i woke up this morning,” you murmured, almost like a confession. your fingers stayed pressed gently to the spot behind your ear, feeling the warmth pulse through your skin in a rhythm that didn’t feel entirely yours. “it keeps moving at random times. it’s like it has a life of its own.”

the words hung in the air for a second too long. not dramatic — just heavy.

and then, something in him shifted.

not dramatically, not all at once, but enough that you noticed the small signs. the way his jaw tightened slightly. the quiet inhale through his nose. the sharp tilt of his head as he cracked his neck — not like he needed to, but like the pressure building inside him was starting to push at the seams.

his eyes shut for a second, just long enough for you to realize it was taking effort to stay composed. when they opened again, the shift was subtle — but the restraint behind them was clear.

you took a step closer. just one. deliberate.

sunghoon’s throat worked visibly — a thick gulp that seemed to scrape on the way down.

you watched his shoulders tense, just barely, like his whole body was reacting on instinct. and for a brief second, something flickered in his expression — not panic, not even hunger, but pure, quiet ache.

and that was all it took.

that single, visible reaction sent a jolt straight through you — hot, immediate, undeniable. he wasn’t untouched by this. not even close.

he was just as affected as you. maybe worse.

the pulse behind your ear throbbed a third time, sharper now, like it was trying to claw its way out. instinctively, your hand flew up to cover it again, fingers pressing into the heat blooming there.

“do you know what that is?” you asked, your voice low, careful. not afraid — just trying to read him.

sunghoon didn’t answer right away. he just breathed — deep and slow — like he was trying to suppress something building under the surface. when his eyes opened again, they looked different.

not completely, but enough.

there was a flicker of gold threaded through the brown — a faint shimmer, like sunlight breaking through murky water. it reminded you of something strange and warm, something you couldn’t quite place at first.

then it hit you.

the dreams. the ones you had while half-conscious in your apartment, burning with fever and bond-induced chaos. the ones where he looked just like this — distant, glowing, almost not real.

goosebumps rose across your arms. every nerve stood a little taller.

but then the gold slipped away. just like that. his eyes faded back to their usual, unreadable brown.

and sunghoon finally spoke.

“that is my mark, doll.” his voice was rough around the edges, like it had been scraped raw from the inside. but when you looked up, his face had settled again — calm, composed, the same sunghoon who watched that stupid movie like it didn’t cost him effort to sit still.

“your… mark?” you echoed, confused, still pressing your fingers to the tender skin like you were afraid it might vanish if you let go.

“yes.” his voice dipped low, warm and steady. “i have one too.” he reached up, fingers hooking the collar of his sweater, pulling it down just enough to reveal a faint, glowing patch of skin — just above his collarbone, more toward the curve of his shoulder. it was faintly luminous in the light, not flashy or obvious, but there.

you couldn’t help it. you leaned in. the mark was delicate, pale against his skin but not weak — like it had been drawn into him, etched by something ancient and permanent. 

his skin was flawless, unmarred except for that single spot, and it hit you all over again — he wasn’t human.

sunghoon didn’t move when you leaned closer. not at first.

you weren’t even fully aware you’d done it — just a slow, curious pull forward, like your body was answering something before your mind had caught up.

the mark wasn’t glowing exactly, but it seemed to catch the low kitchen light in a way that made it shimmer faintly — like it was alive, but calm.

your eyes traced the outline of it, not touching, just hovering. he smelled faintly like cedar and laundry soap, and underneath that something cooler, like stone in winter.

you felt his breath hitch.

barely. a ripple in the air between you.

and then, quickly — maybe too quickly — sunghoon pulled his sweater collar back up.

not harshly. not like he was angry.

just… self-conscious.

his fingers lingered there at the fabric for a second, pressing it into place like it was a shield. like he needed a second to remember where he was.

you blinked, startled by how fast the moment had closed again.

he cleared his throat, softer this time. his jaw tensed like he was trying to unclench it slowly, subtly — like he didn’t want you to see that any of this had affected him.

“sorry,” he said, voice still a little thick. “just— it gets more intense when you’re close.”

you tilted your head, watching him carefully.

“intense?” you echoed, your voice softer now, less teasing and more genuinely curious. “so you do feel it, don’t you?”

sunghoon let out a quiet breath through his nose — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. the corner of his mouth twitched, just barely, like he didn’t mean to smirk but couldn’t stop himself.

and suddenly, he looked a little like the version of him you’d met earlier today — the one with the frustrating grin and sharp eyes who’d spoken like everything he said was a dare.

“i feel everything worse, sweetheart,” he said, voice dipping into something low and almost fond. “you don’t even know half of it.”

your breath hitched. not because of the nickname — though, okay, that wasn’t helping — but because there was something in his tone that made the pulse behind your ear kick up again. like the mark had its own opinion on the conversation.

you looked up at him, eyes wide, your heartbeat skimming faster just beneath your skin.

“how do you do this?” you asked, voice light but incredulous. “why does it feel like you’re controlling it?”

sunghoon didn’t flinch. didn’t smirk or tease. he just looked at you, calm and steady — like the answer was obvious.

“that’s because i do.”

he didn’t elaborate. 

your skin prickled all over.

“explain me more, please,” you said, quicker than you meant to — the words falling out before you had time to soften them. “you said you wanted to talk, but you just fed me like a baby and now is teasing around the subject.”

his expression shifted again. something in his jaw tightened.

he wasn’t smiling anymore.

his eyes dropped for a second, then flicked back to yours — sharp, alert, unreadable in the way that made you feel like standing perfectly still.

“you don’t know how hard it is, do you?” he asked. his voice had dropped — not in volume, but in weight.

“you asked for distance,” he went on, quieter now, each word drawn a little slower. “and i respected that. every second of it.”

you swallowed.

he took one small step forward. not enough to close the space — not really — but enough to shift the air between you.

“but here you are,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “invading my space like that’s fair. like that’s how things should be played.”

the heat in his gaze was something you hadn’t seen before. not just tension. not just restraint.

longing, maybe. something deeper.

you felt it ripple through you — the pulse, the bond, the breath between you that stretched thinner and thinner with every second.

and you realized then that whatever you’d felt — whatever confusion or instinct or curiosity had been swirling under your skin — he’d been feeling it twice as loud.

you were still learning the edges of this thing. sunghoon’d been living in it from the moment you entered that greenhouse two weeks ago.

“i wanted to ease you into it, y/n. i really did.”

his voice wasn’t sharp anymore. not teasing. not playful. just… quiet. stripped down. it carried none of the heat from earlier — only a kind of weariness that felt older than him, older than the words themselves.

he looked at you then — really looked. no smirk, no sharp corners.

“i know how a bond can be hard on the human,” he said. “but that doesn’t mean it’s not hard on me, too.”

you opened your mouth to respond, but something in his expression kept you still.

“just because i’m on the supernatural side of this,” he went on, eyes flicking briefly toward your hand — still resting lightly against the pulse at your neck — “doesn’t mean i’ve done this before. doesn’t mean i know how to carry it.”

he paused. the silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. it just gave shape to the things neither of you had had time to name.

“you think you’re the one unraveling,” he said softly. “but you don’t know what this is doing to me.”

the way he said it — low, like he was half-telling you, half-admitting it to himself — made your throat tighten.

“i’m not human, haven’t been one for a while,” he said then, the words quieter still, almost like a confession. “i’m a creature. out of this world. that’s what i’ve been told since the day i turned — that i’m something, not someone.”

his eyes didn’t leave yours. they held steady, dark and unreadable, but not cold. never cold. there was something else in them now — something that buzzed beneath the surface like a current waiting to pull you under if you leaned too close.

“i know this feels unfair to you. and maybe it is,” he said, voice low, nearly flat — like he’d said it to himself before, maybe more than once. “but trust me when i say — i know what hard feels like.”

your breath caught.

he stepped closer, slow enough that you didn’t flinch, but close enough now that the distance you’d asked for earlier had completely dissolved.

you could feel his breath when he spoke next — warm, steady against your cheek, brushing just barely along your skin like a warning.

“and i need you to trust me back,” he said quietly. “i know it’s stupid. illogical. maybe even reckless.”

he paused just long enough for the silence to dig in.

“but it’s necessary. if you want to survive.” and then — softer, almost like a breath instead of words — “if you want me to survive.”

your heart thudded once, sharp and loud in your chest.

his voice broke just slightly around the edges, but his eyes didn’t waver.

and suddenly, you weren’t sure what was burning hotter — the mark behind your ear or the space between your bodies, which no longer felt like space at all.

the kitchen had gone still around you. the low hum of the refrigerator filled the silence like background noise in a dream. golden light from the recessed fixtures caught on the edge of the counter, painting soft shadows across the marble and steel. everything was clean, expensive, controlled — except you. except this.

his dark sweater clung to his frame like it was tailored to carry tension. the silver chain at his collarbone glinted faintly, a sharp contrast to the warmth in his skin. and your eyes, traitorous as they were, followed that glint down — past the dip in his throat, to the faint rise and fall of his chest, too steady for someone pretending to be unaffected.

his hand hovered near the sink, ringless fingers curling slightly, knuckles tense. he wasn’t moving. neither were you.

the bond pulsed behind your ear like a second heartbeat. sharp, persistent, and not just yours.

you swallowed once.

then again.

your voice came out in a whisper — softer than you meant it to be, like anything louder might snap whatever thin, invisible thread was holding this moment together.

“how does this bond thing work?” you saw his brow twitch, just slightly, but he didn’t move. didn’t even blink. “can we survive it,” you asked, eyes still locked to his, “without triggering each other all the time?”

you had to tilt your chin up to keep meeting his gaze — had to crane your neck just a little more than felt natural — but sunghoon didn’t step back.

“you stay,” he answered simply. “and we bond.”

his voice dipped low, steady in a way that made your chest tighten.

“with time, it’ll feel less like it’s strangling us,” he continued, “and more like it’s holding our hands… if you promise to trust me.”

you wanted to say something — anything — but the pressure behind your eyes tightened first.

your gaze dropped.

you stared down at your feet instead, at the mismatched socks that suddenly felt like the most vulnerable part of you.

“i can’t…”

the words came out smaller than you’d intended.

“you can’t ask me that right now,” you said, barely above a breath. “i don’t know you at all, sunghoon. you don’t know how absurd all of this still is to me.”

he was quiet for a beat. then he exhaled — not impatiently, not frustrated. just… like he’d expected this. like he’d played out this conversation a dozen times in his head already, and this was the version that hurt the least.

“i know,” he said, cutting gently through your hesitation. “i know it’s unfair.” he shifted slightly — not to move closer, not to press, just to ground himself. “you were born in the second millennium. things are different now. you’re a woman, and you’re right to be cautious. you should be.”

his voice didn’t waver.

“but vampires aren’t humans, y/n” he said, almost like a reminder. “we’re animals, if that makes it easier to understand. we seek pleasure. we run from pain. that’s what we do.”

your breath caught.

you weren’t sure if it was from the words, or the way he said them — like he wasn’t trying to scare you, just be honest.

“i need you to understand this is absurd to me too,” sunghoon said, his voice lower now, raw around the edges. he didn’t look away, didn’t blink. “i was born in 1392. i saw words being created, watched entire languages shift. i’ve seen empires rise and vanish. crimes committed that were never recorded, names lost to ash. i’m more ancient than the fucking joseon dynasty.”

he paused, shoulders tight with a tension he couldn’t seem to shake. “i’ve been so many people,” he added quietly. “so many times.”

you didn’t move. didn’t breathe. just watched as he kept speaking — not to convince you, not to scare you — just to say it. like maybe the weight of it had nowhere else to go.

“finding my soulmate after centuries of just existing?”

his voice cracked, soft and sharp like the sound of a page tearing. not much. just enough to make your chest twist.

“this is the most crucial moment of my life, y/n,” he continued, slower now. “and i’ve lived so many lives, doll. you don’t even know.”

he laughed then — barely. a sound made of breath and regret.

“i can’t let you go, do you understand?”

the words hit the air like a promise and a warning all at once.

“i thought i could ease you into it. take things slow. respect your space.” he looked at you again, and there was something raw in his eyes now — not hunger, not heat, just yearning. “but i need something to hold on to. you have to give me something, anything.”

he took another breath — quieter, more fragile this time — and the edge of his voice softened like sugar melting on your tongue.

“do you understand where i’m coming from, doll?”

his voice was barely a whisper, tucked between the hum of the fridge and the soft buzz of the lights overhead.

you took a deep breath and looked up at him again, heart thudding painfully behind your ribs.

you didn’t answer right away.

instead, you stood there, quietly staring at the man in front of you — if you could still call him that — trying to wrap your head around the sheer weight of what he’d just said. born in 1392. more ancient than the dynasty you’d barely paid attention to in school. not as a metaphor or exaggeration — he meant it. 

he’d lived it.

and yet he stood here now, looking nothing like a myth or a monster. he just looked… like a man. a desperate one.

not dramatic, not dangerous. just a little frayed at the edges. like he’d held himself together for so long, and suddenly realized someone else was close enough to see it.

it messed with your head more than anything else had so far.

because when you first met sunghoon — when he handed you that ridiculous printed email and refused to make eye contact — you thought he was cold. unreadable. like something out of place, too beautiful to trust, too composed to relate to.

but now?

now you saw the strain in his shoulders. the quiet way he’d said this is the most crucial moment of my life, like he was trying not to collapse under the weight of it. you saw how carefully he watched you, how much he was holding back — not just from hunger or instinct, but from you. from saying the wrong thing, from pushing too hard, from losing whatever fragile connection this was becoming.

you didn’t know what to do with that.

you weren’t ready to say i trust you, not fully. but you weren’t scared of him anymore either. not in the way you were that first night.

and that was new.

that was something.

you thought about his brothers — the way they looked at each other, the way they looked at you. you thought about the warmth in the penthouse, the quiet hum of a family that wasn’t yours, but somehow didn’t feel off-limits.

and then you looked at sunghoon again.

really looked.

he was so still. so careful. like if he moved wrong, you’d vanish.

and that’s when it hit you.

he wasn’t just worried about what you felt. he was scared you’d walk away. and for the first time since this entire nightmare started, that thought made something ache in you, too.

so you took a breath.

and when you finally spoke, your voice came out smaller than you expected — lighter, not serious at all, but honest in a way that surprised even you.

“my dad doesn’t live here,” you said softly. “you’ll have to call him and ask him first.”

sunghoon blinked.

just once, slow and deliberate, like the words hadn’t registered right away. the crease between his brows deepened as confusion flickered across his face, and you could see the moment it hit him — the way his mouth opened slightly like he was going to say something, then shut again, clearly short-circuiting.

he looked genuinely thrown off, like you’d just started speaking in riddles, and it was almost enough to make you lose your nerve.

almost.

“he’s… he’s a fan of vampires,” you said, the words tumbling out faster now. your voice pitched high, pout forming almost involuntarily like your brain was trying to soften the absurdity of what was happening. “he’ll probably like you right away, honestly. but—”

you hesitated, horror dawning a half-second too late.

“god, i can’t believe i’m saying this.”

your hands flew up to cover your face, heat blooming fast and relentless across your cheeks as a full-body cringe rolled through you. a small, miserable sound escaped your throat — something between a groan and a whimper — muffled against your palms.

you could feel sunghoon still watching you, probably questioning all his life choices, and somehow that only made it worse.

the bond pulsed, sure, but what was worse was how sunghoon just stood there — perfectly sculpted, beautifully confused, sympathy written all over his stupidly divine face — and said absolutely nothing.

which, somehow, made you want to cry.

fuck you and your gentle vampire concern.

you sniffed and dropped your hands. “you have to pretend this is like a… marriage,” you said, all in one breath. “that’s the only way i can see this. i’m sorry. it’s realer for me if i think about it that way.”

his reaction was slow — blinking again, slightly tilted head, like someone watching a movie in a language they almost understood. sunghoon’s eyes narrowed just a little, his mouth parting like he was buffering the meaning one word at a time.

“you want me to ask your hand in marriage?” he asked carefully, voice laced with quiet disbelief. “like humans do?”

his frown didn’t shift — that same soft, kicked-puppy look he wore every time you said something too human for him to compute. it wasn’t judgment. it was… cautiousness. like you’d handed him something delicate and he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold it.

you let out a slow, tired sigh and ran a hand through your hair, tugging the sleeves of your hoodie down again like armor.

“i’m trying to help you here,” you said, voice dropping. “you sounded like you were going to die if i offered to get out of your sight one more time.”

he didn’t deny it.

he just kept looking at you like that — like this whole thing was breaking and fixing him at the same time.

“that’s because i will, doll.” he let out a small laugh — shocked, breathless — shaking his head a little at the absurdity of it all. “eventually.”

he paused, and then added with actual curiosity, “so… do you want to get married? isn’t that, like, the ultimate form of love to you humans?”

you gave him a look that could only be described as unhinged exasperation.

“it depends,” you said, hands flying in vague gestures. “i’m just worried about you. this bond — this thing — it’s been eating me alive for days now. i’m fucking twenty-three. i never even dated before. not seriously. and suddenly i move into my late chaebol grandmother’s penthouse and you’re at my door that day, handing me my email like some k-drama lead with a god complex—”

sunghoon looked like he might interrupt, but you held up a finger.

“and then i start hearing things from this apartment, and niki’s there, and niki is so nice sometimes but also a pain in the ass—”

“accurate,” sunghoon mumbled.

“—and then i started getting attached without meaning to. to this place. to you. to them. and then i followed you — i can’t believe i’m admitting this — i followed you, into the greenhouse, and there was hydrangeas blooming in fucking winter, a stupid hot man tending to the flower at night, which still doesn’t make sense to me, by the way—”

you threw your hands up.

“—and you’re so pretty, it’s so fucking unfair.”

sunghoon had started laughing somewhere between “k-drama lead” and “pain in the ass,” but by the time you said pretty, it turned into something else entirely.

a full laugh.

a real one. the kind where his head tipped back and his whole chest moved with it.

the sound filled the kitchen, warm and genuine and beautiful in the kind of way that made your stomach twist and your heart squeeze and your brain immediately want to deny everything you’d just said.

but then he looked back at you — really looked — eyes crinkled at the corners, grin still pulling soft at his lips, and somehow… it didn’t feel humiliating at all.

it felt like relief. 

relief that didn’t quite settle in your bones, but loosened something that had been coiled tight behind your ribs for days now.

you shifted your weight, tucking your hands under your arms like they might stop your mouth from running, but of course — they didn’t.

“i’m serious,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek. “i’ll try to trust you if you promise to marry me or something.”

sunghoon’s eyebrows jumped slightly — not mocking, just stunned.

you groaned, squeezing your eyes shut. “god, i can’t believe i’m saying this. i don’t even know how to cook properly.”

he was quiet for a second. just long enough for you to crack one eye open and peek at him.

then he exhaled a laugh, softer this time.

