#... i look for him in anyone i hope to be with and hes raised my standards absurdly

[shortnspidey]

MISS POSSESSIVE

Bob Reynolds X Female!reader || WC: 8.6K

SUMMARY: It’s clear to anyone watching that you and Bob like each other. But whether it’s fear of rejection or comfort in the familiar will-they-won’t-they tension, neither of you dares to make the first move. Then comes the night of the charity gala, pushing both of you to your limits. Will it finally be the moment one of you breaks the stalemate, or will you keep pretending not to notice what’s right in front of you?

WARNINGS: Includes slight Thunderbolts* spoilers! Jealousy, idiots in love, mutual pining, slight angst, steamy kiss, self-deprecating thoughts, fluff galore, cursing, meddling teammates, lots of POV time skips, Bob is literally husband material, suggestive ending but no smut (sorry)!

A/N: I have been wanting to use this song on a one-shot ever since it came out!! Jealous!Bob has to be my favorite to write so far! Hope y'all enjoy, thanks for all the love on my first Bob fic! Divider by @luxifrv <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ bob reynolds masterlist

For once, the Watchtower was silent. Not the eerie kind of silence that meant something was wrong, but a rare, peaceful quiet that settled over the usually chaotic space like a warm blanket. No echo of Walker and Bucky bickering over strategy. No sharp, exasperated Russian-accented scolding from Yelena as she tried, again, to convince Alexei that inside voice was not a myth.

Bucky was the only one moving. You could hear the soft rustle of pantry doors opening and closing, the metallic clink of a spoon against a mug, the hush of a coffee machine heating up. His movements were deliberate, quiet, almost tender, like he didn’t want to wake the moment. You and Ava sat perched on the cool granite countertop, shoulders bumping occasionally as you both tried to blink away sleep.

Ava cradled a mug of tea in both hands, steam curling into the space between you. You had your legs tucked beneath you, hoodie sleeves draped past your fingers as you absentmindedly picked at the assorted berries Bucky had placed in front of you. The quiet hum of appliances and the rhythmic sound of Bucky moving around the kitchen felt almost domestic, like the kind of normal you rarely got here.

Then, with a cheerful ding, the elevator doors slid open. The calm broke, but not in a bad way. Yelena was the first to step in, eyes sharp and expression unreadable as always, though a rare smile tugged at her lips when she spotted the three of you. Behind her, John carried an armload of grocery bags that looked one second away from slipping out of his grasp. Bob trailed in behind them, slightly out of breath, balancing two bulging paper sacks filled with produce.

Alexei, true to form, was juggling what looked like an oversized bag of kettle corn and an entire watermelon. “Hey, how was the farmers market? Get anything good?” You asked, eyes flicking between the group as they deposited their haul onto the counter. Normally, this would be the part where Yelena launched into a dramatic monologue about Alexei’s inability to stick to a list, usually punctuated by her chucking a random jar of pickled something at him.

But this time, she stayed surprisingly quiet. Too quiet. You caught the quick glances exchanged between her and John, an amused smirk on both their faces, like they were in on something you weren’t. Before you could even raise an eyebrow in question, you heard the shuffle of footsteps and turned just in time to see Bob making a beeline for you. You straightened up instinctively, suddenly very aware of your appearance, sleep-mussed hair, oversized hoodie, and socks that didn’t match.

Yet Bob didn’t seem to mind. His cheeks were dusted with the softest shade of pink, like he’d jogged over from the elevator, or maybe, maybe it was something else. He held a small paper bag in one hand and a cup in the other, both trembling slightly. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, then immediately dropped to the cup, as though he needed the courage to keep going. “H-Hi,” He greeted softly, his voice shy but laced with warmth. “They, uh… had a matcha booth. I got you a kit so you can make it at home.”

Your breath hitched, but he wasn’t done. “I, um, also got you one for now,” He added, extending the cup toward you like it was an offering. “Since I remember you said you ‘can’t function’ without it in the mornings. Extra matcha foam, a splash of vanilla, whole milk, not oat milk, because, well you hate it.” You blinked. He remembered all of that?God, could he be any more perfect? You laughed, a soft and breathless, fingers brushing his as you took the cup from him. The contact sent a spark up your arm, subtle but unmistakable.

“Thanks, Bob,” You murmured, your voice low and sincere as you looked up at him. “That was really sweet of you.” He opened his mouth to respond, but words never made it past his lips. Because in a rare burst of bravery, or maybe recklessness, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his warm cheek. You felt the way he froze for half a breath, how his shoulders stiffened, and then relaxed with a nervous chuckle as his other hand came up to scratch the back of his neck.

Across the room, John looked like he was trying not to fist-pump the air, and Yelena shot you the world’s most obvious finally face before elbowing Alexei, who just looked confused and whispered something about “young love” under his breath. “I don’t know how you drink that.” Bucky muttered from the kitchen as he grimaced at your bright green drink, breaking the moment with all the timing of a sledgehammer. He lifted his mug of black coffee in judgment.

You took a dramatic sip, eyes fluttering shut as if it was the best thing you’d ever tasted just to spite him. “Touché,” You scoffed, pointing at his cup with mock offense. “Although, you drink battery acid.” Bucky raised his brows in mock offense. “I drink coffee. You drink grass.” Ava chuckled beside you, shaking her head. But your attention drifted back to Bob, who was still standing just a little too close, still looking at you like he was stunned by what just happened.

His fingers lingered at the edge of the counter, tapping nervously. You took another sip of your matcha, watching him over the rim of the cup. That blush hadn’t faded. And the way he kept sneaking glances at you, like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t trust himself not to fumble it, made your chest ache in the best way. “Are you lot mentally prepared for the gala tonight?” Ava asked, her voice too casual to be innocent as she popped a grape into her mouth and leaned against the counter.

Her words cut clean through the pleasant haze you’d been floating in, one brought on by Bob’s lingering smile and the subtle hum of his presence next to you. Your gaze snapped away from him. “Shit,” You muttered, eyes widening as the reality slammed into your brain like a freight train. “I forgot that was tonight.” You let out a groan and dropped your head into your hands, the cool skin of your palms pressing against the heat rising in your face. The gala. Of course.

Between the back-to-back missions, late-night debriefs, and that impromptu grocery run, the fancy evening fundraiser had completely slipped your mind. Somewhere, buried beneath a pile of laundry you hadn’t had the emotional stamina to fold, was a garment bag Melina had sent over weeks ago. You hadn’t even unzipped it yet. It was probably crumpled and hiding behind your winter coats, tangled in a forgotten scarf and a rogue SHIELD-issued jacket.

“Who isn’t ready for an evening of kissing up to potential new investors and getting glares from Valentina across the room because we’re somehow 'misbehaving' and 'ruining our image'?” Yelena scoffed, rolling her eyes as she flopped into the nearest chair like it had offended her. “Don’t forget making small talk with politicians who couldn’t care less if we saved the planet or set it on fire.” Bucky added dryly.

The banter swirled around you, loud and familiar, but your mind was already spiraling, mentally calculating how much time you had to shower, tame your hair, find that dress, steam that dress, fix your eyeliner after inevitably smudging it, and somehow look like a person worthy of attending a gala where half the room would be dressed in five-figure gowns and tailored tuxedos. And Bob. Oh god. Bob would be there too. You dared a glance at him from the corner of your eye.

He was still beside you, watching the group with quiet amusement, his fingers lightly tapping the paper tea cup in his hand. You could just barely see the curve of a dimple when he smiled at something Bucky had said. He hadn’t said much about the gala, just that he’d remembered and already arranged to pick up his suit. Of course he had. He probably knew where his cufflinks were too. Probably even had a backup tie.

Meanwhile, you were a sleep-deprived goblin with chipped nail polish, half a to-do list scrawled on your hand in blue pen, and absolutely no idea what jewelry matched your dress, or if the strappy black heels you wore to last year’s gala were even still intact. They were probably at the bottom of your closet, missing a buckle, or chewed on by the mysterious Watchtower dust bunnies that lived beneath your bed. “Kill me.” You muttered under your breath, dragging your hands down your face until your cheeks were warm from the friction.

“I can fake a head injury,” Ava chimed in helpfully, straight-faced as she leaned back on her elbows. “You’ll be out for the rest of the week. No questions asked. We’ll even throw in a dramatic backstory.” You let out a weak snort. “Tempting.” you replied, voice muffled through your hands, though your attention was already drifting again, gravitating toward the quiet figure moving just a few feet away. You glanced over in time to catch Bob as he bent to retrieve something from one of the grocery bags.

The hem of his navy hoodie lifted just slightly, revealing a flash of worn flannel waistband and a sliver of skin at his hip. The way the fabric stretched across his back, the way his strong shoulders shifted beneath the soft cotton, it was criminal, honestly. He straightened and absentmindedly tucked a strand of hair behind his ear with the kind of casual grace that shouldn’t have affected you as much as it did. But it did. Oh, it did. The simple act sent your heart into an entirely unreasonable flutter.

You quickly averted your gaze and took a long, too-large gulp of your matcha to distract yourself. The condensation of the cup in your hands was the only thing grounding you. Well, that and the caffeine threatening to jumpstart your entire nervous system. “I’m gonna need a lot more of this if I’m going to survive tonight.” You grimaced, holding up your half-drunk cup like it was your savior. “It’s a good thing Bob has you covered then.” Yelena sang, her voice teasing and smile positively feral as her eyes bounced between the two of you.

Your cheeks instantly flushed with heat. Across from you, Bob choked slightly on the sip of water he’d just taken, coughing once as the tips of his ears turned unmistakably red. Yelena’s smirk deepened. She looked far too pleased with herself. “Yelena.” You hissed through your teeth, but she just wiggled her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders innocently like she’d done nothing wrong.

Bob cleared his throat, recovering admirably, though he was now suddenly very focused on reorganizing a bag of apples. “I can make you another one,” He offered, shrugging a little as his voice dropped to something quiet, gentle, like a secret just for you. “I watched the lady at the booth make them. I, uh... took notes. Kind of. She even showed me how to whisk it so it doesn't clump.” You blinked. He watched the demo just so he could make your favorite drink correctly?

Your heart threatened to leap out of your chest and do a somersault on the kitchen floor. If you weren't already smitten, that alone would have had you swooning. He didn’t meet your eyes, but his voice was soft, hopeful. God, how were you supposed to survive an entire night by his side? Standing beside him during red carpet photos, exchanging polite smiles for photographers, whispering jokes under your breath while pretending to listen to politicians drone on about defense funding.

All while pretending you were a fully functioning human being who wasn’t halfway in love with the boy who remembered your drink order and how you hated oat milk? You were a disaster. No dress plan, no jewelry plan, possibly no working shoes, and absolutely no idea how you were going to stand next to Bob all night without your brain short-circuiting. You were so screwed. It was safe to assure that it was going to be a very, very long night.

The charity gala. Even the phrase sounded intimidating, but nothing could have prepared you for this. The grand staircase unfolded beneath you like something out of a baroque painting, sweeping marble steps carved with painstaking detail, lined with golden banisters that shimmered in the warm light of antique chandeliers. Everything glowed in soft amber, like time itself had paused for this one evening.

The ceilings arched high overhead, frescoed and grand, while the walls whispered with centuries-old elegance. Ornate sconces flickered along the balconies, throwing gentle light across clusters of diplomats, donors, and operatives dressed to the nines. People moved like brushstrokes across a canvas, flowing down the double staircase in slow, graceful waves. Laughter drifted on the air, mixing with the faint sounds of a string quartet echoing from one of the upper halls.

And yet, even surrounded by diplomats, high-profile donors, and operatives in couture, you felt like you were the one out of place. You felt dizzy. The dress Mel had picked out arrived in a box so pristine you didn’t dare touch it until tonight. The sapphire gown hugged your frame like it had been made with you in mind, the fabric falling fluid over your hips and moving like liquid when you walked. A deep neckline drew the eye without giving too much, while the daring open back dipped low enough to make even Yelena raise a brow when she first saw it.

Thin, crisscrossing straps shimmered across your shoulder blades like stars strung in place. A thigh-high slit added an edge of danger, the hem brushing the floor with every step like a promise. And as fate, or fashion, would have it, the color perfectly matched the deep hue of his eyes. Unfair, really. “Stop fidgeting! You look gorgeous.” Yelena snapped behind you, swatting your hand away as you adjusted the neckline of your dress for the fifth time. “I feel like I’m one wrong step away from a wardrobe malfunction.”

“If you do fall, fall into someone rich. Or Bob. Preferably Bob.” Yelena’s deadpan delivery was so casual it made Ava snort. "Would you stop it! I have told you both a million times, Bob doesn't like me like that!" A synchronized eye roll rippled through the room like a perfectly rehearsed performance. Ava arched a brow in your direction. “You are either painfully oblivious, or actively choosing to be stupid, because Bob worships the ground you walk on.” She quipped, adjusting her earrings in the nearby mirror.

“Don’t even get me started on that lovesick puppy look he gives you.” Yelena muttered under her breath, pretending to inspect a non-existent chip in her nail polish. You scoffed, arms crossing defensively over your chest, the thin fabric of your dress pulling taut. “What look?” Ava met your eyes through the mirror, her expression softening just enough to make the jab land sweeter. “The same one you get whenever you’re looking at him.” You didn’t have time to respond, or argue, as if you could, because footsteps echoed down the upper landing.

You turned your head, and there he was.

Bob stood at the top of the staircase like some old-world portrait come to life, dressed in a sleek black tuxedo that fit like it had been sculpted onto him. The crisp white shirt beneath was buttoned perfectly, his tie was tied tight and straight down the center of his chest, and a subtle silver tie clip caught the light as he moved. His hair was swept back neatly, but a few rebellious strands had fallen across his forehead, softening his sharp jawline and giving him that boyish, just-barely-undone look that made your breath hitch.

But it was his expression that really undid you. Because the moment he spotted you, halfway down the stairs, bathed in chandelier light, wrapped in a dress that mirrored the color of his gaze, he stopped walking. Freezing, just for a second, as if he’d been hit by something. His eyes widened just slightly, lips parting, and he didn’t blink until he started moving again, descending the stairs slowly, carefully, like approaching something fragile and sacred. You couldn’t look away and frankly you didn’t want to.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, your fingers clutching your tiny clutch bag like it was the only thing keeping you upright. When he finally reached you, his gaze swept from your heels to your collarbones, and then, almost shyly, met your eyes. “I—” He cleared his throat, his voice low, almost reverent. “You look... incredible.” It wasn’t just a compliment. It sounded like something sacred. Your chest tightened, heat blooming under your skin.

“You clean up really well, Reynolds.” You murmured back, resisting the urge to bite your lip as your eyes traced the lines of his suit. His smile twitched, a little crooked, a little bashful, but the way he offered his arm was nothing short of classic. Chivalrous. “Ready?” You looped your hand into the bend of his elbow, fingers barely grazing the fine fabric of his suit sleeve, but even that tiny contact sent something fluttering under your ribs. “I think so." You whispered, but it sounded like a lie. Because you weren’t ready.

Not for the way he looked at you.

Not for the tension crackling between you like an invisible tether. And definitely not for the idea of surviving an entire night next to him, pretending not to fall deeper every second. As you descended the rest of the stairs together, surrounded by glittering lights and polished conversation, you felt his arm shift closer to yours. Protective. Steady. A quiet promise between the noise. Above you, Yelena leaned toward Ava and whispered with glee. "There’s absolutely no way they don’t crack tonight.”

Not that you or Bob had the slightest clue what was coming.

The grand hall was no less stunning than the staircase. If anything, it was overwhelming. Vaulted ceilings glittered with gold leaf, chandeliers dangled like constellations in glass, and a soft orchestral arrangement drifted from the far end of the room where a quartet played beneath velvet drapes. Candlelight flickered in sconces mounted on carved pillars, casting a warm, amber glow over the polished floor. You and Bob hadn’t taken more than a few steps into the ballroom when— “Group photo. Now.” Came a voice that made your spine instinctively straighten.

Valentina.

She stood to the side of the press station in a gunmetal-gray gown, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, brows raised in expectation. A very polite “smile for the donors” kind of threat behind her smirk. You barely had time to exchange a glance with Bob before the rest of the team was being herded like misbehaving students on picture day. “Let’s make it quick.” Bucky muttered under his breath as he straightened his collar beside you.

You positioned yourself in the middle, as instructed, heels clicking as you moved into place between Ava and Bob. The photographer gestured animatedly behind the lens. “Big smiles! We want you to look like you’re changing the world and having fun doing it!” You barely heard him. Not with Bob standing beside you, his arm ghosting just behind your back, his presence impossibly close. Every time his shoulder brushed yours, your heartbeat fluttered.

Then, as if by accident, but you knew better, Ava shifted, bumping you just enough to send you leaning subtly further into Bob’s side. A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she straightened, eyes fixed ahead like she hadn’t done a thing. He didn’t move away. If anything, you felt him steady you, his fingers briefly grazing the small of your back before settling just out of sight. He didn’t speak, but you could feel his eyes on you every few seconds. You could only hope he didn’t notice how wildly your heart was racing.

Flash. Flash. Flash. Flash.

And then, thankfully, it was over.

Yet before you could so much as step away from the group, a manicured hand slipped into yours. “There you are,” Mel’s voice purred from behind. “I’ve been trying to track you down. Come, there’s someone I want you to meet.” You turned, startled but obedient, catching Bob’s eyes briefly, he looked like he wanted to say something, his brows slightly furrowed, but Mel was already tugging you away with the quiet precision of someone used to getting things done.

You mouthed sorry to him over your shoulder, but then you were gone, swallowed by the swell of chiffon and silk and champagne. She led you toward the bar tucked elegantly into a corner of the room, polished mahogany gleaming under rows of backlit bottles. The crowd had thinned in this pocket, replaced by quiet, murmuring conversations and the occasional clink of crystal glass. “That man there,” Mel murmured low as you both slowed, nodding toward the tall figure at the bar.

“Elias Mercer. Powerful contacts. More interested in policy than politics. Be charming, but don’t make promises. Just listen.” Then she was gone, disappearing like a shadow before you could protest. Elias turned toward you just as you approached, and you understood immediately why Mel had bothered. He was handsome in the well-tailored, effortless power kind of way. He had that cultivated confidence that dripped from every movement: blonde hair slicked back, not a strand out of place; a navy suit pressed so sharply it looked dangerous.

“Well, well,” He drawled, eyes scanning your gown with a slow appreciation that bordered on bold. “They weren’t exaggerating. You’re the prettiest thing this event’s seen in years.” You forced a polite smile, though something in your chest already itched. “I’m not sure if I should thank you or ask who they are.” He chuckled, clearly pleased by your response. “Let’s go with ‘thank you’ for now.” He leaned against the bar casually, lifting a glass of something amber and expensive-looking.

“First round’s on me.” He flagged the bartender before you could protest, ordering for you like it was habit, something sweet, floral, and definitely not your taste. The glass arrived rimmed with sugar, the kind of drink chosen for aesthetics rather than preference. Your eyes flicked to the bar, your brain still playing catch-up with how fast everything had shifted. The hum of music still lingered in the air, and across the room you could just barely make out Bob standing by the photo backdrop, eyes scanning the crowd like he was looking for someone.

Elias leaned closer. “So,” He murmured, voice smooth like silk over ice. “What exactly does a woman like you do when she’s not dazzling rooms like this?” Across the ballroom, laughter rose like a tide, but Bob wasn’t listening to any of it. He stood near the edge of the photo setup, posture stiff, barely hearing a word John was saying about security coverage or potential press questions. His eyes kept flicking through the crowd, scanning for one very specific figure. You.

“I swear, if Valentina drags us into one more round of photos—” John was mid-rant when Bob finally cut him off. “Have you guys seen Y/N?” Bucky, who’d been standing quietly beside them sipping from a lowball glass, lifted a brow at the shift in Bob’s tone. “Didn’t Mel pull her away?” Bob’s jaw clenched. “That was fifteen minutes ago, I haven’t seen her since.” He scanned the crowd again. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his chest, a tension building behind his ribs that had nothing to do with the suit or the heat of the crowd.

The ballroom was crowded, sure, but he knew how to find you. He always did. And then, he saw it. You were near the bar, half-sitting on a velvet stool, your posture angled slightly away from the man seated beside you. Clearly uncomfortable. He also noticed something else, the man’s hand, resting far too comfortably on your bare thigh, fingers splayed against the slit in your dress. Your smile looked tight. Wrong. Bob saw red. But more than that, his eyes actually flashed gold. His jaw locked so tight it might have snapped.

Without another word, he’d already handed Bucky his untouched drink and was moving through the crowd. Every cell in his body buzzed, not with rage, but something deeper. Primal. Protective. “Uh oh.” John muttered, watching Bob stalk off like a predator. “This is about to get really interesting.” You weren’t even fully sure how Elias’s hand had ended up on your thigh. It had been gradual, subtle, the kind of entitled, calculated confidence that crept in like fog. He hadn’t asked. Just leaned closer, his drink in one hand, the other brushing your skin like it was owed to him.

You shifted away slightly, giving him a tight lipped smile. “I think that’s enough bourbon for you tonight—” But before the sentence could finish, a hand closed firmly around Elias’s wrist and yanked it away from your leg. The man let out a sharp exhale in surprise, and you gasped. Bob. He was suddenly there, towering over both of you with a look you had never seen on his face before. His usual warmth, his steady gentleness, was gone. In its place was something cold, crackling, and barely leashed.

The golden flicker in his eyes, subtle but unmistakable, made your heart stutter in your chest. “That’s enough.” He murmured, voice low and even. Elias blinked, startled. “Excuse me—?” Before he could finish, Bob smoothly stepped between the two of you, placing himself squarely in Elias’s line of sight. One hand still gripped the other man’s wrist, while the other slid gently onto your thigh, right where Elias’s had been. You could feel the heat of him through the silk, anchoring you and igniting you all at once. Only this time, it wasn’t unwelcome. You weren’t scared. You weren’t uncomfortable.

You were dizzy.

The heat of his palm on your skin sent a jolt through your body. Your breath caught in your throat, eyes wide as Bob’s fingers splayed possessively against the slit of your dress. You could feel the shift in him, the quiet tension in his muscles, the steady weight of his presence protecting you. “Didn’t realize she came with a guard dog.” Elias slowly raised both hands in mock surrender, lips twitching in annoyance. “She doesn’t,” Bob replied, voice calm yet razor-sharp.

“She comes with people who know the difference between being charming… and being a creep.” Elias chuckled low under his breath, stood, and tossed back the last of his drink. “She’s pretty, but not worth this much trouble.” With that, he walked off, disappearing into the crowd with the arrogant swagger of someone used to getting what he wants. But you weren’t even looking at him. You were looking at Bob. Still close. Still with his hand on your thigh. His fingers didn’t move, not yet, as if anchoring you, reminding both of you that he had been the one to step in.

To claim what someone else had touched without permission. And suddenly, your skin felt electric. Flushed. Hyper-aware of every point of contact between you. You blinked up at him, throat dry. “You—um, you didn’t have to do that.” Bob’s gaze finally shifted down to yours. His expression softened, but his hand didn’t move. “I know,” He murmured. “But I wanted to.” His voice was rougher now, softer somehow, like something inside him had cracked open and started pouring out. The orchestra swelled somewhere behind you. For the first time all night, you were speechless.

Bob’s hand eventually dropped from your thigh as the two of you walked, slowly, toward the long round table nestled near the center of the ballroom. Candlelight flickered over polished crystal and untouched hors d'oeuvres. A string of golden name cards decorated each seat with militaristic precision. As you approached, you could feel the weight of the group’s attention before you even reached the table. Yelena looked up first, elbowing Bucky with zero grace.

He arched a brow, then glanced between you and Bob, eyes narrowing. John, seated on the far side, was nursing a whiskey and doing a poor job of hiding his smug grin. Ava straightened in her chair, her brows raised high mouthing something behind her wine glass. Only Alexi remained blissfully unaware, focused entirely on buttering a roll with the intensity of a man dismantling a bomb. Bob pulled your chair out for you, subtle, careful, but the gesture burned in the back of your neck.

You could still feel the ghost of his hand on your skin. Your body hadn’t quite calmed down. Every part of you still buzzed like static under silk. He sat beside you, and though his posture had returned to calm, shoulders squared, hands resting easily, there was a tension in his jaw that hadn’t quite gone away. Bob cleared his throat, stiffening slightly as he unfolded his napkin. His cheeks still held the faintest pink hue, though whether it was from possessiveness or proximity, you weren’t sure.

Yelena leaned toward Ava, not bothering to whisper. “Who knew he had that in him?” Ava smirked from beside her. “I’m never letting her live this down.” You pretended not to hear them, focusing instead on the champagne flute in front of you, hands a little too still in your lap. Then the lights dimmed, and a hush swept over the room. A spotlight clicked on above the stage. Valentina glided to the podium wearing the kind of practiced smile only politicians and devils wore well.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to welcome you all tonight. As you know, we are entering a new era. A better era. One guided by clarity, strength, and people who aren’t afraid to do what’s necessary for a safer world.” She gestured toward your table with a graceful sweep of her arm. “The New Avengers.” You felt Bob’s arm brush against yours under the table, his hand resting on his thigh, fingers flexing. He hated this part. You all did. Your eyes flicked toward the others. Ava looked like she was trying not to gag. Bucky had tuned out completely, arms folded as he stared somewhere past the chandeliers.

Even John, ever the polished soldier, looked like he was barely tolerating the performance. But it was all for the donors. The money. The future. And you smiled, because that’s what was expected. Polite applause followed. Investors, politicians, and old money donors gave their obligatory nods and toasts. Valentina basked in it.“With your support, this team will do more than protect borders. They’ll protect ideals. Influence outcomes. Ensure peace. Permanently.” Her voice sharpened on that last word.

You shifted in your seat, feeling Bob shift slightly next to you too. The whole thing was so carefully curated, so slippery in its language. She was selling the image of power. Of control. Of all of you. Eventually, the speech ended. Applause rose again, more enthusiastic this time. Cameras flashed. Servers moved between tables, offering more wine and champagne. That’s when Yelena’s hand snuck into yours beneath the table. “Bathroom. Now.” She whispered, dragging you to your feet before you could process it. Ava followed immediately, muttering something about needing to “re-apply her lipstick.”

You barely caught the way Bob looked at you as you left, his blue eyes warm, slightly curious, like he was still thinking about what had happened the bar. The hallway outside the ballroom was cool and quiet, lit with soft sconces and lined with velvet curtains. “Okay,” Yelena declared as soon as the bathroom door shut behind the three of you. “Are we going to talk about the fact that your man just went full golden-eyed possessive alpha male out there or—?” You rolled your eyes, but the pink hue of your face betrayed you.

“He’s not my man, Yelena.” You blurted, though it sounded hollow even to your own ears. Ava crossed her arms, tilting her head. “You’re glowing. You look like you’re on the verge of short-circuiting.” You groaned, leaning over the sink. “It was just… instinct. Right? He was just protecting me.” Yelena snorted. “Protecting you from thigh-grabby Mercer and staking a very visible claim are two very different things.” You stared at your reflection, heart still beating unevenly.

You took a breath, multiple sips of water, and composed yourself. Then reluctantly stepped back into the ballroom, because you couldn’t hide out in the bathroom for the rest of the evening no matter how much you wanted to. Ava and Yelena right behind you as you visibly froze. Your table was just ahead, and someone else was sitting beside Bob. A blonde woman stood beside him, hips tilted, her red dress criminally low-cut, practically a second skin. Her hand rested lightly on the back of his chair, like she was considering whether to touch his shoulder next.

Bob wasn’t leaning toward her, but he wasn’t exactly recoiling either. Then you saw it. Her fingertips grazed his shoulder, and lingered, before sliding down to his forearm. And Bob smiled. Not the full one, the soft one. The one you knew. The one that had made you fall harder than you wanted to admit. Your lungs didn’t quite expand. A quiet, unexpected knot tightened in your chest. That heat in your chest? It wasn’t embarrassment this time. It was jealousy.

Jealousy hit hard, sharp and acidic, curling beneath your ribs like heat. Hot, sharp, and unrelenting. You took a breath and walked back toward the table, slower this time, heart thudding painfully loud in your ears. The blonde noticed you approaching and barely shifted, still smiling at Bob like he was dessert. But then, before you could psych yourself out, you slid right into his lap. Sideways, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your dress shifted to reveal a little more leg, and the silk of it draped over both of your thighs as you curled an arm loosely around his neck.

