#THE WHOLE GOING THROUGH THE AMUSEMENT PART

[xoxomingi]

simon riley x reader

summary: simon gives you a toy, made just like him before he leaves — and shows you exactly how to use it.

warnings: sexual content, toyplay, soft dom vibes from simon. wc: 895

you were curled in simon’s lap with your cheek on his chest and your arms tucked in tight, practically hidden inside one of his oversized hoodies. it smelled like him. warm and worn and safe.

but tonight, even that wasn’t enough to keep your heart steady.

“you’re leaving tomorrow,” you whispered, your voice small.

he hummed against your temple. “early.”

you didn’t answer right away. his hand moved in slow circles on your thigh, calm, like he wasn’t thinking about the goodbye coming in less than twelve hours.

but you were. you were thinking about the ache you’d carry when his warmth was gone, when the nights got cold and quiet and lonely again.

and simon knew that. which is why, after a long pause, he said:

“got somethin’ for you.”

you looked up, eyes soft. “you already gave me your hoodie… and your cologne… and—”

he smirked faintly. “not that. somethin’ else.”

he leaned to the side, reached under the bed, and pulled out a small black box. sleek. expensive. unmarked.

your brows pinched. “…what’s in there?”

he offered it to you, the weight solid in your hands. “open it, lovie.”

you hesitated. unclicked the clasp.

then froze.

your mouth fell open. cheeks flushed hot.

and with a gasp, you shut the lid so fast it clicked.

“simon.”

he laughed—a deep, rough chuckle from his chest that only came out when he was amused and smug.

“what?” he said, like he didn’t just hand you the most inappropriate gift in existence.

you stayed buried behind your hands, voice barely a squeak.

“you got me… that—”

“that?” he teased, leaning closer. “you can say it.”

you shook your head fast. “no i can’t.”

“you can,” he smirked. “go on, lovie.”

you peeked at him between your fingers. “s’so dirty, simon.”

he smiled — slow, wicked, but soft around the edges.

“only for you.”

he pulled the box open again, lifting the thick, flushed, heavy toy out with one hand — and watched your face go red all over again.

your eyes dropped to the toy. and that’s when it hit you. the shape. the curve. the exact way it flared near the base.

your lips parted again. breath hitching.

“…wait.”

he tilted his head. “notice anything?”

“is that—” you looked from the toy to him and back again, face burning. “that’s not just a… it’s you?”

“mhm.” he rolled it between his fingers. “exact mold. took hours. made sure they got it perfect.”

your whole body shivered. you were trying to hide your face again, and simon leaned in close, whispering like he was telling you a secret:

“so when i’m gone, you won’t even miss me… ‘cause i’ll still be right here.”

you didn’t mean to lay back for him so easily.

but he always made it feel like something soft. something sweet. something right.

he helped you strip out of his hoodie, leaving you in nothing but your pretty skin, already warm with need. his eyes roamed every inch of you like you were art.

“so fuckin’ beautiful,” he muttered, kissing down your chest.

his fingers slid between your thighs, slow and easy, parting you so he could feel the sticky heat there.

“already wet for me, huh?” he smirked against your hip. “you like the thought of it?”

you nodded shyly. “it just… it really looks like you.”

“feels like me too.”

he dragged his fingers through your slick, then wrapped them around the toy. he stroked it up and down slowly, coating it in you, his eyes never leaving yours.

“ready?”

you breathed out, “yes.”

he nudged the thick tip to your entrance and you gasped, hips twitching.

“fuck,” you whined, clinging to the sheets. “it… it feels like you.”

“yeah?” he rasped, easing it deeper. “you remember me that well, bunny?”

you nodded, eyes wet. “feels the same. i swear, it’s just like you.”

he groaned softly, pressing it in until the base nearly kissed your skin. your walls squeezed around it, body clenching as you whimpered under the stretch.

“look at you,” he murmured, brushing your hair back. “takin’ it like a good girl.”

he moved it slow. deep. steady thrusts that had your thighs shaking and your breath hitching in your chest.