“i know you’re serious,” he said, voice gentler now, the warmth of it curling through you like steam off a cup of tea. “it’s just… you’re so human, like nothing else. i’ve never met someone like you before, doll.”

you blinked. not because it was a compliment — though it kind of was — but because he said it like it mattered.

like being human was a strength. not a flaw.

you didn’t know what to do with that.

so you defaulted to what you always did when things got too soft — you spiraled.

“look,” you said, throwing up a hand, “i don’t know why the fuck your vampire instincts, or soul, or whatever chose me — but they did, and that’s on them, okay? because my dad’s been fighting cancer since i was thirteen, and my mom sends emojis to fill the space she left when she bailed on me years ago.”

sunghoon’s face didn’t shift — not with pity, not with shock. just steady, like he was listening and not planning to run.

“i used to live in a small province called boseong,” you continued, the words tumbling faster now, “and yeah, we’ve got great tea there, but the cell signal sucks, and the only people i ever really talked to were my dad and the two old ladies from the chess team who thought i was secretly eighty.”

you paused, breath shallow.

sunghoon hadn’t moved.

he just stood there, arms loose at his sides, watching you with that same quiet intensity from earlier — but now, it didn’t feel like he was assessing you. it didn’t feel like he was searching for weak spots or waiting for you to trip over your own nerves.

it felt like he was receiving you.

and somehow, that made your throat ache worse than anything you’d just said out loud.

because why were you like this? why were you trauma dumping and spiraling and oversharing all over again — like your emotions were some leaky faucet that wouldn’t turn off the second he looked at you too kindly?

you’d felt this before. this exact feeling. back in the greenhouse, three weeks ago. pink phone case clutched awkwardly in your hand. a desperate attempt at conversation on your tongue. and sunghoon — tall, unreadable, frustratingly composed — barely sparing you a glance.

some things never changed, apparently.

because here you were again — not in a greenhouse this time, but in his penthouse kitchen, surrounded by marble and silence and the soft hum of your own unraveling — talking too much, feeling too much, giving too much. all because being near him made you forget where the filters went.

you didn’t know why you always did this.

but you did.

and he was still listening.

“i don’t care about all that, you know that, right?” sunghoon’s voice came low and steady — the kind of tone that didn’t need to prove anything. it just was. solid. quiet. the kind of sound that pressed into your chest and settled there.

your breath caught. not because you didn’t believe him, but because you did. more than you expected to.

then he took the final step forward.

it wasn’t dramatic, just definite. one quiet movement and the space between you vanished — no more buffer, no more carefully measured distance. he was close now, close enough that you could see the fine strands of hair that had fallen across his forehead, the faint flush at the tip of his ears, the way his pupils darkened as he looked at you.

you saw everything. every angle of his face, each detail sharp but softened by the kitchen’s warm glow. his lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something else — or maybe just breathing too carefully, like even that required restraint.

you weren’t touching. not yet. but your body felt like it was already reacting. your skin buzzed. your pulse fluttered. the bond throbbed faintly behind your ear, more alert than ever.

and still, he didn’t reach for you.

not until he looked you straight in the eye — and asked, slow and deliberate, like he wanted it to count.

“can i touch you, doll?” the words came slow, deliberate, dragging over your skin before he even moved. his voice was deeper now, almost hoarse, like something he’d been holding back had finally pushed past the threshold. 

it lit up your nerves all at once, like your body had been waiting for permission to react. your heart thudded so loud it echoed behind your ribs, and you hated that he probably heard it.

you swallowed, unsure why your throat suddenly felt so dry. “will i be okay?” you asked, softer than you meant, the question small but real. 

you hadn’t meant to sound innocent — or scared — but something about the heat and the tension and the impossibility of it all made you fragile in a way you couldn’t joke around. it was raw. vulnerable. too real.

“of course, sweetheart. it’s me.” he said.

just like that, the tension didn’t drop — it changed. tilted into something warmer, heavier, something you weren’t ready for and didn’t want to stop. the pulse behind your ear flared again, sharp and possessive, like it knew exactly what was coming before you did.

his hand lifted, and for a second you thought he’d touch you right then — settle his palm over your skin, anchor you to the moment. but he didn’t. instead, he held it there, close enough to feel the static hum between you but far enough that it made you ache. 

sunghoon was waiting.

for you.

his fingers hung in the space between you, unmoving — suspended like a thread stretched too tight. they didn’t shake, didn’t twitch, but somehow you could feel the weight of them anyway. like your body had already registered their presence even before contact. like your heartbeat was tied to the stillness of him.

you frowned slightly, eyes flicking down to his hand. “what are you doing?” you asked, genuinely confused. because he hadn’t moved. not really. and still, everything in you felt like it had.

his eyes didn’t leave yours.

“you didn’t answer me, doll.”

his voice was low, almost a murmur, but the strain in it cracked just under the surface — not from anger. not even from impatience. it was restraint, and you could hear it now as clear as breath: how hard he was holding himself still. how much of himself he was keeping behind the line you'd drawn.

and god, you hated how good he was at it. hated how seriously he took your boundaries. how much control he had, even now, when you could feel the tension buzzing under his skin like a live current.

your cheeks were already flushed, but you nodded once and whispered, “yes.” the moment you said it, you knew it was the right answer — not because of the bond or the pulse or anything other than the fact that your whole body had been screaming toward him from the second he stepped forward.

sunghoon’s lips twitched into a smirk, the kind that was just this side of cocky and absolutely intentional. “are you sure?” he asked, and then — with a kind of unholy confidence — added, “i’m going to touch your no-no zone.”

you groaned, the tension snapping just a little under the weight of how dumb he could be. “that was before.”

“that was literally six hours ago,” he corrected you, brow arching, like he was deeply offended by your short-term memory.

you narrowed your eyes at him, the heat crawling up your neck for entirely different reasons now. “shut up,” you said, your voice firmer than before, trying to mask the way your pulse was thrumming in your ears. “i’m a changed woman.”

sunghoon let out a soft, amused breath — not quite a laugh, but close. “mm. didn’t seem so changed when you were blushing five minutes ago,” he said, and his smirk returned, just a little, like he couldn’t help himself.

“you made me blush,” you argued. “with your weird vampire bond voice and your tragic soulmate speech.”

“you liked it,” he said. not cocky, just certain. dangerously certain.

you hated how right he was.

but before you could fire back, sunghoon tilted his head slightly, the teasing falling away from his voice — not completely, but enough to signal the shift.

“you might feel something,” he said, voice lower now. steadier. “more than before.”

you blinked. “like what?”

“depends,” he said. “pressure. warmth. sometimes it moves through the whole body. it’s just the bond syncing — like your system catching up.”

“catching up to what, exactly?”

his gaze didn’t waver. “to me.”

you stared at him, heart skipping in your chest like it wasn’t sure whether to fight or surrender.

he studied you for a moment longer, his voice quiet when he added, “i won’t hurt you. you’ll be in control the entire time. but once it starts… it might feel intense.”

you swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “and you… you’ve done this before?”

a pause.

then, softly, “no.”

your breath caught.

“not like this.”

you gave a small nod before you even realized it — not dramatic, not brave, just instinctive. like your body had already decided for you. 

the air between you stretched thin, humming with something weightier than silence. you weren’t sure what exactly you were agreeing to — the bond, the closeness, him — but you knew you wanted to understand it. and more than that, you wanted to feel whatever it was he’d been so carefully holding back.

you watched as his fingers hooked the collar of his sweater, tugging the fabric down again, revealing the pale stretch of skin just above his collarbone. the same spot he’d shown you earlier, faintly glowing beneath the soft kitchen light, sharp and quiet and impossibly intimate. 

sunghoon didn’t look at you as he did it — not right away. just pressed three fingers to his mark, slow and deliberate, like he was flipping a switch you didn’t know existed.

and for a second, you just stared at him.

you blinked, confused, stunned, borderline betrayed by how calm he looked while your brain tried to make sense of what he was doing.

he didn’t say anything. didn’t offer explanation or warning. it was like some silent ritual he assumed you already understood — or worse, like niki understood and had chosen not to warn you out of pure evil.

your mouth opened to ask, but the words didn’t come fast enough.

because then it hit.

a lightning strike.

that same pulse behind your ear ignited all at once — not subtle, not simmering — a bolt of heat that shot down your neck and bloomed through your chest so fast your knees actually wobbled.

your fingers gripped the edge of the counter instinctively, and your breath caught halfway to your lungs. the mark wasn’t just warm now — it burned, not painfully, but with a kind of intensity that screamed alive.

and the worst part — or maybe the best part — was how fast the rest of your body responded.

heat pooled low in your belly, immediate and sharp, and you hated how natural it felt. hated how instinctual the ache was, how fast it flooded between your legs like your body had just been waiting for the smallest excuse.

your breath went ragged. your vision blurred slightly, eyes watering from the sheer suddenness of it, like you’d been pulled out of your own skin and thrown straight into something older and deeper than you were ready for.

you stared at him, wild-eyed, every nerve in your body strung tight and quivering.

the mark behind your ear still pulsed, hot and steady, like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to you. you could feel your breath coming uneven now, shallow and fast, like your lungs had been caught mid-sentence — like your whole body was trying to recover from something you hadn’t prepared for.

sunghoon’s eyes widened — just barely, but enough. enough for you to see that flicker of something break through his usual calm, that too-smooth mask he wore like armor. the flicker didn’t last long, but you caught it. surprise, maybe. or hesitation. like he hadn’t expected it to work so well. or hit so fast.

or maybe he had. and it still rattled him anyway — watching you react like that, watching the heat bloom high on your cheeks, the way your breath stuttered like your lungs had skipped a beat.

his hand pulled back from his mark immediately. not like he was scared — more like he didn’t trust himself to keep it there any longer. his fingers hovered midair, suspended in a moment he wasn’t quite ready to let go of. and then his gaze found yours.

something shifted in him.

not dramatically — sunghoon wasn’t the kind to make scenes — but you could feel it. something in the way his shoulders dropped slightly. in the quiet steel of his jaw unclenching. in the way he finally stepped toward you again.

slow. steady. careful.

not like a predator, not like a vampire closing in on prey — but like someone walking barefoot across glass. like he didn’t want to scare you, didn’t want to push, didn’t want to ruin whatever this fragile thing between you was becoming.

his hand rose, not rushed, fingers curling loosely — and then he touched you.

not roughly. not possessively.

he touched your face like it was something he’d dreamed about and didn’t think he’d ever be allowed to hold.

his palm was warm. steady. not trembling, but his thumb paused just slightly when it brushed over your cheek.

you could almost see the pity in his expression — not the kind that belittled you, not condescending, but soft. aching. like he hated what this bond had done to you, how fast it had taken root.

your eyes didn’t leave his. not for a second.

but now, instead of raw shock, there was something else crashing under your skin — something heavier, hotter, more impossible to hide. embarrassment burned up your neck like fire catching on dry leaves.

because of course your body had responded like that.

of course you were standing here — flushed, aching, breathing like you’d just run five flights of stairs — while he looked at you like he was both sorry and enchanted.

you didn’t know whether you wanted to punch him or kiss him. maybe both.

your mouth parted, not to speak but to breathe, like if you stayed still any longer you’d combust.

and sunghoon, still holding your face with that maddening tenderness, just looked down at you — like he could feel every beat of your pulse through the air between you, and wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to respect it.

“is this normal?”

your voice came out smaller than you wanted — barely above a breath, tight around the edges, like your throat hadn’t quite recovered from the way your body had just short-circuited.

sunghoon’s face shifted immediately. not out of annoyance, not from impatience — but something softer, more painful. his brows pinched together again, that same frown curling at the edge of his lips, the one that looked dangerously close to pity.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and rushed, suddenly holding your face with both hands like he couldn’t bear the idea of you looking away. 

his palms were warm and grounding, thumbs brushing against your cheeks as if they could soothe the flush. “i didn’t know. i swear i didn’t know you were in this deep already.”

he looked desperate — not dramatic, not unhinged — just sincere. like he needed you to believe him. like it mattered more than anything he’d said all night.

you searched his face, trying to decipher what he meant by this deep.

“is this not normal?” you asked again, breath catching at the edges of the words.

sunghoon hesitated. and honestly, that alone was your answer.

“fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair like even he couldn’t believe what just happened. he still looked slightly dazed, like he was buffering in real time.

you swallowed hard, bracing for whatever was about to come out of his mouth next — and then the thought hit you.

he could probably smell it.

your reaction. your very biological reaction.

god.

great. amazing. nothing like a six-hundred-year-old vampire watching you almost cum from one light finger tap behind the ear.

“it was supposed to only make you feel a little,” he said finally, his voice quieter now — slower too, like he hated how that sentence sounded out loud. the apology tucked into it wasn’t loud, but it was there, pressed between the syllables like something he couldn’t unsay.

he pulled back a little — not far, just enough to breathe — and lifted a hand to your hair, brushing it gently behind your ear. his touch was featherlight, almost reverent, like he was being careful not to spook you or set off another unintended detonation.

your skin prickled instantly, awareness blooming down your neck like heat under glass.

and then his fingers moved lower.

“this point right here—” he murmured, and when his fingertips met the place behind your ear, you felt it — not just the contact, but the echo of it, the spark that shot straight through your stomach like your body had been waiting for it.

you tensed, just slightly, breath catching in your throat.

but he didn’t tease. didn’t smirk.

his eyes stayed soft, steady, the pads of his fingers barely pressing into your skin as if the gesture alone might translate something you hadn’t been ready to hear.

“it’s the mark. the bond.”

the words landed heavy — not because of how they sounded, but because of how close he was when he said them.

you swallowed, eyes flicking from his mouth to his collarbone and back again, trying not to think about the fact that his other hand hadn’t moved. that he was still standing close enough that your hoodie brushed his sweater every time you breathed.

“i marked you that day in the greenhouse,” he continued, lower now. “when you got close.”

your stomach flipped.

of course it was that day. the weird flutter behind your ear. the way the air had felt heavy after. his silence. your spiraling.

“and you marked me today — when you saw me.”

you blinked, startled. “i did?”

he nodded once, solemn. “it’s invisible. not permanent yet. but it’s there. physical. it connects us. both parts of the bond live there.”

his fingers lingered, brushing gently once more against your skin before pulling away.

and suddenly, it wasn’t just your ear that felt hot.

you stayed very still, too aware of his fingers, too aware of the fact that your body was still buzzing from his touch just moments ago.

“normally,” he continued, drawing in a breath, “i would’ve received your mark after we imprinted — after something mutual, intentional. but today… i noticed it. i saw you had marked me, that’s why i didn’t lose it without the suppressants.”

his hand curled slightly, not leaving your skin, just pressing a little closer, like he needed the contact now.

“this—that shouldn’t be possible, y/n. not for a human.” he shook his head, almost like he was still processing it himself. “you were supposed to feel it. sure. maybe a pull. maybe a little heat.”

his eyes flicked up to yours again, darker now, soft and reverent like he couldn’t believe you were still standing here.

“but not that deep, doll. not like this.”

his fingers hadn’t moved from your skin, still resting lightly at the curve behind your ear like he was anchoring you to the moment — or maybe to him. his eyes searched yours with a kind of careful panic, like he was waiting for you to break, to pull back, to do anything that told him he’d gone too far. 

but all you could do was breathe — shallow, unsteady — while your brain slowly tried to catch up with your body.

“are you okay?” his voice had softened again, low and laced with concern, but there was something else beneath it too — wonder, maybe. guilt.

you blinked, still reeling from the mark, the heat, the everything, and gave him the flattest look you could manage with your heart in your throat.

“i think you broke me,” you said slowly, voice hoarse but steady enough to land the punchline, “you’re a sex god.”

for half a second, sunghoon just stared at you, clearly caught between horror and disbelief — like he wasn’t sure if you were joking or traumatized or both.

then, as the words registered, his mouth parted — not to speak, but to laugh. it hit him in a single breath, full-bodied and startled, and for the first time in the past five minutes, he looked genuinely undone.

“you—” he tried, blinking hard, shoulders shaking. “you can’t just say that when i’m trying to be responsible, sweetheart.”

“well,” you muttered, face on fire now, “you did blow up my spinal cord with vampire magic, so.”

“fuck, it’s not magic,” sunghoon muttered, rolling his eyes as he stepped back half a breath, finally giving your skin a reprieve. his fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary, though — trailing off your jaw with a softness that completely contradicted the annoyance in his tone.

but then he caught the color in your cheeks — the unmistakable, humiliating flush climbing up your face like fire in real time — and the protest in him melted. 

he didn’t finish whatever lecture he was building toward. didn’t correct your dramatic assumptions or dive into more vampire biology. instead, he just looked at you, eyes warming in that annoyingly fond way that only made your embarrassment worse.

“are you sure you’re okay?” he asked again, this time quieter, a little amused — but still genuinely checking in.

you groaned, tipping your head back toward the ceiling and covering your face with both hands like maybe the tiles above could save you from yourself.

“i’m embarrassed,” you announced, words muffled through your palms. “i think this should be my last day on earth. tell my father i’ll wait for him in heaven.”

sunghoon made a sound — part scoff, part laugh — and you could feel his eyes on you, unbothered, patient, and somehow smug all at once.

“you’re being a little dramatic.”

“a little?” you dropped your hands, scandalized. “i almost came because you pressed your sexy vampire fingers to your collarbone like it was a light switch. i’m allowed to spiral.”

he leaned back against the counter, arms crossed again, his posture too casual to match the tension still curling in the air. the chain at his neck caught the light, gleaming faintly — as if on purpose, as if it knew you were trying not to look at him.

then his expression changed — just slightly, but enough to still the air between you.

“don’t say that,” he said, quieter now, but with weight that made you blink. “please. i want you to trust me, doll. i need you to trust me. you don’t understand how much.”

he wasn’t teasing anymore.

his voice, low and sure, landed with the kind of gravity that didn’t allow anything else to breathe beside it.

“even if there aren’t feelings yet,” he continued, eyes fixed on yours like he was daring you to look away, “i need you to survive. do you understand?”

for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. the heat that had just a minute ago been tangled up in embarrassment and flirting had shifted — deeper now, more real. something serious humming between your ribs.

you swallowed. your fingers fidgeted with the hem of the hoodie — his hoodie — like it might give you the right words.