The other hand came to rest gently, but possessively, over his abdomen. His entire body went still. The air around the table thickened. Your fingers pressed lightly into the fabric of his jacket, right over his ribs. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. You smiled at the blonde with all the sweetness of a snake basking in sunlight. “Oh,” You murmured innocently, leaning into the curve of Bob’s neck. “I didn’t realize we had company.” His hand found your hip instinctively, fingers tightening like a reflex. The blonde blinked, her smile immediately thinning. “I don’t think we’ve met—”

“No,” You replied monotonously, effectively cutting her off. “We haven’t.” Bob was absolutely motionless beneath you, save for the subtle flex of his jaw. His arm moved to wrap around your waist like gravity, pulling you just slightly closer. The blonde stood after an awkward beat, murmured something about needing to “go freshen up,” and walked off, her heels clicking sharply on the marble. You didn’t look away until she vanished behind a curtain of guests.

The orchestra struck its first chord, warm and elegant, notes blooming like silk petals in the air. Laughter bubbled from the dance floor as couples swept into each other’s arms, dresses twirling and polished shoes gliding over the marble. Yet, you remained where you were, perched sideways across Bob’s lap, hand pressed to his chest, rising and falling with every one of his increasingly uneven breaths. His arm curled around your waist as if it had been molded there, unmoving, unwilling to let go.

Your pulse stuttered beneath your skin, too fast, too hot. You knew he could feel it. He hadn’t spoken in nearly a full minute, but the tension in his body spoke for him. Then, he cleared his throat. A soft, barely-there sound that somehow made your stomach twist. You didn’t let him get a word in. “Dance with me.” The words came out breathier than intended, but they hung between you like an open invitation. Bob blinked, startled, then hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if you meant it.

You didn’t wait. You rose smoothly from his lap, your hand sliding down his arm until your fingers found his. You didn’t tug. You just looked at him. And of course, he followed. The two of you stepped into the glow of the chandeliers again, the hush of music guiding your steps toward the edge of the dance floor. You slipped your hand into his, placing the other on his shoulder, heart stammering in your chest as his hand settled cautiously on the curve of your waist.

You began to sway. Neither of you were dancers, but it didn’t matter. The moment held its own rhythm. Your dress brushed against his leg with each turn. His thumb caressed a soft, unconscious circle against your lower back. And though your eyes kept meeting, neither of you really spoke. You were both still pretending. Still holding back. Even with the air thick between you. Even with your fingers curling tighter into his jacket, his jaw tightening every time you swayed too close. And for a moment, it was quiet again. Then, Bob cleared his throat, awkwardly, softly, like he wasn’t quite sure he should speak.

“S-So are we just not going to talk about it?” Your gaze flicked up to meet his, and your stomach clenched. “Talk about what, Bob?” The response came sharper than intended, a defense before you could stop it. “The fact that you nearly ripped a guy’s arm off, or the fact that you were eyeballing that girl’s tits as she was blatantly eye-fucking you.” He froze, his hand on your waist tensed. “W-What, Y/N? She came onto me, I wasn’t looking at her, I swear. I was just… caught off guard.” You arched a brow, your voice dipping dangerously.

“So what, you just let her? Let her paw at you like you were on display?” His voice cracked under the weight of his urgency. “And what about you? That guy was making you uncomfortable, I saw it all over your face. I had to do something. I couldn’t just stand there while he—” He cut himself off, jaw clenched, that familiar gold hue resurfacing, swallowing the blue of his eyes. You were quiet. Your chest rose and fell in rhythm with the music, with your own chaotic thoughts. “Just…” You exhaled. “Come with me.” You didn’t give him a chance to argue.

You simply slid your hand down his wrist, fingers curling around his, and pulled him off the dance floor, past the swirling couples and flickering candles, toward a hallway bathed in soft light. Each step echoed with tension, yours, his, shared and unnamed. You reached the terrace doors and pushed through, cool night air kissing your overheated skin. The terrace was quiet, stone beneath your heels, stars scattered across a dark velvet sky. Only the distant hum of the orchestra floated through the open doors behind you. You turned to face him again.

Bob’s chest rose and fell like he’d just finished running, not dancing. His cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, but from everything he hadn’t said. The silence wrapped around you was thick and fragile. For once, neither of you spoke first. Your eyes flicked to his tie, crooked now from when you’d pulled him into you. Your fingers moved on instinct, reaching up, smoothing it gently. His breath hitched. “You didn’t have to defend me.” He scoffed incredulously. “Yes, I did.” You looked up at him. “Why?” You knew the answer, you just had to hear it from him.

Bob’s lips parted, and the glow in his eyes deepened, flickering like molten gold behind glass. His jaw flexed, like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. So you did something instead. You stepped in closer. Slowly. Deliberately. Your chest brushed his. You looked at him through your lashes. “Admit it Bob, you were jealous.” His hand found your waist again, stronger this time, steadier. “And you weren’t?” You didn’t answer.

Because the answer was already written in the way you leaned into him. In the way his breath fanned against your cheek. In the way your eyes dropped to his mouth for just a second too long. And maybe, just maybe, you both finally realized this game was nearing its end. You stood so close you could feel every breath Bob took, every shift in the way he held your waist like it grounded him. The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore, it pulsed with something deep, charged, and entirely unspoken.

The golden flicker in his eyes had softened now, but it hadn’t gone. He opened his mouth. Closed it. And then, finally, he let it out. “I’ve been in love with you for months.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was solid. Unshakable. A truth he’d been carrying so long it had carved itself into the marrow of him. Your heart stopped. “W-What?” You breathed, barely trusting your own ears. Bob didn’t flinch. Didn’t backpedal. His gaze never left yours. “I know I’m not supposed to say that, not like this, not here,” He murmured, voice rough with the edges of vulnerability.

“But I’ve been trying to keep it down, to keep it quiet, and I can’t anymore. I just, I need you to know.” You could only stare. He took a breath, his thumb brushing absently over your waist like he didn’t realize it was still there. “Ever since that first mission we got benched on together,” He continued, softer now. “You were pissed. You paced the hangar for twenty straight minutes, muttering under your breath, and I—God, I couldn’t stop watching you. Not because of how you looked. I mean, you’re—” He swallowed. “You’re stunning, but it was more than that.”

His voice dipped, vulnerable and almost reverent. “You didn’t treat me like I was fragile. Like I was broken. Everyone else, they hesitate. They talk to me like I might crack if they say the wrong thing. But you? You’ve never done that. You joke, you push back, you talk to me like I’m just, me. And that, that means everything.” Your breath caught in your throat. “I notice everything about you,” He went on, eyes burning into yours now.

“I know you hate oat milk, and you hate when people chew with their mouth open. I know you hum when you’re wiring explosives because it helps you focus. I know the exact look you get when you’re over-caffeinated but pretending you’re not.” He chuckled, low and self-deprecating. “And yeah, I learned how to make that matcha drink exactly how you like it. Extra matcha, splash of vanilla, whole milk. Took me five tries before it didn’t taste like chalk.” Your chest was aching. “But it’s not just that,” He coaxed, quieter now.

“It’s the way you light up when you come back from a mission. Even exhausted, you have this, spark. And every time I see you step into a room, something in me settles. Like everything’s okay if you’re okay.” You could feel your throat closing, emotion swelling like a wave. “I leave you those notes because I never know what to say in person. Because you make my brain short-circuit. So I write it down. And when you’re out there getting bruised and saving the world, I refill your water, I tidy your gear, because it’s the only way I know how to say I care.”

His hand slid gently from your waist to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye, like he’d already guessed you were trying not to cry. “I didn’t mean to fall for you,” He whispered. “But it’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.” You stood frozen, then your voice finally cracked through the silence. “Bob…” You blinked, your lashes wet, your chest tight. “I’ve been falling in love with you this entire time.” His breath hitched. “You… have?” Your laugh was barely a whisper. “Of course I have. You idiot. Do you think I just let anyone touch me like that?”

He laughed through his nose, but you stepped closer, resting your hands against his chest. You felt his heart stuttering beneath your palms, just like yours. “You learned how to make my favorite drink. You leave me the sweetest, dorkiest notes when I get back from fieldwork. And I know you always refill my water bottle even though you pretend you didn’t.” You looked up at him, and this time, you were the one who couldn’t look away. “I notice everything about you too, Bob,”

“The way your voice softens when you're calming someone down. The way you always take the corner booth because you know I hate sitting with my back to the door. How you’re the first one to offer help and the last to ask for any.” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t stop. “I didn’t want to admit it. I thought if I did, I’d ruin what we have. But the truth is, I’ve been yours this whole time.” He stepped forward. “I don’t want to pretend anymore, I’m tired of dancing around it. I want this. You.” His thumb traced slow circles along your ribs. “Then take it.” You breathed.

It happened fast. One step too close, one last look that lingered too long, and then the space between you disappeared like it had never existed. His mouth crashed against yours, months of repressed emotion and barely-contained tension igniting all at once. There was nothing careful or tentative about it, just teeth and heat, lips dragging hungrily over yours, and the immediate slide of his tongue demanding entry. He tasted like the Diet Coke he hadn’t been sipping and something utterly Bob.

You gasped into the kiss, but it only gave him more access. He swallowed it greedily, his hand rising to cup your jaw, thumb tilting your chin just enough so he could deepen it, tongue sweeping over yours in a hot, bruising stroke that made your knees buckle. Your hands were already tangled in his jacket, gripping lapels like your life depended on it. When his teeth tugged at your bottom lip, just enough to sting, you whimpered, and that sound broke something in him. The kiss turned desperate. His hands roamed like he’d been dying to touch you for years.

One gripped your waist, pulling you flush against the hard line of his body, while the other slid down, trailing over the exposed curve of your bare back, the silk of your dress offering no resistance. His fingertips skimmed the base of your spine, then lower, slipping under the open edge of your gown. He groaned low in his throat when his palm met bare skin, smoothing over the curve of your hip and down your thigh, fingers grazing the slit in your dress that had tormented him all night. Your leg lifted almost instinctively, wrapping around his as your bodies melted together, the slit parting even further to let him in.

His grip shifted to your thigh, strong fingers curling under it, anchoring you to him like he couldn’t possibly stand the thought of ever letting go, now that he was able to touch you like this. You could feel every inch of him, his chest heaving against yours, the twitch of his jaw as he fought for control, the hard press of arousal against your lower stomach. Your back hit the cool marble of the terrace wall. A gasp spilled from your lips, swallowed by his mouth again in a kiss that burned like wildfire.

He pinned you there with his body, hips flush against yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other still on your leg, pushing the fabric higher so his thumb could drag slowly along your inner thigh. Your breath hitched. A soft, helpless moan escaped, and he echoed it with a guttural noise, his tongue sweeping into your mouth again with a new kind of hunger. It was messy. Urgent. Dizzying. The taste of each other. The soft drag of your nails down his neck. His teeth grazing your lip again. The low, desperate sounds vibrating in your throat. His touch, leaving fire in its wake.

And the way you both kissed like it wasn’t just lust, but the breaking point of everything unsaid finally crashing through. Your body arched into his. His mouth barely left yours long enough to breathe. And the gala went on behind the doors, utterly irrelevant now. "Took you both long enough!" Yelena’s voice cut sharply through the thick fog of lust hanging around you like smoke. You and Bob tore yourselves apart, panting, flushed, his lips kiss-bitten and your dress now visibly wrinkled in spots that revealed far too much about where his hands had been.

"Poor guy almost lost his arm." Walker added with a grunt, nodding toward Bob, whose tie was still clutched tightly in your hand. His smirk betrayed no real annoyance, only amusement. "You gotta admit, it was entertaining as hell though." Ava drawled, one brow raised, arms folded as she leaned against the terrace rail like she’d been watching a soap opera play out in real time. That’s when it hit you. "You guys fucking planned this?" You and Bob yelled in unison.

“It was painful seeing both of you pining over the other, we had to do something.” Bucky stated, entirely unapologetic. "You also think Mel coincidentally got you a blue dress that matched his eyes?" Yelena deadpanned, eyes flicking pointedly to the leg slit and the exposed sweep of your back with zero subtlety. Your brow lifted. You narrowed your eyes. Then, slowly, the grin spread across your face like gasoline catching fire. "Well, I hope you all have noise-cancelling headphones."

They froze. Some blinked. Ava’s mouth twitched. Yelena cocked her head with an intrigued hum. But you leaned in, melting into Bob’s side, fingers slipping past his jacket lapel to trail lazily over the spot where his chest rose and fell in short, uneven breaths. "Cause Bob and I have a lot of lost time to catch up on," You purred, tilting your chin up toward him. His hand dropped to your hip again, almost on instinct. Possessive. Firm. Like he was already thinking about what he was going to do to you the moment the others vanished.

“It’s gonna get real loud.” You didn’t wait for a response. You yanked him down by the tie, lips crashing together with a loud, unapologetic smack. His arms locked around your waist instantly, pulling you up onto your toes as he devoured you right there in front of everyone. Tongue thrusting into your mouth without hesitation. His teeth grazed yours in the heat of it, and a growl, raw and deep, rumbled low in his chest as you dragged your fingers up the back of his neck.

You were keenly aware of the reactions behind you: exaggerated gagging, muttered curses, dramatic footsteps retreating, someone snorting with laughter. But it all faded under the hungry slide of Bob’s mouth, under the way his hand slipped lower, palm pressing just beneath the curve of your ass. They’d planned this? Fine. Only, they had no idea what they’d just unleashed. Because this wasn’t tension anymore, no, this was a reckoning. The night was still young.

It was going to be a very long night indeed.

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!

[luvlyycy]

⋆｡° ✮ : you've lived in this boring town forever. and your love life was just as boring— all of a sudden a new [HOT] boy moves in next door— who's to say this won't change everything?

⋆｡° ✮ : neighbor!phainon is here and he is here to stay yall. this is part one of a mini series i have planned >:3c (fic name from call me maybe by carly rae jepsen)

⋆｡° ✮ : cw;; no explicit smut, just very suggestive, some minor cursing.

Ever since you moved to this town, it’s been the same stuff. The same people. It’s a small town, houses all pushed together with their own yards. Luckily, nobody was in anyone’s business; they all stayed in their own lanes. Even though there were no rumors or loud neighbors to be wary of, you all knew of each other.

Everything was normal and boring until you spotted that U-Haul truck next door. Your fingers hold open the blinds as you peek through. That’s when you spot him, your new neighbor in all his sweaty glory.

His white hair is messy as it sticks to his forehead, his forearms bulging as he picks up the heavy box, jaw tight. Your mouth gapes as you watch his eyes wince— those beautiful blue eyes enchanting you. Thick veins run down his arms as he carries the box into his house. The tight white tank top that stretched over his sweaty pecs was now nearly translucent. It drives you against the wall.

“What the fuck..” you whisper to yourself, feeling the heat rush up your back and causing all the blood to rush to your face. This may have been a bit creepy or stalker-ish to watch your new neighbor move all the stuff into his house, but you couldn’t help it! He was just so… fine.

After a few long, agonizing minutes, you decide maybe he needs some cold water. Or a snack? You definitely weren’t making excuses to meet him, or see his body up close, or see those blue eyes stare back into your own.

You grab a cold bottle of water from the fridge, along with some chips you had left over before trudging your way to your door. You open it, and the heat hits you in the face. The nerves set in too late as you stand in front of his door, your lips pursed into a thin line, you raise your hand to knock—knock, knock, knock!

“Coming!”

God, he sounds like a supermodel. You make a mental reminder to thank god for this guy’s parents because goddamn did they do a good deed.

The door swings open before you can spiral anymore, his hand on the door frame as he leans forward, breathing heavily.

“Hey, something you need?”

You suck in air, nearly gasping for it as you hold the bottle and chips up, “Hi, I, um, I live next door and I saw you moving your stuff in,” totally not creepy, “so I decided to get you a snack and some water.”

He looks delightfully surprised, “God, thanks. I needed this. I just plugged my fridge in, so it isn’t cold enough to use yet.” he grins, taking the bottle and the chips.

You watch closely as he pops open the bottle, hooks his lips on it, and gulps it down. You watch each bob of his throat, the way a few loose drops slink down the corner of his lips and roll down his neck. He pulls away with a soft breath of air, his lips glistening.

He turns back to you with a smile, “You’re a lifesaver,” he laughs out, “I’m Phainon, by the way.”

Phainon. God’s gift to earth, Phainon.

You tell him your name and he nods, “Cute name.” You both stare for a second before he clears his throat, “Well, I should get back to work. I gotta bring this AC in before I melt.”

You laugh, your hands fidgeting as you take a few steps to the side, watching him step out from his house and walk to the U-Haul parked in his driveway, “Hope the water helps out a little!”

He sets down the bottle and the chips in the back of the truck before turning to you, his blue eyes glistening as he calls out, “Oh yeah! It’s helping already!”

“Well, bye! I’ll see you around!” you say back.

“Yeah! You’ll see me a lot since I’m always home, either that or workin’!” he replies.

You see his body glisten in the sun as he tucks his fingers underneath his shirt, peeling it off his skin and over his head, tossing it into the grass before stretching out his neck and shoulders.

You turn quickly and practically run into your house. Despite the air conditioner being on, the cool breeze does little to nothing at calming your heated body down. You breathe heavily as you lean against the door, your heart pounding in your chest.

This is going to be a long, long, looooonnnggg, summer.

Every day, you see him, either getting into his car or doing some yard work. Now and then, you guys bump into each other, making up small talk about whatever comes to mind.

These recent nights have been agonizing. It’s like he’s tormenting you with his body. His bedroom window is straight across from yours, and even though he has curtains— he never closes them.

You aren’t complaining, honestly. It’s just getting kind of hard to focus throughout the day, knowing you’re probably going to see your sexy neighbor getting dressed tonight.

And you’re right.

He is getting dressed— or more so, undressed. You watch as he lifts his shirt up over his head, shaking his hair side to side to seemingly make it more comfortable. You can’t see, but he unbuckles his belt, his head leaning down to watch his hands. To you, it looks a bit more suggestive than that, your lips pursed in a thin line as heat crawls up your back.

He tosses his shirt onto a chair that’s in front of a gaming PC, before tossing his belt onto the chair as well. Your heart jumps quickly as he turns to the window, it seems to be only for a glance, but you swear he looks right at you. You chalk it up to overthinking. Phainon walks out of view, and suddenly you’re able to breathe again.

You slowly turn around and crawl into your bed. You weren’t planning on ever getting a summer crush or something cliche like that. But here you are, lying in your bed, snuggled against your comforter in the dark with the soft hum of the AC in the back as you breathe heavily. You feel your heart in your throat, and the only thing on your mind is him.

Your stupid neighbor. Your stupidly handsome and oddly sexy neighbor. Phainon. You groan and stuff your face into a pillow. Your hands squeeze your pillow with so much vigor, you’re shocked it doesn’t rip.

It’s just a crush, a silly crush. It has to be.

You fall asleep thinking that, and you dream of him. It’s an odd dream, really, you dream that Phainon is looking down at you with a lopsided grin—

“Time to get to work, huh?” he reaches down with garden gloves and wraps his hand around you, ripping you out from the ground before setting you beside him in a barrel. You saw his veins bulge, his muscles tense as he ripped you out with a sharp groan.

Your body shudders as you wake, eyes wide and drool soaking your pillow.

Yes, you dreamt that you were a weed, and he was ripping you from the soil. Did you feel ashamed? Yes. Did you like it? Also yes. Not your finest moment, but hey, sexy neighbors make everyone act weird.

The day drags out longer than you ever wanted it to, the dream haunting you throughout the day as well. You sit on the porch after running some errands, a drink in your hand with a cupcake on your lap.

The sun is beating down as you sip your drink, eyes watching the cars drive by. You spot Phainon’s car pulling into his driveway, silently cursing yourself.

He steps out of the car and shuts the door behind him. He looks mad, his eyebrows are knitted tightly together, and his jaw is tight as he makes his way into his house, shutting the door behind him with a loud thump.

You take a bite of your cupcake. Worry seeps into your veins, wondering what could have made the sweetest boy you know upset. You’ve never seen him angry prior to this, maybe frustrated when a dog would soil his lawn, but never angry.

You see him exit his house again, phone in hand, as he takes quick steps down the stairs. He stops for a second to look down at his phone, a soft curse exiting his lips as he does.

“You okay?” you call out warily. His head perks up in your direction, similar to a dog.

His face eases as soon as he sees you, “Yeah, I’m fine. Stupid dude at my job broke something and I gotta fix it.”

“Ohhh. Are you like, a handyman?” you giggle out.

He laughs, stuffing his phone into his pocket, “Actually, yeah. Kinda. I mow lawns and stuff, take out their weeds and install those uhh, like—” he snaps his fingers for a second, looking down. He remembers as he looks up with a smile, “Landscape edgings!”

“Wow,” you look surprised, “How much does it cost? My lawn is a mess, actually.”

He laughs, “I don’t think it’s that bad. It costs like three or ten per foot, but for you, I’d do it for free.”

Oh. Oh.

“No payment needed except your time.”

Stupid, Phainon.

“Cool, just call me or something when you can do it.” you manage out, despite the feeling of your heart jumping into your throat. He steps closer to your porch, carefully leaning on it underneath the wooden railing.

“How can I call you?”

“Oh, sorry,” you speak out, the embarrassment sinking into your veins as you reach for his phone. He puts it into your phone, his fingertips grazing yours for a moment before you grab hold of his phone.

You enter your number into his phone before giving it back to him: “Here’s my number, call me whenever needed.”

“Awesome. I will be calling you every day from now on because all the friends I have are men.” he laughs out and you laugh along with him, “That must suck.” you respond as he retreats back to his car.

“It does suck! They are all so dramatic, too,” he huffs as he slips into his car, rolling down his window, leaning over to say one more thing, “I’ll call you later! At work, maybe. I don’t know! But make sure to pick up.”

“I will!”

At least now he has your number.

⋆｡° ✮ : taglist ! @httpshujii

reblogs + comments are very much appreciated!

[formulafanfics13]

Maneater model Wolff reader x max!!! 🤩🙏

She doesn’t chase, she gets chased. She’s hard to get and Max is willing to play the game. As he is the only one who can handle her. A bit of 🔥 but mostly plot please.

The Girl Who Never Chased - MV1 🔥

Masterlist

Summary: Max Verstappen sets his sights on the one girl no one’s ever had — Toto Wolff’s daughter, a sharp-tongued, high-fashion, untouchable force of nature in the paddock. What begins as a dangerous flirtation turns into something neither of them expected: something real. Power, defiance, and longing collide as their secret spirals into full-blown chaos, with the entire paddock watching.

Warnings: Power dynamics, sexual content, emotionally intense scenes, public-private identity conflict, taboo relationship (rival team, daughter of team principal), possessiveness, public exposure, and mild violence (verbal and physical confrontation).

The first time Max saw her, she was leaning against the Mercedes garage wall in white leather boots and sunglasses that cost more than his championship bonus. Not watching anything. Just existing. Calm. Sharp. Like the kind of woman who had never chased a thing in her life.

He didn't know her name at first. But he knew who she was. Everyone did.

The daughter of Toto Wolff. Vienna-born, Milan-made, New York-dominated. Runway darling. Tabloid menace. Vogue’s favorite storm cloud and the paddock’s most unsolvable equation. She was chaos in silk, and no one, not one person, had ever been able to say they had her.

Plenty had tried. Drivers. Team principals. Billionaire sons. They all left the same way. Wrecked.

Max didn't care. She was too pretty not to want. Too proud not to touch. And maybe, just maybe, too much for anyone but him.

He could handle her. He was sure of it.

So when he passed her in the paddock for the first time, she didn’t look up. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

He did. Slight. A glance. Just enough for her to feel.

And she did feel it. She smirked behind her sunglasses and said nothing.

It was Monaco. Of course it was Monaco.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Max looked up from his drink. Charles was leaning against the railing, sunglasses pushed onto his head, jaw clenched.

“What?”

“You know what.”

Max grinned. “Just looking.”

Charles scoffed. “So was everyone else.”

He glanced back across the party. She was there, perched on a velvet couch, drink untouched, legs crossed, a Balenciaga trench draped over her shoulders like she didn’t feel the Mediterranean heat. Lewis was talking to her. Christian Horner was watching from across the room like he was calculating how badly Toto would kill him if he even breathed near her.

“She’s not your type,” Charles said.

Max didn’t look away. “She’s exactly my type.”

“She’ll eat you alive.”

Max finished his drink. “Then I hope she’s hungry.”

*

“You shouldn’t be here.” That was the first thing she said to him.

Not hi. Not your racecraft’s improved. Not what a brave little move in Turn 1, Max. Just a flat statement. No inflection. No fear.

He found her alone on the second floor of the Red Bull motorhome, one leg hooked over the arm of a couch, scrolling through her phone like she wasn’t in the lion’s den.

He smirked. “Should I leave?”

She looked at him. Really looked. No sunglasses now. Just bare, brutal eyes. “If I wanted you to leave,” she said, “you’d already be gone.”

He stepped closer. “I’ve been wondering what you’d say to me.”

She raised a brow. “Why?”

“Because no one else dares.”

“I’m not impressed by trophies.”

He shrugged. “I don’t need you to be.”

Silence.

Then she stood. Slowly. Like smoke. And walked past him with the same swing in her step that had made the front row of Milan lose their breath last season.

“Good,” she said, brushing his shoulder. “Then this might be fun.”

Toto knew. Of course he knew.

He saw the shift. The way Max’s eyes followed her now. The way her smile turned sharper when Red Bull walked by. The subtle touch of fingers in the paddock tunnel. A whisper exchanged in Imola. A private glance at a driver’s briefing.

Toto didn’t say anything. Not at first. Until Spain.

Max was on pole. She was at Mercedes hospitality in head-to-toe Alaïa and a smug look that said I know he wants me and I don’t care who sees it.

Toto pulled her aside after qualifying. Private. Quiet. “Max Verstappen?”

She didn’t blink. “What about him?”

“He’s not-”

“Good enough?”

Toto paused. “Safe.”

She smiled. “Neither am I.”

By the time they finally touched, really touched, it was Austria. His room. Post-race. Hot skin. Open windows. Her shirt still on, panties still off, his hand fisted in her hair while she rode him like he was nothing.

“You think you can handle me?” she asked, breathless, nails digging into his chest.

Max looked up at her like a man drowning in gold. “I want to try.”

She kissed him like a punishment. Bit his lip. Laughed when he moaned. “You’re already mine.”

He came with her name on his tongue and her fingers on his throat.

Outside the room, the paddock was whispering. Drivers talked.

Pierre raised his eyebrows and said “seriously?” when Max walked in late to the simulator.

Yuki told everyone he heard moaning two floors down.

Christian said nothing. But he smiled when Max overtook two cars in the first lap at Silverstone.

Toto saw the bruises on her neck. Didn’t comment. But when she walked into the Mercedes garage in Bottega heels and Max’s hoodie, he did say one thing under his breath.

“God help us all.”

Toto didn’t speak to her on Sunday. Not after the race. Not after the podium. Not even after Max kissed her cheek in full view of two FIA delegates and a sky camera with a direct line to her father’s garage.

It wasn’t a proper kiss. Just a soft, smug brush of his lips to her skin. Subtle. Lethal.

But Toto saw it. And worse, the world saw it.

So when she stepped into the Mercedes motorhome wearing Max’s black hoodie over a white Prada miniskirt, her bare legs still glowing under fluorescent lights, Toto didn’t say hello.

He just looked up from his laptop, jaw tight. “You and Verstappen need to end whatever this is.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Define this.”

“Don’t be clever.”

She smiled slowly. “You raised me clever.”

“I raised you not to fuck Red Bull’s golden boy on race weekends.”

She leaned against the wall, unbothered. “What about off race weekends?”

Toto stood. “You are my daughter,” he said, voice low, accent sharp. “Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes,” she said calmly. “It means the press already sees me as a problem, the paddock is terrified of me, and half your grid has tried and failed to sleep with me because I never make the first move.” She stepped closer. “Except with Max. Because Max made it interesting.”

Toto’s eye twitched.