“this is how i want you to do it,” he said, voice wrecked. “when you’re alone. just like this.”

he guided your hand to the base. “go on. try it for me.”

your fingers curled around it. shy. unsure. but when you started to move it the way he had, simon lost his mind.

“that’s it, bunny… fuck yourself. pretend it’s me. pretend i’m right here, stretchin’ you out just like this.”

your breaths turned into high, choked whines as your hand moved faster, the toy hitting the perfect spot with each thrust. your back arched. your eyes rolled.

“si— simon— i can’t—”

“you can,” he said firmly. “you will.”

his fingers rubbed tight, desperate circles on your clit as you cried out, the pressure finally snapping.

you came hard around it, sobbing into his shoulder, legs trembling.

and he praised you the entire time.

“that’s it… good fuckin’ girl… so perfect, takin’ all of me like that.”

he held you after. whispered soft things against your forehead. and as he brushed your hair back, he murmured:

“think of me when you use it, yeah?”

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 41: November 2024 - Part 4

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Max woke up face-down, with a headache that felt like someone had parked a go-kart on his frontal lobe and then revved the engine for fun.

He squinted at the unfamiliar ceiling—hotel suite, probably. Still Vegas. His championship cap was on the floor. His phone was buzzing on the nightstand like it had something urgent to say.

He reached for it with a groan, barely managing to swipe before it hit voicemail.

Belle ❤️calling…

He answered on instinct.

“Hey,” he croaked. His voice sounded like it had been dragged down the Strip by a tow truck.

“Well, well,” Belle’s voice came through, warm and amused. “If it isn’t the four-time World Champion and surprise gender-reveal enthusiast.”

Max winced. “Please tell me I didn’t say anything too embarrassing.”

Belle laughed. “Define embarrassing.”

“...Do I want to know?”

“Well, you did dedicate your championship to me and Emilian,” she said brightly. “Also said you like my lemon shampoo. Also that you want to ‘curl around me like a cat.’ And that you were feeling very sparkly.”

Max let out a groan and dropped back onto the pillows. “Why didn’t anyone stop me?”

“Sophie said you were glowing and emotionally untouchable.”

“I was drunk,” Max grumbled. “They should’ve staged an intervention.”

“Oh no, they were all watching in real time,” Belle said. “We were in the spa suite screaming. Victoria spilled mocktail on her robe.”

Despite the headache, Max smiled faintly. “You saw it?”

“Every second,” she said. “You were perfect.”

He let the words settle over him, soft and heavy, then sighed. “I want to come home.”

“You still have two races left,” Belle said gently. “Quatar and Abu Dhabi are waiting.”

“I don’t care.” His voice was quiet. “I want to come home to you. To him.”

There was a pause, a rustle like she was shifting in bed.

“We want that too,” she said, just as softly. “But you’ve got two more races. One more goodbye. One more podium to stand on before you make good on that ‘curling around me like a cat’ thing.”

Max exhaled slowly. “I hate that you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Belle said, smug. “Now drink water. Take painkillers. Put on sunglasses and pretend you're still cool.”

“Still?”

Belle laughed again. “Champions don’t whine, Max. They hydrate.”

He grinned despite himself. “Okay. But I’m still counting the hours.”

“Good. Because Emilian already misses you.”

Max closed his eyes, hand over his heart. “Yeah. I miss him too.”

And her. Always her.

***

Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Belle Verstappen

Belle:

Just a heads-up: Max sounds like a dying tractor this morning.

Do not expect useful telemetry.

Do not expect coherent thoughts.

He asked me if a smoothie counts as a salad.

GP: Understood. I’ve told the team he’s operating in Post-Championship Champagne Fog Mode™. We’ll keep his water bottle full.

Belle: Thank you for your service. He looked at his toast like it betrayed him. You’re not getting sector times, you’re getting vibes.

GP: Speaking of vibes— He asked me to be the godfather.

Belle: Of course he did. You’re not just his engineer. You’re his second brain. His moral compass. His grumpy older brother in a headset.

GP: That’s dangerously accurate. I was honestly speechless.