“okay,” you said softly, nodding once, voice steadier than you expected. “i understand.”

and then, maybe because you were still a little flustered, or maybe because you just needed to lighten the pressure coiling in your chest, you added:

“i’m willing to help you not die. you’re too sexy for that.”

you half-expected a laugh. a scoff. even a groan. something to acknowledge the ridiculousness of it — the weight of your fear softened under the edge of your humor.

but sunghoon didn’t laugh.

he didn’t roll his eyes or smirk or brush it off.

instead, he looked at you like you’d were something sacred.

his gaze softened — not with pity, not with gratitude, but something almost reverent. like he saw you. not just the bond, not just the girl he was tied to by fate — you.

“you’re too good to be true, y/n.”

his voice was barely louder than a whisper now, but it shook something loose in your chest anyway.

“i can’t believe the universe put you at my door.”

you froze.

not in fear. not in denial.

just — stunned.

because for the first time since this whole thing began, since you’d stumbled into that cursed greenhouse and woken up with your life flipped inside out, you felt it.

the weight of what was happening.

not the heat. not the chemistry.

the meaning.

and suddenly, you weren’t just embarrassed or confused or even flirting —

you were standing in a kitchen, heart caught in your throat, watching someone look at you like you were the one thing keeping him grounded — like your existence made the air easier to breathe. 

and still, some part of you tried to resist it. to make it smaller, manageable, something you could pretend didn’t reach beneath your skin.

“you don’t have to say things like that just to make it easier,” you said, voice softer now, your gaze drifting to the edge of the counter, to anything that wasn’t him. “i don’t need… catchy lines. i just want to help you. and help me, too. that’s it.”

sunghoon didn’t move for a second, but when he did, it was like a tide rolling in — slow, inevitable, quiet in its arrival but impossible to ignore.

sunghoon looked at you like you’d offended him somehow. not with anger — but with something softer, heavier. like the mere idea of not treating you like a queen wasn’t even listed in his book of possibilities. like it didn’t occur to him that you could expect anything less. 

his brows pulled together just slightly, and his lips parted like he wanted to interrupt you — correct you — before you even finished thinking whatever it was that made you doubt him.

“do you think i won’t cherish you?” his voice came gently, like he didn’t want to startle you, but meant every word with his whole chest. “do you think those are just catchy lines?”

his intensity almost made you coward. 

“sweetheart, my dead soul chose you before you were even born. if you think i won’t cherish the ground you walk on—” he paused, brows knitting like the thought genuinely hurt him, “then i’m sorry. truly. i’m sorry i ever gave you that impression.”

your breath hitched again, embarrassment blooming across your face like heat. you let out a sigh, cheeks flushed, trying and failing to keep your heart from spilling out of your voice. 

“you can’t say things like that,” you whispered, fingers curling around the hem of the hoodie again just to keep yourself grounded. “it’s— it’s too much.”

“why?” sunghoon stepped in close again, closing the distance without hesitation now. his hands found your face like they belonged there — thumbs grazing along your cheeks, palms warm and steady against your jaw. “you won’t let me?”

you shook your head once, not as a no, but in disbelief — still caught somewhere between resisting and falling straight into him.

“i just wasn’t expecting this, i thought you were cold,” you murmured, blinking up at him. “you barely looked at me that first day. in the greenhouse.”

his expression didn’t falter. but the corner of his mouth lifted, barely.

“because i didn’t know who you were,” he said. “i’ve encountered plenty of curious people over the years — students, strangers, investigators. people who found us suspicious, or dangerous, or fascinating for all the wrong reasons. people who wanted leverage. people who wanted secrets. why should i give my attention to any of them?”

his thumb brushed along your cheekbone again, slow and careful.

“why would i give any part of myself,” he continued, voice dipping lower, “to someone who wasn’t you?”

your eyes widened. you hadn’t expected the confession to land like that.

he wasn’t being flowery. he wasn’t even trying to be charming.

he was just telling the truth.

and now you understood why niki had said sunghoon was so popular with women. it wasn’t just the face, the mystery, the air of restrained danger — it was this. the quiet intensity. the way he chose his words like he meant to carry them for the rest of his life.

you were screwed.

completely, utterly screwed.

your voice caught in your throat, barely there as you asked, “fuck, do you even mean it? all of this?”

and your eyes — too wide, too honest — searched his like you were looking for permission to believe him.

that look — the wide-eyed softness of it, the vulnerable way your question hung between you like it could unravel everything — seemed to undo something in sunghoon. 

not just emotionally, not just metaphorically, but viscerally. like a cord had snapped inside him, one he'd spent days trying to keep taut. 

it pulled at all the wrong places — or maybe all the right ones — dragging out the feelings he’d been trying so carefully to ignore since the moment he touched your soul before he ever touched your skin.

since the greenhouse. since your pulse revealed itself to him before your name ever did.

since you looked at him like maybe you weren’t afraid.

he remembered that first moment in the greenhouse — the way you stood there all nervous energy and winter wear, holding your phone like it was some kind of shield. you’d tried to act unimpressed, tried to hide how overwhelmed you were. 

and he, in all his arrogance, had thought you were just another curious human with too many questions and no sense of self-preservation.

but you weren’t.

and now, after everything — after the movie, the teasing, the hesitation, the heat — you stood there looking at him like you wanted to believe. like the weight of everything he’d been carrying wasn’t just his to bear anymore.

and suddenly, sunghoon understood what jake meant.

you’ll stop pretending you can be normal about it. when it hits, it hits hard.

that’s what jake had said.

and this — you — this was what “hitting hard” looked like.

he wasn’t thinking about control anymore. not about distance or restraint.

he just knew one thing now, with a clarity that made his chest ache: he needed you close.

sunghoon wasn’t sure who moved first — maybe it was him, maybe it was the bond — but suddenly he was leaning in, slowly, reverently, as if giving you every chance to pull away.

he prayed his fangs wouldn’t slip.

prayed the venom that had pooled beneath his tongue the second he smelled you — sweet, human, his — would stay exactly where it was.

his mouth hovered just a breath from yours, and he took one last moment to look at you. to memorize the pink on your cheeks, the shimmer in your eyes, the shape of your lips he’d been refusing to think about all night.

then he kissed you.

softly. carefully. like you were something fragile wrapped in flame.

and you—

you seemed to freeze and melt at the same time. your body tensed for half a second, surprise blooming behind your ribs, but then your fingers curled in the fabric of his sweater, anchoring yourself to him like you didn’t trust the ground to hold you up.

sunghoon felt everything.

the jolt of the bond — electric, intimate, hungry. the heat of your breath. the curve of your mouth parting just slightly in surprise. the way your heartbeat kicked up the second your lips touched his.

it made something wild claw at his chest.

because this wasn’t just instinct.

it was you.

and when you didn’t pull away — when you leaned in instead, eyes fluttering shut, lips moving softly against his like you were learning him by feel — sunghoon knew he was gone.

utterly and completely gone.

the kiss didn’t break.

if anything, it deepened. not fast, not messy — but with a kind of aching gravity, like neither of you had any say in the matter anymore. like the bond had taken one breath between you and decided: this.

sunghoon tilted his head just slightly, slotting his mouth more fully over yours, and when you made the softest sound in the back of your throat — not quite a moan, not quite a sigh — he inhaled like it had knocked the wind out of him. like that one sound rewrote every rule in his body.

his hands, still cradling your jaw, flexed slightly before sliding down, slow and sure, along the curve of your neck and into the dip where your shoulders met your collarbone. his thumbs brushed along your throat, feeling your pulse jump under his touch, and he groaned — low, almost inaudible — as he pulled you closer, impossibly closer.

you leaned in like gravity tilted toward him now. like your entire body had decided this was where it belonged.

your fingers curled tight into the front of his sweater, clutching the soft knit like a lifeline, and sunghoon’s control — always so practiced, so clean — wavered.

he moved.

one strong arm slid around your waist, hand splaying against your lower back, and he guided you — gently but firmly — until your hips bumped the edge of the counter. the marble was cool against you, a contrast to the heat building everywhere else.

he didn’t break the kiss. not even when he pressed in, just enough to box you there — not trapping, just surrounding. letting you feel the full breadth of his body. his chest against yours, the slow drag of his breath against your skin, the tension in his arms like he was still holding back the storm behind his ribs.

his mouth moved against yours with a precision that didn’t feel practiced, just natural. confident. hungry in the way only someone who had gone without for a very long time could be.

he licked into you like he wanted to know how you tasted when you whispered his name. like he could kiss you long enough to learn your pulse by memory.

your knees weakened, just a little, and he noticed — of course he did — one hand rising to brace at your hip, fingers gripping through the thick fabric of your hoodie like it might tether him to this moment.

you felt devoured. not rushed, not handled. just… consumed.

and god, you let him.

because somewhere between his mouth and his hands and that low sound he made when your teeth grazed his bottom lip, you realized you wanted to.

you wanted to feel what it was like to unravel in the arms of someone who’d waited centuries for a reason to.

his grip tightened at your waist, pulling you fully into him, and this time, the kiss wasn’t careful. it was hungry. his mouth parted yours with ease, tongue brushing against yours in a slow, possessive stroke that made your whole body tense — and then melt.

your hands slid upward, bunching his sweater in your fists, dragging it up until your fingers met bare skin. his stomach was solid under your touch, flexing when your nails scratched lightly across it, and sunghoon groaned — a deep, guttural sound you felt more than heard.

he bent you back slightly against the counter, one arm still locked around your waist while the other slid beneath the hem of your hoodie, fingers tracing the bare skin of your back, slow and deliberate. he didn’t rush. he knew what he was doing — every touch calibrated, every movement designed to push you just a little closer to losing it.

your knees gave, and sunghoon caught you effortlessly, both hands gripping under your thighs now. he lifted you like you weighed nothing, setting you down on the counter without breaking the kiss — just a soft thud against the marble as he stepped between your legs, chest heaving.

you gasped into his mouth, fingers slipping under the chain at his neck, tugging him forward.

he kissed you harder.

his hips pressed into yours, slow, deliberate pressure — not grinding, not yet, but teasing the friction he knew you both wanted. he swallowed your moan with a groan of his own, one hand sliding up your side until his thumb brushed the edge of your bra. he didn’t touch more — not yet — but the heat of his palm burned through the fabric like a promise.

his teeth grazed your lower lip, tugging gently before his mouth dropped to your jaw, trailing kisses along the line of your neck.

you tilted your head without thinking, giving him access. inviting it.

his breath hitched.

“fuck, you’re so warm,” he muttered, mouth dragging just under your ear. “i could taste you for hours.”

his tongue flicked at your pulse point — your mark — and your hips jumped. he smirked against your skin, tongue smoothing the sting like an apology he didn’t mean.

“tell me to stop,” he whispered.

but you didn’t.

you couldn’t.

his hands were everywhere — cradling your hips, skimming under your hoodie, dragging heat across your ribs as if he could memorize your body by touch alone. he kissed you like a man who’d been starving. like you were water in a desert he’d forgotten how to survive.

your legs wrapped around his waist without thinking, ankles locking at his back, and sunghoon hissed through his teeth — a sharp, needy sound that scraped at the edge of his control.

his hips pressed forward once — slow, firm — and the contact made you gasp into his mouth, whole body arching toward him.

he was hard against you, no hiding it now, and you rocked into him instinctively, trying to find more friction, more pressure — more of him.

“fuck,” he muttered, voice thick. “you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

his lips trailed back to your throat — soft kisses at first, then deeper, open-mouthed. hot breath dragging against your skin. when he reached the place just under your ear — the mark — he froze.

his body stilled, except for the tremble in his hands. his mouth hovered there, breath uneven, lips parted — not kissing anymore. just holding.

you felt it before he said anything: the sharp edge of something darker, needier, ancient pressing into the moment like a shadow.

his fangs were out.

you didn’t see them, but you felt them.

not against your skin, not yet — but close enough that your body responded with a thrill of heat and warning. it was primal, sharp, an almost electric pull of wait.

and that’s when you remembered.

what he was. what this could be. what you could be, if he lost even a second more of control.

your breath caught, the pulse behind your ear flaring like it had its own alarm system, and suddenly, your hands were at his shoulders — not shoving, not panicked, but pressing. clear. certain.

sunghoon stopped instantly.

you blinked, cheeks burning, lips parted from the kiss, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his sweater like you hadn’t quite decided whether to push or pull.

“i—” you started, but the words jammed in your throat. heat rushed to your cheeks, and for a second, all you could do was breathe through it — the kiss, the pressure, the closeness.

your hands pressed lightly against his chest. “fuck.”

you weren’t sure if it was regret or just too much, but sunghoon stepped back the instant you touched him — like your fingertips carried weight. like he’d been waiting for your signal.

he moved away slowly, deliberately, jaw tight and eyes still shining with something not human. his back hit the edge of the kitchen island and he stayed there, hands braced on the counter, head tipped down as if to hide his face.

his breath came rough, like his body was still winding down from a place you hadn’t meant to take him.

and then you saw them — the tips of his fangs still peeking past his parted lips.

he clenched his jaw. hard. once. twice.

you could see the shift happening — the fight in him to shut it down.

he didn’t speak at first. didn’t even look at you.

you stood frozen for a second, watching the tension roll off him like heat waves. he looked beautiful like this — too beautiful, if you were being honest. sweater rumpled, lips swollen, hair mussed from your fingers. he looked wrecked in the best, most reverent way.

and it was your fault.

you stayed still. legs still bracketing the counter’s edge, hands curled at your sides like they didn’t know what to do anymore.

sunghoon stood a few steps away now — not far, not nearly far enough — but no longer touching you. his chest rose and fell in slow, sharp movements like he was forcing air in and out, trying to rebuild the wall he’d let you walk straight through.

you watched him — the curve of his neck, the sharp edge of his jaw clenched tight, the way his hands flexed once, then again, like they didn’t trust themselves.

he looked wild. undone. so thoroughly affected by what just happened.

and still, he hadn’t said a word.

but he wasn’t walking away either.

he just looked at you — chest tight with the effort it took to hold back, to force a long breath through his nose and let it calm the fire building low in his gut.

and then he smiled.

barely. faint and wrecked and full of something that bordered on grief.

and that — more than the kiss, more than the press of his hips or the sound of your name in his mouth — was what undid you.

because it wasn’t a predator’s smile. it wasn’t ego or hunger or even confidence.

it was soft. tired. hopeful, somehow, in the most fragile way.

you’d thought he was all cold restraint and old-soul aloofness, a vampire more myth than man. and maybe he was, sometimes. but this version — the one who looked at you like he didn’t trust himself but trusted you to stop him — that was something else entirely.

something real.

and after everything, after the movie and the laughter and the mess of a kiss you’d just shared, you finally understood why the bond scared him so much.

not because he couldn’t feel it. but because he felt everything. too much. all at once.

sunghoon wanted you — god, he wanted you in every way a vampire wasn’t supposed to want anyone — but he also wanted to deserve you. and right now, right here, with your mouth swollen from his, your eyes shining in the dim light of a kitchen that didn’t even feel real anymore, he knew this wasn’t the moment. 

it was your first night here. you were tired, scared, confused, still learning what the bond even meant. this wasn’t about what he craved — this was about what you could carry. 

and so, instead of kissing you again — instead of letting himself drown in the warmth of your mouth, the trust in your eyes, the pull of the bond that never stopped humming beneath his skin — sunghoon chose stillness. 

he let the heat cool just enough to regain control, just enough to keep his promise to take things slow. it wasn’t easy. it hurt, actually. but he held himself back, like a hand gripping a ledge, and put you back on your feet.

before letting you go, he leaned in just enough to press his forehead against yours.

the contact was light, barely there, more air than touch — but it grounded him. it quieted the noise in his head long enough to remember this wasn’t about what he wanted. not yet.

he felt your breath catch, your eyelashes fluttering as you waited, confused. he didn’t need to look to know your eyes were still on him, wide and warm and searching. and in that space between breath and silence, where you could’ve said anything — you did.

“asshole,” you muttered, soft and full of reluctant frustration.

sunghoon laughed under his breath, low and warm, the sound rumbling somewhere between his chest and yours. it wasn’t mocking. if anything, it was affectionate — the kind of laugh that said i know, i know, even if he wasn’t sorry.

“you’ll thank me tomorrow,” he whispered, not pulling away, not yet. and even though you still felt like you were floating just above the floor, even though your lips still buzzed from the kiss you hadn’t fully gotten back from, part of you believed him.

after a beat, when the air between you finally felt less like it was going to combust and more like something you could breathe again, you spoke — your voice small, tentative, but laced with that familiar shade of dry humor he was starting to crave.

“so… we’re getting married for real?” you asked, your words slow and a little shaky, like you were half-joking, half-trying to convince yourself this was all still reality. “i’m yet to start college. i hope you’re okay with that.”

sunghoon pulled back just enough to see your face — not far, just enough for his eyes to find yours again. his smile wasn’t wide, but it was there, carved soft at the corners of his mouth like you’d etched it into him permanently. the kind of smile you give someone you already know too well.

“guess i’ll have to learn how to pack lunch boxes,” he murmured, voice low and fond.

you rolled your eyes, but it didn’t stop the way your lips twitched — the way the glow of him, of this whole night, had sunk into your chest.

you were starting to believe it now. not just the bond, or the danger, or the chaos of it all — but him.

sunghoon wasn’t human. he would never be. not anymore. not after six hundred and something years of living with powers no human could ever touch, no matter how far they stretched. 

you couldn’t expect him to behave the way people did — the way you did. he wasn’t wired for it. his world was older, stranger, stitched together by instincts and memories that lived longer than most buildings.

maybe that’s why he felt like this — different, yes. but also magnetic. electric. almost unreal. he was both too much and not enough at the same time. there was always something just off about him — in the precision of his stillness, the weight of his gaze, the way his voice dropped like it had been trained to carry command over centuries.

sunghoon had seen things. not in the romantic, dramatic kind of way — but in the raw, ancient, painfully real way. 

he’d survived wars that never made it into your schoolbooks. probably watched jazz get born in a harlem basement, thick with smoke and rebellion. he’d probably fucking kissed queens and stabbed liars and buried friends. he’d sinned. probably loved. probably killed.

and now — somehow — he stood here, in a penthouse kitchen in seoul, barefoot and exhausted, holding your face in his hands like it was the first new thing that had mattered in a very long time.

you weren’t stupid. you knew you were barely brushing the surface of the kind of life someone like sunghoon had led. you knew there were things he hadn’t said — wouldn’t say — things too old, too ugly, or too beautiful to fit between words.

but none of it scared you right now.

what scared you was how much you were starting to want to understand.

because even if he wasn’t human, even if he never would be again — tonight, in the low light of a kitchen too expensive to belong to someone like you, he’d been soft. not perfect. not safe. just… real. in a way that you weren’t used to.

and maybe that’s why you hadn’t passed out yet. why your hands weren’t shaking, why you could still crack jokes after kissing a man who hadn’t aged since your great-great-grandparents were in diapers. maybe it wasn’t strength. maybe it was just… 

legacy.

you were your father’s daughter.

the daughter of a man who never feared the dark — only disrespected it when it wasn’t handled with the right amount of lore accuracy. a man who treated vampires the way other people treated endangered species: with reverence, fascination, and a strange, unwavering protectiveness. he didn’t just like the stories — he believed in them. believed they deserved care. preservation. truth.

it all made so much sense now. the old books lining your childhood shelves — yellowing paperbacks with cracked spines and dramatic titles that your school librarian politely suggested you keep at home. 

the stories weren’t just bedtime tales for your father, they were homework. he’d quiz you on vampire mythologies across cultures, pause movies to correct historical inaccuracies, and once, actually filed a complaint with a tv network because they’d misrepresented blood rituals in a prime-time special.

and then there was the docuseries.

a five-part, low-budget vampire anthropology show he’d made you watch with him over the course of three school nights — because “this is how we bond, sweetheart. through the critical analysis of immortal social structures.” 

you’d rolled your eyes the whole way through, complained about the narrator’s fake accent, but still sat beside him on the couch, feet tucked under his thigh, popcorn in hand.

maybe he’d known.

maybe some part of him had understood, in that eerie, unspoken way parents sometimes did, that the world had plans for you that didn’t include safety or normalcy.

and maybe this — standing in a penthouse full of vampires, pulse marked by an ancient bond, heart too full for your body to hold — was the most terrifying and natural thing in the world because of that.

sunghoon leaned back against the counter, watching you silently. not like he was waiting for you to speak — just… observing. like he didn’t want the moment to end yet.

you blinked at him, arms loosely crossed, brain still a little melted from the kiss, the mark, everything. and when the silence stretched, you couldn’t help yourself.