“You are playing with fire.”

“Maybe I want to get burned.”

Max found her in the hospitality suite after the race, one leg tucked beneath her, hair up, phone in one hand, iced coffee in the other. She didn’t look up until he kicked her foot lightly.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “Dad's fuming.”

He smirked. “So nothing new.”

She rolled her eyes. “He thinks I’m going to get you killed.”

Max crouched beside her chair. “He’s not wrong.”

“About the killing?”

“No.” He looked up at her. “About you being dangerous.”

She smiled. “Then why are you still here?”

“Because I’ve never wanted something more.”

Her throat tightened. For once, she didn’t have a clever answer.

That night in Hungary, they skipped the hotel party.

She pulled him by the hand down back corridors. Into the parking garage. Into the back of his rental car.

“You’re still sweaty,” she whispered, climbing into his lap.

“So are you.”

She kissed him like it was the last time. Fingers dragging down his chest, nails biting into his arms as she sank down onto him with a gasp. His hands slid under her blazer, gripping her hips like he couldn’t hold her tight enough.

“Slow down,” he muttered.

“Why?”

“I want to remember this.”

She stilled. Looked into his eyes. “Max,” she whispered. “This was supposed to be fun.”

“It is fun.”

“Not when you start looking at me like that.”

He pulled her closer. “Like what?”

“Like I’m yours.”

“You are.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m nobody’s.”

He kissed her hard. “You’re lying.”

They were caught in Zandvoort.

Not officially. Not in bed.

But they arrived to the paddock together. Laughing. She was wearing his jacket again. He touched her waist as they walked. Too familiar. Too easy.

The press noticed. The WAG accounts lost their minds. Toto texted her four times that night. She ignored them all. Christian Horner tried not to smirk during the team principals’ meeting. And Fred Vasseur, watching from Ferrari hospitality with an espresso and a knowing smile, muttered to Charles, “She always did like the fast ones.”

When the FIA released a new set of press photos before Monza, one showed her. Not posed. Not pre-approved.

Just a blurry image of Max leaning down to whisper something in her ear near the Red Bull garage. Her lips parted. His hand on her lower back. The caption read:

“The Paddock’s Newest Power Couple?”

Toto didn’t speak to her for four days.

It all cracked in Singapore.

Some junior driver, one of the fresh-faced kids trying to prove himself, made a comment in front of the wrong people. Said something about Max’s girl being easy once you got past the fronting. Loud enough for someone to hear. Loud enough for Max to find out.

And Max lost it. He didn’t say much. Just walked into the back of the Red Bull motorhome, grabbed the guy by the collar, and slammed him against the wall.

“You ever speak about her again,” he said, calm as ice, “and I will make sure your career ends before it starts.”

The kid apologized.

Max didn’t care. He told Christian he’d do it again.

She found him later that night. “You can’t fight everyone,” she said.

“I’ll fight anyone who disrespects you.”

“I don’t need protecting.”

“I know. But I want to protect you anyway.”

She looked at him. Really looked. Because it wasn’t a game anymore. Not a chase. Not a power trip.

It was real. And she wasn’t sure what to do with that.

“I’ve never been someone’s,” she whispered.

Max stepped closer. “Then be mine.”

[svthui]

Like Real People Do

Pairing: Nanami Kento x f!Reader

Synopsis: He was just your kind, taken coworker — until he wasn’t. Now he’s looking at you differently, and hope is harder to ignore.

Genre: Coworker AU, coworkers to lovers, slow-burn romance, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, modern office setting, angst, fluff.

Content Warnings: MDNI; strong language, themes of longing and emotional healing, soft smut. Please read responsibly.

note: fulfilling my fantasy of nanami as a finance bro but not the cringe type of finance bro

PART ONE PART TWO

You never meant to fall for him.

It started the way quiet things often do—gradually, then all at once.

The first time you met Nanami Kento, he handed you a pen.

You were new, barely a week into the job, fumbling with paperwork during a Monday morning meeting, and yours had run out of ink. Without a word, he slid his over. Sleek, clean, no chew marks—of course—and warm from his hand. You tried to give it back afterward, but he only nodded and said, “Keep it. I have another.”

That was it. A nothing moment.

Except it wasn’t.

Because the next day, there was a sticky note on your desk—your name written neatly at the top—with a reminder about a deadline you’d forgotten. Then another one later that week about a change in the agenda for Friday’s client call. He always signed them with his initials. Never a full name. Never anything more.

Just: Please remember to update the numbers on slide 4 before the 10 a.m. review. — K.N.

Polite. Efficient. Thoughtful in the way someone is when they don’t want you to trip over the same cracks they’ve already memorized.

And then came everything else.

The way he’d wait until you arrived before ordering his coffee. The way he'd slide into the seat beside yours during department meetings before anyone else had the chance. How he never forgot how you took your tea. How he walked just a little slower when the two of you left work together—even if he had somewhere else to be.

You told yourself it was just how he was. Polite. Reliable. Considerate. The kind of person who doesn’t raise his voice. Who straightens your stapler when you’re not looking. Who always finishes his reports a full day ahead of deadline. A man carved out of quiet routines and impossible restraint.

It would’ve been easier if he were rude. Or cold. Or distant.

But he wasn’t. He was just… Nanami.

And Nanami had a girlfriend.

You’d known from the beginning. He didn’t talk about her much, but he didn’t have to. The others did. “They’ve been together since high school,” someone had said once. “Real solid couple. She’s in publishing, I think.”

You’d smiled and nodded. And after that, you stopped letting yourself imagine anything too dangerous.

You learned to live in the half-spaces. In the warmth of a borrowed pen. In the comfort of his voice when he called your name across the office. In the quiet, flickering maybes that only existed in your head.

You were just his coworker.

And he was just being kind.

Still, every time you found a note with your name on it in that familiar handwriting, your heart betrayed you.

You never asked for more.

But god, you wanted it.

***

Fridays meant lunch with Utahime and Shoko.

It had become tradition—escaping the sterile glare of fluorescent lights and the endless drone of office chatter for the cozy bistro tucked just across the street. It wasn’t fancy, but it was quiet, with warm bread, clinking cutlery, and cheap wine that tasted better in good company.

You were halfway through telling Utahime about the disaster of an email thread you’d accidentally replied all to when Shoko paused mid-sip of her wine, eyes flicking toward the front window.

“Well, would you look at that,” she murmured, setting her glass down slowly.

You didn’t have to ask what.

Utahime followed her gaze immediately. “Is that—oh. Yep. That’s Nanami.”

Your heart stuttered, but you didn’t turn around.

Shoko’s tone stayed casual, but there was something sharper beneath it. “And that must be the girlfriend.”

“She’s pretty,” Utahime noted, squinting through the sunlight. “Tall. Good skin. They kind of look like one of those couples in the frames at home decor stores.”

You forced a small smile and kept your eyes on your fork.

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen them together. Just the first time in a while. Nanami was always discreet about his private life—he didn’t talk about her at work, didn’t show her off, didn’t parade her into the building like some people did. You’d only seen them once before, months ago, when she stopped by briefly to drop something off.

Even then, he hadn’t introduced her around. Just thanked her and returned to his desk.

Still. You remembered the way she’d looked at him.

“She’s classy,” Shoko said, lips curling around a cigarette she wasn’t allowed to light inside. “Looks like someone who reads real books.”

“Stop,” you said, barely above a whisper, stabbing your salad.

They both glanced at you—Utahime with a guilty grimace, Shoko with a softened gaze.

“We’re not saying anything bad,” Utahime added quickly. “We’re just... curious.”

Shoko leaned on her elbow, watching you carefully. “You okay?”

You nodded. Lied. “I don’t care.”

You cared.

Of course you did. But you’d gotten good at pretending.

When you finally allowed yourself to look, it was cautious. Just a glimpse. Nanami was seated by the window, his posture as composed as ever, but he looked... softer. Like this version of him was from some other life. One that had nothing to do with you.

His girlfriend laughed at something he said. He didn’t smile, but you’d seen him enough to know that didn’t mean he wasn’t enjoying himself. His eyes were relaxed. Shoulders unburdened. He looked like someone who knew exactly where he belonged.

Your chest ached.

Then, without warning, she stood up.

The three of you went still.

She gathered her coat, said something—something short—and walked out, leaving Nanami alone at the table. He didn’t get up. Just sat there, staring down at his untouched coffee.

“...Huh,” Utahime murmured.

Shoko tilted her head. “That was abrupt.”

“Did they—?”

“No way. That didn’t look like a fight.”

Utahime raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t not look like one either.”

“Maybe they broke up?” Shoko offered, almost too casually.

You froze.

Then pushed your plate away.

“I’m not doing this,” you muttered, standing up and reaching for your bag.

They both blinked.

Utahime reached for your wrist. “Hey—wait. We’re not teasing. We’re just talking.”

You didn’t pull away, but your voice came out more tired than you meant it to. “He’s not mine. He never was. So whatever’s going on—it doesn’t matter.”

But as you turned toward the register, you couldn’t help glancing back.

Nanami was still sitting there.

Still alone.

And for the first time in three years, he looked like someone who wasn’t sure what to do next.

***

The thing about Nanami Kento was—he never changed.

Not in any obvious way.

The Monday after the bistro, he arrived at 8:03 a.m. sharp, just like always. Shirt pressed. Tie knotted cleanly. That same calm, unreadable expression on his face as he stepped into the office with a coffee in one hand and a document folder in the other.

Like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t been left sitting alone in that bistro while his girlfriend walked out the door.

You kept waiting for something—anything—to crack. A wrinkle in his routine. A missed coffee. A distant look. Something subtle you could cling to.

But Nanami remained Nanami.

He still gave you sticky notes with neatly written reminders. Still lent you his pen when yours went missing. Still waited until you arrived to choose his seat in meetings, claiming the spot beside you with his usual quiet presence and a nod that always felt too gentle for the room you were in.

Everything was the same.

And that made it worse.

Because maybe it hadn’t meant anything. Maybe she’d just left for a call, or a meeting, or—god, you didn’t even know. Maybe they hadn’t broken up at all.

Why would they?

They’d been together since high school. That was the kind of thing that lasted. A whole life built on familiarity and comfort and shared years. Not like whatever this was—this strange rhythm you’d built with someone who didn’t even know you watched him like he hung the moon.

“Still brooding about him?” Utahime asked, bumping your shoulder as she passed your desk with her lunch in hand.

You didn’t even look up. “Not brooding.”

“Brooding in silence is brooding,” Shoko chimed in, appearing beside her like a cigarette ghost, coffee in one hand, mischief in her voice. “He looked tired this morning. Maybe he didn’t sleep well. Trouble in paradise?”

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t know that. You don’t know anything.”

Utahime smirked. “But we do know he hasn’t been seeing her lately. She used to come by sometimes, remember? Dropped off lunch once, picked him up after work…”

“Maybe she’s busy,” you muttered, trying to focus on your spreadsheet even as your vision blurred slightly.

“Or maybe,” Shoko drawled, “you finally have a chance.”

You hated how fast your heart responded.

“No,” you said firmly, pushing away from the screen. “Don’t do that. Don’t give me hope for something that doesn’t exist.”

Utahime’s expression softened. “We’re not trying to make it harder for you. But it’s okay to want it. You’ve liked him for—what, three years?”

“Three years and change,” Shoko said helpfully. “Give or take.”

You sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Even if they did break up… he wouldn’t just turn around and—fall into something else. That’s not him. He’s not like that.”

And he wasn’t.

You knew that better than anyone.

He was careful. Measured. Someone who thought ten steps ahead and never made a move he couldn’t live with.

Even if he was newly single—if—he wouldn’t come looking for something soft and messy and untested. Not with you.

So you buried it again.

Like you always did.

Smiled through the ache and let the quiet between you linger, even as the part of you that still hoped curled in on itself a little tighter.

Because if he’d been hurting, he never showed it.

And if he was healing—he wasn’t doing it with you.

***

You’d been the last to volunteer.

It wasn’t even volunteering, really—just your manager’s hopeful suggestion that you’d be perfect to organize the upcoming team-building retreat, since you “had such a natural sense of structure” and “got along with everyone.” Which was just corporate-speak for no one hates you and you know how to use Excel.

Nanami had been appointed the finance rep. No surprise there. He was team lead, respected, reliable. The kind of person they trusted with numbers and logistics and, apparently, adult camping trips in the woods.

Which was how you found yourself alone with him in the empty conference room at 7:42 p.m., surrounded by folders, printouts, and three empty coffee cups.

Everyone else had trickled out hours ago. Some had real excuses—children to pick up, appointments, actual lives. Others, like Shoko and Utahime, had just exchanged a look before whispering something about “giving you a chance” and disappearing behind conspicuously loud heels.

You hadn’t minded. It gave you something to focus on.

At least until you realized Nanami was still here.

You glanced up from your laptop, surprised to find him still beside you, flipping through a document with one hand and sipping lukewarm coffee with the other. His jacket had long since been draped over the back of his chair. His sleeves were rolled up.

You blinked at him. “You don’t have to stay, you know. I’ve got the rest of this handled.”

He looked up slowly. “I know.”

“Really. I can finalize the itinerary and email it tomorrow.”

He tilted his head. “And leave you to carry the entire thing by yourself? I don’t think so.”

You gave a small laugh. “I’ve handled worse.”

Nanami’s gaze lingered on you a second longer than it should’ve. Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes before he looked away.

“I don’t have anyone waiting for me at home,” he said softly, eyes back on the page. “So it’s fine.”

You stilled.

For a second, you weren’t even sure you’d heard him right.

But the weight of his words settled between you like a dropped stone.

He said it so easily, like it wasn’t meant to mean anything. But it did.

You tried to keep your voice even. “So... you’re not—”

“No,” he said, still not looking at you. “We ended things.”

Silence.

Your heart climbed into your throat and stayed there.

“I’m sorry,” you offered quietly, unsure if you meant it for him or for yourself.

He gave a small shake of his head. “It was mutual. Or maybe overdue.”

Something bitter curled in the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t elaborate. Just leaned back in his chair, arms crossed now, gaze trailing toward the ceiling like he was suddenly very far away.

You didn’t know what to say. You’d imagined a thousand ways this could happen—guessed and wondered and hoped—but now that it had, your chest ached with something heavier than joy.

He’d always seemed so... steady. Anchored. Like his whole life was already mapped out, clean and structured and out of reach.

But now...

Now he looked tired.

Not worn out—just undone. In the quietest way.

And maybe that was why, after a moment, he said softly, “You know, I don’t hate this.”

You blinked. “Hate what?”

“This,” he gestured vaguely—at the room, the papers, you. “Working like this. With you.”

A pause.

Then, like it cost him nothing at all: “You make things feel less heavy.”

You stared at him.

He wasn’t looking at you when he said it—he almost never did when things mattered—but the words found their way under your skin anyway, warm and terrible and dangerous.

Because for the first time in three years, it wasn’t just you imagining it.

Something had changed.

And neither of you was pretending it hadn’t.

“Do you want to grab dinner?”

You weren’t expecting the question—not from him, not after that conversation, and definitely not with the clock already pushing past eight.

You looked up from your bag, half-packed and ready to head out. Nanami stood beside the conference room table, sleeves still rolled, his expression unreadable but calm, like he hadn’t just said something quietly devastating thirty minutes ago.

“I… shouldn’t you head home?” you asked, gently.

He shook his head. “I told you. No one’s waiting.”

Right. Right.

Still, your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag.

“I’m not asking to make things awkward,” he added, voice lower now. “I just thought… you might want a proper meal. Something not from the office vending machine.”

He was trying to be kind. You knew that. It was how he always was—with you, with everyone. But now that you knew, really knew, that he was newly single… something about that kindness made your chest tighten.

It wasn’t nothing anymore.

Still, you agreed. Quietly. Softly. And tried not to think too hard about what it meant.

***

You ended up at a quiet soba place tucked behind a side street, dimly lit with private booths and warm, steaming bowls that smelled like salt and comfort. It wasn’t far from the office, but far enough that you didn’t recognize anyone.

Still, as you slipped into the booth across from him, you couldn’t stop glancing toward the door.

Nanami noticed. Of course he did.

“You’re uncomfortable,” he said, not accusing, just observant.

You winced. “No—well. Not uncomfortable. Just…”

His eyes stayed on you, steady.

You finally exhaled. “It’s just—what if someone sees us?”

His brow furrowed. “We’re coworkers.”

“Yes, but,” you said, stirring your tea just to give your hands something to do. “People talk. And the breakup—it’s still recent, right? I don’t want it to seem like I’m—taking advantage. Or like you’re… trying to move on too fast.”

That part you didn’t say aloud, especially not with me.

His gaze didn’t waver. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

There was a calmness to him, yes, but something else, too. A stillness that wasn’t peace. A kind of weariness that looked like someone learning how to be alone again.

But when he added, “And I’m not trying to move on,” your heart twisted.

Because he didn’t sound sad about it.

Just honest.

He let the silence stretch before continuing, voice softer now, “You know, I haven’t had dinner with someone outside of work in a long time.”

You offered a weak smile. “So this is work?”

“I said outside of work. Not that this is.”

You looked at him then, and found him already looking at you.

There it was again—that shift. That subtle, impossible thing you’d never dared name.

Warmth bloomed in your chest, quickly chased by doubt. You lowered your gaze to your bowl and forced yourself to eat.

Because whatever this was—it couldn’t be real.

Not yet.

Not when he’d only just closed one door.

But god, sitting across from him like this—half-laughing at your mutual hatred for trust fall activities, quietly debating what snacks to bring to the team retreat, and watching the crease between his brows soften every time you said something sarcastic—it was hard not to imagine that maybe, just maybe, something new had already started.

***

Weeks passed, and nothing was said.

Not about that dinner.

Not about the breakup.

Not about the subtle, quiet shift that had begun to stir between the two of you.

But things changed.

Slowly. Gently. Like gravity had tilted just enough to draw you into each other’s orbit.

It started with small things. More shared overtime sessions—planning the logistics for the team-building retreat had turned into long evenings in the empty conference room, laptops open, half-finished coffees cold between you.

Nanami started bringing two drinks instead of one.

“Chamomile,” he’d say, placing the cup beside your hand without looking. “You sleep like shit after black tea.”

You never told him that.

He started waiting for you after meetings, even ones that had nothing to do with your departments. Quietly, without announcement. Just standing beside the elevator or at the end of the hallway, like he’d happened to be there.

You didn’t ask questions.

And when he walked you to the station in the evenings, he never said why. But he always kept pace with you. Always glanced your way when you crossed the street. Always stood between you and the edge of the platform.

It wasn’t anything.

Not officially.

Not out loud.

But it lingered in the way your desks were somehow always side by side in every planning session. In the way your fingers brushed when you passed him the sign-up sheet. In the way he spoke more freely when it was just the two of you—drier humor, a touch more teasing.

Once, you made him laugh. Not the polite kind, but the rare one. Low and warm and real.

You didn’t know what you said. You just knew it stayed with you for days.

Still, you didn’t ask.

You didn’t dare.

Because even now—especially now—he didn’t talk about her.

You didn’t know if it was because it still hurt, or because it didn’t, and maybe that was worse.

But when Utahime leaned over your desk one afternoon and whispered, “Okay, seriously, how are you two not dating?” you flinched like she’d touched a nerve.

Shoko, ever the instigator, just hummed as she blew smoke out the window. “Give it time. He’s not subtle.”

“He’s not obvious either,” you muttered, eyes locked on your inbox.

Utahime rolled her eyes. “He brings you tea and drives you home. If that’s not a confession, I don’t know what is.”

“It’s not a confession if he’s just being nice.”

“You’re the only one who still thinks that,” Shoko said.

You wanted to argue.

But when Nanami showed up a few minutes later to discuss the finalized schedule, he didn’t knock. Just let himself in, eyes sweeping over your desk first, then the others.

And when his gaze found yours, something quiet passed between you. Familiar now. Gentle. A weightless recognition.

He gave a small nod. Just for you.

That was the loudest thing he’d ever said.

***

The retreat had already been teetering on the edge of chaos.

Between missing luggage, broken team flags, and a whiteboard marker war that ended in a minor nosebleed, things were holding together only by your clipboard, your caffeine intake, and Nanami’s deeply intimidating ability to command order with a single glance.

Then Gojo Satoru showed up.

You heard him before you saw him—laughing, loud and smug, and definitely not on the RSVP list.

Nanami froze mid-sentence, eyes narrowing toward the hill at the edge of the campgrounds.

And then, “Ohhh~ is that my favorite number-crunching killjoy over there?”

You turned just in time to see the man himself.

Gojo Satoru, CEO of the company, breezed down the slope wearing white linen pants, a graphic tee that said “CEO,” and sunglasses despite the cloud cover. Behind him trailed a poor intern holding three duffel bags, a folding chair, and—for some reason—a karaoke machine.

You blinked.

You heard someone whisper behind you, “No one told me he’d be here.”

Utahime muttered, “Why would he be? He’s the CEO. He doesn’t even go to board meetings.”

“Is this a fever dream?” you whispered.

Shoko lit a cigarette. “You’ll get used to him. Or you won’t. Either way, pray.”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why is he here?”

“Team-building, duh!” Gojo beamed as he reached the bottom of the hill. “Come on, Nanamin, I couldn’t let you run this thing without me. What kind of boss would I be if I didn’t show up for my loyal little minions?”

You weren’t sure if he was joking. Actually, you hoped he was joking, because the moment Gojo caught sight of you, he gasped dramatically and pointed.

“Ohhh! You must be her! The her!”

Your blood turned to ice. “I—sorry, what?”

Gojo reached out like he was about to ruffle your hair and—

Smack.

Nanami slapped his hand away.

Effortlessly.

Like it was routine.

You stared.

Everyone stared.

Gojo didn’t even flinch. He just pouted, rubbing the back of his hand like a child. “So violent, Nanamin. Is that any way to treat your boss?”

“You’re barely a boss,” Nanami said, voice flat. “Stop harassing people.”

“I wasn’t harassing,” Gojo whined. “I was being charming. You know, warming up the team spirit.”

Nanami turned to you, calm as ever. “Ignore him. He’ll lose interest if you don’t react.”

You blinked up at him. “You just hit the CEO.”

He shrugged. “He can’t fire me. He’s tried.”

“...What?”

Nanami didn’t elaborate.

Gojo was already dragging someone toward the egg relay, shouting something about “betting stock options on the winning team.”

“Do I even want to know what that was?” you asked, still dazed.

Shoko, behind you, exhaled smoke. “He’s been like that since college.”

Utahime grumbled, “I’m still recovering from the last time he ‘supervised’ a company event. He made everyone take turns doing dramatic readings of our mission statement.”

You looked at Nanami.

He looked tired.

But beneath the exhaustion, there was a flicker of something dry and fond in his expression. Not quite affection, but the kind of weary tolerance you reserve for a very annoying, very beloved childhood friend who refuses to die.

Still. You had a new question now—one that buried itself under your skin and stayed there, 

What kind of person could survive Gojo Satoru... and remain this steady?

You weren’t sure.

But you were starting to think you’d like to find out.

The retreat's second day started with a clipboard in your hand, a schedule you believed in, and a hopeful heart.

It ended with your clipboard lost in a mud pit, the schedule on fire (literally), and your heart wondering if it was medically possible to laugh and cry at the same time.

In theory, the afternoon was meant to be simple: a sequence of games and bonding activities. You and Nanami had mapped it all out with military precision. Flag races, blindfold trust walks, cooperative tower-building challenges. Neat. Efficient. Structured.

Then Gojo decided to “join in.”

And everything went to hell.

First, he replaced the color-coded team flags with glitter-drenched capes from his personal stash. “It’s more festive,” he said, moments before one caught on a tree branch and sent an intern into the bushes.

Then he turned the egg relay into a “high-stakes obstacle course” by scattering water balloons mid-track. He refereed it himself—with a foam sword and zero rules.

Nanami stood beside you through it all. At first, stone-faced. Stoic. Clearly calculating how many HR reports Gojo was racking up per minute.

Then Gojo rode a wheelbarrow down the hill yelling “Team Purple rides again!” and crashed into a food table, sending snacks flying like confetti.

Nanami just sighed.

And you—helpless, overwhelmed, standing beside the only other sane person left—couldn’t hold it in anymore.

You started laughing.

It bubbled up, half-horrified and half-hysterical. And once it started, you couldn’t stop.

Nanami looked at you, brows raised. “You’re cracking.”

“I’ve been cracked,” you gasped, holding your stomach. “There’s nothing left to save.”

He blinked once. Then—so subtle you almost missed it—he smiled.

It was real. Small, crooked. The kind of smile that didn’t show up often. It caught in his cheeks, softened his entire face, and made your breath catch mid-laugh.

He looked... warm like this.

Still him. Still calm and reserved. But the edges were gentler now, like something about all of this—this disaster, this absurdity—had let him exhale.

“I take it back,” he said dryly. “You’re terrifying when you’re sleep-deprived.”

You wiped a tear from your eye. “You should see me during the fiscal year-end.”

The games dragged on. No one followed the rules. Someone accidentally locked themselves in the supply shed. Gojo declared himself honorary DJ and blasted early 2000s boyband hits from a portable speaker.

You and Nanami didn’t try to control it anymore.

You gave up. Found shade near the edge of the field and watched the slow unraveling like two prisoners resigned to fate.

He sat beside you on the bench, close but not too close. Just enough that your knees brushed when you shifted.

“Remind me why we did this,” you asked.

“For the sake of employee morale,” he said, deadpan.

You looked at him. “You’re a very convincing liar.”

He gave a tiny shrug. “Well, if it’s any consolation—” He nodded toward the chaos, where Utahime was chasing Gojo with a clipboard and the Red Team was building a fort out of catering trays. “I think they’re having fun.”

You stared. “That’s what you call fun?”

Nanami looked at you again. There was something softer now in his gaze. Less guarded. More like the man who stayed after hours to walk you to the bus station. The one who brought you tea and remembered how you liked your post-its stacked in color order.

“I think you’re doing a good job,” he said simply.

The words hit somewhere low in your chest. A surprise. Quiet, sincere, and terribly dangerous.

“Thanks,” you said, just as quietly. “Wouldn’t survive this without you.”

For a moment, you both just sat there. Not speaking. Letting the noise of chaos hum in the background like a distant storm.

And then—

“NANAMI! I NEED YOU TO JUDGE THE DANCE-OFF!” Gojo shouted from the hill, spinning in a circle with glowsticks he definitely didn’t have ten minutes ago.

Nanami looked up at the sky like he was reconsidering his life choices.

You bit back another laugh. “We could run.”

“Too late. He’s seen us.”

“Maybe if we fake an injury—”

“He’d call an ambulance just to make a scene.”

You sighed. “We’re not getting out of this, are we?”

“No,” Nanami said. Then, quieter: “But at least you’re here.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it.

But his hand brushed against yours when he stood up.

The fire cracked and spit embers into the dark, its glow flickering across tired faces and half-empty beer bottles.

Someone was still singing karaoke. Off-key. Loud. You weren’t sure if it was Shoko or Utahime—they’d both hit their limit an hour ago and were currently slumped together on a picnic blanket, limbs tangled like lazy vines, swaying in time to whatever slow ballad was butchering the night air.

A few other coworkers had passed out near the fire or wandered off toward the cabins.

You stayed.

So did Nanami.

He sat beside you, legs stretched out in front of him, a barely touched bottle in his hand. He hadn’t said much in the last hour. Just listened. Observed. Occasionally made a dry comment that made you snort into your cup.

You didn’t feel drunk. Just warm. Loose. A little sleepy from the fire and the long, ridiculous day.

The world had softened around the edges, like it always did when the sky turned black and the noise settled down and the laughter faded into silence.

“Are you tired?” he asked suddenly.

You shook your head. “Not really.”

Nanami hummed. “Neither am I.”

The fire popped again.

From the speaker, a slow song bled into the background. A love song. One of those nostalgic ones that people always sang during retreats or weddings, usually around the time everyone got too sentimental or too drunk.

You looked over at him.

His shoulders were relaxed. Tie loosened. Shirt rumpled. He didn’t look like Nanami from the office—the composed, courteous professional who handed you pens and sat beside you in meetings like he didn’t know you were slowly, painfully, always falling in love with him.

This version was softer.