Belle: He doesn’t ask things like that lightly. He loves you. And he trusts you. You’ve been in his corner since the beginning. He trusts you with his career. We trust you with our son. 💙

GP: Thank you. I mean it.

Belle: No, thank you. I can’t imagine anyone else standing beside him through all of this.

Also— I asked Emilie to be godmother.

GP: Perfect balance. One godparent for control. One for chaos.

Belle: Exactly. Between the four of us, I think we’ve got him covered.

GP: He’s going to be very loved. And, unfortunately, very fast.

Belle: Naturally.

***

The house was clean. Too clean.

The nursery was folded into perfection—shelves dusted, tiny clothes sorted by size, swaddles washed in lavender detergent that made the whole apartment smell like calm.

It was everything Belle used to find comfort in.

Now it just made her ache.

Belle was very pregnant.

Max was very far away.

And she missed him more than she knew how to explain.

The ache wasn’t sharp—it was slow and dull, like the pressure in her lower back or the weight of her belly that made it hard to get off the couch without an embarrassing amount of effort.

It was the kind of missing that sat in her chest and spread.

She was in Max’s hoodie, stretched comically over her bump, surrounded by pillows like a fortress. The onesie she meant to fold lay abandoned in her lap. The baby—Emilian—was kicking against her ribs again, rhythmic and insistent, as if asking where his father was.

“I know,” she whispered, hand curved over her belly. “I miss him too.”

She checked the time. Again.

Max was in press. Then meetings. Then a debrief. Maybe a sim run. And then, if she was lucky, a video call with him squinting into the front camera from some overly lit hotel room while telling her he already missed her ankles.

That was the thing—he always saw her. Not just the pregnancy. Not just the glowing clichés or the bump. Her.

She missed the way he spoke to Emilian like he was already here. The way he would talk to her stomach like it was a teammate, serious and focused, whispering, “Don’t you dare come early. Wait for me. That’s an order.”

She missed his hand resting lightly on her side at night, steady as a heartbeat. She missed being curled against him, her face pressed into his chest, safe.

And right now, she didn’t feel unsafe. Just…incomplete.

She sighed, shifted to get comfortable again, and promptly failed. Her legs ached. Her back ached. Her soul ached. And worst of all—her hormones were absolutely betraying her. Her eyes welled up, completely uninvited.

“I’m fine,” she muttered aloud to no one. “I’m fine. I’m not crying, I’m just emotionally… full.”

The baby rolled again, a slow, sweeping motion that pushed out against her palm. She laughed wetly.

“Okay, that was a bit dramatic,” she admitted, sniffling. “You’re definitely your father’s child.”

The phone buzzed once.

Max: Still in briefing, but I miss you. Tell Emilian to stop kicking unless it’s tactical. Love you.

Belle let out a breath. Smiled.

Belle: We miss you too. He says he'll behave if you come home soon. I say… you're already his hero. And mine.

Then she turned her phone over and let the light settle over her again, one hand on her belly, the other resting on her heart.

Two more races.

Then Max would come home.

And she’d finally feel whole again.

***

Max was leaning against the polished edge of the hotel lobby’s marble front desk, absently spinning his room keycard between his fingers, when he heard the unmistakable click of designer heels and the low, familiar cadence of Dutch with a judgmental tilt.

He didn’t even need to turn.

“There he is,” came Sophie’s voice—dry, fond, slightly exasperated. “Four-time world champion. Still incapable of answering a text properly.”

Max looked up just in time for his mother to wrap her arms around him, tight and unyielding, like she still half-expected him to disappear into thin air if she let go too soon. He breathed her in—orange blossom and Chanel—and let himself be hugged without hesitation.

“Hi, Mama,” he murmured into her shoulder.

“Four,” she said into his ear, her voice suddenly rough with pride. “You did it.”

“I know.”

When she pulled back, her eyes were glassy. Not quite teary—Sophie Kumpen didn’t cry in public—but full enough that Max could read everything she wasn’t saying.

And then—

“Okay, my turn,” came a second voice, louder, warmer, with an unmistakable undertone of delight.