“you’re thinking about it again,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “the marriage thing.”

he didn’t deny it. just tilted his head, lips twitching into the barest smile. “a little. mostly wondering what color scheme we’re going with.”

you scoffed. “okay, absolutely not. you don’t get to kiss me once and start planning the ceremony.”

“so you are admitting it was a good kiss,” he said.

you stared at him. blinked. then turned on your heel. “i’m going to bed.”

he laughed — low and full and genuine — and followed behind you at a respectful distance, like he was still trying to honor your space even after you'd just melted into his mouth.

“you’re staying in my room, right?” he called after you.

“yeah, yeah,” you muttered. “but only because niki said so.”

he nodded sagely. “excellent. then you can take the left side of the bed.”

“you’re not sleeping in there.”

“i meant the guest bed. obviously.”

you didn’t bother replying. not because you were mad — but because smiling would’ve ruined your exit.

and as you disappeared into the hallway, still fighting the grin that tugged at your lips, sunghoon stayed behind just a moment longer.

watching.

and smiling too.

author's note: THIS IS SO CRINGE I'M GONNA DIE. reblogs and comments are appreciated :) send me a request • my masterpost

taglist: @ikeugirly @vixialuvs @hoonprksung @kyunlov @verialuv @sagegreenhairclip @gal821 @hoonstrology @httpenhoon @questionsdearreader @mynameis-rosie1 @ninistranaut @staygenesblog @stercul1a @nshmrarki @imeowni @harusoraa @niki788 @sosaphiee @seokjinthescientist @gloomyasphodel @ferjinyoungiee @temuao @p1ecetinyzen @theothernads @jellymiki

[8gyus]

ln vol 5

"three hundred silver would be cheap at the price of this girl"

can i just talk about this specific arc in volume 5 of the apothecary diaries T—T

so this is the part where they’re investigating the village of the quack doctor and i just want to HIGHLIGHT how insane it is how quickly jinshi picks up on whatever maomao is thinking.

to be loved is to be known.

he doesn’t need the full explanation. he doesn’t ask questions. he sees her in action, understands the direction she’s taking, and silently backs her up.

i fully believe jinshi is constantly amazed by maomao’s mind. he’s in AWE of her. her intelligence? her skills? her way of thinking? he watches her work and his eyes practically sparkle. he is the poster boy of “supportive malewife who lets the girlboss thrive.” and the best part?? he’s never once felt threatened by it.

never once has he been insecure about how smart she is. never once did he try to downplay her. never once been dismissive. never once been competitive. in fact, he actually tries to learn from her. remember when maomao was kidnapped and jinshi tried to think like her, to figure out where she might be and how she’d act? THAT’S HIM APPLYING WHAT HE’S LEARNED. that’s him treating her intelligence as something worth listening to, learning from, protecting. this man said “wow she’s incredible, i’m gonna start doing that too.” 😭

also can we talk about how at this point, jinshi is literally jus there to make sure maomao can do whatever she wants 😭😭 he is using his position to create space for maomao to move freely. ane he does it silently, without demanding recognition or credit. like. she has the freedom to act, investigate, speak out—because jinshi has the status and he uses that power so SHE can keep doing what she loves.

he’s not the type to put her in a cage and call it love—he’s the type to open the door wider.

maomao’s a low-born woman in a rigid society, and yet she’s moving through rooms she shouldn’t be allowed in, questioning people way above her rank, throwing herself into danger—and she gets away with it. because jinshi is behind her.

and the beauty of it is he never rubs that in her face. he never says “you can only do this because of me.”

NO. he simply uses his status to create space for her—a safe space where she can be brilliant, reckless, clever, infuriatingly blunt, and still be protected.

we love a supportive malewife who’s just out here empowering his genius goblin girlfriend 😭

he’s not just in love—he respects her.

SEE WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT 😭😭 he just lets her do stuff.

LET PEOPLE ENJOY THEIR INTERESTS!!!!!!! even if it’s borderline unhinged, even if it involves starting a drinking bet with 5 men and other maomao-coded behavior.

jinshi has so much faith in her. he doesn’t hover. he doesn’t interrupt. he just trusts that she knows what she’s doing—even when literally no one else does.

and GOD. may this love find me.

the kind of love that doesn’t try to change you or dim you down.

just watches you go feral in your weird little field of expertise and thinks, “yeah. that’s them. that’s the person I trust.”

jinshi NEVER holds her back. (okay, MAYBE sometimes he takes away her mushrooms and poison samples but THATS BECAUSE SHES INSANE. that’s not control, that’s just him trying to keep her from dying LMAO 😭)

but even then, he never tells her to stop being herself. he just wants her alive long enough to keep being brilliant. like… imagine someone believing in you that much. not just tolerating your interests. not romanticizing them either. but respecting them, supporting them, helping make sure you get the space to keep doing what you love.

and now as the scene progresses, all that “trust her” energy?? YEAH. it’s still there. but he’s also 1000% ready to step in the moment she crosses the line.

because like… let’s be real. maomao?? out of her mind sometimes LMAO 😭 she’ll do unhinged things without flinching. she’ll walk headfirst into danger with zero self-preservation and just go “yeah it’s fine <3” GIRL. STOP.

and jinshi??? he knows this. he respects her intellect, he trusts her judgment— but he also knows she needs someone to pull her back when she goes too far.

so the moment it gets tense? the moment the landlord starts getting pissed?

he stands.

his chair SCRAPES BACK.

everyone else is still sitting there stunned, but jinshi’s already up—because if anything happens to her, he’s already decided he won’t just watch.

this is what I love about them so much.

they balance each other perfectly. she pulls him out of his perfect palace persona. he pulls her back from the edge of self-destruction she’s the chaotic gremlin genius with zero self-preservation. he’s the calm, composed, high-ranking disaster with a soft spot the size of the moon, and together they function like one complete human being 😭😭😭

they are the definition of equal and opposite.

not trying to change each other—just naturally falling into place like two puzzle pieces.

they just fit.

he is her stability. she is his clarity. and neither of them asks the other to change.

okay but can we TALK about how maomao literally just accepts pain?? like. “yeah i’m probably gonna get punched but whatever, i need that info.” GIRL. what do you MEAN "its fine" 😭😭 this woman treats her own life like a tool. like a thing she can offer up to science or logic or knowledge or whatever cause she’s chasing at the moment. she was READY to get beat up if it meant getting closer to an answer. and this isn’t even the first time!!!

this girl has literally:

tested poisons on herself

walked around with reopened stitches like it’s no big deal

been punched in the face and brushed it off

was ABOUT TO CUT OFF HER PINKY

AND SHE THOUGHT THAT WAS FINE. she didn’t flinch. no hesitation. because that’s how little she thinks her body matters. to her, pain is just another step in the process. if she has to bleed for the answer, then so be it.

but Jinshi? Jinshi sees that. and it kills him.

he's the only one who stops her. he’s the one who sees her sacrificing herself over and over and goes “no. not like this.” the way he literally won’t let her hurt herself, even when she’s convinced it’s necessary.

like that one last scene in season 2— she’s about to CUT OFF HER OWN PINKY to test a medicine (she hasn’t seen jinshi in a while, she’s not in the rear palace anymore, she’s fully gone goblin mode with no one to stop her)

and then??? jinshi walks in. and she STOPS.

she doesn’t even argue. she just stops. because he’s there again. and he’s always been the one to keep her grounded.

girlie’s ready to bleed for her answers and this man is out here being like “no you are NOT cutting off your damn pinky, are you INSANE—”

jinshi is the reason maomao doesn’t self-destruct completely.

he takes care of her like she’s breakable—not because he thinks she’s weak, but because he loves her that much.

he treats her like she’s fragile. like she’s precious. like she’s someone who deserves to be protected—even from herself.

he’s the only one who reminds her she’s not disposable. he’s the one keeping her grounded. keeping her alive. she pushes herself too far and he pulls her back every. single. time.

they balance each other in the most painfully beautiful way.

maomao brings out his true self—the silly, unfiltered, messy version of him that no one else gets to see. and jinshi brings out the part of maomao that still wants to be human. to be cared for. to be held.

when he’s stuck being the perfect, composed, unreachable official, she’s the only one who treats him like a human being.

she calls him out. makes him sulk. brings out his bratty, petty, real self.

she gives him space to breathe.

they balance each other in every way.

they are each other's anchors and i am LOSING IT

"three hundred silver would be cheap at the price of this girl" that’s it. that’s the whole thesis. that’s the line.

you can write entire essays about their dynamic but THIS. RIGHT. HERE. is the mic drop.

maomao, who would willingly slice her own finger off in the name of science, who shrugs off bruises and reopened stitches like they’re part of the process, who thinks her value is in what she can do, not who she is.

and then there’s jinshi, saying with his whole chest that even 300 silver would be a bargain. even that wouldn't be enough. like he’s not just protecting her anymore, he’s putting worth on her in front of a whole room of people. redefining her value out loud.

and the way he says it so casually, brushing away the hand of the man holding her, like “don’t touch her. she’s not for you. she’s not for harm.”

that level of possessive protection??? ARE YOU KIDDING???

she risks herself like she doesn’t matter.

he guards her like she’s everything.

HE VALUES HER MORE THAN SHE VALUES HERSELF.

[idk-karla]

The Neighbor, pt. 4

Pairing: bucky barnes x single!mom!reader (Post Thunderbolts)

Summary: A day at the farmer's market ends better than you can expect.

Author's note: I just slacked off at work for two hours for this lmfaooooo. That being said, I haven't edited sorry. Inspo came from the scene in Falcon and Winter Soldier, my babies. Thanks again for all the support girlies, enjoy.

Part 3, Part 3.5

Masterlist

I was halfway through tying Ellie’s tiny sneakers when she suddenly gasped like she’d forgotten something critical, bolting for the front door

“Eleanor,” I called after her, "where are you going?!”

“We forgot to invite Bucky!”

She threw open the door with all the drama of a Broadway actress and cupped her hands around her mouth. “BUCKYYYY!”

I came up behind her, hands on her small shoulders, wincing. “Ellie, maybe not scream—”

“BUUUUUCKY! We’re going to the farmers market! Hurry! You have to come with us!”

I peeked my head outside, just in time to see the curtain in his front window shift. A second later, the door creaked open and there he was—Bucky Barnes in all his tousled, just-out-of-bed glory. Joggers slung low on his hips. Thin white tank clinging to him in places I absolutely should not have been looking.

He blinked, eyes still heavy with sleep. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked, voice low and rough enough to light a fire under my skin.

Ellie beamed up at him. “We’re going to the farmers market to get fruit! There’s peaches and oranges and kiwis and honey sticks! And goats sometimes! Come with us pleeeeease?”

He looked down at her, still blinking slowly, then looked at me. His eyes dragged over me slow, taking me in. It was definitely a coincidence I had worn a form fitting dress in his favorite color, Olive Green. I could tell by the flare in his nostrils that it served its purpose. 

“No pressure,” I added, lifting one shoulder, trying to ignore the way heat had pooled in my cheeks. “But she did just summon you like her own personal Disney sidekick, so…”

He huffed a quiet laugh, dragging a hand over his face. “Give me five minutes.”

***

The market was bustling by the time we got there. White tents lining the streets,  the scent of fresh bread in the air, live music playing somewhere nearby. Ellie immediately latched onto Bucky’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. His eyes met mine for a moment, shocked, like he didn’t feel worthy of such an honor. 

I held out my hand tentatively, biting the inside of my cheek to contain my nerves despite the simple gesture. Bucky didn’t hesitate. His fingers looped around mine instantly giving me a comforting squeeze as he used it to pull me closer.

We walked beside each other, fireworks dancing between our biceps like them rubbing up against each other as we walked wasn’t the most natural thing in the world.

We walked through the first few tents unamused. It wasn’t until we reached a crystal shop that caught our attention. Ellie picked up every shiny rock like she was in a museum of sacred relics. Bucky stayed behind her, calm and patient, crouching down when she asked questions, lifting her up when she couldn’t reach. He didn’t rush her. Didn’t glance at me for help. Just... let her be. Like her curiosity was something to nurture, not manage.

Watching them made my heart ache in a warm, sticky way, the kind that feels a little like falling and a little like home.

Next came a Disney tent, full of every single character Disney has ever released in plushie form. Ellie walked through the space, grinning like she had entered through the gates of heaven. Bucky stayed close, eyes soft as she explained the entire plot of Frozen 2 in exhausting detail. He nodded through all of it like she was giving a tactical briefing.

“And that one’s Rapunzel! She has magic hair!”

“She sure does,” he said solemnly, like he had any idea what she was talking about.

“And this is Merida! She’s not afraid of anything!”

“Sounds like someone I know,” he said, sending me a quick glance and a teasing wink. My heart fluttered in my chest.

Ellie walked out of there with an army of stuffed princesses and a proud grin. I raised my eyebrows at him.

“You're enabling her,” I said, sidling up beside him as he paid.

“She has good taste,” he said, shrugging like I was the problem. 

I arched my brow. “You always this easy to manipulate?”

He leaned in slightly, brushing his arm against mine on purpose. “Only around m-” He stopped, mid-word, like he caught himself saying something he wasn’t ready to. His eyes flicked away. “Pretty girls”

Oh.

My heart did something stupid in my chest. I tried not to think about it, I did. But as we walked through the rest of the tents I couldn’t help it. I had an inkling he was going to say something that would’ve completely wrecked me. He was going to say my. I could feel it.

My girl.

Which was ridiculous because I wasn’t his girl. 

Sure we were having dinner together multiple times a week, sometimes a movie neither of us really cared about just to spend more time together. Sure he’d replaced that light that had been out on my porch for months without saying a thing. I just got home late one night and the light was working. Sure he stopped at the store to get me apple pie on the way home sometimes just because he knew I liked it. Sure he taped Ellie’s drawings to his front door like they were priceless art pieces. 

Sure I started making extra portions for dinner so that he could have a homecooked meal at least once a day. Sure I started to fill up his porch with plants one week at a time to give it some life. He never said a word, but I saw the way he ran his fingers gently over the leaves like they meant something. Then he figured out my watering schedule and joined me on the porch outside every week to 

I definitely didn’t want to be his girl. Definitely. Totally.

I was so lost in thought I didn’t even realize we’d stopped until I felt Bucky’s hand on the small of my back, gently guiding me toward the fruit stand.

“I want that one,” Ellie said, pointing at a jar of bright orange apricot jam.

“Sure,” Bucky said, already reaching for it

“And that honey stick! No—the pink one!”

He got her three.

“And the flower!” she said, pointing at a bouquet that was almost as big as she was.

“You’re gonna need help carrying all of this,” he said seriously, crouching to tuck it under her arm.

I stepped in before he could buy her the whole cart. “Okay, whoa, Soldier Sugar Daddy, let’s rein it in.”

He looked up at me, caught, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “What?”

“You can’t just buy her everything she points at,” I said, folding my arms.

“She asked,” he said,like that was airtight logic..

“She also asked for cake for breakfast this morning. Guess what the answer was?”

He leaned in a little, clearly enjoying this more than he should. “...Was it no?”

“It was no,” I said, giving him a look.

“That’s boring.” 

“I agree,” Ellie chimed in from behind him, already halfway into her honey stick.

I gave her a mock glare and she immediately scampered behind Bucky’s legs for protection, like he was her personal body guard.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Bucky.”

He held up his hands in surrender, grinning. “Alright, alright. No more spoiling. Probably.”

Ellie immediately took his hand again, completely unconcerned. Like he was hers. Like this was normal.

We were halfway to the car when Ellie spotted a few classmates near the playground. She looked up at me with big pleading eyes, and I nodded before she even said a word.

Bucky and I sank onto a nearby bench, arms full of jam, flowers, and honey sticks.

He sat with a respectful amount of space between us. so, naturally, I leaned in. Shoulder to shoulder. Temple to temple. I felt him hesitate, then give in and drape his vibranium arm around my shoulders.

“You’re wrapped around her sticky little finger,” I said, voice low.

“Yeah,” he murmured, not even glancing down at me. “Kinda like I am with you.”

My heart stopped for a beat.

He said it so easily. Like it wasn’t a confession. Like it didn’t just flip my world upside down.

I blinked at him, stunned.

And then, thank God, Ellie came barreling back across the grass, dragging two of her friends along. She pointed at Bucky’s arm and whispered something to them with all the drama of a spy kid.

Bucky narrowed his eyes at her, amused. “I see you stirring trouble, General.”

Ellie beamed. “They don’t believe me when I say you’re as strong as the Hulk!”

“Well-” I started.

Bucky’s head whipped toward me, eyes narrowed. A silent dare: Say it. I dare you.

“I mean-” I didn’t get the chance to finish because he stood, striding over to the kids with a quiet smirk.

I couldn’t hear what he said, but I watched in absolute awe as the children started attaching themselves to him like baby koalas. Ellie was first, launching herself up and swinging from his arm like it was a jungle gym. The others followed. Bucky didn’t even flinch. He let them dangle, gently swinging them back and forth like it was nothing, then set them down as carefully as glass.