So you asked before you could stop yourself:

“Were you really okay?”

Nanami turned his head.

You clarified, voice quieter. “After the breakup?”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then—

“Yes.”

Just that.

You waited. Said nothing. Let the fire fill the space between you.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke next.

“We were together for a long time. Since high school. First love kind of thing.” His voice was steady. Low. “It stopped feeling right a while ago. We both knew it. We just... didn’t know how to end it.”

You swallowed. “I saw you. That day at the bistro.”

His eyes flicked to yours. Briefly surprised. “You did?”

You nodded. “With Utahime and Shoko. We didn’t mean to pry but—well. They’re nosy.”

That got a small chuckle out of him. He looked away again, rubbing the back of his neck like he was embarrassed. It was a rare thing to see—Nanami flustered. It made your heart ache in a new way.

“I figured someone might’ve seen us,” he said eventually. “We didn’t fight or anything. She just walked out. Said she couldn’t do it anymore. I agreed.”

“That sounds... awful.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t. Not really. It was overdue. No bad blood. I’ll always love her. Just not the way I used to.”

You looked down at your hands.

That part was harder to hear than you expected.

Because always was such a heavy word.

And yet—so was not the way I used to.

You felt something sharp and foolish rise in your chest.

Hope.

It felt wrong.

Because the breakup was still fresh. Because he’d loved someone else for years. Because you were just the woman who sat beside him at meetings, who borrowed his pens and tried too hard not to care when he asked how your weekend was.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” you said, meaning it.

He was quiet again.

“I think I wasn’t. For a while. I think I stayed in something because it was familiar. Comfortable.”

You nodded slowly.

“I know how that feels.”

He looked at you again.

And this time, he really looked. His gaze lingered. Held.

The fire cast shadows across his face, golden and soft. His eyes were gentle—tired, still—but open in a way they rarely were.

You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat.

“I’m still figuring it out,” he said. “What I want now. What feels right.”

You were afraid to speak. Afraid you’d say the wrong thing. Or say something that would make the hope bloom further, out of control.

“I just don’t want to hurt anyone,” he added, quieter now. “Not again.”

You nodded.

Me neither, you almost said.

Instead: “You won’t.”

Another long pause.

The fire hissed. Someone snored from across the clearing. Crickets hummed in the trees.

And Nanami said your name—softly, like tasting it.

“I think I always enjoyed our time together,” he admitted. “I just never let myself think about it too much.”

You felt the breath catch in your throat.

“But you had someone,” you said. “And I wasn’t going to—”

“I know,” he cut in. Not sharply. Just with understanding. “And I appreciated that. I still do.”

He didn’t touch you.

He didn’t need to.

The air between you was thick with the things that hadn’t been said. All the years of almosts. Of longing. Of polite distance that masked something far more dangerous.

You didn’t ask what this meant.

You didn’t press.

Because if he reached for you now, if he leaned too close, you wouldn’t stop him—and that would feel wrong.

So you stayed still.

Hopeful.

And aching.

Because you were beginning to see it in him too.

And maybe—just maybe—he was beginning to see it in you.

[mischief-and-the-big-bad-wolf]

I saw your post asking for prompts, and maybe it's been done before but I was thinking of grumpy, rude Derek who is perceived as kind of the villain, and no one likes him. But he is oh so sweet to Stiles will do anything for Stiles, can be talking so sweetly to stiles one moment and the next he's barking orders or insulting someone.

(This is one of my favorite tropes too!! I hope you like my take on it🫶🏼)

Derek growled as the door flew open, yanking the covers up over Stiles, who was lying on top of Derek completely naked. He patted at Stiles' ass, making sure he wasn't exposed anywhere before pinning his glare on the intruder.

A nervous looking Isaac stood in their doorway and Derek snarled at him, making sure his voice wasn't too loud so as to not disturb Stiles, "You better have a good reason for disturbing us."

"Alpha Fredrick has sent a couple of his betas, alpha. He wants to set up a meeting," Isaac stuttered.

Derek raised a brow at him and said, "This couldn't have waited until morning?"

"Uh, I don't, -"

"Get out and never come in here without permission again if you want to keep breathing," Derek snapped, interrupting him.

All the commotion made Stiles stir on Derek's chest, mumbling as he started to wake up.

"It's okay, precious, go back to sleep," Derek crooned, threading his fingers through Stiles' hair.

"'S hot, Der," Stiles grumpily mumbled, eyes fluttering as he tried to push the blanket off his body.

Derek's eyes snapped back to where Isaac still stood and he barked, "Out, now!" As Isaac hastily closed the door and left, Derek let go of his hold on the blanket, letting Stiles push it off him. When Stiles started whining when he couldn't pull it down farther than his waist, Derek took over, removing it completely and setting it to the side. He didn't throw it off the bed, knowing Stiles would complain that he was cold further in the night. "Better, baby?"

"Mhm, someone at the door?" Stiles groggily asked, rubbing at his eyes.

"Don't worry about it, precious," Derek whispered. Pulling Stiles' hands away from his eyes, he said, "You're gonna hurt yourself, don't do that."

"Okay, love you," Stiles murmured, kissing Derek's chest.

Derek buried his nose in Stiles' hair and inhaled deeply, and replied, "Love you more, baby."

Morning came and Derek sauntered into the war room, Stiles in tow. He sat at the head of the table and Stiles plopped into his lap, curling up with his face in Derek's neck.

"Still tired, love?" Derek whispered, rubbing the pad of his thumb under Stiles' closed eye.

"Nuh-uh," Stiles sleepily mumbled. Derek hid a smile in Stiles' hair before sitting straight to address the rest of the room.

"Alpha Fredrick's betas brought a proposal with them. Should I read it to you, alpha?" Boyd asked, holding up a scroll.

Derek gestured at him to do so. Noticing the stares at his sleeping mate, he snarled, "Anyone I catch looking at my mate gets their eyeballs removed from their skulls."

Everyone immediately averted their gazed and Boyd began reading the contents of the letter, Derek sitting calmly as the rest of the pack grew tenser in anger and fear.

"Hmm," Derek mused, when he was finally done. "The betas that arrived last night, where are they?"

"In the dungeon, alpha," Isaac promptly replied, his head bowed.

"Good, remove their heads from their bodies and send it to their alpha. That should be enough of a reply," Derek ordered. "Anything else?"

"B-but, alpha, we can-t," Scott stuttered, wide eyes staring at Derek.

"We can't what Scott? Can't send the alpha who threatened to hurt my mate a fitting reply?" Derek snarled, gathering Stiles body tighter to himself. Stiles made a questioning noise in his sleep and Derek immediately brought his lips to his ears and whispered, "Shh, I'm sorry for raising my voice, precious. Everything's fine, shh."

"No, that's not what I meant, -"

Derek held up a hand, silencing him and said, "I will hear no arguements on this, my decision is final. If anyone has any further objections, I will consider you as a threat to my mate and you will be treated accordingly. Are we clear?"

"Yes, alpha," they replied, baring their necks at him.

Derek nodded and turning to Boyd said, "Have one of the maids bring lunch to my quarters, we're retiring for the day."

He didn't wait for Boyd to reply as he cradled Stiles tighter and stood up, swiftly leaving the room. Walking back to their bedroom, he whispered to Stiles, "You're always safe in my arms, darling. I will never let anything harm you."

[levigarden999]

Hii levigarden999!! I’m kinda new to your blog and just saw that your requests are open, so I thought I’d send one in hehe 😅 I’m not sure what your rules are, so I really hope this idea isn’t too bold or anything!

So I was thinking—what if the reader (who’s never kissed anyone before) asks the BLLK boys for help practicing how to kiss? 👀Soo like—they’re kinda caught off guard at first but go along with it hehe 😅 The kiss starts slow and gentle, super sweet… but then it gets a lil more teasing. And before you know it, they’re totally taking over 😳 One hand finds your waist, the other brushes up to your throat, and the kiss just keeps getting deeper and more intense. Your knees give out a bit, so they pull you onto their lap real quick—aaaand yeah… it gets heated fast 👀🫣 Just sayin’… things escalate 😏💋 Maybe it turns into a drabble—or if that’s too much, totally okay to just pick one character you like! I really don’t mind who 💗

Thanks for reading this! Your blog is super fun, and I’m excited to see more of your amazing writing 💕💋 Please take care and rest too!

practicing ⋆.˚ michael kaiser x reader

⋆.˚ notes : thank uuu anon (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) you brought a wild animal outta me cuz i think i went a bit wild with this lmao

⋆.˚ warnings : smut , +18 , dry humping , f!orgasm , virgin!reader , experienced!kaiser

for as long as you could remember, you had watched from aside as michael kaiser, your best friend, made every single girl fall for him. you two had been close for many years, so you knew his charm better than anybody.

however, you two were completely platonic. of course, kaiser was incredibly good looking and you knew it, but there was no attraction or anything between the two of you.

kaiser was currently lying on your bed while scrolling through his phone. you were standing there next to him, looking down at him deep in thought, not even realizing that you were just staring at him. it was nearly embarrassing to be best friends with someone who had so much experience with dating while you hadn’t ever done anything with anyone. no first kiss. no first time. you've barely hugged a boy.

”what?” he asked without raising his gaze, interrupting your zoning out session.

you flinched away from your thoughts. ”uh- nothing. just thinking”

you felt embarrassment already rising to your cheeks and tinting them to a shade of pink.

”thinking of what?” kaiser smirked as he placed the phone down on the bed now. he laid on his side, an eyebrow raised.

you pursued your lips together. you knew you had had this conversation many times before - the one where you whined about your lack of experience with boys while he tried to give you tips on how to get any guy you wanted. the tips hadn't worked, yet.

”the fact you get a new girlfriend every month while i practically haven’t even hugged a boy, ever” you stated with a sigh.

 he snickered and stood up as well.

”really? that’s what’s bothering you? lame, always the same shit” he mocked, obviously playfully.

you rolled your eyes brattily. ”not my fault i’m starting to think that no guy would ever want to date me because i have no experience in anything”

kaiser scoffed, an amused look on his face. ”i guess you have a point there. you haven't tried my tips?”

you huffed. "yes, i have tried your tips, mr. dating advisor. the thing is that they're shitty and they don't work! i guess i just need more confidence, which is tricky, because with no experience, i have no confidence"

he snickered again, obviously amused by your little breakdown. he placed a hand over his forehead, his stupid smirk widening.

"well, sounds like you're in a paradox situation. can't help with that, i'm afraid" he shrugged, while reaching back for his phone.

however, you weren't done.

"wait!" you exclaimed. kaiser turned back to you, and he was surprised to see the now determined, a little more hopeful look on your face.

"maybe i could... practice with you"

kaiser blinked. "what? practice what, exactly?" he asked, once in his life speechless and definitely caught off guard.

you felt the blush in your cheeks deepening as you shrugged. "well, kissing. if you... help me practice, maybe i'll get more confident and then i'll get a boyfriend. we're friends, it's not like it's weird or anything" you mumbled.

kaiser blinked again, but after his initial shock, a chuckle left his pretty lips.

"okay, genius. i'll practice with you"

kaiser stepped closer to you, a pale hand suddenly grazing against your soft cheek. your heart began to pound faster and you somehow felt the words getting stuck in your throat. were you really about to kiss your best friend?

kaiser’s blue, nearly seductive eyes looked into yours, that damn smirk sending shivers down your spine.

”you sure?” he asked, voice quieter, lower. you nodded.

before you knew it, kaiser’s lips were against yours. his mouth moved in a skilled, but soft and caring manner, not leaving you much opportunity to even try to dominate him. his thumb brushed against your cheek as his other fingers tugged your hair behind your ear.

you slowly felt yourself getting lost into the kiss. his lips were so soft and his mouth was so warm – the gentle yet firm movement of his mouth sending you someplace else.

”you wanna continue?” he murmured softly against your mouth, not exactly breaking the kiss. you simply nodded.

with that, kaiser continued. your lips slowly got used to the new sensation, and it wasn't as hard as you thought it would be. you just tried to match his movements as best as you could, and it started to feel natural. it felt... very nice.

however, suddenly you felt something wet poking against your lips. his tongue. you let out a soft yelp, a little surprised by the fact he wanted to take it further - but maybe it was part of the practice, right?

though kaiser pushed his tongue into your mouth, before you could even allow to let him in. it wasn’t a question – it was a demand, a need for him to feel your tongue against his. a soft moan escaped your lips as that warm wet muscle tangled against yours and twisted in your mouth, as if it was seeking to taste all of you.

your hands found his shoulders, your own lips becoming more and more passionate, trying to match his hunger and force. you had a hard time keeping up with him, but with the sloppy, smooth movements of his tongue and lips, you felt yourself melting. your body started to tingle, your every cell becoming more alert as the warm sensation spread through your every fiber.

the pleasure and pure lust of it all was making you feel weak. it felt like you were starting to nearly lose balance from the way he was making your head spin and thighs tremble. you had to clutch to his shirt.

”kaiser, i-” you began with a shaky breath.

however, as if kaiser knew exactly what you were saying, he grabbed your hips, sat down on the bed and swiftly pulled you onto his lap with your thighs straddling him.

”don’t worry, i got you” he groaned.

you felt his growing erection in his pants, throbbing and bulging and visible from the pants he was wearing. kaiser immediately continued to devour your mouth, his large hands finding your your ass under your tiny shorts, fingers grabbing and tugging on your flesh.

you whimpered, your hips involuntarily grinding a little and settling perfectly on his hard cock. he grunted as well, the warmth of your pussy making his cock twitch through the fabric of both of your pants.

you slowly, with trembling hips, began to grind. your clit subtly rubbed against his rock hard shaft as you looked for friction. you felt kaiser letting out a breath against your mouth, his kisses becoming a bit uncontrolled for a moment.

his hands found your hips again and he began to guide you, making your movements even greedier. a louder moan fell from your lips as you felt the friction and heat growing between you. you felt a wet stain forming in your panties, your untouched folds so slick the wetness would soon probably fall down your thighs.

kaiser’s lips left yours, now instead planting kisses on your chin, jawline, neck, then collar. you continued to grind against him, hands clutching onto his shirt harder.

he couldn't believe how damn addictive you felt against him. kaiser really wanted to just simply and innocently help you, he really had no intention to bring this this far. but since the first moment your clumsy yet eager lips tried to match his movements - kaiser knew he had lost. he felt himself wanting more of those soft whimpers you let, wanting more of that skin, those lips, that body, everything. he wanted to devour you.

however, for the first time, kaiser didn't mind losing. he very happily lost to this sensation if it meant having you. you were incredible, even with no damn experience. he was absolutely leaking and twitching right now from the way you moved.

”k-kaiser… i think i’m…” you whimpered, eyebrows furrowing in desperation as a trail of sweat fell from your forehead. you felt your thighs trembling, lungs asking for more air meanwhile your grinding became more frantic and uncontrolled. a wave of an orgasm was quickly forming in your abdomen.

”shh, i know, just keep holding me-” he murmured against your neck, teeth subtly grazing and biting on your skin as he kissed you there. you did as he asked – hands gripping his strong shoulders now as you whined his name.

only a couple seconds later, the orgasm hit you. your hips twitched, whole body trembled as you pathetically whimpered and hiccuped on top of him, coming undone from his mere bulge.

when you came down, your hips still did lazy, deep rolls against him, your body enjoying the feeling of your passed orgasm finally allowing your muscles to rest and mind to recover. your mind was dizzy as you finally looked down at him, your lips still parted and panting as you calmed down. you didn’t expect your first orgasm with someone else to be so intense – it made you feel like a horny animal who desperately needed the release to feel like a human again.

you felt satisfied, relaxed, a little drunk but good. and most of all, tired.

however, just when you were beginning to lift yourself off from kaiser, he grabbed your hips again, forcing you back down. you whimpered, the hard cock still poking against your now sensitive clit.

”confident enough to leave now, are we? you think i’m done with you?”

[emeraldserenade]

Imagine being raised in such a way the reader becomes submissive and a people pleaser and like just have an unhealthy way of living which Joaquin notices

Like at first its cute but after it just gets too much and he's getting more and more worried

Perhaps shes there like sugarcoating everything and if there's smth wrong or of shes struggling and all she doesnt say a thing and just tries to do everything herself like in an unhealthy way and she brushes off any concerns he has

Maybe shes surrounded by toxic people all the time to the point that even shes feeling so low, she just sticks to it and is terrified to lose them because she struggles to form other relationships with people aside from Joaquin

Maybe she gets too attached to him that she'll do anything he says because he's the only nice person shes with and doesnt wanna lose him

Or maybe perhaps he unintentionally raised his voice by accident and out of stress or smth and she gets scared and tries to hide her tears, looking down on the floor, and just holds it in

Maybe Joaquin tries to teach her a healthier way to live and what to not accept like "if someone ever says XYZ like the way I did just now, dont ever go near them again and cute them off" etc

People Pleaser ~ Joaquín Torres

synopsis: You were always a people pleaser and Joaquín promised to help you learn how to live without the toxic teachings of your parents

tw: fem!reader, reader has toxic parents and friends, Joaquín accidentally yells at reader, barely edited.

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

Hi!! As a chronic people pleaser, this was a little personal (thankfully I have a good relationship with my parents) so I hope this was what you wanted. I also wanted to add on that if anyone ever reads my stories and notices something that needs a warning but I didn't add it, you can tell me (nicely) that I need to add it and I will.

➽──────────────❥

You were raised by very traditional parents. The type to say women should be seen and not heard, that they were made for the kitchen, and to do whatever they're told you. You learned over the years that it wasn't true but it was hard habits to break. You found comfort in people acting like your parents, the type who step all over you.

But then you met Joaquín, it was a chance meeting. One day you were on a run and you twisted your ankle so you took a break. "Hi, are you ok?" Joaquín had saw you sitting on the side of the running path while holding your ankle.

"Oh, hi, yeah, I'm fine," you waved off his concern but it seemed he didn't believe you.

"What's wrong?" Joaquín had to ask again, he was a helper by nature.

"Just landed on my foot oddly, I'll be fine," you brushed is concern off again and Joaquín thought it was you just being polite.

"Are you sure? Because I can help you back to your car or something," Joaquín offered but you shook your head.

"I'll be fine in a few minutes," you assured him with a small smile.

"I'll stay then, just so you aren't alone," Joaquín sat down with you and you tried to tell him it was ok but he wasn't having it.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Joaquín thought your willingness to help him out with anything was cute. That you just had a crush on him like he did you, and you did. So you two started going out and Joaquín started to meet the other people you surrounded yourself with.

Then Joaquín saw how you truly acted with others. You acted as if you weren't worth attention unless you were giving someone something or doing whatever they wanted. You would allow your so called friends to yell at you and push you around without so much as a grimace. Joaquín noticed you seemed to seek out the people who treated you horribly and he seemed to be the exception.

Then something changed, you started to distance yourself from people. You hated hanging out with people and Joaquín noticed, if he was with you, you no longer had someone else blowing up your phone for favors. In fact, you were doing everything Joaquín said. "I don't think you should be friends with them anymore. They aren't treating you like a friend, they're treating you like a servant," Joaquín casually told you one day and then the next day you were telling Joaquín that you were no longer friends.

If Joaquín told you that you needed to get something checked out, even if you brushed off his concern, you would automatically go to the doctor. If Joaquín suggested you try something new, you were trying it. It started to become concerning and when Joaquín brought it up with Sam, Sam asked about your childhood. Joaquín explained the small amount he knew and Sam asked if you were doing everything Joaquín said because you felt like this was how a relationship was supposed to work.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

When Joaquín brought it up you denied it, you knew Joaquín would be mad if you admitted. So you lied but he could tell you were lying. It made him mad, not at you, but at how you were raised. "God," Joaquín mumbled as you denied it again. "Can you just listen?" Joaquín accidentally yelled, he wanted to stay calm but you wouldn't stop lying. Joaquín automatically felt bad when you looked down and your shoulders went tense.

"Sorry," you whispered, it was clear you were trying not to cry.

"Hey, hey," Joaquín gently pulled you into his arms. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell, mi vida," Joaquín comforted you as you calmed down. "If anyone, and I mean anyone including me, ever talks to you like that again, you cut them off and never look back, ok?"

"Even if they didn't mean to?" You gently questioned, not trying to be difficult you were just trying to understand.

"If they truly didn't mean to, that's up to you," Joaquín told you, he knew if he said yes you would listen to it no matter the circumstances. You pulled out of Joaquín's arms and looked at him in the face.

"You make me feel safe," you told Joaquín. "It's why I want to do everything you tell me, I don't want to lose the one person I feel safe with," you admitted, voice shy.

"You're not going to lose me if you don't want to do something for me, ok? My love for you isn't circumstantial, it's unconditional," Joaquín assured you with a kiss to the forehead.

"You promise?" You didn't mean to sound insecure, but that's how you were raised.

"I promise, mi amor," Joaquín pulled you into a real kiss, one that promised that he would help you learn real love. How to make meaningful relationships that don't suck the life out of you.

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests If you want to be added to the tag list, follow the directions on my masterlist

[whisperingmidnights]

Chasing Starlight: Chapter Twenty-Two

Pairing: Poly!Feysand x reader

Notes: There will be a separate, two-part sequel to this chapter (as well as a bonus scene) I will be posting in the future. For now, I hope you enjoy the chapter it took me entirely too long to end. If you were following along with the original draft, this would be chapter twenty-six. I probably won't add that note to future parts, but it's been a while since we've had an update, and I don't want anyone to get confused.

     A bowl of fluffy white frosting sits on the corner of the kitchen counter with a spatula sticking out of it like a child’s shovel in a mound of sand. Nyx wriggles in my arms, reaching for his aunt as Elain carefully stacks the layers of vanilla cake. I coo at him despite the ache it causes, rocking a little to keep him occupied as the contents of my mug cool in front of me. He grows bigger with each passing month, I can hardly believe he’ll be walking soon. Late autumn rains have given way to snow this week, bringing the first kiss of winter to us a full month before the solstice.

     Time slips through my fingers like so much sand.

     I feel every grain.

     My sweater is normally thick enough to ward away the frosty chill permeating the windows, but not today. Goosebumps wander over my skin at will as heat curls in my joints, a warning that I’ll need to drink the medicated tea in my cup soon to keep the worst of the pain at bay. Unfortunately, Nyx has been grabby enough lately that I don’t want to risk drinking it while I hold him. I don’t know if I have it in me to just put him down and let him scream long enough for me to drink it.

     “I can take him,” Elain offers, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel once the final layer is cushioned atop a thick layer of frosting. Her brown eyes soften as she reaches for the babe in my arms and I ease him into her grasp, eager to not have him hanging onto me for a few minutes. Accepting the mating bond seems to have brought on a clingy stage for him I thought would have ended weeks ago, but all he wants is to be held. With Feyre finally comfortable going back to her studio and Rhys easing back into the duties he’s neglected in favor of taking care of me, I’m the one he seems to want to cling to during the day — likely because I smell so much like them. “You look tired, Dove. Do you want to go lie down?”

     “No,” I murmur, raising my mug to my lips. I am tired, more so than I had been even a few weeks ago. We’ve had no news from the various healers working on trying to fight against my curse while Day’s High Lord looks for a way to break it. The Dawn Court healer sent along this tea, a blend of herbs native to their territory that certainly eases the frequent flares of pain and nausea. “No, I’ll be okay. Just give me a little time to drink this and I should be fine.” Fine enough, anyway.

     “It is alright if you aren’t, you know.” Elain bounces her nephew in her arms, kissing his chubby cheeks before her eyes shift to me, trailing over my face like there’s something she’s searching for. “Fine, that is. You don’t have to be brave about it.”

     “What’s the alternative? Weeping over all of the things I cannot change?” I sigh, sipping my slightly bitter, minty tea. The flavor isn’t my favorite, but I suppose I’m not drinking it for the taste. Elain shakes her head, pulling her hair out of Nyx’s chubby fist as I sink onto one of the stools on the other side of the counter. The babe pats her cheek, babbling up at her with wide eyes, and his aunt nods wisely at him before her brown eyes slide to me once more.

     “You’re so like Nesta sometimes,” she says. I tilt my head, considering her words as she continues her conversation with her nephew and I drink my tea. From what I know of the eldest Archeron sister, she’s very isolated up in that sprawling mountain house, training as a warrior and reading the smutty books Feyre occasionally ferries home. For all they have in common, it’s a wonder Feyre and Nesta don’t get along better. All three sisters seem to be finding a way to a more comfortable, loving middle ground now that their unpleasant beginning is so far behind them.

     “Did Feyre mention when they would be home today?”

     “Sometime before dinner. Mrs. Greaves will likely be in to chase us out soon so she can begin preparations. Beef curry with rice and roasted asparagus, I think?”

     “Delicious.” Everything the housekeeper prepares is delicious. “Elain?”

     “Yes?”

     “May I ask how…how you and Lucien are doing?” I don’t know why I’m nervous to ask. Lucien has only been cordial, if not kind, to me every time our paths have crossed. Maybe it’s my own unwillingness to say more than necessary to him that bleeds into the way we interact. But I do…I do want to know. He’s one of the few people I know whose feelings about our home court are likely as complex as my own. It might be nice to have someone who understands.

     “Of course.” Her smile is welcoming as ever, and she sways with her nephew as his little head rests on her shoulder. Nyx gives me a sweet, gummy smile that morphs into a yawn, and I note the red around his twilight blue eyes. Maybe he won’t fight nap time today after all. “We’re doing well. His own duties keep him away, I do rather wish I could accompany him, but…but with Koschei gaining ground on the continent, I’m more useful here.”

     “Is he truly such a threat? Legends say he’s cursed to remain in that crumbling lakeside castle-”

     “His body may be. His magic, however, is free to roam. Those under his spell may leave to do his bidding. And it’s- well, it’s rumored he has Montesere’s princess now.” My eyebrows shoot up at that tidbit of information and the Seer shrugs, rubbing Nyx’s back as he drifts off to sleep with a sigh. Truly, since the night that strange magic spread through Velaris, I haven’t heard much on the machinations of the world beyond these walls. Not that I could possibly be of service in that particular struggle. “I’m going to put him down for a nap. Enjoy your tea.”

     “Elain?”

     “Yes?”

     “How do you stand having your mate so far away?” Rhys and Feyre can be in the same town, and I still feel a little uncomfortable in my skin until they’re home with me.

     “We haven’t fully accepted the bond. I want a ceremony, and I don’t want it to be something rushed out of fear of what may happen. I don’t feel that longing as intensely as- as other mates seem to. Maybe the Cauldron made me wrong.”

     “Maybe not. Maybe you’re the most well-adjusted of us all.”

     She laughs at that, wrinkling her upturned nose, pink rising in her cheeks. Elain shakes her head, gesturing towards my cup before she heads for the stairs, and I test the temperature before downing the rest of it in a few gulps. It burns a little, but the relief that had slowly begun to trickle through my veins floods them, cooling the painful burn. I pay the price for the rush, though. I’m immediately lightheaded, the world going a little fuzzy at the edges. I probably should have just sipped it.

     Leaning forward, I rest my head on the countertop, grateful for the cold seeping into my skin from the stone. Yes, I definitely should have just sipped it. The soft sound of Elain’s footsteps on the wood floor fades. My eyes are so heavy. Maybe I should just close them.

- - -

     I wake to tendrils of late afternoon sun spilling across the sofa I’m curled up on. My head feels as if it’s full of lead. When I finally manage to keep my eyes open, the world around me is fuzzy. A few warm, knit blankets are draped over me, a thicker fur on top of them to ward away any chill. I glance to my right at Rhys behind his desk with Nyx curled in a tight ball on his chest, his little wings lightly fluttering in unison. The hand that’s not cradling the babe holds a stack of papers, likely some report he’s staring blankly at.

     I must have slept for far too long if we’re on to nap number two.

     “Sorry,” I mumble, pushing myself into a seated position. Rhys blinks, seeming to come back to himself as he sets his paper down. The smile he gives me is tender, but I hate the concern lingering in his eyes. I hate that I’m the cause of so much unnecessary stress for both of my mates. They should be able to leave me at home with Nyx without worrying what they might come home to.