Victoria launched herself into him like she didn’t care he was technically a professional athlete with a race in forty-eight hours. Max laughed as he stumbled back a step, nearly elbowing a potted plant.

“Hi to you too,” he mumbled into her hair.

“You idiot,” she whispered. “You actually went and did it again.”

Max pulled back, raising an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not surprised you won. I’m surprised you kept it together long enough to finish that fifth-place Vegas crawl without swearing at Lando live on comms.”

Max smirked. “You didn’t hear the uncensored version.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “We’re all lucky the baby didn’t arrive mid-race. I still think Belle was too calm about that.”

“She always is,” Max said quietly. And then, without thinking, “She’s watching the practices from home. Keeps sending me notes about brake balance.”

“God help us all,” Victoria muttered.

Sophie smiled. “That’s love.”

Max nodded. “Yeah. It is.”

There was a pause—warm and full—and for a moment, it didn’t feel like a hotel lobby in Doha. It felt like family. Like a moment they’d all earned.

Victoria linked her arm through his. “Come on, Champ. Show us your room. I brought you cookies. And Mum brought you vitamins.”

“I brought magnesium,” Sophie corrected, offended. “Which he never takes.”

“I might take it,” Max said. “If you let me tell you about the onboard moment when GP found out he’s going to be a godfather.”

Sophie stopped walking.

Victoria turned to stare. “Wait—you actually asked him? On radio?!”

Max grinned. “Cooldown lap.”

Sophie shook her head, smiling like he was still ten and ridiculous. “Four-time world champion,” she murmured. “And still an idiot.”

Max just laughed—and let them lead him upstairs.

***

Emilie arrived like a whirlwind—as usual—carrying a bakery bag, a decaf oat latte, and the kind of expression that suggested she was two seconds from staging an intervention.

Belle was in the armchair by the window, a maternity pillow wedged behind her lower back, a very smug cat curled at her feet, and an open book on her belly that she hadn’t actually read a word of in the past twenty minutes.

“You brought pastries,” Belle said, smiling. “That’s how I know you’re about to say something I’ll hate.”

“I’m not saying anything until you eat the raspberry tart,” Emilie said, handing it over like a peace offering and sinking onto the couch. “You look like a goddess and also like you might cry if someone uses the wrong tone of voice.”

“That’s a very accurate summary of my existence right now,” Belle said, already taking a bite. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the late afternoon sun turning the apartment soft and golden. Somewhere in the background, Belle’s playlist hummed quietly—mostly instrumental, mostly there to drown out the quiet.

Then Belle looked over, calm and deliberate. “You should go to Abu Dhabi.”

Emilie blinked. “What?”

“You should go to the race,” Belle said again. “You know it’s going to be tight between McLaren and Ferrari. The whole team’s going to be tense. Lando’s going to be tense. He’ll want you there, even if he’s too proud to ask.”

Emilie opened her mouth, but Belle raised a hand.

“I’m fine. I’m huge and a little bored and Max is gone and yes, I make dramatic noises when I get up from the couch, but I am fine. The baby is fine. And I promise, he’s not planning an early exit just to spite your flight schedule.”

“But Belle,” Emilie said softly, “you’re so pregnant. Like, gravitational-force-field pregnant.”

Belle laughed. “I know. I’m one waddle away from launching my own moon mission. But I also know you want to be there. You’ve been pretending you don’t. You’ve been hanging around Monaco like I’m about to go into labor at any moment, but you’ve been checking the flight tracker to Yas Marina on your phone when you think I’m not looking.”

Emilie looked horrified. “I have not—”

“You have. And that’s okay,” Belle said gently. “You love him. He wants you there. And I want you to go.”

Emilie stared at her, blinking rapidly. “You’d really be okay with that?”

Belle nodded. “I’ve got Sophie and Victoria on high alert, the midwife is a ten-minute drive away, and Max will be on the first jet back the second the race ends. You don’t need to hover. You need to live. Go scream about constructors’ points in a garage full of papaya. Go kiss him when it’s over. I’ll be here, eating croissants and yelling at the baby to stop practicing jiu-jitsu in my ribcage.”