One of the children’s mom approached, with a tight smile and narrowed eyes. A polite kind of suspicion that had a protective instinct unfurling in my chest. Bucky was a good man, and the look she was giving him made me mad. 

I slipped both arms around his bicep and leaned into his side like a silent stake. He glanced down at me, startled, then caught the woman’s look and instantly understood.

His hand settled on my waist like it had always belonged there.

She left without a word, but I didn’t move.

***

By the time we got back, Ellie was done.

Not just sleepy. Done. She’d powered through the market like a pint-sized storm, and now she was curled up in her car seat, unconscious, a cinnamon roll hanging loosely in one hand and her slightly bruised bouquet in the other.

Bucky carried her up the stairs without question. She didn’t even stir, just let her head lull against his shoulder with total trust.I was sure my chest was going to collapse if my heart kept thudding at it like this. 

I unlocked the door, pushed it open with my hip, and we moved together inside like we’d done this a hundred times before.

“Should I…?”” he whispered, motioning toward her room.

“Yeah, just drop her on the bed. She’s out cold.”

He reappeared a minute later, shrugging off his jacket while I pulled out the groceries. fruit, some fresh bread, the honey sticks.

“She’s gonna talk about today for the next week,” I said, smiling softly. “You were kind of her hero today.”

“She was mine,” he said, then shrugged like he hadn’t just said something that made my knees weak.

“I fight trained assassin’s for a living and I think she wears me down more.”

“She's scarier too,” I said, smiling.

“Kind of like someone else I know.”

I swallowed, pulse ticking up. “Is that supposed to be a compliment or a warning?”

“Little of both,” he said, and God help me, I liked the way he said it.

I glanced up at him, noticing suddenly how close we were standing next to each other.

“Hi,” I said quietly, the word barely more than breath as I leaned into him.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured, just as soft. His voice was low, warm, and closer than I was ready for.

I could feel the heat radiating off him. Could almost count the inches between us by how my skin tingled in their absence. His breath ghosted against my cheek. His hand lifted for a second, like he was about to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear… but he pulled back, uncertain.

God, those eyes. They were too much. Too soft, too steady, too damn careful. Like he was holding himself back for me.

I couldn’t take it anymore. My hands slid up to his shoulders before I even made the decision, my arms wrapping around his neck like something I’d done a thousand times before in another life. His arms were around my waist pulling me into him on instinct. Our bodies aligned like a magnet snapping into place.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low, eyes wide with a flicker of panic. Not the kind that meant no, the kind that meant please say what I think you're about to say.

“You gonna kiss me or are we just gonna keep pretending we’re not both thinking about it?” I whispered, heart pounding against my ribs

His jaw clenched, like he was holding back something sharp, something dangerous. His eyes dropped to my mouth then back to my eyes. Torn. Tortured.

“I’ve been trying to be respectful,” he said, the words rough like they scraped on the way out.

“Try less.”

That was all it took.

His mouth crashed down on mine, and everything inside me ignited. It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t desperate. It was intentional. Every movement, every brush of lips, every tilt of his head was slow and sure like he’d thought about this moment a thousand times but refused to let himself rush it.

He kissed me like I was something sacred. Like he’d been waiting for permission. Like he'd memorized the shape of this moment and still couldn’t believe it was real.

His lips were warm and soft and tasted faintly like strawberries from the sample I’d made him try earlier. His hand slid up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing my skin with a kind of gentleness that undid me completely. I melted under the weight of it, every part of me pressing in like I could mold myself to him. 

By the time we finally pulled apart, my lungs were burning. My heart was thundering so loud I could hear it in my ears. 

He didn’t let go. Just leaned his forehead against mine, breathing like he’d run a marathon.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, voice raw and amazed.

“Yeah,” I exhaled, still catching my breath. “Me too.”

[positivexcellence]

Family Reunion: ‘Supernatural’ at 20

Jared Padalecki, Jensen Ackles, and Misha Collins answer fan questions and discuss the show’s lasting legacy

Celebrating 20 years since the pilot is a big deal. And this fandom has always been so devoted. What is it that keeps you doing these conventions for the fans?

Jared Padalecki: The fandom doesn’t seem separate from the show itself. We started out on The WB and then by the end of Season 1, we were on The CW. But very early on, we were this little engine that could, and so the fandom from the get-go — I think it was Season 2 or 3 when we started coming to these [conventions] — they feel like such a part of it. And the majority of people I’ve met who watched the show, when I ask, “How’d you find out about it?” they’re like, “Oh, my best friend…then we went to a con.” Having been a fan of different things like sports teams, bands or different shows and movies, and genres growing up, I get it.

When did you first notice that the fandom was something different?

Jensen Ackles: I did a convention in the U.K. after Season 1, and it was the first one representing Supernatural that I was a part of. There were people from Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Smallville, and a variety of genre-esque shows, and we’d only been on for one season. But they’d done a really big marketing push in the U.K. for our first season, so when I showed up, the response from the fans there was shocking. I came back and was like…

Padalecki: “Dude, we’re famous!” [Laughs]

Ackles: Yeah, like, “We might get another season out of this!” [Laughs]

Misha Collins: I was totally surprised there were fans at all. Actually, my first convention was a Creation convention in New Jersey 16 years ago. I remember coming out onstage and being totally astonished. When we’re filming, we’re performing for the crew, who have seen us do a hundred thousand scenes, and they’re bored stiff by our antics. We’re really only getting the response of the glass on the camera. At these shows, we get to see a real audience response from fans who really love the show. There’s something about the feedback we get from coming to these that’s actually quite gratifying.

Padalecki: As I’m hearing us speak, it turns out we all have an insatiable hunger for flattery and praise, which probably started when we were young, from being ignored. [Laughs]

And then you realized you could harness the power of the fandom to do good…

Padalecki: The fans have raised millions of dollars for charities around the world, which is outstanding. But also, to see the relationships, the support, and care they give each other? I don’t spend a lot of time on social media, but here and there I’ll get an alert or someone will say, “Hey, did you hear that this person [is go- ing through] this or that?” And I’ll go and see comments from members of the SPN family who’ve never met each other, that are just sending love. The internet can be such a hell- hole at times, social media specifically, so to see our fandom going, “You got this,” “We believe in you,” “You’ve been through worse, and we will see you on the other side” and “Hope to meet you” — it is really awesome.

Collins: At times, it feels like we see each other more than our family — we are a surrogate family for one another. But there’s also this extended Supernatural community that functions like a family. A dysfunctional one, but people really do take care of each other.

Ackles: Because we have so much history together, and we have a 20-year relationship and friendship, we get to pop into these different cities, and it really is like a band [going] on tour. We are like, “OK, we’ll see you in Cleveland, see you in Tulsa, see you in L.A.” We get to come together, put on a show for the people that all have a common love for Supernatural, and it is just this little family reunion that happens every few weeks in different cities around the country.

Speaking of fans, we have some of their questions! First, who broke character the most, and how often was it Misha?

Ackles: There was a substantial commitment to breaking Misha.

Collins: You guys consistently f**ked with me. And I never developed the skill of keeping it together. Dave Riopel, who was our dolly operator, very earnestly came up to me and was like, “Misha, can I offer you a suggestion? When they’re doing that, just think in your head how much you hate them.” And he said it like, “Obviously, you do hate them.” [Laughs]

Padalecki: That’s just good advice. [Laughs] On the flip side, after years of all of that, you did win first place in that question.

Collins: So it paid off!

Another fan question: After playing these characters for so long, did you pick up any of their habits or mannerisms?

Padalecki: Great question. We played these characters for so long, it’s hard to parse out what parts of Jared became Sam…

Ackles: Where one begins and one ends.

Padalecki: Yeah, it’s so fluid. Every now and again, when I’m putting the kids to bed, they want to hear a story. And not a real story; they want me to make up a story. And I’m like, “Sure. A story about what?” They’ll say whales, and I don’t know anything about whales, but I’ll find myself going, “All right, so get this….” Which Sam said quite a bit. [Laughs]

Ackles: You just made me think of whenever I have to use “dad voice,” it sounds a lot like “Dean voice.” And it’s not on purpose, by any means.

So the voice you used to yell at demons?

Ackles: Yes. To yell at my lovely children. [Laughs]

Collins: I did my Castiel voice, which was like, [growls] “Hellloo, Dean.” I had a very deep voice, which, as you may intuit, isn’t my natural voice. And I was a year into filming Supernatural — I thought that I was only going to do a couple episodes.

Ackles: We did too, Misha.

Collins: [Laughs] So I went to the doctor and was like, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I have a sore throat that’s not going away.” I got checked for strep, and it’s not strep. I was literally causing damage to my vocal cords. So, that’s something that I carried with me from Castiel. Actual physical trauma

How was it for you on the set of The Boys, playing a different set of characters around each other?

Collins: Regressing. [They all laugh]

Ackles: Total regressing! We were asked that question on set by people there going, “What’s it like for you guys being back together?” But we still see each other all the time, and we know what’s going on in each other’s lives. So when we were back on set, it was just very natural and very familiar.

Padalecki: Super natural.

Ackles: It was supernatural! [Laughs]

Muscle memory didn’t kick in, where you’re like, “Wait, you’re not playing the person I’m used to you playing?”

Ackles: We don’t play our characters with each other normally. So it was just another iteration of one another that we got to play with.

Padalecki: It was amazing. My muscle memory, frankly, having not really acted in a year, was that I didn’t remember how to act! [Laughs]

Ackles: Jared, I don’t know that you ever did.

Padalecki: [Laughs] That’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me. Fortunately, the dialogue was so different than something Sam or any of his iterations ever would’ve said or done. But it felt strange.

Collins: We did end up doing a take in character as Cass, Sam, and Dean. And that’s probably the one they’re going to use.

Padalecki: I hope so.

Ackles: Look for that on the editing room floor. That’s where that will be. [Laughs]

If Supernatural were to come back, what kind of format would you want it to be? A feature? A limited series?

Collins: A puppet show.

Padalecki: Anime.

Ackles: Marionettes?

Padalecki: Like…

All together: Team America! [Laughs]

Padalecki: We’re all a lot older than we were 20 years ago. I don’t know if I have 22 episodes of Supernatural in me. I think a limited series would be great.

Would you want it to get grittier, or would you want to keep the same tone?

Ackles: I’ve thought about this because we’ve been asked what would the show have looked like had it been on a streamer. And it would’ve been different. It would’ve been a little more R-rated. But part of me feels like, because of what we did for so long and what the tone is, I feel like changing that now might be doing it a disservice. I could see the benefit in keeping it like a broadcast show.

Padalecki: I like the rules that broadcast television put on us because we still played.

Ackles: And we pushed the envelope.

Padalecki: We pushed the envelope so much within those boundaries. There’s an art to that.

Collins: I asked [series creator] Eric Kripke, “If you ever did a reboot of Supernatural, what do you think it would be?” And he said he would want it to be as horrifying as possible.

Padalecki: Big surprise.

Ackles: He’s doing that. It’s called The Boys!

And last question: What was it like for you at each of your series-wrap moments?

Collins: My goodbye scene was the last scene of filming at the end of a long week on a Friday night. It also ended up being right before the pandemic hit, [when] everything shut down. But we didn’t know that then. I was filming the goodbye scene, Castiel’s declaration of love to Dean, as well as my goodbye to the whole cast and crew, so it was super emotional. A lot of crew members were in tears, and it was really sweet. We would f**k around a lot on set and made a sport of trying to mess each other up during a scene, but we also had a real consciousness of when to sanctify moments and form a protective bubble around one another. And that night was a reverent night. All the aspects of it wrapped up in a way that felt really meaningful to me, and I carry that with me.

Ackles: Ours sucked.

Padalecki: It sucked.

Ackles: It was after COVID hit, so we came back, and all these people that we’ve been working with were all there with masks on. Certain groups couldn’t mingle with other groups. And that was really tough, that last day, not being able to really embrace and…

Padalecki: And go, “Let’s all go out tonight.”

Ackles: Or see their faces. People were wiping tears away under their masks. So we missed what Misha got. I look back and hold his day special, because I felt like that’s what it should have been.

Padalecki: The entirety of the pandemic lockdown situation was more difficult than when [director] Bob Singer said, “And cut!” which you hear — that’s literally him saying it when the episode airs and we’re on the bridge. The buildup to that was so hard; I cried so many times. I couldn’t read the barn scene because I would just start crying. Hearing Bob say “And cut” and then come out to the bridge with us all looking at each other was a feeling I’ll never forget. And a feeling I know I’ll never have again. Because so much happened between 2005 and 2020 in all of our lives. But it felt really good. Jensen and I have talked before about how we’re not the type to pat ourselves on the back, especially along the way. It’s like we had work to do. The finale felt like a completion. It was amazing.

[adivinedragoness]

Probably not very useful unless you speak german, but I'll put this here just in case:

Deke64 streams indie games on occasion, especially at her yearly whish-something event where she plays whatever her viewers wish.

She works as technical producer for an indie game publisher and, even from before getting that job, has many friends in the german indie game scene. For example, her OC is a guest character with it's own side quest in CrossCode. She even made her own indie game.

She cultivated her community for over a decade to be incredibly nice and wholesome so that when she started questioning her gender 2 months ago, she felt comfortable enough to take her community with her on the discovery journey.

Also, her self-made furry 3d Vtuber Avatar is totally awesome with dozens of fur colors and outfits that reference various characters from videogames and other media and can ve changed on the fly.

Oh, and she held once at least one speedrunning world record. (Castlevania Portrait of Ruin)

I understand why the various streamers and YouTubers I follow often make videos of important industry events like your Nintendoes Direct and have big streams for console launches. Like, they make a living off of views and getting on the latest thing is the best way to get views. But also those videos and streams are the ones I personally will skip because I'm just not interested. So anyway does anyone know of any streamers or YouTubers preferably trans women who focus on weird indie shit and some absolute absolute ancient jank?

[aventurineswife]

“What Is Grief, If Not Love Persevering?”

Summary: After disappearing during the Coreflame Trial, Phainon returns to you — rain-soaked, haunted, and changed. Amid the ruins of Okhema and the storm overhead, you confront the grief, love, and betrayal left in the wake of his absence. It’s a tense reunion filled with unspoken pain, raw vulnerability, and the faint, flickering hope of rebuilding what was broken.

Tags: Phainon x Reader, Angst with Romantic Undertones, Hurt/Comfort, Reunion Scene, Emotional Baggage, Post-Battle Trauma, Confession, Slow Healing.

Warnings: Emotional Distress, Themes of Abandonment, Grief and Mourning, Descriptions of Physical and Psychological Burnout, Mentions of Blood and Injury (mild), Heavy Emotional Dialogue (?).

Rain. Of course it had to be raining.

You leaned against the cold, stone balustrade of the Chrysos Bastion, overlooking the ruined spires of Okhema as they reached for the sky like broken fingers. Below, the quiet sobs of a city in mourning were hidden under the weight of the storm. Lightning traced white-hot lines across the clouds. You watched it, empty.

He hadn't come back. Not yet.

Phainon.

His name tasted like ash now. It used to be different — once, it had been sunrise and silk, the way he said your name when he thought no one else was listening, the careful touch of his fingers brushing yours during council meetings.

You still remembered the last thing he said before disappearing into the Coreflame Trial.

“Don’t wait for me.”

You had waited anyway.

Three weeks. Long enough for the other Heirs to begin calling it a "noble sacrifice." Long enough for statues to be planned and poets to craft final elegies. But not long enough for you. You still believed in impossible things.

Until today.

Because today, Mydei had found his ribbon. The one you tied into his coat sleeve before the Silver Chariot mission — the one he said he would keep near his heart.

It had been scorched. Charred edges, faint bloodstains.

He wasn’t dead. But he was hurt. And if he was alive, why hadn’t he come back?

That question echoed louder than thunder.

The door creaked behind you. You didn’t turn. Footsteps — familiar, measured, quiet despite the storm. No one walked like that except him.

Your breath caught. You spun.

And there he was.

Phainon.

He stood in the doorway like a ghost, white hair damp with rain, his sword slung over one shoulder like it weighed him down more than usual. He looked thinner. Worn. Haunted.

And when his eyes met yours — those blue eyes that once smiled without needing to speak — you saw it.

He had changed.

“[Name],” he said softly. A fragile whisper, like he didn’t trust his voice.

You didn’t know what to say. So you said the first honest thing your grief-stricken heart allowed:

“You left.”

“I had to.”

“You said don’t wait for you. But I did. I did.”

Silence crackled between you. Even the storm seemed to pause.

Phainon stepped forward, and you stepped back. It was instinctive. His eyes flinched.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You always meant not to hurt me. That’s the problem, Phainon. You never let me carry the pain with you.”

He clenched his jaw. Rain streamed from his coat. “I saw things in that Trial... the Titan’s divinity—it stripped everything down. My doubt. My love. My fear. It made me face a version of myself I didn’t recognize. I couldn’t come back until I knew who I was.”

“And who are you now?” you asked, voice trembling.

“I’m someone who’s failed you,” he said, and finally — finally — he dropped the sword.

The sound echoed like a death knell.

“You weren’t supposed to come back like this,” you whispered. “You were supposed to come back and say it was worth it. That you became stronger. That you still loved me.”

“I do love you,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s what scared me. That I could burn in that Coreflame, become something monstrous, and still love you. Especially love you.”

You stared. Your throat felt like it was wrapped in iron.

Phainon kept going, voice cracking.

“I imagined you standing here. On this very balcony. Every night. I wanted to reach you, but I couldn’t trust that I was... me anymore. Not until the fire passed.”

“And now?” you asked. “What’s left of you now?”

He raised a shaking hand to your face but didn’t touch.

“I’m still burning. But I want to burn beside you. If you’ll let me.”

For a heartbeat, your grief roared louder than any storm. And then... it cracked. Like armor too long worn. You stepped forward, slowly. Rested your forehead against his chest. You could feel the tension in him — like a bow pulled too tight.

“You left me in the rain, Phainon.”

“I know.”

“And I hate that I still love you.”

“I know.”

You looked up. His eyes were raw now — no regal silk, no poised warrior’s facade.

Just Phainon. Scared. Hopeful. Real.

“I can’t promise to forgive you tonight,” you whispered.

“I don’t deserve it tonight.”

“But I want to believe in us again.”

He exhaled, like it was the first breath he’d taken since leaving.

“Then let me stay,” he said. “Let me earn that belief. Let me be yours — not as a hero. Not as the Deliverer. Just... me.”

You finally let him touch you. His hand curled against your cheek, and you leaned into it like it was the only warmth left in the world.

“Welcome home,” you said, voice breaking.