     “You have nothing to apologize for, Dove. You needed the rest. I should be apologizing. I left you to-“

     “Don’t, Rhys. Please. You should be able to leave me, I…” I should be more capable. But I don’t say that. Mother’s sake, it’s his birthday, the last thing I need to do is pick a fight. I don’t know if it’s the weakness of the shield around my mind or something leaking down the bond, but he pushes up from the desk and I shift the blankets around so he can settle on the sofa at my side. His arm around my shoulders is a warm, welcome weight, and I lean into his side to bask in it while I can. His head rests against mine, easing the ache in my heart a little as I whisper, “happy birthday.”

     “Thank you, my dove.”

     “Has it been a good one?”

     “It has. When Feyre comes home, it will be perfect.”

     “How long has he been out?” I trail my finger over Nyx’s arm; his hand tucked beneath his chin as he sleeps. He looks so much like his father. What had Rhysand’s father looked like? Does he favor him or his mother? Did his sister look like Nyx when she was born? Heartache anchors in my chest like the deep roots of a weed. They should be here. He should still have them.

     “Not long,” Rhys sighs, holding me tighter. “What are you thinking about that makes you so sad, Dove?”

     “I was wondering about your parents. And your sister. I was thinking it’s unfair that they’re not here. I wish you still had them.”

     “Was there something specific you wanted to know?”

     I shrug, toying with the edge of the cashmere blanket peeking out from beneath the fur. I’m not sure what to ask, or if I even should. Why dredge up such awful memories on his birthday? Instead, I ask, “What did you do today?”

     “I had a few appointments with local vendors. I’ll visit some of the villages to the west tomorrow. The farmer’s guild likely has a list of wishes or demands before next spring they’ve submitted to their territory lords for me to review and approve.”

    “How thrilling.”

     “Oh, yes. Life as High Lord is terribly exciting. Miles and miles of paperwork and budget approvals and fielding grievances. Have you fallen asleep yet?”

     “Go on for another five minutes and I might do just that.”

     “Mother forbid I bore my mate so thoroughly.” I laugh, rearranging myself to rest my head on his chest with my knees towards the back of the sofa. Nyx’s wing occasionally brushes against my temple as he sleeps on, oblivious to the world and its troubles. My mental shield flutters, straining the little magic I have access to before it crumbles. My eyes are so terribly heavy. Rhys slips in, his presence cool and soothing as water on a hot day. He curls around me there, shaped like a beast I can barely comprehend, teeth and talons tucked away for the moment.

     “You’re always trying to protect me,” I grumble through a yawn. I want to tell him I don’t need it, but we’d both know that to be a lie.

     “I always will.” The finality of that statement settles into my bones. Always, always, always. It’s what I agreed to — what we agreed to — when we accepted the mating bond. Always. I don’t know when I’m going to be able to come to terms with the notion that there are two people in this world who made a binding decision to love me for the rest of my days. To protect me. To care for me. It doesn’t feel real, all these weeks later.

     Rhys’s voice floats between my thoughts, waving them away like gnats as the beast curls tighter around my mind. ‘Rest, Dove. It’s not long until dinner.’

     “You’ll wake me?” My words are slurred with exhaustion, a mumbled jumble of sounds that Rhys chuckles at as he smooths a hand over my hair.

     ‘I’ve never allowed you to go hungry before.’

     I want to argue that it’s not the same as waking me for dinner. I want to sit at the table with my mates and their family. I want to watch Nyx stuff fistfuls of mashed carrot into his little mouth, smearing it on his cheeks and chin. I want to laugh with them and watch Rhys open his gifts — the few that he allows, anyway. I want to be well enough to thoroughly celebrate him after. I want so deeply to be part of making this a special day for him.

     All I can do is sleep. It’s all my body allows.

- - -

     The next time I wake, it’s much darker. Still curled on the sofa, but the body tucked beneath mine is soft and slim. The hands in my hair smell faintly of linseed oil and soft, powdery lotion. Feyre’s breathing is soft and deep, her heart a steady beat beneath my ear, and I glance up to find her sleeping soundly beneath me. She must have changed when she returned home. The thin, black silk dress bunching around her thighs certainly is not what she left in. The lace straps and embroidery that make up the bust leave so little to the imagination, but it’s a beautifully crafted piece.

     One that begs to be removed later.

     The dark lashes against her cheeks look as though they’ve been dusted and tipped in gold. When they flutter open, revealing those lovely blue eyes still clouded with sleep, I lean up to kiss her pale pink lips just to feel them curve into a smile against my own. She tastes of pear wine, heady and sweet, spiced to match the season. Her tongue sweeps languidly against the seam of my lips, and I part them for her as she rolls me onto my back, trapping herself against the back of the couch.

     The tattooed hand sliding beneath my sweater to caress my bare skin is so warm. I want her to touch me everywhere. Her free hand curves around the back of my neck as Feyre takes her time coaxing my mouth to open, allowing her to explore me as though it’s not an adventure she’s made a thousand times before. She knows every move, every flick and touch to make me feel like I’m coming alive beneath her hand.

     It stops too soon. Her cheeks are rosy when she pulls away, and her eyes are sparkling with so much more than joy.

     “Are they eating without us?” I ask, stretching as the hand against my ribs wanders to my hip.

     “They’ve just started dinner. I told Rhysand we’d be a minute; I wanted to greet you properly first.”

     “Bit longer than a minute, Feyre.”

     “Well, now I want to take all night just to prove a point.”

     “What point are you proving?”

     “That the time I spend with my mate is never time wasted.” My mate. Mine. Possession drips from the word and I drink it like sweet Summer wine. I am theirs and they are mine and one day, I will not need to be reminded of it. One day, I will feel comfortable in the knowledge that only death can take them from me, that we are bound until the end of our days because we chose it.

     “It is not,” I agree before those hungry blue eyes burn holes in me. “But it is Rhys’s birthday dinner, so we should probably join them.”

     Feyre nods, acquiescing to my silent request, and together we climb off of the sofa. A cloud of steam forms around her hands as she smooths them over the wrinkles in the dress, straightening the fabric once more. Her hand is still warm when it slides into mine, and together we make our way from the study to the dining room.

     We hear a low, rumbling snarl before we reach the stairs. The very foundation of the house trembles and Feyre tugs me along at a slightly more urgent pace. Amren’s voice carries over the roaring in my ears, but I can’t force myself to focus on what she’s saying long enough to understand it. Everything sounds slightly muffled, like I’m hearing it through glass. Something about Illyrian males…missing…something?

     Feyre drops my hand, slinking into the dining room with her head held high, sleek as any mountain cat. I spot Nyx in Nesta’s lap, a fistful of peas halfway to his mouth. His little head bobs as he looks at his parents with a gummy smile, his few teeth shining white. Feyre’s hands settle on Rhys’s shoulders as she leans in to kiss his temple, but I feel the way she’s assessing everyone in the room. There’s a spot beside Azriel, his shadows shuffle back the empty chair for me as Feyre sinks into the chair at Rhysand’s side.

     “I thought we weren’t discussing court business tonight,” Feyre sighs, breaking the tension with a little smile, her blue eyes darting between Rhys and Amren. Likely weighing the pros and cons of getting in the middle of whatever inspired the argument. Something silent passes between my mate and his second-in-command, and they both return to their wine, appearing to agree to drop the argument for the night.

     Azriel picks up my plate, quietly serving me as I wave to the babe who has just noticed my presence. His face is covered in so much mashed food, it’s hard to tell what’s what, but his eyes and smile are so bright.

     “Apologies, Feyre,” Amren demures, raising her glass to her lips.

     “You’re looking well.” Azriel’s voice is low and soft as he sets my plate before me. He’s somehow figured out the things that don’t upset my stomach these days and has served them in small enough portions that I won’t make myself sick trying to eat it all. I give him a grateful smile, raising a spoon of rice to my lips as I feel Rhys’s eyes settle on me. I grin at him as brightly as I can muster, but it does not chase the tinge of heartache from his eyes.

     “Thank you,” I murmur, turning my attention back to Azriel as Feyre leans in to kiss Rhys more soundly, earning a playful groan from Cassian. “I feel…” Not better. Worse, probably. But the tonics and potions and elixirs and whatever else the healers provide are still helping for now. “Well, I’m here. How have you been? Is everything…going well?” I don’t know what to ask him that isn’t technically court business.

     “Yes and no. I’m fine, but we are…having a few hiccups.”

     “Azriel,” Feyre warns, exasperation thick in her voice as those eyes swing in our direction. The shadowsinger raises his glass, toasting his High Lady with a rare wink before he throws back the rest of whatever’s in his glass.

     “We were just wondering when it will be time for presents,” I lie unhelpfully, earning a snort from the male at my side. Rhys shakes his head, affection curving his lips as he turns back to his meal. The tension disperses the moment Nyx decides to fling his peas across the table, his little cheeks red with delight at the way they scatter. I tuck into my own plate as the little green vegetables disappear from the lace tablecloth. Each bite of rice tastes like ash, the beef tender enough but lacking the flavor of the rich spices I can see coating the top of it. Even the little bit of bread I manage to get down is flavorless, the butter in it merely a greasy coating on my lips and tongue.

     Is this what dying feels like? A slow-creeping misery that takes and takes. I glance around the room, forcing my smile to brighten a little, trying to drum up some modicum of joy within me. It’s Rhys’s birthday and we’re all here together. That’s what matters now. The rest is stardust.

     I don’t eat much more, choosing to listen to the conversation buzzing around me. Mor drags Feyre into a discussion about the new dressmaker on Silk Street and her Monteseran-inspired designs for spring. I can’t imagine Feyre in the yards of frothy lace I’m certain such a place inspires, but it might suit Elain well enough. Gradually, I feel that dark, ancient beast creeping around my mind once more, quiet and comfortable as it curls in around me. Rhys’s hand slides from the table towards Feyre’s lap, and down the bond flows a desire for contact, thick and sweet as honey.

     What an incredible gift, to want to be touched. The abandoned dinner plates clear, the mess along with it, and Nesta passes Nyx to Feyre to be rocked as a small pile of gifts appear before my mates. The rest of us receive steaming mugs, Azriel’s appearing to contain rich, dark chocolate and something that smells faintly of coffee, while mine contains more tea.

     I’d prefer what he’s having.

     Instead, I sip my medicated tea and watch Rhys open his gifts, thanking and chastising the rest of the family in equal measure. The first is a leather case from Feyre, fill with beautiful glass planets and glowing stars that take to the air moments after the lid is off, slowly revolving and shining over our heads. Nyx turns his sleepy, lilac blue eyes skyward, babbling at the glass balls with his chubby cheek presses against Feyre’s chest. A slender, tattooed hand covers his head, smoothing his hair affectionately as his father leans down to kiss his forehead. I try to capture the quiet moment in my mind, wishing to keep it forever, locked away in my heart with everything else I hold dear.

     I already miss them, and they’re just across the table from me. I can’t imagine a lifetime separating us, I won’t. Not tonight, anyway. Tonight I am alive and there are stars and planets spinning overhead.

     Rhys leaves them there as he moves on to his next gift. On and on, he unveils books and trinkets to disperse around the house and a beautiful selection of blades he vanishes before Nyx gets a good look at them. Between swigs of my tea, Azriel nudges his mug towards me, and we share the chocolate concoction until there is only one small box left. A gift I had commissioned with Mor’s help, kept secret even from Feyre — a feat, considering how close the sculptor’s studio is to hers.

     The box itself is plain, wrapped in brown paper and twine that’s gone in a matter of moments. The lid lifts away and a tiny tendril of magic removes a marble statuette from the silk-lined interior. It’s a replica of an unfinished piece I’d seen the last time Feyre and I went to look around: the goddess Nyx clad in a gossamer gown, pouring out a jug of stars to fill the night sky. A maternal smile lights her lovely face as she gazes down at a small, winged babe reaching towards the stars. It’s better than I could have imagined it would be, intricately carved with thin veins of gold in the boy’s wings.

     “How perfect,” Feyre coos, kissing the crown of Nyx’s head as he dozes against her. “Enzo’s attention to detail is remarkable. I didn’t think he was accepting commissioned work at the moment.”

     “He made an exception,” Mor teases, her brown eyes meeting mine over her own mug of hot chocolate. “We can be very convincing.”

     “Mor is convincing,” I object, shaking my head head. “I simply made the request.”

     “It’s wonderful,” Rhys says, vanishing the delicate statue along with the rest of the gifts, tucking them safely away. “Thank you both.” There it is again, that tug at our bond, more urgent than the last. I give my mate my most patient smile, watching Feyre settle against his side as she lowers the strap of her dress to allow Nyx to nurse. She’ll have him fast asleep in ten minutes, no doubt. “How is training with the priestesses going, Nesta?”

     “Fine,” the eldest Archeron states, giving my mate a carefully blank look. Though they’ve made progress towards a place of neutrality, there’s this wall between them Feyre has admitted to being unable to crack. It seems to me what Nesta truly needs is for him to trust her judgment, and Rhys needs to find a way to give her that little bit of control.

     “We should have two more Valkyries before the end of the year,” Cassian supplies helpfully. “Right, Az?”

     Azriel nods. “If they can manage to cut the ribbon, yes. They both need more precision in their swing to manage it, but I expect they’ll be ready by the end of next week. They’re ready.”

     Pride shines in Nesta’s eyes at the report, and Azriel manages a fond smile in her direction. He so rarely shows any hint of emotion, it’s nice to see a glimpse of his gentle nature beneath that cold exterior. It’s a wonder, though, that he and Elain don’t speak beyond a few niceties. I settle back in my seat, listening as Cassian launches into a story about the three of them as boys in the training camp, sneaking out for a late-night swim only to be caught sneaking back in by Rhys’s mother, still damp from the lake.

     At the end of the night, once our guests have left and Feyre has put Nyx to bed, I find myself before the bathroom vanity with Rhys at my back, his chin resting on my shoulder as I stand in the cage of his arms, rubbing lotion into my skin. His eyes are dark, a possessive sort of hunger brewing in their violet depths, and I raise my brows at him as he turns to nuzzle the side of my neck. He paws at the nightgown I’ve only just put on, gripping the deep purple chiffon like he might shred it as his lips wander along the curve of my shoulder.

     “Don’t you dare,” I grumble, tugging at his dark hair to bring his ministrations higher. “Feyre has something planned and I’m not sure what it is, but I do know I’m not allowed to be naked yet.”

     “She hasn’t told you?” Rhys grins slyly, turning me in his arms. I rest my hand on the back of his neck, urging him to kiss me as he presses me against the counter. He grips my hips, drawing them against his own until I feel every inch of his desire twitch against my belly.

     “Considering how worked up you are, I assume she’s told you.” I mutter.

     “We may have discussed it this morning.”

     “When?”

     “Oh, we had a little time set aside to have important conversations.”

     “And sex is an important conversation?” I huff. What else were they discussing in their little scheduled moment? Something tells me it certainly wasn’t court business.

     His lips claim mine on the edge of a chuckle. My hand finds his hair as I slip the other between us, stroking lightly over the hard length of him through his trousers. My heart skips as he moans into my mouth, nearly melting against me while I touch and tease. He’s not nearly as demanding as usual, that innate dominance drained away, leaving something more pliant in its absence.

     More…submissive?

     I grip his hair, pulling my mouth from his, and he doesn’t chase my lips as he normally would. Hooded eyes flick from my lips to my eyes, and I give him a squeeze that has his lashes fluttering. And still, he doesn’t stop me. Is this their game tonight, then? Are we to be in charge?

     The bedroom door clicks shut, and I look over to see Feyre heading towards us, a sly smile on her pink lips as she takes in the sight of us. Those starlight blue eyes linger on the hand lazily stroking his cock. She gives me a generous smile, leaning against the door frame as she turns her attention to our mate.

     “You couldn’t keep your hands to yourself, could you, Rhysand?” Even I shiver at the authoritative lilt to her tone. “Of course, I can’t blame you for being so eager. Our dove is so pretty in her nightgown, isn’t she?”

     “Stunning,” he agrees, his cheeks ruddy as a schoolboy’s under her demanding gaze. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

     “Couldn’t, or wouldn’t?” Feyre reaches for me, and I let her draw me from his arms into hers, curious at the turn the night is taking. Her arms wind around my waist, pulling my body flush against hers. I feel it then, the anatomical shift she must have been working on while I prepared for bed, and I whine a little at the hardening line of her cock pulsing against me.

     After the taste I had of it during our consummation, I’m beyond eager for more. But it’s not my birthday, so… I glance up at her and wait for further instruction. The kiss she gives me is light but lingering, drawing butterflies up from the depths of my stomach as her hands drift lower to grip my bottom appreciatively.

     “Why don’t I get you into bed and warm you up properly,” Feyre says sweetly, kissing the tip of my nose. “Rhys, I want you at the foot of the bed, on your knees. Eyes closed.”

     “Is this what you discussed at your little meeting today?” I ask tartly as she guides me to the mattress. Her answering laugh is husky, sensual, something reserved for dark corners of empty rooms. I feel my body’s immediate response as Feyre lays me back, settling me against the pillows while Rhys obediently takes his place on the floor.

     “This?” she laughs, settling herself at my side, her hand stroking the curve of my hip. “Oh, yes. This and other things. Would you like me to show you what we discussed for the night?”

     “Please?” I brush her hair back from her forehead, the golden-brown strands falling like silk between my fingers. Her lips meet mine again, and a scene plays out in my mind that has my toes curling. Oh. Yes, yes this is definitely something we’ll all enjoy. My hand slides over the dark silk to cup her breast, lightly squeezing the sensitive flesh as she grinds against my hip, her arousal trickling down the bond to join Rhys’s, fueling my own as I lie beneath her. Sensing my growing need, her hand slides up to the thin strap on my shoulder, guiding it down my arm as she slips from my mind, lowering her mouth to the soft peak.

     At the foot of the bed, I hear a soft moan, and I know exactly what he must be seeing. Lovely, wicked creature, our Feyre. I’m sure there will be retribution of some sort for this little performance, and I can’t wait to see what it might be.

[pencil-n-pen]

──────BROKEN DOWN AND HUNGRY FOR YOUR LOVE ───

⋆౨ৎ˚˖ ࣪

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touchstarved ! rookie! reader x training officer! tim

summary: Tim had said ‘no more rookies’ after Lucy, but well. Things don’t always go according to plan. Just like you never thought you’d be staring at your training officer’s arms, wondering how they feel wrapped around you.

cw: daddy issues (seriously this is a tim x reader like. don’t we all have daddy issues) mild depression, descriptions of child death and abuse (it’s one scene and pretty easily skippable but yk police call stuff) tbh could be read as platonic this isn’t super romantic i just want tim to hold me i don’t care how he does it

a/n: in this universe chenford never happened even tho i ship it with every cell in my body. also im only like halfway through season two so take my depiction of characters and events with a grain of salt. buckle up this one’s LOOOOOONGGG

title taken from Lover You Should've Come Over by Jeff Buckley (jeff buckley i miss u)

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Tim Bradford has really nice hands.

This is, undoubtedly, not at all something you should be noticing about your training officer. Probably the most strict, unpredictable, unrelenting, high-key-wants-you-to-fail training officer in the LAPD.

And yet.

Here you are, noticing.

His arms are really nice too. The chords of muscle flex in a particular way while he drives. Especially when turning or when he’s conducting a car chase and his hands go white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

You think to yourself that his hands are probably warm. Tim seems like the kind of man to run hot.

Tim also makes sure that you understand how much he doesn’t like you.

You get it. Kind of. He’d been on his way to becoming a sergeant when it’d been decided that during the coarse of his career, not enough of his officers actually made it past being a rookie.

“One last go,” The captain had said on your first day, “Should be easy. This rookie’s the most self-sufficient thing since Officer West. If she doesn’t make the cut, I want to know why.”

So yeah. You’re pretty sure Tim tuned out the conversation after hearing ‘one last go’.

Additionally, you two have… clashing personalities. You’ve always prided yourself on being self-sufficient- on not needing anyone else. But Tim makes it his mission every single day to remind you of all the million different ways you need to rely on your partner and need them— need him.

It’s annoying on a good day and humbling on a bad one.

And then there’s the matter of Lucy Chen. One of the few rookies to survive the Tim Tests and actually make it past rookie, all the while gaining his respect and friendship.

You don’t even try to hope to reach what she accomplished. Lucy Chen is an inspiration, a pipe dream, and an unreachable standard wrapped up in blue. It’s clear that Tim is proud of the cop she’s become. Proud of his work.

You’re not sure he could ever be proud of you.

But you didn’t raise yourself to be a quitter. So you get up everyday and take the Tim Tests in stride. You work and learn and learn and work and pretend the lack of relationship or bond you have with your fellow rookies doesn’t bother you.

You pretend you don’t dream of being held by warm arms and wake up in the same position, alone and cold.

You pretend the heated blanket you bought during the Academy with your meager funds feels just like human warmth. You pretend it’s enough.

And you do what you always do: you manage.

—

Like with any job, there’s good days, and there’s bad days. You try not to dwell on the bad days, but you usually end up doing so anyways, usually in your silent, empty apartment as you try to fall asleep.

Your shift today is only half over, and you’ve already lost a suspect during a chase —Tim ended up catching her, and the look he shot you as he cuffed him was nothing short of fiery— you accidentally tampered with evidence —in your defense, you weren’t aware that piggy banks were used to move drugs, but accidentally dropping it made you want to crawl into a hole and die— and the cherry on top was the suspect you apprehended today, who, in her desperation to get away from you and jail, kicked you in the leg while she was on the ground. With her very long, and very skinny heel.

‘I got stabbed in the leg with a stripper’s heel’ isn’t a sentence you ever thought you’d say, but here you are. The wound isn’t that bad, thankfully. Just all the usual pain that comes from being stabbed with a fairly blunt object.

You sit in an uncomfortable hospital chair in the waiting room, elbow digging into the hard, wooden armrest and holding your head up by your forehead, while your other arm presses on the still sluggishly bleeding wound on your lower, mid thigh, leg stretched out in front of you.

You’re tired.

Recently, the bad days have outweighed the good ones. You knew this would be the case when you signed up to be a cop. You knew your apartment would feel empty and cold, but you thought that maybe, maybe, you’d make a few friends in your coworkers and it wouldn’t feel so unbearable.

But it turns out there isn’t enough time to make friends when you’re busy trying to get the highest scores in the Academy. And by the time you graduated, you’d been written off as a stuck-up teachers pet. Tolerated by the other rookies at best, occasionally sneered at and mocked at worst.

No fellow rookies, no friendly coworker, no nice neighbors in your apartment. Your training officer doesn’t like you, and the watch commander regularly enjoys singling you out for rookie-typical ridicule.

You’re tired.

The wound on your leg hurts like a bitch, already bruised to hell and back in that way that blunt force injuries usually do. Your pants are dark and sticky with blood, and the hand that’s applying pressure is uncomfortably tacky as you bleed, clot, and dry, over and over again.

It’s shitty. You feel shitty.

The fluorescent overhead lights are making your head pound and there’s so much noise in the waiting room, overlapping and, for lack of a better term, stabbing your eardrums in a pounding beat, and the pain is starting to make you a little nauseous, or maybe that’s the smell of anti-septic, and you fucked up so badly today, and oh god what if you get sepsis or a staff infection, that heel was so dirty, who knows where it’s been, and why won’t you just stop bleeding, and—

“Boot.”

—you haven’t called your mom in ages, she deserves better than that, and god your leg really hurts, and you don’t want to go home after this because—

“Rookie.”

—you’re most definitely being sent home, you got stabbed with a fucking heel for christ’s sake, and unlike after a normal shift you won’t have the exhaustion to just send you straight to bed, chores be damned, your apartment is so, so so quiet and you hate it—

“Hey!”

Snapping fingers in front of your face and Tim’s shout jolts you from your pain-slash-panic-induced spiral, and you reflexively clench your fists, then hiss in pain as your grip tightens over the wound.

He’s crouched in front of you, dark, steady eyes scrutinizing your face.

“Sorry,” you huff, face hot with embarrassment. “It’s, um, it’s loud in here.”

He just nods once, looking rather unimpressed. You resist the urge to fidget.

“You good to stay here while I go back out?”

The thought of waiting in the ER alone, and then more than likely catching an Uber to the station and then ignoring possible doctors orders to drive yourself home from there is… less than pleasant.

But if it has to be done, then it has to be done.

“Yeah,” You say easily, the lie slipping right off your tongue. “Yeah, yeah I’ll be good.”

Your injury had already been called in, so Grey wasn’t expecting you back at the station. Tim would go back on shift and you’d take care of yourself like you always do. You’ll be fine eventually. You always are.

You expect Tim to take the easy out. You’ve handed it to him on a silver platter. Express permission to not have to deal with you anymore today.

He sighs, unexpectedly, then stands, and you look down so you don’t have to watch him walk away, and wait to hear the sound of his retreating footsteps.

They don’t come.

The chair next to you creaks as someone sits down in it.

As Tim sits down in it.

You blink, looking up at him. “Officer Bradford?”

He’s crossed his arms across his chest, sparing you a small glance. “What?”

You look down at your lap. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls out his phone, clearly texting someone —probably Officer Lopez— and pretty much ignores you as you wait to be called back.

His presence is enough, though. It chases away some of that creeping panic and chill in your chest. You relax in increments. Your posture slouches, your hand unclenches, and you feel like you can take a breath without throwing up.

Eventually, your name gets called, and maybe you just look especially pathetic as your stiffly and shakily climb to your feet and begin ambling towards the indicated trauma room, but you hear another annoyed sigh, and then Tim’s mumbling “Here,” and then your arm is around his shoulders and his arm snakes behind your back and just above your waist.

And fuck.

If you thought that having him near you was something, having the arms of the man you’ve literally dreamt about doing nearly this exact same thing is… it’s a drug.

Your skin is on fire where’s he’s quite literally holding you together as you awkwardly shuffle across the waiting room. His hands are warm even through the under shirt and your uniform shirt. The rush of chemicals in your head is dizzying at the contact, your brain startlingly aware of each and every place the two of you are connected.

To him, it’s nothing. To you, it’s everything.

If this is what hard drugs feel like, you sympathize with the addicts. All it takes is his arm around you, safe and steadying, and you’re gone. Hooked.

You try your best to file the feeling away in your head, to commit it to memory, so later, when those bad days have their cold nights, you can take it out and remember it. Remember what felt like to be even half wrapped like this. Supported and steadied.

It’s an uncharacteristic show of care on Tim’s part. He’s not exactly a touchy-feely kind of guy. He’s more like the ‘deal with it or quit’ kind of guy.

But he’s helping you here, now. More than he knows.

You don’t comment on any of this, of course, because you don’t want to draw attention to how much you’re leaning into his touch.

You hope he writes it off as needing help walking.

—

The first night after the stabbing —Tim does not let you drive yourself home, though looks vaguely impressed that you were completely willing, and instead drops you off and has Officer Lopez drive your car back to your place— is great. You sleep clear through the night without waking up once. The memory of Tim holding you up, touching you, is fresh in your mind. Sleeping is easy. You arrive to work for once not faking your enthusiasm under layers of professionalism. You actually, genuinely feel okay.

As the weeks progress though, you start flagging.

By the time a month has gone by, you’re downright miserable. You didn’t realize just how empty your chest could feel after actually feeling how warm and full it could be.

This, of course, means doubling over on professionalism, because there’s absolutely no way that anyone can know how much you’re starting to fracture, bit by bit. You’re strong, put-together, and self-sufficient. You take Tim’s training in stride and you never complain. You don’t rise to the bait when you get singled out for hazing, and laugh when you become the subject of a rookie prank.

You do not stare at Tim’s arms or hands out of the corner of your eye when he’s not looking, you do not imagine the big pillow you hold at night is him, and most importantly you do not even entertain the fantasy in which Tim holds you, really holds you, and you don’t have to keep it all together anymore.

It’s not realistic. You’re always going to hold everything together. You always have and you always will.

But sometimes, every now and then, you get something well and truly right, and Tim says “Good job, boot.” And he means it. Gets that crinkle near his eyes and that twitch in his jaw when he’s trying not to look impressed or pleased. And it chases away the empty, just for a little bit. Makes how hard he pushes you just a little more worth it, each time.

It’s starting to get to you, though. Has been for awhile. Because it’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it, to think these things about your training officer? Someone who would never, ever do the things you want him to do? As trivial and stupid and childish as they are?