Emilie rubbed a hand over her face. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m emotionally stable and logistically prepared,” Belle countered. “Also hormonal, so if you don’t go, I will cry and say you’re abandoning Lando in his hour of need.”

Emilie snorted and threw a cushion at her. “You’re a menace.”

Belle grinned. “A pregnant one. Which makes me all-powerful.”

After a long pause, Emilie sighed. “Okay. Fine. I’ll go.”

“Good,” Belle said. “Take pictures. Be loud. And tell him if he doesn’t beat Ferrari, he’s not allowed to come near my baby with that mustache again.”

Emilie laughed. “Deal.”

***

It started in Q3.

The track was cooling, the wind was rising, and the margins were tight—every tenth counted. 

As Max exited the final corner to prep for his last flying lap, he lifted slightly, adjusting for traffic and prepping his out-lap. That’s when George Russell, behind him, came up fast—too fast—and got right on his gearbox.

George came over the radio, furious.

“This was super dangerous by Verstappen!”

Filed a complaint.

And the drama was born, resulting in a Stewards meeting and a one place grid penalty. 

Max’s Reaction?

Stone-faced. No comment.

Except one.

A Sky Sports journalist caught him on the way to the hospitality suite and asked:

“Max, your thoughts on the penalty?”

Max didn’t even blink. “If George wants to make a show about it, that’s fine. I’ll see him in Turn 1.”

And then he walked off.

***

The hotel room was too cold and too bright. Max sat on the edge of the bed, still in half his race gear, thumb hovering over Belle’s name in his contacts like calling her might be the one thing that wouldn’t piss him off.

He’d taken the penalty without comment.

Smirked in the media zone.

Told them he’d see George in Turn 1.

But now that the adrenaline was gone, the irritation settled low and bitter in his chest.

He just wanted to hear her voice.

He hit dial.

Belle picked up on the second ring.

“Hi, mon amour,” she said, already knowing. Her voice was warm, calm—and slightly amused.

Max didn’t even say hello. “He pushed for a penalty.”

“I know,” she said immediately. “I watched the broadcast. I saw the onboard. And then I watched the stewards statement come through and laughed so hard I almost went into labor.”

Max sighed. “It was a prep lap. I wasn’t even crawling. He just wanted drama.”

“He picked the wrong man,” Belle said crisply. “You’re already a four-time world champion with a full tank of petty and no reason to hold back.”

Max let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this irritated over a single sentence. He said I was ‘driving unnecessarily slowly.’ I was making space.”

“Max,” Belle said, her voice full of fondness and fire, “you were managing out-lap spacing like a pro, and he turned it into a Shakespearean tragedy.”

He leaned back against the headboard, eyes closed. “You think I overreacted with the Turn 1 comment?”

“No,” Belle said immediately. “I think you delivered it with exactly the right amount of menace. George made it political. You made it personal. That’s balance.”

Max smiled. “I love you.”

“I know,” she said. “Now go get some sleep, and tomorrow? Make him regret every single slow-motion onboard he submitted as evidence.”

Max hummed. “You want me to take him at Turn 1?”

“I want you to erase him at Turn 1.”

Max laughed again, this time for real. “God, I miss you.”

“We miss you too,” Belle said, softer now. “But Emilian and I are very proud. And we’ll be watching. With snacks. And commentary.”

Max breathed in, let the sound of her voice ease the tension in his shoulders. “Tell him to stay in there a few more days.”

“I told him you need one more win before he’s allowed to show up.”

“Smart kid,” Max murmured. “He takes after you.”

***

It was hot. It was brutal. It was Qatar.

And Max Verstappen won anyway.

Tyre deg was high, the desert air thick with tension. Drivers dropped like flies under the heat, strategy calls flew like punches, and still—Max stayed calm. Strategic. Relentless. A four-time world champion racing like he wasn’t done proving it yet.

He crossed the line with blistered tyres, dry lips, and his race engineer’s voice in his ear.

GP: “P1, Max. That’s the win. You absolutely didn’t drive unnecessarily slowly today.”

Max didn’t even shout.

He just smiled.