And for the first time in weeks, the rain didn’t feel quite so cold.

[maggotvamp]

ANYONE ELSE BUT YOU — KANG DAE-HO

synopsis: kang dae-ho was a name that made your heart swell, even when you were a kid. he was a boy that protected you during school whenever you were getting picked on, you were there for him whenever his father gave him a hard time. you promised you would do anything to make sure he was able to experience a long and good life, away from his father, living happily with his sisters and you. one thing you made sure, you never turned back on a promise.

authors note: will forever mourn that we didn’t get to see him in the finalist suit </3 my writing feels so repetitive in this so im sorry if it sucks LMAO

Music blared from the intercoms, startling the remaining players including Dae-ho, awake. You were the only one who couldn’t sleep through the night, too worried wondering about the final game or even if someone was desperate enough to strangle you in your sleep.

“Attention, please. The final game will begin momentarily. Please follow the instructions from our staff.” You stood, Dae-ho mirroring your movement as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. His white long sleeve disheveled, matching his hair.

“Let me fix this.” Your arms outstretched to the top of his head, smoothing down the locks that stood unkept from bedrest. You could feel his gaze tracing your face, as if he was admiring it for the very last time.

By the time your eyes met, the guards began ushering you all to head towards the final game arena. The colorful stairs that led to it made you feel uneasy, remembering back to Jung-bae’s body hanging alongside other players and the blood coating its walls.

“All players, please proceed to the elevator in front of you.” You and Dae-ho never left the others side, too cautious to separate from one another. The silence on the way up was crucifying, Min-su shaking helplessly next to you as the elevator lifted everyone to the start of the next death trial.

“A warm welcome to all of you for joining the final game.” The women’s voice on the PA system echoed out, you felt Dae-ho’s grip on your hand give a squeeze as if he sensed your discomfort.

Heights had always made you anxious, you could feel the hairs on your arms stand as you looked out to see two towers lined up vertically ahead of the one you stood on.

“Here are the rules of the game. Players will play on the square, triangle and circle towers, you will play a pushing game on these three towers.” The woman’s robotic voice droned on, as you looked around you saw various guards standing on ledges of different heights.

Dae-ho looked at the men that surrounded your bodies, money hungry, death fearing individuals. He knew that he had to protect you from them, in case they decided to rally against you simply for being more vulnerable than them.

“Please press the button on the ground to start the first round.” Hearing a mechanical sound from below you, a red button emerged from the ground, reaching a foot out, you gently pressed down. “The game has started, you have fifteen minutes.”

Around you, the players started conversing. You didn’t pay them any mind as you took a few steps to the corner of the tower and sat down. Your breath slowing as you stared out, attempting to calm yourself down.

Dae-ho following you, confusion written all over his face as he sat next to you. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“We can only hope that they kill one another before they get to us. They seem emotional enough to turn on each other.” Dae-ho nodded , taking your hand in his as he stared at the group of men having an intervention in a tight circle.

What caught your eye was Min-su, his shaking figure walking towards the ledge as if he was looking at something. He looked down to the drop as if someone was calling to him.

“Min-su?” You called out, Dae-ho snapping his head to the scene as the boy in question started kicking at the air mindlessly in front of him. Standing up, you began to make your way over to him. “Min-su?”

He looked like he had seen a ghost whenever his eyes made contact with yours. A trembling hand reaching out to meet yours. “Se-mi?”

“No, no. Se-mi’s gone, Min-su. It’s just us.” As you continued to approach him, he was stumbling more and more. You could guess the shock of seeing the dead girl he thought of as a friend caught up to him.

“Don’t fall, Min-su.” You warned, your arms stretched out as if to catch him for when he did. The boy kept on muttering under his breath, from what you could tell—it was her name.

Looking down, you saw his foot shakily settle on the edge. The last thing you heard from him was her name as he stumbled back in awe of you, or of what wasn’t you. Reaching a hand out frantically, you missed his grip entirely as he fell back.

Watching his body descend, you choked out a sob, looking back towards the group centered in the middle of the tower. “I—I didn’t push him, he fell.”

The player that went by 203 smirked as he ran a hand through his hair, looking the most relieved out of the bunch. “Well, one player down. Did all the work for us, eh?”

“Quit it, asshole.” Dae-ho stepped up, his figure blocking yours from their view as they turned their attention to you. In coincidental timing, a ringing surrounded you.

“The first round has ended.” The sound of metal scraping got your attention—a bridge like structure sliding out from the towers side, connecting with the triangle shaped one in front.

“We just walk across?”

“Guess so.” Myung-gi, player 333 responded, taking the first steps to cross.

Looking back at the pole centered in the middle, you walked towards it—giving it a tug and pulling the now weapon into your arms. You weren’t going to let any of these men think they could push you off especially if they were collectively voting on it.

The others had followed behind Myung-gi cautiously, with you and Dae-ho reaching the other side last.

Once the bridge emerged back inside the square tower, the group looked at you. Your hunched body balancing the steel pole, shiny tears staining your face. You couldn’t help but blame yourself for the death of Min-su, you always liked him the most out of the group Thanos had formed. If only you had acted quicker, he probably still would’ve been with you.

“Oh, look. The girl thinks she can shove us off, how cute.” Player 203 taunted, the four men behind him excluding one chuckled nervously as they watch you point the weapon directly at them.

“She definitely can, I will too.” Dae-ho threatened, walking towards them. Myung-gi took the second standing pole in one hand and looked at the group of men around him. “Let’s vote.”

“Good idea, all to eliminate the girl and her lover?” Player 203 announced, his hand raising above his head as the others followed suit.

Dae-ho cursed under his breath, standing slightly in front of you protectively. You saw Myung-gi emerge from behind them before quickly turning his back to you. Despite the others protests, he turned to look at the two of you.

“I’m on your side, I know you were close with Jun-Hee. She gave birth to my child.” At the mention of her name, you looked down at your black leather shoes. The woman sacrificing herself last game, you wish you were able to help but her sprained ankle and lack of wanting to be a burden led to her haunting suicide.

As you both stood, with poles outstretched—Dae-ho lifted his fists up. The four men took several steps back. Even though they outnumbered you, you still had a slight advantage.

The first to run towards you was the leader, going straight for Dae-ho as they started throwing punches and wrestling each other to the edge.

The next was 353, charging towards Myung-gi. Unfortunately, his determination was no use as he swung the pillar in contact with the mans body, which resulted in him trying to take a hold of it. His body dangling over the tower as Myung-gi tried to pull the item back.

You could see the sweat in his hands start to betray him and with a final shove, 353 was eliminated.

Directing your attention to Dae-ho, he had a firm hold on the man under him. Player 203’s head dangling off the edge with Dae-ho’s hands gripping his neck. You could see him grow tired, slowly losing his strength.

Doing the only thing you could, you ripped Dae-ho off the mans body, quickly jutting the pole to slam down on Player 203’s head. His body falling slack as he fell backwards.

Turning your attention to 036, he looked around helplessly as he held his hands up in defeat. Dae-ho held an arm out to stop you from taking any steps closer. “Wait, we could use him for the next round. So none of us have to fall.”

It was unlike him to wish death on someone, but in his mind he would sacrifice anyone to make sure the both of you got out together.

“Good idea.” Staring the man down, you struck the pole down on his leg. The snap making you grimace as you watched him fall to the floor with a scream. Your attention finally being brought to the last man standing.

As Player 100 was standing helplessly in the corner, watching as the chaos ensued in front of him. Myung-gi, now giving him the spotlight, held his rod out to him.

The old man pleaded. “Hey, let’s think about this. We can all split it, I only owe ten billion won, you guys can have the rest.”

“We’ll get 15.2 billion each, with you gone.” Myung-gi threatened, shoving the pole against his chest. The blood curdling scream left in his presence as he fell made you flinch slightly.

The clock chimed, signifying the end of the round. As you all stood, you heard shuffling—you all turned to see player 036 dragging himself to the edge of the tower.

“No.” You whispered, with him gone that meant one of you was going to have to fall next round. You couldn’t bear that happening. At least not at the risk of Dae-ho doing so.

His eyes looked at all three of you. “I’m sorry but I don’t want to be your sacrifice.”

Myung-gi shook his head, hands raised up as if to show peace. “Wait, calm down! That’s not what we’re thinking, right? So just stay where you are. Let’s talk.”

“You can talk to each other, i’m out.” Despite everyone’s pleas, he leaned back—letting his body take him to his permanent resting place.

“No!” You all shouted in unison, you watched as Myung-gi’s body threw itself at the man—hoping to grab on to whatever he could but it was to no avail.

The silence was raw, heaviness hung in the air as the three of you were left standing. Once Myung-gi stood back up, the three of you looked at one another. The beam you held now aimed at him.

“You go first.” You declared, pushing the pole to point at the bridge that extended to the other side. As he trudged backwards, giving quick glances behind as to not trip—you followed him, with Dae-ho steadying himself right behind you.

In frantic movement, he hurriedly pulled the steel stick out the ground and pointed it back at the both of you. Jutting it out as a warning to stay back. His eyes flickered between you and Dae-ho, showing no remorse. You knew he would’ve had no problem pushing the both of you if his life was on the line. You couldn’t blame him.

Myung-gi stared at the pole in your hands before looking at Dae-ho, you could see the gears churning in his head as to what to do next. In a quick rush, he sprinted towards him.

Letting out a shout, you darted. Pushing his body away as he neared Dae-ho with the makeshift weapon. The clank of it hit the ground as your bodies collided.

As you wrestled each other, he was able to get on top—his body straddling your legs. Your hands tried to grip on his locks but his strength overpowered yours, his hands making their way around your neck. Even though it was only for a few seconds, the burn in your throat made it feel like forever.

Seeing Myung-gi come to an abrupt halt, his eyes rolled to the back of his head as he collapsed beside you. Dae-ho stood before you, pole clutched in his hand and a murderous expression painting his face.

“I’ll push him.” He insisted, coming closer to you with the point of the beam poking the still body of Myung-gi. Blood pouring out from the wound, yet chest still rising. You shifted your gaze to the side as you heard his body take a hard thump off the tower.

Dae-ho’s hand took a hold of your cheek as he examined the redness on your neck. Your own going to rest on his shoulder. You couldn’t help but admire his features, his hair falling just right and sweat making his face glisten. It wasn’t until his eyes snapped to yours that you were pulled out of your trance.

“The button, we didn’t push it.” Dae-ho realized, turning your head to stare at the button sitting untouched on the floor. Your blood ran cold, Myung-gi’s death didn’t count.

Your eyes darted around, you could feel the tears beginning to flow back up again. Choking back a cough from the scratch in your throat, you looked at the abandoned rod. There was only one thing you could do at that point.

In a swift motion, you grabbed the steel stick beside Dae-ho and stumbled backwards—away from him. Your foot stepping on the button as you stood on opposite ends of one another.

“What are you doing?” Dae-ho asked, pure confusion written on his face as his eyes darted from your eyes to the item that sat trembling in your hands.

“Do you remember the day I promised you, that no matter what I had to do that I would pull every string to make sure you had the life you deserve? Do you remember that?”

“You promised me that six years ago, that doesn’t matter now. I don’t want to live a life without you.” He pleaded, eyes shimmering with tears—wet streaks cascading down to meet his chin. Strands of hair falling over his eyes as the hair tie was long gone.

You gripped the pole tighter, hands shaking as you shoved it further in front of you. “You know I always keep my promises, Dae-ho.”

“Please, don’t do this. We can find a way, we can go back home. Together. What about Sora? My sisters can’t clean her litter forever.” His hands came to lay flat together, as if praying for you not to make any dumb decisions.

“Take care of her for me, please.” You begged, feet shuffling closer to the edge of the large pillar. You could see his eyes follow it, his jaw growing stiff as his teeth gridded together.

You let out a grunt as you waved the pole away from his prying hands when he began to step closer, balancing your weight to stand up right. “Stop! Let me do this. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“I won’t be able to live my life without you, you’re my best friend, jagi. I love you.”

“I love you too, tiger.” You whispered, a small smile gracing your features as your right foot braced the edge. Letting it kick off your weight, it was as if your body moved in slow motion. The bar falling from your hands as you saw Dae-ho scream out to you. His body running to meet yours with a hand outstretched to grab you.

You could feel your fingers brush against his, his grip getting to you just mere seconds too late. You knew the last thing you wanted to see before you died was his face, so you let your eyes stay open to rest on him. The man you called your best friend, your everything, your person.

In pure anguish, his body hunched over the edge watching as you fell to the hard sandy ground. Even when your vision blackened and your soul shattered, Dae-ho remained in the same position.

While you were falling, a large piece of his heart fell with you. Your resting body lying over a pool of blood, even in death, he still found you absolutely beautiful.

“Game over.”

[bballesbolol]

Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby

Paige x Azzi

Summary: A phone call from Katie Fudd was all it took for Paige to fly across state lines, because when Azzi needs her, she’ll always be there.

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: minor injuries, mentions of car accident, vaguely panic-attacky scenes

a/n: This is a lil’ something different, but I hope you like it! Shout out to the anon who dropped the idea in my inbox a while back, the idea stuck to me and I ended up writing it in my head at work yesterday. I’ve been staring at this for too long so there might be mistakes…lmk what you think!

wc: 4.6k

It was late when she got the call.

She was alone. Apartment dim. Half eaten DoorDash sitting on her coffee table in front of her. Game film on the TV. Her eyes were already starting to drift shut despite the fact it was only eight o’clock.

Her phone had been dry—well, her version of dry. Maybe a few texts from the coaching staff, or her teammates going out, but no texts from the one person who mattered: Azzi.

She hadn’t heard from her in a couple hours. But, she wasn’t worried—didn’t have any reason to be. Azzi was back home for a week. Her family has decided to celebrate the end of summer workouts with a reunion before Azzi’s last year at UConn, something she couldn’t say no to. She was probably just too busy with her family to reach out.

But then she got the call.

Her phone lit up from the coffee table, cutting through the dim light. She leaned over squinting to read the caller’s name.

Mama Fudd

Katies contact photo grinned back at her from the screen.

Not Azzi, but at least it was a Fudd. Maybe Azzi’s phone was just dead? Or Katie just wanted to help her feel included in the family get together. Either way, she wasn’t worried. She picked up the phone without a second thought.

“Hey Katie, what up?” Paige chirped into her phone

The other end was silent for a moment.

“Paige, Don’t freak out.”

It was definitely Katie’s voice from the other end, but this didn’t sound like a friendly hello. She sounded cautious—like she was gearing up to give bad news. Paige's breath caught in her throat.

“Katie, what’s wrong” Paige's voice was a little quieter as she replied.

“Azzi’s okay—”

Paige felt her chest tighten.

“What happened” she tried her hardest to fight the wobble in her voice.

“She got into a little accident”

Her heart dropped. Katie paused for a moment, waiting to see if Paige would interject. She didn’t—couldn’t. Her head was too busy running through everything that could’ve gone wrong.

She could’ve torn something playing pick up with her brothers—or running around chasing her cousins—maybe she broke her wrist or her ankle falling out of a tree she was dared to climb trying to prove a point—she was always too competitive to say no—maybe she was already in surgery, scared and alone and heartbroken that her senior year was ruined by another stupid off season injury—

Katie spoke up again, almost like she’d read her mind, “she’s fine, just a little shaken up. She wanted to tell you herself but she can’t have her phone right now.”

Paige tried to calm down her breathing. In. Hold. Out. Count to ten like Azzi taught her. It always worked for basketball, helped calm her racing thoughts when she was on the bench trying not to cry over a smoked layup.

But it couldn’t help now. Not when the person who taught her how to breathe was hurt and alone in another state.

“Paige?” Katie's voice sounded from her phone, soft and small.

Paige couldn’t let herself process this anymore than she already had. She spoke without thinking, “I’m coming. tell her I love her and I’ll there in three hours”

“Pai—“ She hung up before Katie could get the chance to finish. She was calling her Agent before the call ended.

Paige's voice must’ve given the urgency of the situation away, because her agent didn’t even question her when she said she needed to be on the next flight out of Dallas. She only packed one bag. Scrambled around her apartment for the essentials: toothbrush, toothpaste, change of clothes, Azzi’s favorite sweatshirt, phone charger, glasses—

Next thing she knew, she was in the airport, boarding a flight to Virginia.

***

Touchdown couldn’t have come fast enough.

Her brain had been a hurricane of worries the entire flight. Her palms were sweaty, heart racing, breathing shallow, everything was too loud and too quiet all at once. All she needed was to see Azzi. All she could do the whole flight was fiddle with the topaz ring on her finger—the one Azzi had given her before Dallas—hoping it could soothe her, just a little.

Airplane mode had made her flight over a living hell—not knowing what was happening—how hurt Azzi was—it only made her panic more.

She cursed herself for not asking more questions on the phone with Katie, but honestly? Her only concern was getting to Azzi as quickly as possible.

She made a quick pit stop for flowers before rushing towards the exit doors.

A rental car was already waiting for her outside. Katie had texted her the address of the hospital, along with about a million other “she’s okay, really” texts.

30 minute drive, but it felt like hours.

She just needed to see her. See that she was alright. Hug her and hold her and tell her it was all okay—if not for Azzi then for herself.

She finally pulled into the hospital parking lot around midnight. It was late, the lot was practically empty, but there wasn’t a tired bone in her body. She rushed out of the car, scrambling to grab her bag and the bouquet sitting next to it in the passenger seat.

She flung the bag over her shoulder and raced to the front door of the hospital.

She was immediately overwhelmed when she walked in. The lights were glaring and fluorescent, a headache waiting to happen. There was a buzz in the lobby that just felt anxious. Strangers filled the small plastic chairs in rows, some bouncing their legs, some with heads in hands, some whispering to each other softly.

It all felt too real. Hours ago she was drifting off to sleep, now she was in another state just to see—

Azzi. God, poor Azzi. She must be exhausted, all shaken up from who knows what, and now she was up past midnight in a hospital. She still had no idea what happened, but she knew that Azzi had been waiting for her for far too long.

She made her way to the front desk.

“I’m here to see Azzi Fudd” her voice was certain, but a little wobble found its way through.

The woman at the front desk didn’t even look up from her computer.

“Visiting hours are over hon, only family allowed in right now. you’re gonna have to wait until the morning” She waved her off like she was nothing. Like she hadn’t just hopped on a flight to see—as far as she was concerned—the only girl in the world that mattered.

Paige took a slow breath, “I am family. I need to see her” her voice was shaking now, and she could feel the sting of tears in the corners of her eyes.

The receptionist looked up, sliding her glasses down the bridge of her nose.

“Family?”

Paige gripped the counter so hard her knuckles turned white.