And look. You’re not stupid. You know exactly why you’ve fixated on Tim Bradford specifically. You’re well versed in the art of “intellectualizing your feelings so you don’t have to feel them” and your want of your training officer’s touch is no mystery. He checks all your boxes- Brooding, emotionally unavailable, harsh, attractive, and more importantly, in a position of power over you. So you get it. Daddy issues, your emotional needs not being met growing up, blah blah blah. It’s whatever.

What’s not whatever is your inability to stop obsessing over it. Him. You need to get a grip.

You want to become a detective. And, not to mention, you’ve worked incredibly hard to be a damn good cop.

But here you are, sitting in the shop with Tim, spacing out when you should be paying attention because you saw one of your old friends post the anniversary for her and her boyfriend last night and now you can’t stop thinking about how she probably look at every couple and wonder how it feels to have someone around, constantly, to soothe the near permanent ache in your chest and itch under your skin.

She probably doesn’t have the ache or itch at all.

“Boot!” Tim barks, voice sudden and loud. “Where are we?”

You jolt in place. “Uh—“

Tim slams on the brakes, your seatbelt snapping against your chest. “I’ve been shot. I’m dead. Where were you just now?”

You scramble for an answer. “I was—“

“Your head wasn’t here,” He jams a finger onto the center console. “And in this line of work, that means you’re dead. It means people die on your watch.”

He starts the car, and without the crackling of dispatch over the radio, it’s awhile before he speaks again.

“What’s wrong?”

The words sound so foreign coming from Officer Bradford that you pause.

“Is that a trick question? Is the answer…um… I should focus more…?”

“Well, yes, and no,” He responds, face set in a slight grimace, “Yes, you need to focus more, but no, that wasn’t a trick question.”

When you don’t immediately respond —what are you supposed to say to that?— he keeps going.

“You’re spacey. You don’t get spacey. But you’ve been all over the place lately, so something’s up.”

“Nothing’s—“

He levels you with a Look.

Now it’s your turn to sigh.

One of the main reasons you didn’t get along with other students at the Academy was your unwillingness to sacrifice your career for a social life. You didn’t tell anybody your sob story— didn’t need the pity, didn’t care what they thought.

And you don’t really want to tell Tim either, but for a different reason. An opposite one, really. You do care what he thinks. A lot. And you don’t want to sound whiny or sensitive or any less of a capable cop. You need to prove to him that you can do this.

But Tim also has the best bullshit sensor of anyone you know, and will immediately see through you if you try to lie.

“I moved to California right before I started at the Academy. I was focused and career driven. And I’ve never really been social. It just, uh, kind of hit me, I guess. That my family is a thousand miles away.”

“What, you don’t have any friends from the Academy?”

His confidence in your social skills is nice, if not very misguided.

You shrug. “I gave up everything to move here. I thought that if I went out to bars and parties, I’d lose focus and fail. I couldn’t, and still can’t afford to.”

Tim’s saved from responding by a call close to your location crackling out from dispatch. And thank god for that. You’re sure as hell not itching to restart the conversation, and besides. Tim wants you to get your head in the game, so you do. Complete and utter focus on the call.

It goes well. But Tim doesn’t say anything as you climb back in the shop, not even a not-displeased hum.

“That’s stupid, you know.”

You look up from where you were checking something in the system. “What?”

“This thing you’re doing. You’re not even living. You’re just going to work and then going home. Your performance is shitty because you feel shitty.”

You gape for a second before rushing to respond. “My performance isn’t—“

“Yeah, it is. Don’t argue me on this, boot. You’re drowning, is what you’re doing. You have no work life balance. You’re going to burn out, and then you wash out.”

He turns to you, eyes bright and jaw set. “And you better not wash out, because you’re my last rookie and I need you to win.”

Right. Yes. Of course. Tim needs you to win, so he needs you to get focused, and get real.

The smile you give him is perfectly practiced and hollow. You ignore the nausea churning in your chest.

“Don’t worry. I don’t do anything other than win.”

—

Even though it’s most definitely stupid and insane, you ignore Tim’s advice. Since when have you had the energy to do things outside of work but rot in bed? And besides. Going out would mean losing precious sleeping hours, which are already hard enough to come by as it is. You don’t need to make your energy levels any worse than they already are by adding going to bed late on top of incredibly fitful sleep.

So it’s fine. You’re handling it.

—

You’re not handling it.

You’re exhausted. All the time. The more tired you are, the more you have to work to make sure your performance at work isn’t suffering. Which makes you more tired.

And you just… can’t sleep. You toss and turn all night, wake up a million times, and usually end up reliving your worst cases with added bonuses, like Tim being injured, and then berating you for it, and then the watch commander calls you into his office and fires you.

And then there’s the guilt. The sickening, nauseating guilt that follows you day after day, choking and clogging your throat because you know you’re better than this. You’re better than this. But you’re not getting better.

You should’ve taken Tim’s advice, maybe. Should’ve heard it two, three, maybe four months ago and extended yourself to other people and tried going out, making a routine of trying new things other than sleeping, watching tv, or working, but it’s too late now and you’re just so fucking tired.

And alone.

Really, really, alone.

When you finally lose it, it’s because of a call. A bad one. A really bad one.

It’s a little girl. No older than nine or ten. Her mother had reported her missing when she’d come home from work and her daughter and her husband were missing. At first, the report hadn’t been taken seriously, but the mother begged and pleaded. It was Lucy who’d pulled up the woman’s husband and found several previous charges for domestic violence and abuse that dispatch had sent multiple units after the child.

Whom you found. Locked in a car.

You were the one to break the window. You were the one to get her out.

You were the one who had to call an RA unit for a nine year old girl, not conscious, not breathing.

Tim pulled you away from the scene. From her. Kept a hand on your shoulder and steered you towards the shop, and you were shaking. Are shaking. You’re in the shop. You can’t get your hands to stop shaking.

Tim is uncharacteristically silent. He doesn’t start the car. You can see him watching you out of the corner of your eye. You need to stop shaking. You need to get it together.

It’s just. That was you. Could’ve been you. Almost was you, once or twice.

You spent a lot of time in locked cars growing up.

“Boot,” Tim says softly, too softly, he’s babying you, “You need to take a minute.”

“No, no,” The first no is shaky and the second is no better but you need to be fine, “I’m fine, I’ll be fine. I need to adapt, need to get used to this kind of thing.”

He makes a noise of annoyance in the back of his throat. “No you don’t. Becoming desensitized to this kind of thing isn’t what you want to happen. Trust me.”

You breath is starting to hitch a little, and your eyes are beginning to burn. Why can’t you stop shaking? It happened so long ago.

“I’m fine. I’m— It’s okay. We should get back on the road.”

Your voice wobbles at the end. You clench your jaw, steel yourself against the onslaught of emotions and will yourself to just get a fucking grip.

“Hey,” Tim starts, voice that lower, gentle tone he sometimes uses on victims, and that’s messed up, because you’re not a victim, just dramatic, “It’s okay to not be okay after something like that.”

“I’m fine!” You snap, “I survived. She didn’t.”

Oh.

You feel the first few tears begin falling, and immediately scrub them off your face as fast and as hard as you can.

“I’m sorry,” You half-whisper, mortified at the action of crying and snapping at him. “I’m sorry, this is, this is really unprofessional—“

You hunch, pressing the heels of your hands so hard into your eyes starbursts of color are whirling behind them.

Tim doesn’t say anything, which only adds to your mounting anxiety, until you hear the semi-familar sound of him typing on his phone, and then a steady tik. Tik. Tik.

You look up, your eyes already puffy.

Tim sets his phone down on the console between the two of you.

“That timer is set for ten minutes. For ten minutes, you are not going to be fine. Ten minutes while we drive. Got that?”

You sniffle pathetically. “Ten minutes is a long time to put up with me crying.”

He shrugs. “If I give you your ten minutes, and you get this out, then you’ll be more focused on the job. Seems like a fair trade off to me.”

You’re not expecting the firm hand to land on your shoulder.

“This was your first d-o-a. Even the best cops are shaken after something like that. It changes you. That is not something be ashamed of.”

You let yourself lean into the touch, ever so slightly. The tears start falling easier after that, and, still not entirely comfortable with crying in front of your TO, you cover your face with your hands.

The crying bit is over in only a few minutes. The rest of the time on the timer is spent staring down at your lap and trying to calm yourself down, and when that doesn’t work, you pull out your phone and soothe yourself by organizing one of your Pinterest boards. Ah, the peace that comes from setting arbitrary rules that affect no one and organizing pictures based on these rules. Bliss.

Tim only removes his hand after you stop crying, which. You try your best to memorize the touch —no matter how mortifying the circumstances— and try your best not to think about how it almost seems like starting to catch onto the messier parts about yourself you’d like to keep hidden.

—

Sometimes it’s hard not to feel well and truly and completely alone.

You know you’re not. Not really. Not if you tried harder, extended yourself more. Made an effort to get out there. But you don’t have any energy for efforts. You don’t have anything left to give.

Tim’s touch and approval and just there-ness haunt you on your off days and are, if you’re being embarrassingly and horrifyingly honest, the only thing you really look forward to anymore.

You like your job. You do. But you’re tired. And how many times can you say that? Can you think that?

I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired.

Please, someone, put me down, let me go, give me a minute, I’m tired.

So it’s not really surprising when you get sick.

You’ve been running yourself absolutely ragged, day in and day out, and when you wake, feeling like death warmed over, you don’t even groan. It makes your throat hurt.

Your head pounds with pressure from your sinuses and your hands shake as you put on your uniform in the locker room. Your slow-and-unsteady gait gathers a few looks as you make your way into the, surprisingly empty, roll call room.

Is it really empty if one person is in it? Tim’s in it. He’s leaned up against the front desk, where you usually sit with the other rookies. Only time you’re really ever near them. He looks mad. Why’s he mad?

“Boot,” He starts, voice low, and that’s never a good sign, “Is there a reason you decided not to show up to roll call today?”

You blink, thoughts going about as fast as a fish in frozen water, “But it’s not time for roll call yet.”

It’s not. You woke up when your alarm went off, took cold medicine (probably more than you’re supposed to, and the wrong combination of them, but who cares) and drove to the precinct. Same as you always do. Minus the cold medicine.

Tim frowns. He’s always frowning. He frowns deeper. “You’re over an hour late.”

That…doesn’t make any sense. How’d you lose an hour of time? Did you fall asleep somewhere along the way? You don’t remember falling asleep. You’re not missing any memories, no blank spots, no black outs.

“Boot!” He barks, and you flinch and the noise, pressing a hand to your forehead as if that’ll help the sharp stab of pain in your head that accompanies his raised voice.

Tim is downright glaring at you now. “Are you hungover?”

“No!” You reply indignantly, then instantly regret it due to the burn you now feel in your throat, “I’m just like. Kind of sick.”

Did that come out convincing enough? You’re sure you can still work. You worked through every cold and flu and fever back at the Academy. You can totally do this, right?

Tim pushes off the table and stalks towards you. arms crossed. He uncrosses them as he gets closer and—

Oh. That’s nice. His hand’s cool.

Your eyes flutter shut, unbidden, as the cool skin of the back of his hand presses to your forehead. If your eyes were open, you’d be able to see that his frown has taken on a concerned brow furrow to accompany it, but you’re too busy enjoying the simple contact to notice. Or keep your eyes open.

He takes his hand away with a sigh, and you stumble forward a little.

“You feel like you’re on fire. Jesus- did you drive here?”

You nod, to avoid angering your throat, and end up angering your headache instead.

“Yeah, you’re going home.”

Panic stabs you in the chest.

“No!” You rasp, “I’m fine. I’m a rookie, it’s my job to keep working no matter what—“

“It’s also,” Tim interrupts, “Your job to take care of yourself, but you’re shit at that, which is why you’re sick in the first place. So I’m going to drive you home and make sure you’re not going to die by yourself while you’re sick.”

You shake your head. “I used to work through being sick all the time at the Academy, I can do it.”

“And you were stupid for doing that too. The key difference here is that you’re not responsible for peoples lives at the Academy. I’m not going to get shot today because you’re too hopped up on cold medicine to cover me.”

“But—“

“I’m sorry,” He growls, “Were you under the impression that you have any sort of say in this decision?”

You close your mouth.

“That’s what I thought. Go wait at my desk while I clear this with the watch commander.”

You trudge solemnly to his desk, head and vision swimming. Great. Now Tim’s upset at you and you feel awful. Why is everything so terrible?

You slump into the chair at his desk, dropping your head onto your arms and allowing your eyes to close. The walk from the briefing room to Tim’s desk exhausted you. And your uniform feels extra uncomfortable.

You just want to be at home, not sick, and maybe sleeping restfully for the first time since becoming a cop. Maybe you’re not cut out to be a cop. Maybe you should quit. Maybe—

Someone gently shakes your shoulder, and your straighten, blinking blearily.

“Come on, up we go.”

A strong arm hooks under yours and carefully hauls you up, and let out a small whine at the movement. Tim’s desk is comfortable. And smells vaguely like him.

“Don’t give me that. I’m taking you home. We need to go get your stuff from the locker room.”

You whine again, as if the noise will somehow convey everything you’re feeling at the moment.

I don’t want to leave the temporary and fake saftey of Tim’s desk. I don’t want to go home cause my home is empty and I’m sick. I’m extra miserable because I’m sick. My brain isn’t working and I don’t remember what locker I put my stuff in. I don’t even know if I brought my stuff. Is it somehow possible for my technical-boss to take me to his house instead and tuck me into his bed that smells like him and has him in it so I can sleep next to another human being and feel safe for even twenty minutes?

Of course, none of this is relayed to Tim, who’s currently half holding half dragging you over to the locker rooms, grip firm but not unkind.

After assuring you that no one else is even going to be in the locker room because you’re now over an hour into your shift, he goes with you and helps you find and take your stuff. In your sick daze, you did manage to bring your bag and water bottle, but neglected to put any water in your water bottle or put your wallet in your bag.

Tim just mutters an “Alright, come on,” once your stuff has been acquired, and escorts you out to the parking lot.

Two things occur to you.

One, Tim is no longer dressed in his uniform. Instead, he now sports jeans and a dark gray henley.

Two, you’re both headed towards the personal parking lot.

If Tim isn’t in work clothes anymore, and he’s taking you towards his car, that means he’s not just dropping you off at your house.

He is, presumably, going to look after you. Because you’re sick.

He ushers you into the passenger seat, going so far as to help you up and grab the seatbelt for you. He leans over you when he does it, and there’s a second where he’s pressed against you and it’s so nice and you kind of want to live in the moment forever but you can’t because you’re sick and he’s mad at you and he shouldn’t have to deal with this and you should’ve been better.

You sniffle just as he starts the car, momentarily thankful for the engine turning over hiding the sound, but unfortunately, the second the tears start, they don’t stop.

Tim notices immediately, because of course he does.

“What’s wrong?”

You hiccup a half-sob. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called out.”

“Yeah, you should have.”

You sniff again, harder, cause now your nose is running. “I thought I could do it. I thought I could handle it.”

He eases the car out of the parking space. “Having a brain-cooking fever isn’t really something you can just handle.”

He eyes the fat tears rolling down your cheeks and you see the muscles in his jaw work.

“Why didn’t just call out sick?”

“I don’t like calling out. I wanna be a model employee. Model officer. Wanna be reliable. I wanna be—“

You swallow, voice hoarse and wobbly. “I just wanna be good.”

The car is silent for awhile. A long while. Tim doesn’t respond, and with your nerves now thoroughly fried and your immune system making a minor attempt on your life, you’re pretty sure you fall asleep.

You wake to Tim shaking you, albeit gently, and helping you out of the car. He instructs you to leave your bag and to go inside and change.

He really doesn’t have to tell you twice. You feel awful. So bad. Terrible. Horrible.

Changing clothes only serves to exhaust you further, so you trudge out to the living room and collapse onto your couch, shivering. There’s a blanket only a few feet away, but it’s just so far.

You hear your front door open and the sound of heavy-footsteps, and then there’s the creak of your shitty fridge opening and a few mumbled curses.

You ignore the noises behind you and dedicate all of your energy to grabbing the remote off the coffee table and finding something you don’t have to think about watching. Maybe Criminal Minds. Or Bluey.

“I,” Tim starts, then annoyedly snatches the blanket off the end of the coach and drags it up over you, “Am going to the store, because your fridge looks like it hasn’t been used since the eighteen-hundreds. Don’t die while I’m gone.”

“Okay,” You say, but your voice is hoarse and muffled by the blanket so it comes out more like, “Mmomhay.”

You end up watching Jurassic Park, because nothing makes you feel better like dinosaurs and people getting eaten by them. Classic.

Tim does return at some point, right about when you’re thinking of just binge watching every single Jurassic Park/World movie, and starts making noise in your kitchen. Which you also ignore.

You’re doing a lot of ignoring today.

It’s easy though, is the thing. Tim is cooking something, if the sounds of grocery bags and pots and pans and chopping are anything to go off, and he’s handled you and his’s shifts, so there’s no work to worry about, and you’re really honestly too sick to think about any other things that need to be done.

Tim’s taking care of it. So you don’t have to worry, cause he’s cooking something, and people are getting eaten by dinosaurs on the tv in front of you, so maybe everything will be okay for the time being.

The okay feeling comes to a swift and brutal end when Tim comes around the edge of the couch and tells you to sit up.

“M’ comfy,” You mumble, indignant.

He rolls his eyes, ever exasperated. “You can’t eat soup while laying down.”

“Watch me.”

“No. Come on, sit up.”

You whine as he pulls you forward, stuffing pillows behind you so you don’t actually have to put effort in to staying upright. He then places a tray you didn’t know you owned (maybe he bought it?) on your lap and places a small bowl of soup and a sleeve of saltines.

Your eyes begin to burn with unshed tears again.

Tim groans. “It’s just soup, Boot.”

You sniff harshly. “No one’s made me soup before.”

He sigh’s long-sufferingly, but his vocal exasperation is undermined by the careful way he dabs at the tears on your cheeks.

“Thought you liked your mom.” Tim says, a question hidden in his voice.

“I do. But we were really poor, so she couldn’t really afford to take time off work because I was sick. And I got sick pretty often so,” You pick up your spoon with shaky fingers. “I got good at taking care of myself.”

“Yeah?” Tim says, opening the package of saltines for you, “Then where’d all that skill go?”

He clearly means it as a joke, but you still can’t help the small stab of guilt in your chest.

You set the spoon back down. “I’m just really tired.”

He doesn’t sigh again, but he does purse his lips in that way he does when he’s upset about something and can’t quite decide how to show it.

When he moves, it surprises you. He takes the soup off your lap, moves the tray to the little coffee table by your couch. Turns the TV volume up. Loud enough to hear the audible crunch of the Spinosaurus battling the T. Rex.

Then, he reaches forward and just. Reaches his arms around your waist and back and pulls you forward, then borderline man-handles you into a comfortable position with your legs now where your head used to be, and your had pillowed on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you just that much closer.

You couldn’t have stopped yourself from melting into the embrace even if you weren’t hopped up on cold medicine.

After a few minutes of mindlessly watching a Spinosaurus go on a rampage, he speaks again.

“You wanna know what I think?”

You nod into his arm, face smushed.

“I think you got really good at making people not worry about you. You probably had to.”

For a brief second, you think about hunger, and sickness, and locked cars.

“And I think that in my haste to get through this training period and make it to Sergeant, I didn’t bother looking deeper to find out if you were lying or not.”

You shift in place, now a little uncomfortable as the conversation has switched over to you. “It’s not really your responsibility.”

“It is,” Tim says easily, tone-matter-of-fact. “You’re my rookie. And it shouldn’t have taken me this long to learn what kind of training and support you needed.”

You sit up at his words. Which is a huge mistake, because then you get really dizzy and nauseous and there are weird stars dancing across your vision.

“You—“ You pause, taking a deep breath, “This is police work. I shouldn’t have to be coddled every step of the way.”

“Lay back down,” He tugs you down by your waist. “You aren’t coddled every step of the way. You’re a capable cop. You’re good at your job. I’m not holding your hand. I’m giving you what you need.”

You sink lower on the couch, trying to hide your face from this mortifying experience. Unfortunately the closest thing to hide your face in is Tim’s side.

Oh well. Beggars can’t be choosers.

He rubs your back consolingly. It only feels a little patronizing.

“But,” He continues, “I don’t know what you need if you don’t tell me.”

“I don’t want to bother you with that. You’re my T.O.”

“And you’re my rookie,” Tim continues smoothly, “I can’t send my rookie out on the streets if any criminal can get to her through a hug.”

“Hey,” You grumble, “That’s mean.”

“No it’s not.”

You pull your face away from his side and go back to facing the TV.

“But what if I need this a lot? What if my brain gets… screwy when I’m alone for awhile, and this is what fixes it?”

“Then I’d say it was a fairly normal reaction and need.” Tim shrugs.

You look up at him questioningly.

“Look. I didn’t have a great dad either. It’s not…” He trails off, jaw working. “Bad things happened to you. You dealt with them the only way you knew how. But now you need a little extra help. That’s all.”

“That sounds like something Lucy would say.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “How could you tell?”

The conversation lulls into a gentle silence. Tim continues trailing his hand up and down your side. Up and down, up and down, up and down. And occasionally pause to rub, knead, or scratch. All of which you lean into with equal amounts of shame and enjoyment.

“You’re like a cat,” He mumbles, eyes trained on the still rampaging Spinosaurus, “Can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before.”

You don’t have it in you to do anything more than make a non-committal hum.

A couple beats pass.

“Thank you.”

Tim’s hand trails a little higher on the next pass, his large palm curling up over your shoulder and to the back of your neck.

“For what?”

⋆౨ৎ˚˖ ࣪

masterlist | kofi

taglist:

@wowzabowza69 @4kirstein @marvel-z0mbie @mca-attack21 @winchesterkenzie @daithideolishmer18 @entoxicant @scarlet-issilly

[havennz]

⁀જ⁀➴ 01 - love and the rest

< | masterlist | >

synopsis: you've been getting letters, from the same mystery admirer. and honestly, you can't tell who it is. all your guesses have been wrong, wrong, and wrong. pairing: bsf!felix x bsf!reader a/n: gosh, i'm excited! also, i hope y'all enjoy!

The first one went something like this:

hey, so i like you. haha. i can’t even tell anything about me, really. it would kind of out me so quick. anyway, yeah! happy valentines’ day! maybe next year i’ll work up the courage to actually ask you out… ~ your secret admirer

This one was slotted in between your locker door. And when you opened your locker, you had also found a bouquet of tulips. Subtle, and discreet. you loved it. Mostly, people would think of roses for Valentines’ Day. but your admirer had gotten you tulips instead. Doesn’t look so romantic, sure. but anyone who had spent at least an hour with you would immediately pick up on your passion for flowers. And they probably would know that you knew what each of them meant.

You weren’t a romantic. No. Not really. More so, you liked the idea of love, but you were never sure if it was safe. You were worried someone would stab your pure heart if you gave it to them so plainly, on a white pearl plate.

⁀જ⁀➴

The second was unexpected though, on a rainy Tuesday morning:

“hey. i think you’re really pretty. i don’t know why. i just felt like i had to say it. and your smile gives me cuteness aggression lol. also i saw how you reacted to the tulips last time, so here are more!!”

This one cracked a smile, you couldn’t lie. opening the locker, you were ecstatic to find that — yes — he had gotten you your favourite flowers again. Tulips. Funny how they became your favourite, isn’t it? 

Tulips were a funny type of flower. They come in one size, in different colours… but unlike other common flowers, they usually have no scent except for the harsh but loved smell of grass. Did your secret admirer know all this before making his final choice to gift you them? Or maybe they just saw tulips one day, and decided to be consistent with their flowers, you chided yourself. No matter how much you tried to make it seem like the letters were no big deal, you still couldn’t stop the smile creeping up on your face as you slammed close the locker door, flinching because of the loud clanging sound, taking a deep breath.

No, Y/N. It wasn’t that serious. This mysterious person behind a pen, you’re slowly to starting to fall in love with probably just has a small crush on you. Nothing that serious. But why did his letters always make your heart jump when you saw the slightly yellowed piece of paper?

⁀જ⁀➴

You kept the second letter tucked in your notebook, folded carefully like it meant something more than just lovestruck ink on paper.

That Tuesday morning had been dreary in every way except one. There they were again. Tulips. Fresh, vivid, damp from the rain but still bright enough to make you pause.

You tried to play it off all day, but by lunchtime, it was eating at you.

“I think… it might be Seungmin.”

Felix, mid-sip of strawberry milk, coughed. “Seungmin? Kim Seungmin?”

You glanced around, lowering your voice. “Keep it down.”

He leaned in, still half-laughing. “What makes you think that?”

You hesitated. “He’s been weird lately. In a nice way. Like, he gave me part of his muffin this morning.”

Felix raised his brows. “Generous.”

“And he offered to carry my books last Friday. I didn’t even drop anything! He just… asked.”

“So,” Felix said, nodding slowly. “Wow, he’s in love”

You shot him a look. “I’m serious. What if it is him?”

Felix was quiet for a beat too long, before he said, “Well… I mean, sure. I guess it could be.”

You frowned. “That doesn’t sound convincing.”

“No! I’m just saying, Seungmin’s... subtle. If he liked someone, he wouldn’t be loud about it. This whole secret admirer thing feels like something he’d pull, you know?”

You blinked. “Dramatic?”

Felix shrugged, swirling his milk carton absentmindedly. “Meh, he’s got the vibe.”

You chewed on that for a second. “But… tulips? Does Seungmin seem like the kind of guy who’d know I like tulips?”

Felix hummed. “He’s observant. He might’ve picked it up. Or maybe he overheard you rambling about flower language during free period once.”

You raised a brow. “Rambling?”

“I mean that in the most flattering way possible,” Felix grinned.

“Maybe I’m just overthinking it,” you muttered. “Like, this could all be coincidence. He might just be... being polite.”

Felix nodded thoughtfully. “Or maybe he’s just scared to tell you directly.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “That would make two of us.”

He smiled, soft. “Well. Mystery guy seems to be doing okay so far.”

You leaned back against the bench, eyes trailing up to the cloudy sky. “I just want to know who it is. I don’t even care if he likes me that much or not. I just want to know.”

“Don’t worry,” he said lightly. “We’ll figure it out.”

⁀જ⁀➴

The next few days passed by real quick, as if the world realised that you had been skipping at your own pace, and just to inconvenience you, started increasing its speed like a treadmill. But finally, after 3 days of what felt like nothing and everything, you had gotten some time for yourself.

So yeah, naturally, you sat in the campus’ cafe, staring at the strawberry latte you had gotten “on the house” from Felix, who was working busily behind a counter.

You hadn’t thought about the letter in days. You couldn’t, there just wasn’t enough time.

Your mind wandered to all sorts of places. Of course, you were almost sure it was Seungmin. The sharp tongued, narrow eyed lecture mate. It had to be him. Who else could it be? His sudden change in demeanour had tied in perfectly with the arrival of the letters. Could this be a slow burn enemies to lovers trope stitched perfectly into your life? Honestly, you wished it was Seungmin. Of course, this entire thing had started out as a fancy, but what if it was real? The shared glances when the professor cracked a lame joke. What could it all mean?

So, of course, while you were sitting there with that cute pout on your face, pondering about love and the rest, he decided it was time for an iced americano.

taglist: @raspb3ary

havennz™ © 2025  -  all rights reserved to @havennz, please do not steal, plagiarise, or adapt without prior permission from me!

[ticklygiggles]

Closed tab | Kuroo Tetsurou x Reader [n$fw]

Commissioned by anonymous

A/N: Thank you so so much, anonymous commissioner. It was a big pleasure to work for you again, hehe. I hope you enjoy this one! Thank you! Big thanks to precious @/lovelynim for beta reading mwah

Friendly reminder that my commissions are still open! Summary: Double check before you leave.

Words: 1.7k

It was a quiet afternoon. The weather was starting to change, giving way to the heat of summer, so the fan was on, spinning while you and Kuroo were curled up on the couch. 

It wasn't that hot yet, so your legs were tangled with his as you both rested languidly on either side of the couch. There was a movie playing in the background, but the soft hum of the fan drowned out the sound, and it wasn't like you were paying much attention anyway. 

His fingers absentmindedly caressed your shin, his phone resting in his free hand, his finger sliding up. Kuroo chuckled softly every now and then when he saw a funny video.

His soft laughs would make you smile as you scrolled through Tumblr on your laptop, casually reblogging a few things, a gif here, an art post there. 

Nothing out of the ordinary, except that the content wasn't exactly ordinary... or would it be ordinary if in these gifs and art posts someone was laughing hysterically with tears in their eyes while another person tickled their feet or armpits?

Your cheeks were kissed pink, a silly smile pulled at your lips, your stomach was fluttering, but you tried to be subtle, careful, always closing the tab when Kuroo leaned over to show you something funny or when you stepped away. There was no one in the world you trusted more than Kuroo, but this kind of thing—it was just better to keep it a secret. 

You allowed your eyes to linger on a pretty gif, your mouth watering as the person in it shook their head in blissful desperation as two hands dived between their thighs, squeezing the muscle just right to make anyone screech with hysterical laughter. 

“All good, love?” Kuroo’s sudden voice made you jump.

You had nearly pressed your nose against the screen of your laptop and he was looking at you with a raised eyebrow, concern and amusement glinting in his golden eyes. You blushed slightly, but let out a soft chuckle, nodding your head. 

“I’m fine, I just… couldn’t read this part too well,” you answered vaguely, closing the internet tab and closing your laptop. “Anyways, what do you want for dinner?”

Kuroo grinned, his lips curling in that lazy smirk that you adored. “Surprise me!”

You smiled with a soft nod and headed to the kitchen.

Two minutes later, his phone rang and you recognized the notification music: it was from his work. A last-minute request to send a report before midnight, probably. It had happened before. 

“Darling–”

“Yes, of course,” you answered from the kitchen even before he could say anything. You didn’t even think about it. You’ve lent him your computer many times before and you had closed the tab from your blog…

… Except… you hadn’t.

But you were blissfully unaware of this fact as you made dinner and Kuroo typed the password of your laptop with agile fingers. 

At first, Kuroo blinked, confused. Then he stared at the screen. There it was, in all its glory, the gift you were salivating at not even ten minutes ago. Someone laughing, fingers squeezing soft, sensitive skin. It didn’t even have a caption, but at the very bottom of the post, a single tag was added: #my dream.

Kuroo swallowed.

“Oh,” he said out loud, but very quietly, you didn’t get to hear him all the way to the kitchen. 

The tips of his ears turned red and had to fight everything in him to actually start writing that email, but he came back to it once he sent it.

---

“I only made sandwiches because–” You froze mid-step as you reentered the living room with one plate on each hand. Kuroo looked up at you from your laptop… from your tickle blog. 

Your heart dropped straight to the floor, a silent gasp making its way out as your eyes widened. “Oh my god…” you whispered.

His gaze was unreadable for half a second, then it softened, and his lips curved into the slowest, most amused smirk that made your heart jump.

“So…” he started. “You like tickling, huh?”

You nearly dropped the plates, your knees nearly giving up on you. “I- I thought I closed that tab…”

“Well, seems like you didn’t, love,” he said with a soft smirk, setting the laptop aside. “Don’t panic, though. I’m not judging.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. Your face felt like it was on fire.

Kuroo stood up and walked over to you, taking the plates from your hands and setting them on the table. Then he cupped your cheeks softly, making you look at him, his thumbs gently brushing against your cheekbones as if he wanted to ground you. 

“Hey. Breathe. It's okay. Actually... it's kinda cute.”

You blinked at him, stunned. That was not happening. Kuroo did not just see your biggest secret in the whole world. You have closed the tab! You–

“Hey.” He mumbled, kissing your forehead. “Don’t panic, I don’t find it weird. At all. I don’t find you disgusting. I don’t think you're crazy.”

You blinked again, feeling the sting of tears in your eyes. “R-Really?”

He chuckled lovingly, as if you had done the most adorable thing ever and nodded. “Really, this is something you like. And I like everything about you, remember?” He pressed a kiss on the tip of your nose. “Calm down, okay?”

You nodded a little or at least tried to as you looked at him. “I- I… Is it really not weird to you?” 

His smile grew more genuine. “No, silly,” he said in that purring voice of his. “I actually am a bit interested… well, a lot interested.” His fingers moved down a little, fingertips brushing against the sides of your neck, barely touching you, but your skin broke in goosebumps and your breath hitched. 

“Do you want to…” you started, then hesitated as if you wanted him to finish your line of thoughts. 

“Tickle you?” He grinned. “Yeah. But only if you want me too.”

He really didn’t have any idea. How much you wanted him to absolutely and irrevocably wreck you until you were sobbing.

You gulped, your cheeks blushing more as you bit your lip, eyes flicking away. “... I do,” you answered in a whisper.

Kuroo leaned closer, lips almost touching yours, voice dropping low just enough to make your ears tingle. “Then… why don’t we eat those sandwiches later and we relax on the couch?” His fingers tapped gently at your waist, barely touching.

Your face flushed impossibly red, but this time you were smiling a little. Flustered. Giddy. 

A soft nervous giggle escaped your lips as he smirked and held your hand, dragging you to the couch and guiding you into a laying position. Your heart nearly escaped your chest as he straddled your hips, pinning your arms above your head with one of his own.

A laugh escaped your trembling lips and he also laughed. “What’s so funny? I’m not even doing anything yet,” he purred. 

You couldn’t talk, your body was tingling in anticipation. You both had had thousands of tickle fights before, thankfully, Kuroo never noticed how much you enjoyed whenever he got the upper hand, but now he knew and you were sure he was not going to have any mercy on you. 

And you hoped for that. 

Kuroo hummed in thought and your body instinctively pressed harder against the couch, as if you wanted to melt into it to escape his golden eyes, but he was looking at you, and when his free hand made contact with your ribcage, you nearly screeched. 

“Goodness, you’re so ticklish,” he chuckled, fingers wiggling, squeezing, clawing and digging against your ribs as if he knew exactly where to touch to drive you absolutely insane– he probably did. 

You laughed, didn’t even try to hold it back, why would you? You had been waiting for this for way too long to act subtle now. You squirmed and arched and squealed and laughed and Kuroo laughed with you, especially when you nearly lost it when his thumb rubbed deep circles on your highest rib, near the hollow of your pit. 

“STAHAHAHAP!” You begged, tears of mirth already clinging to your lashes as you bucked and squirmed under him. “Plehehehease! Tehehetsu, plehehease!”

Kuroo chuckled with mischief, making your stomach drop. “Why should I?” He asked, moving to the left side of your rib cage to attack the same rib. “If I remember correctly, you made a post on your blog talking about how badly you wanted to be tickled right here,” he said, zeroing on that poor rib with almost surgical precision. “And if I remember correctly, you wrote, and I quote: ‘... tickled until I can’t breathe. No mercy, no safe word. Just absolute torture.’”

You would have whined if you weren’t laughing so hard, tears finally escaping from your tightly shut eyes. So he did read your blog, huh? 

“Cat got your tongue?” Kuroo teased, pinching on that rib to have you screeching with hysterical laughter. “Or you’re just too ticklish and can’t even talk, hmm?”

You shook your head in desperation, your legs kicking behind him and your hips bucking, trying to push him off, but it was impossible to make him stop and the mere thought of him tickling you there for hours on end, made you cum suddenly. 

That exploding sensation made you cry out a moan, your limbs trembling and your stomach tensing as the aftershocks made you spasm.

“What- did you–?” Even though shocked, Kuroo kept tickling you through your orgasm, milking out every last bit of your pleasure until you were whimpering.

You were still gasping for air when his hand finally slowed, teasing shapes over your ribs. Your chest was heaving, cheeks flushed, your whole body limp and trembling beneath him.

Kuroo tilted his head, grinning down at you with that look, mischievous, but impossibly loving. “So,” he mumbled, brushing your damp hair from your face. “That good, huh?”

All you managed was a breathless giggle and a weak nod, making him chuckle.

He leaned in, kissed the corner of your mouth, and whispered against your lips, “and we’re only starting,” he smirked, his fingers sneaking between your legs to tease the tender spot in your inner thighs, your eyes widened. “This spot right here, it was ‘your dream’, right? Shall we make it come true?”

And from the gleam in his eyes, you knew the night was far from over.  After all, you did forget to close that tab.

[visionsofyouandme]

Something Borrowed

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜: Javier steals away the bride for a moment of privacy.

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 1.1k

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜/𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚜: Javier Peña x F!Reader. Post S3 Narcos. No use of y/n. Wedding scene. Themes of infidelity and secret relationship(?). Kissing. Language. Steve Murphy makes an appearance. Pet names in Spanish (hermosa). Pictures are for mood purposes only. Reader has no physical descriptors other than wearing a white dress.

𝙰/𝙽: It's been a minute! Hi! Enjoy this lil bit about an insatiable Javi. Working on some stuff, so there's more to come... particularly for Joel (no surprise there), and Harry Castillo! Hope ya'll have been doing well, and I miss ya terribly <3

Javier felt indifferent to weddings. Sure, they were a fun place to drink, socialize, maybe dance a bit… But he still never really enjoyed them. 

But of course, there was you.

You, sitting at the bridal table in that beautiful white dress, talking to another guest. All smiles and holding the skinny flute of champagne as you nodded along to whatever the guy was saying. It probably wasn’t important, in fact, Javier knew it wasn’t. He could feel it. 

So, he strode across the room, and put his hand on the back of your seat,

“Pardon me, do you think I could borrow the bride for just a minute?” Javier questioned, though he was only looking at you. You looked up, a quick wave of relief coming over your expression and you stood up, setting the glass down.

“I’m so sorry, I’ll be right back!” You said, patting the guest’s arm who waved you off and you turned, following Javier to the west corridor. You turned to face the doors and Javier stepped out of the way of it, his brown eyes tracking your movements. He couldn’t be bothered to see if anyone followed, already too transfixed on you. You sighed in relief when it seemed you were both in the clear, and you turned to Javier, smiling gently. 

“Having a good time?” he mused, and leaned back against the wall, raising his eyebrows. You laughed, shaking your head but smiled fondly. He could see the red rise in your cheeks, and he tilted his head to the side.

“Marriage treatin’ you good?” he questioned, and you looked at him with a pointed look, smirking lightly. 

“Yeah, three hours isn’t so bad. Come hour four, though… who knows?” she questioned, and Javier glanced at your lips, then his eyes moved back to your own. You were already watching him with a dark expression, and glanced back at the doorway. Javier took that as his chance and reached out, pulling you against him and crashing his lips against yours. You made a light noise of surprise, putting your arms over Javier’s. He could feel the slightest bit of resistance, but you didn’t shove him away with force.

“Javi- Someone could-” you mumbled against his lips. But, he turned you around so you were pressed against the wall. “My husband will be very-” 

“I’m sure he’s just fine, hermosa.” he mumbled, beginning to kiss down your jaw, then your neck. You sighed that sweet sigh he loved so much, and he felt your hand move against the back of his head, curling into his dark hair. He lifted his head only when you gave a tug of insistence. 

“You underestimate him, Javier. He’s very protective, and very attentive to my absence.” you said with a pointed look, and Javier looked down at you with half lidded eyes. He raised an eyebrow, smirking lightly.

“Can’t be that attentive if I have you here now,” Javier responded. Your mouth stood agape and you raised your hands to push at his chest, but he caught your wrists. You looked up at him, eyes bright and fierce, just the way he liked you. He raised both eyebrows now, and you shook your head,

“You’re a bad man, Javier Peña.” you scolded, but he saw no true bite or insult to your words. He leaned in, his lips hovering over yours for just a moment. 

“Yeah, but you like me that way.” he murmured, and then dove in for another hot kiss. You were less resistant to this one, your hand moving to find purchase on his shoulder. He pressed you back against the wall, and you were beginning to melt into the kiss. He could feel the stress of the day begin to wash off of you, and a hand settled around the small of your back. He began to kiss at your neck again, nosing at the column of your neck in search of any remnant of your perfume. He wanted to drown in it, to be surrounded by it. 

“Fuck, your husband is one lucky man.” Javier groaned, and he heard you laugh, albeit a bit breathlessly. 

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” you breathed as he kissed down your neck to your collarbone, his hand moving down the small of your back to curve around your ass, squeezing it over the satin material. You gave a soft gasp in response, and he grinned against your skin. 

“Oh, absolutely.” he chuckled lowly. He ran his tongue along your skin and you shivered, moving your body against his and curving your ass out into his touch. Javier smirked and lifted his head to give you a hot, searing kiss. You tilted your head to fit against his, sighing against his lips. 

“Come on, Javi… I gotta get back, we gotta get back. The bouquet toss will be soon-”

“You worry too much, hermosa. Just two more minutes-”

“Jesus Christ,” a voice said not too far from you two and your heads both whipped around, seeing Steve Murphy with his tie undone and a top button undone holding a glass of champagne. He was shaking his head, and smirking.

“I knew I’d find you two here. They’re asking for you.” he said, and Javier rolled his eyes,

“Can’t a man have five minutes with his wife?” he questioned, clearly a bit bristled at the interruption. You put your hand against his cheek, leaning to give him a kiss on the cheek. 

“There’s always the honeymoon, mi amour.” You laughed, and Steve shook his head once more, gesturing back with his glass,

“Make yourselves decent and get back before I tell one more stupid story about Javi and the DEA. I can only make them laugh for so long without the stars of the show.” he said, giving a wide shrug of his shoulders. Javier looked at him darkly, but then nodded vehemently and waved him off. 

“Alright, alright. We’ll be there. One minute.”

“Make it 30 seconds.” Steve quipped before he slipped back inside before Javier could give him a response. Javier huffed, and you smiled, leaning back as you adjusted his tie and fixed his hair.

“Murphy’s always been a fucking buzzkill.”

“Isn’t he your best man?”

“Yeah. He is.” 

You giggled gently, and he looked at you, his gaze immediately softening. He raised a hand to swipe a baby hair from your cheek, gazing at you like you hung the moon. You smiled softly, and he leaned in to give you a light, innocent kiss. You pulled away and slipped from between Javier’s body and the wall, walking back to the doorway leading back to the wedding hall.

“Come on, Mr. Peña.” you said, extending your hand, and he smiled wide, walking over and taking your hand, giving it a firm squeeze. 

“Coming, Mrs. Peña.” 

Thank you for reading! Comment, like, reblog... anything is appreciated!

dividers by @/saradika-graphics & photos from Pinterest.

[punkrockmlchael]

Need a Favor

Masterlist | Fred Hechinger Characters Masterlist

Customer: Anon!

Order: pistachio almond ice cream in a cup with caramel

Ingredients: Fem!Reader x Simon Kalivoda, College AU, Fluff, Forced Proximity, Simon Comforting Reader, Reader has a Cat

Total: $16.32 (1632 words)

Order note from the scooper (Simon): "Hi, love! Thank you for your order! Uh, you're really cool, like, wow, uh, but here's your pistachio almond ice cream with caramel! I think this combination is honestly amazing, something about caramel with pistachio almond, it's just perfect... Please, come back soon and get some more ice cream from us!"

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shamelessly this because a self insert based on my own life experiences, sorry not sorry. huge thank you to both @yearsbecomingcool + @keeryhours for reading this over for me smooches to you both! and thank you to @peachyproserpina for the cat name hehe

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you mumbled, forehead hitting the door of your apartment gently. You fumbled with the doorknob again, groaning when you confirmed it was indeed locked. “No,” a small whine escaped your lips.

You repositioned your cat, Gunther, in your arms, glaring down at him slightly as he meowed up at you. He snuggled into your body, meowing again and acting cute as if he wasn’t just the reason you became locked out of your apartment. “You’re extremely lucky you’re cute.” You muttered, scratching his head gently. 

This just seemed to be how your day was going. After the worst day at work with customers, an argument with a coworker (and staying super late to ensure things were done to avoid more arguments) you wanted nothing more than to crawl into your bed and burrow under your blankets while eating a tub of ice cream… or a whole pizza; really any food you could get your hands on. But, unfortunately, Gunther had other plans. He wanted to explore the halls of the apartment complex… so when you followed after him to catch him, the door ended up shutting. And you swore you had left it unlocked. But, of course it was locked. This was just your luck. 

This was just how your days seemed to go recently. If it wasn’t for shit luck, you’d have no luck at all. Everything was piling up, everything was happening at the same time, and you were truthfully at your breaking point. If someone looks at you wrong, you might just burst into tears right then and there. 

Taking a deep breath, you held Gunther tighter to your chest, as you glanced around the hall of the complex. It was late—almost midnight—and you didn’t know who to turn to. The sweet older lady three doors down was definitely in bed by now; the single mom of two young kids to your left was in bed as well, trying to rest up for another day with her kids; the girls across the hall around your age were on vacation for the week… it left you with one option. 

You sighed to yourself before walking towards apartment 3A, the apartment on your right. Please be home. You knocked on the door softly, hoping and praying that someone—anyone—would answer the door. 

After a few moments you heard shuffling from the other side of the door. After a quick unlock of the door, it swung open to reveal your neighbor, Simon. He yawned softly, leaning against the door frame as he looked you up and down with a small raise of his eyebrow. You glanced down at your outfit… pajamas?... and internally grimaced. Right… booty shorts and an oversized band tee. Look, today was rough. 

“What brings you to my door at midnight, hm?” He smirked slightly. “Miss me that much?” He teased. The truth is you and Simon were kind of… friends? You went to high school together, albeit you weren’t in the same friend group, you knew of each other. When you moved in next door to him he told you that if you ever needed anything, ever needed a favor, to let him know. 

“I need a favor,” you mumbled quietly, looking at him. 

“A favor? At midnight?”

“Look, just, please,” you sighed, eyes closing as tears threatened to fall. “I had the worst day ever, literally it was the shittiest thing ever. Customers were a fucking pain in the ass all day. I got into this huge fight with my coworker, all because I forgot one little thing. My god, I’m human. And I ended up staying super late to make sure she wouldn’t get pissed at me tomorrow when she opens… I just wanted to lay in my bed and eat some ice cream, or some pizza, anything really. But, Gunther really wanted to explore the halls,” you held Gunther up and he meowed at Simon, purring softly as he snuggled into you more. “And so I followed after him and apparently my door was locked and now I’m locked out of my apartment at midnight and I don’t know what to do.” You said, tears actively flowing down your cheeks now as you looked at Simon. 

“Uh,” Simon said, taking in your disheveled look again. “Wait, okay, don’t cry.” He mumbled, stepping closer to you. 

“I can’t help it.” You sniffled, shaking your head. “Today was the worst day of my life and it keeps getting worse. I mean, look at me!”

“Oh, don’t worry, I am,” he replied, a small smirk on his face. “Look, why don’t you come inside and we will get this figured out together, yeah?” He asked, stepping to the side to let you inside. You nodded slightly, tears still flowing down your face as you walked into his apartment. The door shut behind you both and Gunther jumped out of your arms, off to explore Simon’s apartment. 

“Wait,” you mumbled, sniffling softly. 

“Relax, he’s fine,” Simon reassured you, walking towards the kitchen. “Let him wander, don’t worry about him. Right now I’m more worried about you… want some hot chocolate?” He asked, looking back at you. 

You wiped your eyes gently and followed after him, nodding slightly. “Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know… don’t go out of your way for me,” you said softly, leaning against the counter gently. 

“It’s fine,” he said, grabbing a pot from the cabinet. “I was planning on making some for myself anyways.” Simon lied, pouring milk into the pot. 

You sniffled again, watching him as he went about making the hot chocolate. “You sure?” You asked softly, hopping up onto the counter carefully. 

“Positive. I love hot chocolate, especially late at night.” Simon turned the stove on and looked back at you, smiling slightly. He walked towards you, stopping directly in front of you. “So, who do I have to beat up from your work? Was it that bitch Marissa again?”

You giggled softly, shaking your head. “No, surprisingly it wasn’t her,” you mumbled, wiping your eyes again. “Customers were just so rude today. And, I’m like, it’s just coffee, you know? I‘m one person and I’m only human, I can only do so much.” You sighed. 

“I thought you were a super cool goddess who could literally do everything?” He joked, smiling as he moved closer to you. He rested his palms on the countertop beside you, trapping you in place. “What do you mean you’re a mere mortal who can’t do it all?”

“I know right?” You joked back, a small smile forming on your face. “I forgot to take my superhuman pill today.” 

Simon smiled, looking at you as he leaned in closer. “I’m sorry you had a shitty day, mine was not much better at the Grab and Bag,” he admitted. 

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, looking at him. “I was so caught up in my shitty day it didn’t occur to me that other people also had a shitty day.” Your hands move to his arms gently, nails running across his skin gently. “What made your day so shitty?” You asked, looking at him. 

He shivered slightly at the touch of your nails, leaning into the feeling as much as he could. “Customers there also believe I am superhuman.” He mumbled. “That and this really old couple were buying condoms and they were all up on each other and it made me gag.”

You laughed, a genuine laugh as you heard his confession. “Don’t like the thought of two old people getting it on?”

He grimaced slightly, shaking his head. “Not when they have that many wrinkles! There’s a limit, you know.”

You shrugged, nails gliding against his skin gently. “It’s cute when people are in love, you know?”

“In love, yes. In lust, no.”

You shrugged, agreeing with him before you thought for a moment. “Thanks for this, by the way.” You said softly, looking at him. 

“For what?” Simon asked, tilting his head to the side. 

“For opening your door. For letting me in. For listening to me cry and complain. For… for being a good friend, honestly.” You said, looking at him. 

“Anytime.” He answered honestly. “I totally meant it when I said if you ever needed a favor to ask.”

“Think I can ask for one more favorite tonight?” 

Simon smiled, “I suppose for a beautiful girl like yourself I could make an exception. What’s on your mind?”

“Think you could kiss me?” You asked, leaning in closer to him.

“Really?” Simon asked, looking at you. You nodded, a small smile on your lips as your hands wrapped around his biceps, pulling him closer. “Well, who am I to deny a damsel in distress?” He asked, leaning in slowly. He closed the gap completely, his lips meeting yours as his hands found your hips, pulling you closer to him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, playing with his hair softly as you kissed him back. 

You smiled into the kiss, deepening it before you heard a small sizzle from behind him. You pulled away quickly and looked at the stove, gasping as the milk boiled over. 

Simon’s head whipped around as he looked at the stove. “Shit,” he mumbled, moving to turn the burner off. “Fuck.” 

“Yeah, that’s how my day has been going,” you sighed, looking at him. “But it’s fine, I didn’t want any hot chocolate anyways.”

“Oh I hate hot chocolate. I was making it for you.” He admitted. 

You smiled, grabbing his hand gently before you pulled him back towards the counter. “Can I have another kiss then?” 

“You can have as many as you want,” he nodded, leaning in to kiss you again. “I'll clean the stove later.”

“Perfect,” you muttered, pulling him in by shirt collar.

simon kalivoda taglist: wanna join? click the form here! ; @keeryhours ; @iitsmandii ; @bumblebeeswrite ; @prettycalla ; @alexa0813 ; @samslvrgirl ; @littlemissholy ; @robinbuckleywife ; @daliah-xxo ; @fallout-girl219 ; @cheesesandwichsanto ; @kawaii1kitten ; @medievalharlot ; @delusionalbri

[cowboylikebuddie]

i. pilot

season one, episode one

evan buckley x fem!reader

masterlist | main masterlist

Juniper Jeffries sat in her patrol car with a playful smirk on her lips as she heard the familiar wail of a fire engine siren sounded behind her. Followed by the sharp blasts of the horn. JJ glanced up to her rearview mirror, and she spotted the unmistakable grin of Evan Buckley behind the wheel.

She let out a laugh of disbelief as she shook her head knowingly pulling over to the side of the road. Buck pulled in beside her rolling down his window, and JJ did the same leaning out of it with a sweet smile.

“Hey there, Buckley.”

“Juniper.” He gave a slow nod, biting his bottom lip with that glint of mischief in his eyes, “You, uh, wanna come for a ride?”

Juniper didn’t bother with a verbal answer. Instead, she turned off her engine, stepped out of her cruiser, and made her way to the truck. She buckled herself into the passenger side without a word before looking at his with a raised eyebrow.

Buck just chuckled, expecting nothing less, and pulled away down the street in pursuit of the nearest empty parking lot.

“Cute tie by the way.” Juniper murmured, pulling away from the kiss with a breathless grin. Her forehead rested on his, her fingers curling around the knot to loosen it playfully. She dipped her head to his neck pressing soft pecks to his skin.

Buck let out low, satisfied laugh dropping his head back against the headrest, “I heard you go mad for a man in uniform.”

“That,” Juniper started, lifting her eyes to meet his, her hands sliding from his shoulders to cup his jaw, “I can’t deny.”

She tilted her head again landing a small kiss to the corner of his lips, “This has been fun, but we both have jobs to get back to.”

“A little longer, come on.” Buck tried to coax, smirking as he leaned up stealing another kiss, deeper this time, pulling a pathetic moan from her throat.

She almost gave into him again. But she forced herself to pull away, “Maybe later, but I like my job and I’d like to keep it.”

“Fine.” He mumbled, his hand sliding to the strip of bare skin revealed at her hip from where her shirt had risen. He gave it a gentle squeeze, “But I’m caching in that raincheck.”

She laughed, slipping off his lap and dragging her fingers along his jaw, “I really hope you do.” She kissed him again, a softer more genuine kiss, “Now will you please take me back to my patrol car?”

“Only because you asked so nicely.”

They both climbed out of the back of the fire engine, laughing quietly to themselves as they rounded to the front. Buck started the engine, pulling out of the empty lot and driving the short distance back to Juniper’s cruiser.

Her cruiser which was now accompanied by a seething Athena Grant.

A groan slipped passed JJ lips the moment she spotted the figure – arms crossed, jaw tight and fury written all over her face.

“Shit.” Juniper cursed, catching Athena’s death glare through the windshield. As Buck pulled up beside the car, Juniper climbed out slowly, offering a sheepish wave.

“Hey Athena.”

“Do not ‘hey Athena’ me.” She snapped, “Where the hell have you been? Leaving your station without telling anyone. And what are you doing in a damn firetruck?”

Juniper winced, shutting the door behind her, “Well…”

From inside the rig, Buck gave a little three-fingered wave and a smile.

Athena tilted her head to the sky, “Lord, give me strength.” She took a deep breath, restraining herself, “You get in your car. You get back to your house. Now.”

“Yes ma’am.” They both muttered in unison.

As Juniper quickly slid back into her patrol car and Buck sped down the street Athena shook her head, grumbling under her breath.

“Damn, kids.”

Juniper’s heart dropped the second the call came through.

“A baby crying inside his wall, possibly flushed.”

She didn’t even stop to blink before flicking on her sirens and tearing through the streets of LA, weaving in and out of traffic, her stomach churning violently. The words repeating like a broken record in her head.

By the time she reached the apartment complex, bile had risen in her throat. JJ slammed her car into park and jumped out, her legs moving on auto pilot as she scanned for Athena. Without a word to the other first responders, Juniper jogged after her, slipping through the front gates at Athena’s side.

“Hey Princess.” Buck called out as he jogged down the front steps towards the engine, throwing a cheeky wink in her direction.

but Juniper didn’t even glance his way. Her face was drained of colour, teeth clenched, eyes focused straight ahead.

Buck slowed slightly, eyebrows furrowing as he turned to watch her go. That was weird.

JJ caught up with Athena just as they reached the building, her voice restrained as she delivered the intel she had, “The theory is that a kid, uh, gave birth and flushed the baby down the toilet.”

Athena stopped for a moment, absorbing the words and scanning Juniper’s wavering expression, “theory?”

Juniper nodded stiffly, “Yeah, to hide the evidence and now the baby is stuck in the plumbing somewhere.”

Athena’s eyes shifted to Juniper’s face, picking the slight gritting of her teeth, the slight tremble in her voice, the way her shoulders were stiff with tension. But she didn’t question it, she knew that some calls are harder than others.

“Has anyone located the mother to know if the theory is correct?”

“No,” JJ said quietly, her eyes still fixated on the ground, “Not yet.”

Athena took a deep breath, squaring her stance, thumbs hooking into her belt, “How many floors above were you hearing the crying?”

“Uh, floor five and six.”

“Let’s start on five.”