“I’m her girlfriend, and I just flew in to see her because she is probably scared and hurting and needs me” She could feel a tear threatening to trickle down her cheek, but she didn’t care. She opened her mouth to continue, but was interrupted.

“Paige?” A voice carried into the lobby from down the hallway.

Paige blinked the tears out of her eyes and squinted, trying to make out who had spoken.

Katie's arms were around her before she even knew it was her, and Paige let herself be swallowed by it.

She rubbed Paige’s back in soft, soothing circles, and, suddenly, she could feel the ground beneath her feet. She sniffled as Katie pulled away, hands still firm on her shoulders. A grounding touch.

“Hey, you’re here. You’re okay” she whispered, voice warm. She gave her shoulders one quick squeeze before letting go and rounding on the front desk worker with a fury that Paige had only seen at sleepovers when her and Azzi kept Katie up past 2 am with their delirium.

“And you—“ she thrust a finger towards the woman, “you will let this girl come with me. She just flew in from Dallas and my daughter needs her.” Her words were sharp and short.

The woman took a moment to take in the dire expression plastered on Katie’s face, before she looked at Paige, rolled her eyes, and reluctantly murmured, “you’re good to go”

She didn’t waste any time.

Katie led her through the hallway, filling her in as they went.

“Like I said, Azzi is okay,” she swallowed and continued, “she got into a car accident—“

Her heat dropped into her stomach. She shouted, “WHAT” before she could stop herself, freezing where she stood,

Katie shushed her, reaching out to grab her hands, thumbs tracing patterns on the backs of them as she continued.

“It was minor, she just got rear ended by someone at an intersection. Physically she’s okay, just a concussion and maybe a sprain somewhere in her back and neck”

Paige let out a sigh she didn’t know she’d been holding. Physically fine. No surgery. No rehab.

Katie tugged on her hands, pulling her back into the moment, and Paige looked up to meet her gaze.

“Mentally, she’s shaken up. She won't admit it but—well, a mother knows. She was cleared to go about an hour ago, but she’s refused to get in mine or Tim’s car. She said she’s waiting for you.”

Paige felt something pull deep in her chest. She couldn’t respond just yet. She just—needed a second. Azzi was okay. Scared and stubborn as hell, but okay.

Katie dropped her hands, “I think she needs some time alone with you, you always know how to make anything better for her”

Paige sucked in a deep breath, blinking rapidly. Her mind was still racing, no matter how hard she tried to calm it down. Slowly, she nodded, letting Katie continue leading her down the hallway. When she rounded the next corner, she found Tim leaning up against the wall, illuminated by the white lights in the ceiling.

“Hey Paigey, we’ve been waiting on you” he murmured, voice low.

Paige made her way over to him, pulling him into a hug.

”Hey Tim, s’she alseep?” She pulled back from the embrace, eyes tracking up and down him anxiously.

“No, trying though. She said she needed a little quiet.”

Paige glanced at the door behind him, then back to Tim.

“She in there?” She whispered, like she was afraid her question would drift under the door and disturb her.

“Yeah, go on in kid” He nodded towards the door.

Slowly, she turned the handle, letting a stream of light filter into the dim room. Azzi groaned at the sudden brightness, eyes screwing shut.

“I said warn me before you blind me next time” Her voice was weak and raspy, but she was there. Warm and safe and alive. And still able to be her same, short-tempered self.

Paige felt a weak smile spread across her face.

“Az, it’s me” she whispered, carefully closing the door behind her. She made her way over to her bed, dropping her bag in the chair next to it.

“Paige?” Azzi’s voice was small and uncertain.

“I’m right here baby” her hands found one of Azzi’s grasping it firmly.

“Are those for me?” Azzi nodded towards the flowers in Paige’s free hand.

Paige chuckled, “nope, just bought ‘em for fun” She laid them down on the tray next to Azzi’s bed before taking a closer look at her,

“how do you feel—what do you need”

Azzi sighed, picking her head up to look at Paige, whose eyes were raking over every detail of her face. Her eyes were puffy and red, and her pupils were blown. Her heart hurt just looking at her. All she wanted to do was wrap her arms around her and stay there forever.

”can you just get in?” She swallowed, “just, hold me for a bit?”

She sucked in a breath, trying to keep it together for Azzi. Still, she let a sniffle slip before she replied, “Of course baby”

Azzi pulled back the thin sheet that covered her, shifting over so that Paige could fit into the small hospital bed next to her.

Paige moved slowly, careful not to jostle Azzi too much as she settled in next to her. She slid her hand under Azzi’s back, pulling her closer. Azzi rolled over onto her, slinging one of her arms around Paige’s shoulders, and the other across her chest. Paige brought her free arm to Azzi’s back, rubbing up and down it gently. Azzi nuzzled her head into the crux between Paige's neck and shoulder, sighing as she went limp in her embrace. Paige felt her warm breath feather out across the skin of her neck, warming her whole body.

She pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

“you okay Az?” She breathed, hands still soothing up and down her back.

Azzi sniffled into her neck, humming a weak “mhm” against her skin.

“It's okay to say you aren’t” she whispered, pressing another kiss to her head.

Azzi sniffled again, “It’s fine—I just—you shouldn't be here—“ she choked out, voice wobbling, “You came all this way and I’m fine—”

Paige felt an ache deep in her chest. She sounded exhausted—absolutely wrecked. She had just gotten into a car crash, and she was more worried about the fact that she was here. Paige felt something warm drop from Azzi’s face down onto her neck—a tear. That only made her heart break more.

She slid her hand from Azzi’s back up to the back of her head, pulling her closer.

Paige screwed her eyes shut, trying to hold back tears that were threatening at the corners of her own eyes.

“shhhh” she soothed, voice barely more than a breath “baby don’t cry, it’s okay” Her thumb brushed gentle strokes into the skin behind her ear.

Azzi made a strangled sound, tears still dripping from her eyes.

“you didn’t have to come out—you have a game in Dallas tomorrow—and—fuck I’m so sorry—” her words came out rushed between choked sobs and sharp breaths.

”shhh, breathe” Paige slid her hand back to Azzi’s back, trying to coax her to slow down and inhale. Finally, she felt the weak rise of her back as she sucked in a quick breath.

”Az, baby, listen to me, I would fly out if you got a papercut, just to kiss it better. You couldn’t pay me to be in Dallas right now—not when you’re clearly not fine.”

Azzi sucked in another shaky breath, “I am fine—I’m not hurt, I don’t have a scratch on me—“

Paige interrupted her, ”Katie said you got a concussion—”

Azzi was quick to cut in, ”yeah, I have a headache, whatever—”

Paige’s voice was stern, “You have a concussion, and that’s not even what I’m worried about. You got rear ended—that had to be so scary for you.”

Azzi sniffled, arms wrapping around Paige a little tighter.

“yeah” she whispered, voice pitifully small. She sniffed again, “yeah it was”

The ache in her chest deepened. She pulled Azzi closer, leaning her head against hers.

“Do you wanna tell me what happened?”

Azzi sniffled, rubbing her nose into Paige’s shirt. Slowly, she picked up her head, looking out into the darkness of the room.

“I uh—I was getting to a red light and—um—whoever was behind me just—they didn’t see it I guess” Azzi nuzzled her head back into Paige's neck, “It shouldn’t have gotten to me like it did, It was just so unexpected—and they were going so fast—“ she stopped, sniffling into Paige again. Her voice was smaller as she continued, “I didn’t do anything wrong it just—it happened” She took a sharp breath, “and apparently I was out of it when he came to check on me so he called an ambulance—just being safe—and then I was here—”

Paige sat in silence for a moment, just letting Azzi’s words settle in. She’d been through so much today, and she was still worried about her. The fact that she might miss a game to be here, comforting her. Her chest ached at the thought.

“oh baby,” Paige could feel tears beading up in her eyes, “that’s not something you need to be fine after.”

Azzi paused, sucking in a raspy breath.

“I’m sorry” Azzi squeaked, voice still shaking.

Paige’s heart dropped even further.

“Az please don’t say sorry, you did nothing wrong” Paige lifted her head to press another kiss to Azzi’s head, “I’m sorry that that happened to you” She pressed another kiss to her forehead, pulling back to watch Azzi.

Her breath was less sporadic, and she had stopped crying, now just left with puffy eyes and a stuffy nose. Azzi picked up her head to look at Paige, eyes meeting hers cautiously.

Paige brought her hand to Azzi’s face, thumb brushing over her cheekbone and continued, “I’m sorry you’re still awake so late,” She pressed another soft kiss to Azzi’s forehead, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here sooner.”

A drawn out silence filled the space around them. Azzi was the first to break it

“Are you okay?” She whispered, breath warm against Paige's skin.

Was she okay? Why was that even a question? It shouldn’t even be a thought in Azzi’s head—not when she was fresh off of something as traumatic as a car accident.

Paige had to fight to keep her voice even, "Don't worry about me—I’m only here for you. You need to go to sleep soon—Katie told me you were waiting to go home until I came, I don’t want to keep you here—“

”—No,” Azzi interrupted, “No It’s not you—I just can’t leave yet” Azzi spoke a little faster, words coming out strained. She took a shaky breath in, “I just—I can’t”

Paige looked down at Azzi. Her lip was quivering, and her eyes had gone a little wide at the mention of leaving. Something wasn’t right.

“Az, what’s wrong?” She stroked her cheek again, searching for the answer somewhere in her face.

“I just don’t know if I can—I don’t know” Azzi trailed off, looking away from Paige

Paiges mind was immediately racing,

“what can’t you do? Are you hurt? Can you feel your legs?” Her eyes went wide, darting down Azzi’s body.

”no, I’m fine It's just—“ She swallowed, eyes looking up at the ceiling “Paige I don’t know if I can be in a car right now.” Her words were barely above a whisper, spoken like she was sharing a secret. She sounded utterly defeated.

Paige felt that familiar tug on her heartstrings. How could she not have thought of that? God, she felt awful. Just seeing her like this, so broken, it made her heart break into a million pieces.

“Oh my god of course—Az, I’m so sorry baby that’s okay,” Paige murmured, voice soft

”It’s stupid—“ Azzi was starting to choke up again.

Paige rushed to correct her, “No baby its not stupid, you could never be stupid—“

Azzi interrupted, words spilling out between hurried breaths, “but, I hate this bed, and this room, and this stupid hospital and I wanna go home” she sniffled, “but—but I can’t—I just feel so fucking weak”

”shhh Az” she used her thumb to brush away the start of a tear from Azzi’s eye, “you aren’t weak, you’re human. Of course a car is gonna be scary right now”

Azzi rolled over onto her back, still resting on top of Paige's other arm. She dragged her hand from Paige's chest to her face, covering it. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly.

“I just wanna go home—but every time I think about it—it feels like it’ll happen again. It was so out of nowhere and it’ll happen again—“ Azzi’s breathing was getting faster, and she could already see tears beading up in her eyes again.

“Baby just breathe for me, okay? All you gotta think about is breathing” She rolled to her side and reached out for the hand covering Azzi’s face, gently pulling it away and interlacing her fingers with Azzi’s. She peppered kisses across the back of her hand, eyes never leaving her.

“I wanna go home” Azzi choked out before sucking in a deep breath.

Paige pressed another kiss to her hand, then picked her head up, thinking.

”do you think you’d be ok If I stayed with you?” Her question hung in the air for a moment, “In the car, I mean. If I was there all the way home?”

Azzi took another breath, “uh—I um—I can try”

Paige squeezed her hand, “look at me baby, I can sleep here all night if you can’t, okay? I only want to try if that’s what you really want.”

Azzi sniffed, turning to look Paige in the eyes, “I want to get out of here”

“Okay” Paige leaned over and pressed a kiss to Azzi’s forehead, “Do you have anything you need me to pack up?”

Azzi shook her head. Slowly, she sat up, letting go of Paige's hand as she went. She winced at the movement, hand shooting to rub her neck.

Paige slipped out of the bed and reached for her bag, dragging it over and digging through it.

“I brought you something that might make this a little easier,” She reached in and pulled out the sweatshirt she had packed for Azzi. An old UConn hoodie, worn to the point that little holes were forming in the cuffs, but her favorite nonetheless.

Azzi’s bottom lip jutted out, and Paige watched as her eyes started to well up again,

“Paige” Azzi looked like she was about to bawl at the gesture. She reached out and took it, slipping it over her head with a sigh, “I love you so much”

“I love you too baby,” Paige zipped up her bag, slinging it over her shoulder before grabbing the flowers she’d left at Azzi’s bedside, “I’m gonna go talk to your parents, okay?”

Azzi nodded.

Paige slipped out of the room, careful not to let too much light in as she left.

Katie and Tim were waiting leaned up against the wall across the hallway.

Tim was the first one to speak up, “Is she okay?”

Paige nodded, “she’s just shaken up, like you said. But um—“ Paige turned and looked back at the door, then back to the two of them, “she’s ready to go home”

Katie spoke up next, “do you want to bring her? Or one of us?”

Paige paused for a moment, thinking through exactly how she should do this.

“I think one of you should bring her, but I’m gonna ride in the back with her. I can have someone bring me my car tomorrow”

The two of them nodded.

Katie jingled her keys, “I can go grab my car and bring it around for you two”

“That's perfect. Thank you,” she looked to Tim, “you okay?”

Tim nodded, “fine, just worried about my girl.”

Paige sighed, looking back to the door, “me too”

Tim and Katie headed for their cars, and Paige slipped back into Azzi's room.

She found Azzi still sitting on the bed, fiddling with the sleeves of her hoodie.

She watched for a second, waiting to see if she would speak up first. She didn’t.

Paige took a deep breath, “Do you feel okay to leave?”

Azzi paused for a moment, looking down at her hands, then back to Paige. She sucked in a shaky breath.

“I think so”

Paige reached her free hand out to Azzi, who took it, slowly helping her up off the bed and towards the door.

“your mom’s bringing her car around, it’ll just be a minute.” She looked and found Azzi staring off into space. She gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and Azzi’s eves snapped back to her own, “you sure you’re ready to go?”

Azzi gave her a curt nod.

“words, Az”

Azzi took another deep breath, “yes, I’m ready to leave”

Paige leaned over and pressed a kiss to her temple, “okay, come on”

***

Azzi was stiff against her in the back of the car. She was buckled in behind the passenger seat, and Paige was beside her, hand still secured around Azzi’s now resting in her lap, letting Azzi lean into her. They were still parked at the front of the hospital.

“It’s only ten minutes, okay? Ten minutes and then were home.” Paige planted a kiss to Azzi’s temple, then rested her head on her shoulder.

She hadn’t made a sound since they sat in the car. The only noise coming from Azzi was her breathing—strained and a little raspy.

She finally broke her silence, “I’m okay, we can leave” her voice was a little strained, but she sounded sure.

“We good?” Katie's voice chimed in from the front seat.

Paige met her eyes in the rearview mirror and nodded.

Slowly, the car began to roll. Azzi squeezed Paige's hand, leaning into her as the car pulled out of the lot.

A minute passed. The drive was smooth, Azzi’s breathing was steady, and Paige's hand was only being crushed a little bit under her grasp.

Then they rolled to their first stop. She felt Azzi’s body lock up beside her. Heard her take a sharp breath in as the car slowed. Watched as she screwed her eyes shut as Katie eased into her break.

Paige leaned in, letting her mouth settle in close to her ear and whispered, “It’s okay Az, you’re okay.” She placed a quick kiss into her cheek and continued, “you’re safe, I’m here.”

Azzi leaned against her, close enough to feel her heart racing. They were only stopped at the red light for a moment, then, slowly, they accelerated out of it. Azzi let her body relax, just a little.

Paige smiled and planted another kiss on her cheek, “see? You’re okay.” Another kiss, “nothings gonna hurt you baby” She let her head settle back on Azzi’s shoulder once more.

The rest of the drive was the same. At every stoplight Paige whispered quiet reassurances into Azzi’s ear. And at every stoplight, Azzi grew less and less tense.

Ten minutes later, they were on Azzi’s street. She squeezed her hand as they pulled down her driveway.

“We’re here”

Azzi let out a sigh of relief as she opened her eyes and found the familiar scenery outside of her home.

with her free hand, Azzi reached up and cupped Paige's face, pulling her in closer. She placed a gentle kiss on her lips, pulled back and gazed up at her

“thank you”

Paige leaned in and gave her a quick peck, then cocked her head and asked, “for what?”

Azzi smiled and leaned her head against Paige's shoulder, “for being here. for staying. for making me feel safe for the first time since—you know—“

Paige smiled, letting herself melt into Azzi for just a moment. She had to fight not to fall asleep here, curled up in the backseat of the car.

She pulled herself away, “you don't need to thank me, you need to get to bed” she pressed one last kiss to her temple before reaching down to unbuckle Azzi’s seatbelt, and then her own.

Paige reached across Azzi for the door handle, cracking the door enough for Azzi to swing her legs out and slide out of the car. Paige followed, shutting the door as quietly as she could behind her.

Before she could take a step towards the house, Azzi’s arms threaded around her waist, pulling her flush against her into a hug.

Azzi looked up at her, eyes heavy with sleep and still swollen from all the tears she shed that day.

“Can you stay?” she asked, voice weak with exhaustion.

Paige placed a soft kiss on Azzi's forehead before pulling her in so Azzi could nuzzle in against her neck.

“Of course I can stay.”

[raqqtsx0]

If it meant anything. Katsuki Bakugo

AN: running out of ideas guys💔 pls help!

Angst. Word count: ~1.3k

⸻

It always started the same

He’s yelling at someone across the field. His palms are sparking. His eyes sharp, furious scan the room like he’s ready to explode again. You watch from the sidelines, heart aching. Because you used to be the only person he didn’t yell at.

Not anymore.

You still remember the first time you made him laugh.

It was late. After training. You were sitting on the steps outside the dorms, holding a half-eaten energy bar, complaining about how stupid hero calculus was, and how your legs still ached from Aizawa’s circuit run. He just looked at you, rolled his eyes, and said, “You whine like Kaminari but you keep up like me. Pick one.”

You fake gasped. “Was that… a compliment?” He smirked. That smirk is long gone now. He’s not yours anymore. Not that he ever really was.

But he used to sit next to you during lunch. Used to pass you your water bottle without looking. Used to stay after training just to walk back with you even when his quirk was drained and his muscles were shaking.

Now?

Now he stays late with her. You don’t even blame her. She’s kind. Strong. Bright. A real hero in the making. The kind of girl who fits beside him in the spotlight.

You? You’re the one behind the scenes. Watching. Wanting. Wishing. You try not to let it show. You’re good at hiding things. But when he walks into class, laughing under his breath, and she’s the one next to him smiling, elbowing his side like she belongs there—it hurts. More than you ever let anyone see.

Even him. Especially him.