The two women made their way to the staircase, their boots echoing against concrete. As they climbed, Juniper blinked hard, trying to keep her mind focused. To keep her emotions at bay and keep detached. But it was impossible not to picture it. The helpless sound of a newborn’s cries echoing through pipes. The terror and desperation of a young girl doing the unthinkable.

Athena glanced over as they hit the landing on the fifth floor, “You okay?”

Juniper swallowed hard, her throat dry, “Yup.”

“Okay, let’s get to work.”

Athena and Juniper split up, each taking one side of the fifth floor. Juniper marched down her corridor, the adrenaline starting to buzz through her veins. She raised her fist and pounded on the first door.

“LAPD!”

It opened almost immediately. A woman peered out.

“Is there a teenage girl living here?” Juniper asked briskly.

The woman gave her a cold, silent look, then shut the door in her face.

“Lovely,” Juniper muttered, moving on.

“LAPD!”

“Open up!”

“Police!”

Door after door. Some were compliant, most weren’t. When one finally cracked open, a balding man with a beer in his hand stared at her with glazed eyes.

“Do you have a teenage girl living here?” Juniper asked.

He smirked, “I wish.”

She wrinkled her nose and waved him off with a shiver, “Gross.”

Further down the hall, a different voice echoed from the stairwell.

“LAFD! Do not flush your toilets!” Hen’s voice rang out as her boots clanged against the steps.

Juniper and Athena exchanged tired but amused looks.

“Hey, Hen,” Juniper called out, her tone dry, “How’s your day going?”

“Thena, JJ,” Hen puffed, “just peachy.”

“You can say that again,” Athena muttered.

Juniper gave a humourless laugh and turned back to the task at hand, moving with more urgency now. She banged on another door.

“LAPD! Open up!”

No answer.

She was about to walk away when she spotted movement at the far end of the hall. In the doorway stood a man and a young girl.

“Hey! Sir?” Juniper called, picking up speed, “Athena, I think I’ve got something.”

She turned the corner just as the door clicked shut.

Athena appeared at her side, and Juniper glanced at her. Athena nodded once, go.

Juniper stepped forward and knocked again, firm and loud. He opened in instantly, “Sir, we’re looking for a young girl.”

The door slammed in her face.

Juniper stared at it for a moment; disbelief etched across her features. She turned away, starting back toward the corridor until her boot slipped.

She caught herself on the wall, heart jumping, then she glanced down.

Blood.

Her voice was tight as she called out, “Thena…”

Athena moved up behind her, spotted it too, and the two women followed the thin trail of blood up the stairs and out onto the roof. It led them into an unfinished construction site. Rusted rebar, scattered tools, and exposed piping.

The trail ended at a large pipe in the flooring.

Juniper’s breath hitched. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth as tears stung her eyes, “Oh God,” she whispered, voice shaking, “She shoved her baby down there…”

Athena’s hand came down gently on her shoulder, “Go take a breather.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m not asking. Go.”

Juniper swallowed the lump in her throat and gave a stiff nod, turning and heading back toward the stairs.

She’d only made it down one flight when Buck darted down past her, swaddle in his arms, yelling, “Out of the way!”

Her eyes widened. She sprung up and chased after him, “You got the baby?” she shouted.

“Yeah!”

“Are they okay?”

“She will be if we move now!”

Juniper kept pace with him down the steps and towards the ambulance.

“Hen! Get ready!” Buck called out as they approached, “I’ve got her!”

Juniper reached the vehicle just as he climbed into the back of the ambulance, the tiny bundle close to his chest.

“Be careful, Buck,” Hen said softly.

Before he could respond, Athena’s voice rang out behind them.

“Hold up! I’ve got another one coming!”

Juniper turned and saw the man from earlier carrying the teenage girl in his arms, face flushed with panic. Her gut twisted. “Is that the mother?” she asked.

“No. Screw her.” Buck yelled, his expression hard.

“She’s a child,” Athena said,

Juniper stepped in, “Buck, you have to take her.”

Buck hesitated, fire behind his eyes, “Look what she did!”

“You’re refusing to take her?” Athena demanded.

“She flushed her baby!”

“Hey, hey!” Bobby cut in, arriving just in time, “What’s going on?”

“He’s refusing to take her,” Athena snapped.

Without a word, Bobby stepped in, gently taking the girl from her father’s arms. He carried her into the ambulance and placed her on the gurney beside the baby.

Buck’s voice was low and sharp as he looked between Athena and Juniper, “If that baby dies, it’s on you.”

The ambulance doors slammed shut behind him.

Juniper stood frozen, her heart sinking p in her chest. She turned and walked stiffly away from the crowd, boots hitting heavy on the pavement.

She made it to her patrol car just as the nausea hit.

She bent over beside the door, one hand on the frame, and vomited. Her whole-body trembling as a quiet sob escaped her lips.

Athena followed after her, giving her space. She stood waiting silently until Juniper straightened up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her breathing uneven.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Juniper let out a weak, bitter laugh, blinking tears from her lashes, “Just peachy.”

“Okay, good. Get in the car,” Athena ordered, her voice just as sharp and controlled as ever.

Juniper didn’t argue. She climbed into the passenger seat without a word, still pale, hands trembling slightly in her lap.

Athena started the engine and peeled away from the scene, sirens off but speed high, chasing the ambulance down the crowded L.A. streets.

They pulled into the hospital lot just as the emergency doors swung open and paramedics rushed the gurney inside. Athena barely waited for the car to stop before she jumped out, heading directly for Bobby and Buck, who stood near the entrance.

Juniper followed, but slowly. Her head bowed low, not wanting anyone to see the tears stains on her cheeks. Athena didn’t hold back. “Hey, you do not get to choose who lives and who dies,” she snapped, voice cutting through the chaos of the ER bay.

Buck turned to her, arms folded across his chest, a cocky look on his face, “Really? Because I was under the impression that kinda was my job.”

“That mother is no less a child than her baby,” Athena stepped in closer, her jaw tight, “you’re gonna get someone killed.”

“Well maybe, but not today.”

Athena didn’t flinch, “Yeah, you keep making jokes. I promise you, the next that you screw up, it’ll be your last.”

Then her tone dropped, cold and deliberate. “And you’re going to apologise. To my officer. Now.”

Buck hesitated. His eyes flicked past Athena to Juniper, who stood a few feet back, arms crossed tightly over her chest, gaze fixed on the pavement.

His expression softened, guilt replacing the heat.

“Jayje…” he said, voice quieter now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said back there.”

Juniper finally looked up at him, her face unreadable, “It’s fine, Buck. The baby didn’t die, so I guess I’m all good, right?”

The words cut deeper than she intended, or maybe exactly as deep. She didn’t wait for his response. She turned and walked back toward the patrol car, falling in step behind Athena, never once looking back.

Juniper laid curled up on her worn leather couch, freshly out of the shower with sweats on, and her damp hair in two braids, and a true crime doc playing faintly in the background. She held her blanket close to her chin as she listened to the TV. Then her phone buzzed on the coffee table, lighting up with a familiar name, she rolled her eyes ignoring it.

Then came the knocking. A series of frantic, unmistakable raps on her front door.

Juniper sighed, dragging herself up from her comfortable position and over to the door. She peeked through the peephole, and there he was. Evan Buckley with his arms full of chinese takeout bags in one hand, a six-pack dangling from the other, and a king-sized bar of chocolate tucked between his teeth.

He lifted his hand to knock again but JJ opened it before he got the chance, not wanting a noise complaint for her neighbours.

She opened the door slowly, one eyebrow raised.

“I come bearing peace offerings,” he mumbled around the chocolate, setting everything down quickly, “And apologies. So many apologies. Like a humiliating amount of apologies.”

Juniper leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed but lips twitching with the faintest smile, “You steal any more fire engines since I last saw you?”

Buck winced, “How did you know?”

“Hen called me, said you had been fired and that I should expect you to come over.”

“Am I that predictable?”

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

Juniper stepped aside and opened the door wider. “Come in.”

He didn’t need to be told twice as he placed every down on the island taking a seat without needing an invitation.

“You gonna tell me why you were fired, or do I have to guess?”

Buck let out an embarrassed laugh as he scratched the back of his neck, “Well, I, uh, I took the truck to impress a girl we rescued today. Bobby caught me in a… compromised position, and he fired me.”

“That’s rough, Buckley.”

“I don’t know what to do now, I love that job.”

“Become a male stripper.” Juniper suggested opening one of the beers Buck had brought, “You’re already half way there.”

Buck snatched the beer from her hand, “You don’t get to drink that if you aren’t going to be sympathetic.”

Juniper shook her head leaning against the counter in front of Buck, “But these are my apology beers, remember?”

A weird beat of tension passed between them as they locked eyes and Buck lifted the beer to his lips before passing it back to Juniper, “Did you get dumplings?” She asked, cutting through the thickness as she turned around coughing awkwardly.

Buck snapped out of his gaze, his face lighting up with a hopeful grin, “And chow mein, extra crispy egg rolls, cashew chicken, orange chicken, rice.”

A soft smile finally cracked through her cool exterior, “You’re ridiculous.”

“But adorable?”

“Eh, debatable.”

They moved over and settled on the couch, food spread out in front of them. Buck taking a long swig from his beer, letting out a tired sigh as the tension melted off his shoulders.

“So,” Juniper said between bites, “saved a woman and thought the next step was sex in a fire truck?”

Buck groaned, rubbing his face, “Don’t remind me. It wasn’t even about her, not really. I think I was just trying to feel normal after the day we had. And I chose the worst possible way to do it.”

Juniper nodded slowly, “We all cope differently. You just behave like a hormonal frat boy.”

He snorted, “Wow. Harsh.”

They both laughed for a beat, the air between them loosening.

“Thanks for letting me in,” Buck said eventually, quieter now, “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Juniper glanced over at him taking a bite of the orange chicken, “You could’ve gone anywhere. But you came here.”

“I always do,” he replied, eyes steady on hers. “I feel safe here.”

Juniper didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached over, broke off a piece of the chocolate bar, and popped it in her mouth. She chewed, then nudged him with her elbow.

“You’re lucky I like dumplings.”

“And you’re lucky I don’t give up easy.”

The blur of near-identical houses whipped past as Juniper and Athena cruised through Winnetka. Another sunny patrol in a neighbourhood riddled with recent daytime break-ins. It was quiet, eerily so. Most homes belonging to retirees or nine-to-fivers, the kind of people who trusted in picket fences and porch lights.

Juniper glanced out her window, her eyes scanning rows of trimmed lawns and neat hedges. It always struck her how each house held its own story. Entire lives unfolding behind drawn blinds and locked doors. Stories she'd never learn about.

Her thoughts were abruptly cut off by a voice crackling over the radio.

“All available units, residential break in on lambert road, winnetka. Somewhere between the 100 and 1500 blocks of Channel and Hadley. Two stories, single family dwelling, brown house, white trim, garage door is white. The child alone in the home, caller says theres a pink girls five-speed bike sitting on the porch.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Athena muttered, flipping the wheel hard as she turned down the next street, “We’re in Steven Spielberg land.”

Juniper leaned forward, eyes narrowing as she scanned for anything unusual. An open gate, a curtain twitching, anything out of place. But there was nothing.

The radio buzzed again.

“Officers, maybe if you put on your siren, I can determine where you are in relation to her. I could guide you to her.”

Juniper snatched up her radio, “That’s not a good idea. If they hear sirens, they might panic and do something stupid. We can’t risk the girl’s safety.”

“These areas have had a spate of daytime break-ins recently,” Athena added, voice firm. “and one homicide.”

Juniper bit her lip, thinking hard. Then an idea clicked. She grabbed her phone and started scrolling.

“What are you doing?” Athena asked, not taking her eyes off the road.

“You’re not gonna like it,” Juniper muttered, finding the contact. She tapped ‘Call’ and raised the phone to her ear, “Come on, come on…”

“Hey, Jayje,” Buck’s voice came through the line, curious but warm, “Everything okay?”

“You still at work?” she asked quickly.

“Technically? Yeah. Packing up my locker, why?”

“We’ve got a burglary in progress. Nine-year-old girl alone in the house. If the suspects know we’re outside, it could escalate fast.”

There was a pause.

“Are you asking me to steal a fire truck?” Buck asked, half laughing in disbelief, “You do remember that’s literally why I got fired, right?”

“I’m asking you to borrow one,” she said sweetly, “Please?”

Another pause. Then a sigh, “Five minutes.”

Juniper ended the call and slid her phone back into her pocket. Athena gave her a sideways look that could burn a hole through concrete, “Tell me you did not just ask the guy who got fired for stealing an engine to steal another engine.”

“I didn’t say ‘steal,’” Juniper replied, wincing slightly, “I said borrow. Big difference.”

“Uh-huh.” Athena shook her head, biting back a smile, “You’re lucky I like you, Jeffries.”

Juniper flashed her a sheepish grin, “Girl’s life might depend on it.”

Athena circled the block one more time, tension thick in the car, until Buck’s voice crackled over the radio.

“1243 Lambert,” he said, voice steady but tired. “I’m here.”

They pulled up beside the fire engine just as rolled down his window, the pout settling on his face said everything Juniper needed to know about how Athena’s glare was landing on him.

If the situation hadn’t been so serious, JJ might’ve laughed.

“She really called you, huh?” Athena asked, narrowing her eyes behind her sunglasses as she looked over at him.

Buck didn’t meet her gaze. “I was available,” he muttered, sounding half-defensive, half-resigned.

“All right,” Athena nodded, voice low but sharp, “No heroics. Don’t go chasing waterfalls”

Buck shrugged, a smirk flickering passed his scowl ghosting his lips, “I don’t know what that means.”

“No one thought you would,” Athena shot back, a flicker of humour breaking through her stern facade.

Juniper caught Buck’s eye, and for a brief second, the tension between them eased. They were all on the same team.

“We’ve got it!” the dispatcher’s voice cracked through the radio, laced with audible relief.

Juniper exhaled silently, a small cheer swelling in her chest.

“That’s it. You just passed her, cowboy,” Athena said, gripping her radio tightly.

Seconds later, Buck’s voice came through Juniper’s phone. “Yeah, I see the pink bike. I’m right outside.”

Athena hit the gas and pulled up two houses down. She and Juniper quickly stepped out, drawing their weapons and moving toward the back of the house. The gate gave a squeal as Athena pushed it open, both officers slipping inside and clearing the yard in practiced sync.

“Officers, how close are you?” the dispatcher asked again.

“Close,” Athena answered curtly.

“Thena,” Juniper whispered, nodding toward the glass-paneled back door, “I’ve got eyes on them.”

Athena crept up beside her, peeking in. Inside, two figures moved fast, rifling through drawers and tossing things into a bag.

“There better not be any cops on the other side,” one of the burglars muttered suspiciously.

“There aren’t,” the other replied, calm but firm. “Just needed you out of the house.”

That’s when Athena pushed through the door, voice booming: “Get on the ground!”

“LAPD! Don’t move!”

“You lying bitch!” one of them yelled, bolting toward the front of the house — but not before grabbing a screaming little girl by the arm.

“Shit!” Juniper hissed, breaking into a sprint, her heart in her throat.

She tore after them through the hallway and out the front door. The sight of the terrified child being yanked toward the porch made her blood run cold. The man tossed the girl aside like she was nothing, sending her crashing to the ground with a sob.

Juniper skidded to her knees beside her, helping her up quickly, helping her over to her mother. Then her eyes locked on the suspect fleeing down the driveway and towards a waiting motorcycle.

“No, no, no.” Juniper breathed, looking toward the firetruck for help.

Buck was already reading her mind.

Their eyes met, and she gave him a desperate look. Without hesitation, Buck darted back toward the firetruck. Athena’s voice rang out behind her, already calling for backup.

Juniper turned, ushering the girl and her mother toward the truck when she caught a glint of metal being pulled from his pocket. A gun.

“Move! Move! Cover!” Athena barked, stepping in and shielding the mother and daughter as Juniper pulled them behind the firetruck.

Three shots rang out. Each one narrowly missing Athena, who crouched low, drawing her weapon and preparing to return fire.

But before she could shoot, a powerful blast of water slammed the man off his bike, and down onto the pavement.

Both police officers turned toward the firetruck, where Buck stood on the top deck behind the water cannon, a wicked grin on his face.

Athena gave him a dry nod of approval.

Juniper broke into a grateful grin, adrenaline still sifting through her veins, before she followed Athena as they approached the stunned, drenched suspect. She holstered her weapon and cuffed him with firm precision.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Athena stated, gripping his wrist harshly walking his to the car.

Juniper glanced back at Buck once more, expecting him to be looking at her but he wasn’t. He had his phone pressed to his ear with an expression she had never seen before as he spoke to the dispatcher. JJ’s lingering smile quickly slipped away as she slid into the passenger seat.

next part

[bun-z-bakery]

𝛨𝑒𝑎𝑟𝘵 𐒆𝑛 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑𝘰𝑤

Pairing.Zayne x mc!gn!reader

Warnings/Tags. no major warnings for this one, mostly fluff. just hoping im writing the boys well cause im still trying to understand their characters sobs

Words.1k

A/N.i was randomly listening to Jins' album again this song popped up and ofc the ideas started trickling in and this little fic was born! Also i didnt wanna wait until winter lol if you can i'd recommend taking a listen to the song (linked in title) its so good, need me another Jin and wendy collab asap.

Menu | AO3

Winter. It was one of your favorite seasons, with the snow, the coziness of being wrapped up during the cold, and the way everything felt a bit more nostalgic around this time, making you feel warm on the inside.

No matter the season, each morning was like the last. Wake up, breakfast, and doomscroll, then get ready for work. This morning was no different until something on the window caught your eye.

The first time you saw it, you figured by how tiny and rough-looking it was, it must've been a funny coincidence created by nature. A little heart on your ice-covered window, you figured somehow the ice must've taken shape over one of the hearts you drew a few weeks ago, that you never cleaned. It was slightly rough, but anyone could make out what it was supposed to be.

You thought it was cute, and it reminded you of a certain person in your life.

Pulling out your phone, you snapped a quick photo and sent it to Zayne.

"look how cute!"

Zayne replies a few minutes later.

"It's so tiny I had to zoom in and ask a colleague if you had sent me a spec of dust as a joke."

You roll your eyes. Zayne, of course, had jokes.

A few days go by, and you figure the tiny frosted heart has melted by now, until you see it again. This time slightly bigger in size and sharper, as if its rough edges had been chiseled, leaving a perfect crystalized version of its former self behind.

It was beautiful, and by its formation, it created a stream of prisms that shone onto your living room floor. It was too perfect to be just a coincidence now. Snapping another picture before leaving, you decide not to send it to Zayne, but instead show it to him in person.

The walk to the Akso hospital was a chilly one. The cold air bit away at your face, making your eyes water, but seeing Zayne made it all the more worth it. Reaching his office door, you knock, he already knew it was you by your distinct way of knocking, and he was quick to let you in.

"Hello, my love, ready for your examination?" Zayne greets you with a kiss to your forehead before letting you in.

"Yep, I'm ready." You take a seat on the chair across from his desk and pull out your phone while he retrieves your files. Zayne sits down on his chair as he opens your folder.

"Last time—"

"I think I have a secret admirer," you interrupt, looking up from your phone at Zayne, who looks at you through his glasses with raised eyebrows at your sudden comment.

The room fell silent, and a growing tension began to fill the air. Zayne placed the folder down onto his desk, folding his hands on top of each other. His exterior was as calm as ever, but that didn't mean he wasn't wrecking his brain trying to figure out who this person might be.

"Secret admirer?" Zayne sounded almost offended that someone was actively pursuing you, his partner, of all people. He wasn't blind. He knew you were attractive, that's no secret, but that's beside the point. This new revelation put your entire appointment on hold. He wasn't going to let you leave until he learned more about your secret admirer.

"And what makes you think that?"

Zayne slowly leans in, attentive, ready for your grand reveal. He was intrigued, and you were eating it up.

"Well, remember that 'spec' I sent you a few days ago?" You air-quoted. Zayne sighs, closing his eyes before nodding. Zayne was expecting something along the lines of flowers at your desk at work or love letters, not that.

"Yes, I do recall you sending me a heart I nearly mistook for a spec of dust."

Zayne's cheeks flushed slightly. He looks away for a second before you continue.

"Well, look at this!" You show him the photo of the heart from this morning. The angle was perfect, showing off the crystallized heart and the prism that decorated your floor. You smile at the photo, Zayne's shoulders relax, and he lets out a small sigh.

"See? This is the second time someone left a heart on my window. I'll admit it's pretty."

Zayne clears his throat, pushing up his glasses, and the redness in his cheeks grows to his ears. Yet he keeps his composure, which may or may not be crumbling from embarrassment.

"This secret admirer of yours needs to find a new hobby."

Zayne brushes them off and turns his attention back to your folder. You had given him quite the scare, and for a second, he thought he was the one who needed a doctor. But you had already caught on, a long time ago, he was fun to tease.

"Nah, I think I should buy this secret admirer a ladder. I want to greet them properly next time they're by my window," you grinned. Zayne was quick to disagree.

"What if this secret admirer just used the elevator and knocked on your door? Wouldn't that be easier?"

Zayne raises a brow, making you laugh at how ridiculous you two were being.

"Well, if they do, I'll welcome them with open arms! Maybe even have something special waiting for them, too."

The corner of Zayne's lips curls into a smile. He couldn't be mad at you, you were adorable, finding the beauty even in the smallest of things. He lets out a breathy laugh before opening your folder and turning his attention to it.

"This secret admirer might take up that tempting offer. However, we're now short on time, and Doctor Zayne has a very important patient to attend to."

After such a long day, you were finally back in the warmth of your home. You couldn't get Zayne's face out of your mind. The way he looked at you after you told him about this secret admirer, you had that poor man stressed.

And just like you previously mentioned, there was a surprise for him, his favorite dessert from that bakery he's always at. But since you were such a gracious host, you made hot chocolate too, to be fair, you made it to warm yourself up, but it was still a nice addition.

Someone knocks at the door, and you rush to open it.

"Coming!"

You knew who you were expecting, but your face still lights up when you see him. Ironically, he was the sun that melted away the snow in your world.

"Why hello there, you must be the one who's been leaving hearts on my window, right?"

You were giving the act your all. Zayne smiles at you because you always welcomed him with open arms and hands you a boquet your favorite flowers, some of them were made from his evol and had tiny little frosted hearts on them, he was always so thoughtful and observant, noticing the slightest shift in your mood in seconds or the way how he cares and loves you like you're his reason for living. That was your Zayne, and you were the only one who had the privilege to see that side of him.

"I heard from a friend that you wished to meet your secret admirer. I came to ward them off,"

You take the bouquet and motion for him to enter your apartment. Zayne closes the door behind him, then gently places a hand on your cheek. His cold fingers caress your cheek. Now it was just you and him in your little world.

"So, here I am."

Zayne whispers, despite being together for over a year, he still could make you weak in the knees. You could barely continue the act, covering your face with the bouquet and turning your gaze away.

"I-I bought you— I mean I bought them their favorite dessert. I'm not sure if your friend mentioned that. And I made hot chocolate! If you'd like to stay for a while, of course. I'm sure they got the memo that I'm taken and won't be stopping by."

Zayne chuckles at how you almost instantly folded. He loves seeing you like this, whole and entirely you. Here, you can be yourselves without the pressures and expectations of the outside world. You were his home.

"Sounds like you've already planned the perfect stay-at-home date, my love."

Zayne carefully lowers the bouquet from your face.

"Seriously, though, hearts on my window? Is there a reason for that?"

You shyly added. Placing the bouquet in the center of the dinner table, Zayne takes out a set of plates and mugs from the cabinet and places them down on the table before pouring hot chocolate into your mugs. There was something domestic about seeing him maneuvering around your apartment like this. You wondered how things might change when you two do share a home someday, or maybe how nothing might change at all.

"I wanted you to know that even on mornings that I do not wake up beside you, my heart is still with you. Even if it's anatomically incorrect…"

You laugh at the last part. You made your way to his side, not wanting him to do all the work. You placed the desserts on the plates and then set them on the table.

"I enjoyed the spec very much, thank you, Zayne."

Zayne pauses, then lets out a long sigh as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

"That one was a test. I didn't think it would be so difficult to create something as simple as a heart from the ground floor, and unfortunately, I didn't have time to fix it. Still, I'm glad you were happy to see it even in its imperfect form."

Zayne explains. You laugh softly at his explanation.

"It's imperfect, yet it's still able to be loved, just like us."

You say softly as you embrace him. He closes the gap between your lips, wrapping his arms around your middle. He truly loved you.

He breaks the kiss, your breaths mingling together as he rests his forehead against yours. His green eyes peered into yours with a softness reserved only for you.

"If it means that you'll think of me every time you look out your window," Zayne uses his evol, creating two hearts similar to the one on your window. He carefully places them into your hands. You smile at the little hearts that are now forever yours. But there was a deeper meaning to it.

"Then I'll leave a heart on your window every day from now on."

This was his way of showing you how deeply engraved your name was in Zayne's heart, and he wishes he could show you whenever doubts may cloud your mind. He wasn't just putting hearts on the window to make you smile, he was putting his heart on the window, on display just for you.

A/N. Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed :3 im still so nervous about writing for the lads boys >.<

[lucy-literates]

Hello 👋🏻☺️ I hope your doing well.

I had an idea but sadly the writer i asked dosen't do Arthur fics with I understand, so hopefully you might be able to?.

I was wondering if you could possibility write something were it's Arthur's amd readers wedding and because so dosen't have a good relationship with her dad so she cant do the father daughter dance with hime(#daddyissues😅 anyway) she ends up doing the dance with her mum and they dance to slipping though my fingers by ABBA.

If thats ok

A/N: Hey! Sorry it took me so long, I hope you enjoy this :)

Slipping Through My Fingers

You didn’t think it would sting this much.

You told yourself it wouldn’t — that it was just one dance. A few minutes. A tradition that didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. You had your mum. You had your brothers. You had Arthur.

You were fine.

But as the music softened and the MC’s voice echoed through the venue — “And now, our beautiful bride will share her first dance with her father” — the quiet hit like a punch to the ribs.

You sat frozen, heart hammering. You hadn’t even told half the guests the truth. That your dad wasn’t invited. That he’d made your childhood something to survive instead of remember. That this moment didn’t belong to him — never had.

There was a beat of silence. A shift in energy. A few confused glances.

And then you felt a hand slip into yours.

Your mum.

She didn’t say anything — didn’t need to. Her eyes were glassy, her smile gentle. She squeezed your hand and whispered, “Come on, baby. Dance with me.”

Your throat tightened.

The opening chords of “Slipping Through My Fingers” floated softly through the air.

You nodded, lips trembling as you stood.

The crowd quieted as the two of you walked to the center of the dance floor. There was no announcement. No dramatic shift. Just a slow, quiet moment between mother and daughter.

You curled into her arms, and she held you the way she used to — like you were five again, standing on her toes in the kitchen, spinning in socks.

The lyrics started:

“Slipping through my fingers all the time I try to capture every minute…”

And that was it.

You lost it.

Tears welled. Fell.

Not from pain — not tonight. But from the ache of knowing this woman had tried to fill every gap, patch every hole, love you twice as hard to make up for what you were missing.

She kissed your hair and whispered, “You’ve always been my girl.”

You whispered back, “You were both parents.”

Arthur watched from your shared table, his chest tight, fingers curling into the napkin in his lap. He wasn’t crying, but only because he already had earlier. During vows. During the ceremony. When you looked at him like he was home.

Around the room, people began to understand. The sniffles started. Quietly, guests wiped their eyes, watching something more powerful than tradition — a daughter thanking the woman who raised her.

When the song ended, the room clapped gently, not wildly. Not party-style.

It was soft. Respectful. Reverent.

You stepped back, cheeks damp, and your mum brushed a curl behind your ear with trembling fingers. “Your dad missed out on the best girl in the world,” she whispered. “But I never did.”

And then Arthur was there.

He pulled you into his arms like he’d been aching to all night.

“I love you,” he murmured, kissing your forehead. “More than anyone ever has, or ever will.”

You didn’t need the father-daughter dance.

You had the only people you ever needed right in front of you.

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-BLpv0xQYd1bTlaP7l1gAg8AgCyLE_yvrtljpCzlJhY/edit?usp=drivesdk