Later that night, you think you’re alone in the common room. You’re sitting on the couch, hoodie wrapped around your knees, barely breathing. The lights are low. Quiet humming comes from the fridge in the kitchen.

And then you hear it. Footsteps.

You stiffen.

“Bakugo.?” you ask softly, barely turning.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands there, half in shadow, staring at you with unreadable eyes. “You were crying.”

It’s not a question. You turn your face toward the window. “I wasn’t.”

“Don’t lie.”

You exhale slowly, shaky. “Why do you care?” That gets him. His jaw clenches. “Tch. I don’t.”

“Right.” You stand. Try to move past him.

He grabs your wrist. “Wait.” Your breath catches. You look at him. For the first time in weeks, really look.

He’s tired. Eyes shadowed. Sparks low and unfocused. There’s something raw under the surface. Something he doesn’t want you to see but can’t hide fast enough.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” he says finally. Voice low. Rough.

You try to pull your wrist free. “You didn’t ignore me. You forgot me. That’s different.”

He flinches. “Shit,” he mutters. “It wasn’t like that.”

“It felt like that,” you snap, sharper than you mean to. “I used to be someone to you. And now I’m just… nothing.”

“You’re not nothing.”

“Then what am I, Katsuki?”

Silence. Your name hangs in the air like smoke.

He lets go of your wrist. You want him to say something. Anything.

That he chose her because she was easier. That he misses you. That he still thinks about you late at night. That he regrets everything.

But all he says is

“I don’t know.”

And maybe that’s worse than silence.

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod. “Okay.”

You start walking toward the stairs. He doesn’t stop you.

Later that night, he finds a note under his door. It’s not signed. But he knows it’s from you.

“I hope she’s everything you need. I wish I had been enough to even be considered.”

He reads it twice. Then tears it up and tosses it. Not because he’s angry. But because he can’t stand how much it hurts to know he let you believe that.

Let you walk away thinking it was never you. When it had been. The whole time.

But by the time he’s ready to say it You’ve already stopped waiting.

[bluewxrld07]

Sinners

Lando Norris X Actress!Reader

Summary: Y/N and Lando have been dating for almost two years. When Lando decides he finally wants to come watch his girl perform on set, he doesn't realize that the shoot day he came to watch would include some explicit scenes. Some that made him question just how kinky he thought he was.

Warning(s): smuttttt, choking, spitting, role-play if you squint, fem!dom, sub!lando, dirty talk

"Fuck."

Y/N had whipped her head around at the sudden voice behind her, trying her best to not ruin the makeup artist's job on her current look.

Lando had walked into the makeup and hair trailer, looking her up and down through the mirror with a knowing smirk. She chuckles at his reaction before turning back and letting the artist finish their work.

"You like?"

Lando walks forward to stand behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, squeezing them lightly as they locked eyes in the mirror.

"You look so good. When you said this would take place back in the older days, I was honestly expecting like the Renaissance times or something. The 1930s looks amazing on you."

Y/N laughs more, Lando bending down to press a kiss to her head, careful to not get in the way of the makeup artist as she finishes the final touchups on Y/N's look.

Once she had been finished up, she stands from her spot and slips out of her slippers and into the heels she would be wearing for the upcoming scenes.

When Lando had asked her if he could come and watch her on set, she was a little taken aback. She knew he had been busy with racing and whatnot, so when he had said he wanted to squeeze in a free weekend to not only see his girlfriend, but to also watch her in her element, she was both shocked and excited.

"You're always watching me in my element, it's only fair if I do the same," Is what he had told her over FaceTime, Y/N happily agreeing and letting him know she would clear him access the following weekend.

She was both excited and nervous for him to watch her in action, as he had only ever seen her work on screen after each project was finished. He had never fully seen her work behind the scenes.

Not that he hadn't wanted to, it was just never able to be lined up with their schedules for him to join her. Now that he was able to, she would of course never say no.

She just hoped he would be ready to see what he would be seeing today.

When she realized what today's filming would entail, she nearly toppled over. Lando had told her when he arrived that no matter what was going on, he wanted to be surprised. He didn't want any hints, he just wanted to see her in action.

As they walked out onto the set with the abandoned warehouse, Lando held her hand as they walked next to one another and created small talk.

"You sure you don't want to know?" she asks him with a small grin on her face. He shook his head.

"Nope. I want to stay surprised. That'll defeat the purpose of expecting the unexpected."

She hums with a small giggle. "Although I will admit, I'm a little intimidated by Michael B Jordan. Max wasn't kidding when he said he's a lot better looking in person," Lando jokes, causing her to roll her eyes playfully.

"I'm pretty sure he even has a crush on himself. You should see how he acts when he thinks nobody is around."

Lando cackles at that, making her smile up at him. "But I will assure you, I'm very much obsessed with a certain British racer that races cars for McLaren," she giggles, Lando humming and pressing a few kisses to her cheek.

"Damn straight, baby," he says against her skin, before she hears her name being called. Her gaze turns back to Lando, placing a kiss on his lips.

"Just remember how much I love you, yeah?" she says softly, making him frown with a pointed look.

"Always," he chuckles. "Now I'm really intrigued."

She gives him a knowing smirk before turning on her heel and heading towards the middle of the set in front of the cameras.

The Director breaks down where they would be taking off from, stating it was just after Y/N's character had been attacked outside. Once they had called action, Y/N immediately turned into character and started advancing towards the warehouse.

She nods at Cornbread. "Cornbread," she says sweetly as she gets up to the entrance. He looks around confusingly.

"Mary, what you doing out here?"

She eyes him up and down. "You gonna let me in? Or just sit there blocking the door?"

He steps back and shakes his head. "No," he pushes his chair back. "Come on in."

She smirks at him before walking inside the building, cameras following her as she makes her way to the dancefloor.

Lando watches on the screens behind the set, the director letting him stand behind his chair as they watch intensely while Y/N acts her part out.

Lando becomes more and more intrigued as he watches her in action, his thoughts going haywire as he watches her snap into and out of her character like a reflex. The way she held it with such confidence, or how her character, Mary, become so infatuating.

He freezes only slightly as he watches her lock lips with Michael's character, pulling him in by his suit vest with biting her lip after breaking apart.

It wasn't that it bugged him, it was more so making him feel a certain way, seeing her act so confident and sexy in his eyes.

"So you can rob trains, and banks," she mutters in a sexy and raspy voice. "But you can't steal this pussy for a night?"

Lando froze as he heard those words leave her mouth. The way she looked up at her co-star, with such hunger and fury in her eyes. Even though it was just acting, it looked so real.

He wasn't even mad; he was more short-circuiting from hearing those filthy words leave her mouth. It was never something he had heard her say.

She always talked somewhat politely during sex with Lando, always saying how she was his, and so forth.

This was a whole new level he was seeing. He wasn't complaining one bit.

Lando bit his lip as he watched her seductively pull Michael out of the crowd and towards a broom closet and shut the door. Lando's eyes never blinked as he watched his girl push her co-star up against the wall and passionately make out with him, not missing the way her teeth bit his lips every so often.

He especially didn't miss the way she had licked a stripe up Michael's neck before biting his earlobe, and letting out a seductive, breathless moan in his ear.

He watched as it became steamier and steamier, his body getting hot itself. That's when he realized that he wasn't jealous or intimidated in that moment.

He was turned on.

The way she moved and did it with such ease and confidence radiating off of her body, it made him want to be in Michael's shoes.

Be the one getting dominated in a way that he was watching.

Lando had to bite his lip to keep a groan from escaping, crossing his arms as he watched the scene unfold. He thought he was holding himself a lot better than he was thinking.

That was until the very next scene began to unfold.

She had pushed him onto the ground, standing over him before sitting herself in his lap, feverishly untying and unbuttoning his shirt.

"Baby," Michael says softly with a frown. "You're drooling."

Y/N wipes it away slowly, a soft and smug grin coming onto her face. "You want some?"

Lando watches as they lie back on the floor, Y/N hovering over Michael as she puckers her lips, letting a wad of her saliva slowly leave her mouth and drop into his. Lando had to physically hold himself up on his feet and prevent his eyes from rolling back as the pair kissed once more, the British man feeling the sudden need to adjust his pants.

He couldn't do that with everyone around him watching. Especially as he watched her fake bounce on her coworker like she was riding him, Lando rubbing his jaw and face as he chewed on his bottom lip.

He was more than hot and bothered in that moment. He was feeling every single thing in that moment.

Lando had never thought their sex was bad; everything about it he loved. They had been together for almost two years at that point, Lando not wanting to push her and vice versa.

Now, now he didn't think he could stop himself from wanting to experience this.

He was usually always the one who dominated in the bedroom, sometimes letting her ride him when she asked, but now he wanted to see if this was something she had thought about.

About being the one to dominate him for a night. To be honest, he would let her do it every night if this was what he would get.

Lando had remained still in his spot as the scene rolled out, not moving a single muscle unless need be, scared of becoming any more bricked up than he already was.

When the scene had ended, the crew had gotten together and said they would wrap up for the night, Y/N happily making her way over towards Lando.

When she got to him, she slowed down as her proud smile faded slowly.

His pupils were blown out from what she could see under the hat he wore, he was biting his lip, and a hand was running repeatedly through his hair.

"You okay, baby?" she asked him softly, watching him nod a tad too quickly after her words. "You sure?"

"Can we head back to your trailer?" he asks her quietly, making her frown and nod.

"Yeah, let's go."

The walk back was quiet, Y/N taking his hand into hers, not missing the way his hand was squeezing hers every so often. She waited until they got back to hers, locking her door behind them as he went and sat down on the edge of her bed.

"Baby, what's going on?" she asked slowly, crossing her arms. His jaw clenched and unclenched as his hands gripped the edge of the bed, knuckles white.

That's when she let out a small gasp. "Was it that scene? Did it make you uncomfortable? I'm sorry, I was trying to tell you-"

"No."

"No what?"

He bit his lip. "No, it didn't make me uncomfortable."

She frowns. "Then what-" That's when it hit her. His shallow breathing, the bouncing of his knees, and the now visible hard-on in his pants.

She knew this state all too well. That's when she let a smug smirk come onto her face.

"Oh," she says softly, crossing her arms. She walked towards him until she was standing between his legs. He kept his eyes down on his lap.

"I see," she mutters. "It didn't make you uncomfy, it turned you on."

Lando's breath hitches.

That's when she takes her hand and uses her fingers to softly wrap her hand around his throat, and softly tilts him to look up at her. "Am I right?" she asks, using the same seductive voice she had used earlier that evening.

His eyes look into hers, his pupils dilating as he locks eyes with hers.

"Fuck yes it did, baby," he breathes out, nodding slowly as his hands trail up her thighs to her hips. "Seeing you like that had me all sorts of hot and bothered."

She chuckles lightly as she looks down at him, feeling the heat pool between her legs at his words.

"Yeah? You like seeing me like that? All dominant? Taking over, and taking what I want?"

He moans and nods, caressing the sides of her thighs with his fingers. She lets her other hand trail from his shoulder to remove the hat from his hair, and runs her fingers through it. She began letting her nails scratch it in a way she knew always drove him crazy.

"Tell me what you liked," she breathes out, watching his breathing become rapid.

He hums, a small smirk on his face. "I like the way you took over like it was an instinct," he breathes out, watching her let out a breathless moan as his hands roam her body. "How filthy those words sounded leaving your lips."

"Yeah? You want to steal my pussy for a night?" she rasps out, watching Lando let out a dark chuckle.

"Oh, my love," he says. "I wanna steal it forever. For the rest of eternity."

Y/N bites her lip to stop a smile from coming onto her lips. "What else, baby?" she asks, slowly placing herself into his lap, his hands slithering underneath her dress and towards her ass out of reflex.

"I like how you spat in his mouth," he moans lowly, letting his lips trail along her collarbones and neck as she tilted her head back.

"Yeah? My boy likes the idea of me spitting in his mouth? Claiming him in that way?"

"Only if my girl lets me do the same to her," he huffs out in breathless moans as he makes her hips drag across his own. She moans lowly and nods against his lips.

"Fuck, yes. Always," she moans into his ear. "I'll let you spit in my mouth. Spit all over my pussy, too. It's yours, baby."

"Fuck," he trails off and croaks out, soon remembering how he wanted to feel her tongue on his skin. "I like how you bit his ear. Claimed his neck with your tongue. Fuck, I wanna feel you everywhere."

Y/N uses her hands to trail down to his own, pushing them off of her and standing from his lap, making him let out a strangled moan at the lack of touch he was getting.

She looms over him, tilting his head back with both of her hands on the crook between his jaw and neck.

"You have me, honey," she moans breathlessly. "Now open your mouth."

Lando doesn't hesitate, opening it wide and sticking his tongue out as his eyes never leave her own. They held such passion and fire in them.

Y/N lets a trail of her saliva leave her lips and trail onto his tongue, watching it slide down his tongue before he swallows it and bites his lip. She lets out a curse as she watches it happen, not wasting another second to help him strip off his sweatshirt, leaving him shirtless.

She pushes his chest to make him fall back on her bed, Lando hungrily watching her climb on top of him.

Y/N still had the fangs in her mouth, the dress still on, soon going to unzip the back of it, only for Lando to stop her. "It stays on."

"Fangs too?"

"Fuck yes, you look so fucking hot like this."

She smirks down at him before placing her lips onto his for the first time that night, Lando immediately taking her hips into his hands and helping her grind against him.

Things began to heat up fast, moans slipping out between breathless sighs and curses.

Her hands trail from his neck to his jeans, unbuckling his belt and helping him push them down as far as they could. Y/N slips off her underwear in the process, before looking down at him and grabbing his cock in her hands.

"You ready?" she asks him, Lando nodding.

"Take what you want, baby."

With that, she slides herself down onto him, both collectively moaning at the contact when she feels him bottom out.

Lando's hands find their way up from her hips to her neck, pulling her down onto him as she begins to bounce up and down on him. She started off slowly, only to speed up the process as their moans increased.

Y/N's head goes to the side of his neck, her tongue licking a stripe up Lando's neck slowly. She feels the vibrations of his loud moan as she lets her teeth bite down on his ear, one of his hands tightening on her throat just slightly. It made her body feel like she was on fire.

"That's it, baby? Getting all turned on watching me do my job?" she teases in his ear breathlessly.

"So fucking good."

"Gonna have to come watch me more, yeah? Did it turn you on watching me fuck another man on screen? Take dominance like that?" she moans out, Lando groaning as he nods.

She sits up from his neck as she continues to grind against him, clenching herself around him every so often to make him short-circuit.

"I need to hear you, baby."

He moans. "Fuck, yeah it did. Yeah I did. Looked so good. So sexy. Wanted it to be me."

"Well just think," she says before moaning out a curse. "You'll always be the one I come home to. Who gets to experience the real thing. Try new things, and let me take what I need."

"Shit, love, yes. Take whatever you need. Whatever the fuck you need, take it," he trails off in moans, watching her throw her head back as she speeds up, his eyes fall down to where they're connected, one hand gripping her hip while the other grabs her throat again.

He pulls her down and makes her look at him. Before she knew it, he flipped them over, keeping the quicker pace as he pounded into her. His eyes looked down at her as he squeezed her throat lightly.

"Open, baby."

Y/N moans as she opens her mouth, Lando biting his lip as his eyes roll back when he sees her fangs being shown in the light.

He lets his own saliva fall onto her tongue, not wasting a second to shove his tongue into her mouth and kiss her sloppily. He could feel her clenching around him as he sped up the pace, her moans becoming louder.

A sign she was close, and he was right there with her.

"You gonna come baby?" she asks, and he nods against her lips.

"Gonna tell me when I can let go, yeah?" he asks.

"Fuck," she moans, feeling the knot in her stomach ready to burst. "Almost there."

Lando keeps his pace, his hand wrapped around her throat as he feels her hips match with his own once more.

"Lan, I'm-"

Before he knows it, she's reaching her high, her body shaking as her head falls back against the mattress. "Let go baby, fuck let it all go for me," she moans out, feeling Lando's strokes become sloppy, moans leaving his lips in short croaks.

He collapses onto her chest, the pair both feeling like they had hit a subspace, breathless and speechless.

Neither didn't think they had come any harder than in that moment.

Her hands find his hair as his own caress and rub up and down her sides, the pair sitting in a comfortable silence.

"Remind me to have you come onto set more often," she jokes, earning a chuckle from him as well.

"Remind me to take a month off to come onto set," he shoots back, feeling her chest vibrate.

"We definitely will be adding this to our list of kinks, yeah?" she asks.

"I honestly think we'd be crazy not to."

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

A/N: soooo..... that happened lol. What do we think?

*I do not own any of the plot for Sinners*

Permanent taglist : (Please message me if you'd like to be removed!!!)

@nickie-amore , @tylerstacobell , @piceous21 , @ariesandwolves , @lifeonawhim , @formulawhore , @asterooidsblog , @staple-your-mouth , @sinfully-yoursss , @smileyshaven , @midnightsaugust , @astrlape , @relijanka , @jooooooooo-cycycy16 , @cherryhazee , @nina481 , @lighttsoutlewis , @suns3treading , @areej003 , @dramallama9 , @putherup , @green--beanie , @footyball , @callsign-mirage , @kearasaltynalapepper , @idkwahr , @teti-menchon0604 , @footyball , @avengersgirllorianna , @4norrislove , @boocmarks , @evilive , @gulphulp , @hopeless--romamtic , @f1fantasys , @ccupidbow , @ini3103 , @vinylphwoar , @ernegren , @mel164 , @lemon-stvrrr , @behindmygreyeyes , @sillyfreakfanparty , @flowersandalll , @paankhaleyaaar , @ushygushybaby , @lifeonawhim , @themasqueradereveler13 , @vdkah8ter , @p1astrizz , @rickybobbydan , @sparklepiastri , @hockeygirlyyyy

[souryogurt64]

Hey guys I finally made another YouTube video essay 😭😭😭 it’s about Pete Wentz starring in a raunchy short film as a “”favor”” for a guy the FBI considers a national organized crime leader. Who also organized the beating and extortion of a member of Ryan Ross' least favorite band, Mest. And the possible connections this has to Petekey (NOT CLICKBAIT, for real) and takes a look at a couple questionable factions of the hardcore scene Fall Out Boy came out of. It also features a fat cat and tiny kittens. 

It also explains how I’ve been The Joker lately. But if I don’t speak out against Dictator Wentz and Big Sell Out Boy regarding their dastardly dealings with the emo mafia…… and repackage it to be funny and consumable……. who will 😔😔😔💔💔💔

P.S. I’m paranoid this video is going to get posted to a hardcore forum or something and they’ll be mean so please like and comment something nice 😭❤️