It wasn’t Vegas-level emotional, or Brazil levels of furious joy. It was quieter this time. A victory earned with grit, sweat, and control. He’d clawed back from a grid penalty.

And now, standing on top of his car as the Red Bull crew screamed behind the fence, Max felt the weight of it all land—not heavy, not overwhelming. Just... solid.

Four-time World Champion. And still winning.

He climbed down, tugged off his gloves, and waved toward the stands where Dutch flags danced like wildfire. Somewhere out there, Victoria and his mom were probably screaming. Somewhere else, Belle was watching with a hand on her bump, probably eating her third pain au chocolat of the day and calling it “prenatal strategy.”

Max grinned, helmet still in hand, heart still thundering.

His fourth title was already his. But this? This was a message.

He was still here. Still the one to beat. And his family—his entire future—was waiting just a few weeks away.

Victory tasted like champagne and sweat and joy.

But all he wanted was to get back to the hotel, call Belle, and hear her say it: “I saw it. You were brilliant.”

***

FIA Press Conference — Post-Race | Quatar Grand Prix 2024

Drivers: P1 - Max Verstappen (Red Bull Racing), P2 - Charles Leclerc (Ferrari), P3 - Oscar Piastri (McLaren)

Moderator: Let’s start with you, Max. First of all—congratulations on the win and the title. How does this one feel?

Max (smiling slightly): Tiring. Very tiring. But good. Especially today. I just wanted a clean race after all the… stewarding yesterday. So yeah, happy. We move.

Oscar (grinning): You moved straight through Turn 1, that’s for sure.

Max: I told him I would.

Moderator: Before we jump into Abu Dhabi chatter, here’s a lighter one to wrap up: What are your Christmas plans this year? Anything exciting?”

Charles: …That’s a good question, actually.

(Max gives him a sideways glance. Charles blinks.)

Wait, we haven’t even talked about Christmas yet.

Max: (smirking)We’ll either have a newborn or be days away from having one, so… Monaco. Home. Feet up. Snacks. Naps. Hopefully no surprise contractions during Christmas lunch.

Charles: (still catching up) Wait—you already planned it?

Max: “We have.” (smiles slightly, just a little smug—enough for Charles to notice) “My family’s coming to us. Monaco, warm blankets, loud Dutch board games. Victoria’s already trying to plan a menu around Belle’s pregnancy cravings.”

Oscar: (grinning) That’s a very responsible World Champion answer.

Max: Yeah, well, I’m about to be someone’s dad. It changes your priorities.

Moderator: Charles, are you going home to Monaco as well?

Charles (hesitates): I… I don’t know yet. I should probably ask around.

Max (tilting his head): You can come to ours.

Charles: (tentatively) “…Am I… invited?”

Max: (grins) “You can come. But only if you bring dessert.”

Oscar: (choking back a laugh) “That’s fair. Dessert tax.”

Charles: (blinks) "That’s the entry requirement?"

Max: "Yes. I’m married to a woman who will be 9 months pregnant. If you don’t show up with something sugar-based and comforting, I will personally lock the door."

Oscar: (grinning into his mic) "What kind of dessert are we talking here?"

Max: (very serious) "Not store-bought. Belle can taste the difference."

Moderator: (laughing) "That might be the most high-stakes holiday planning I’ve heard all season."

Oscar: "It’s F1. Everything’s competitive."

Max: (murmuring) "Especially the baking."

***

The night air in Doha was cooler than expected, a welcome break from the dry heat that clung to everything during the day. Up on the hotel’s rooftop lounge, the city lights shimmered below, and the sound of water trickled from a minimalist fountain nearby.

Victoria was curled sideways on the couch, legs tucked under her. She'd been watching him for the past five minutes in comfortable silence, like only a sister could.

“You look exhausted,” she said eventually.

“I am exhausted,” Max replied, voice dry. “Also very hydrated. Thank you for the fifteen electrolyte reminders.”

She grinned, but it faded quickly. “Belle called me this morning.”

He looked up instantly. “Is everything okay?”

“She’s fine. The baby’s fine,” Victoria assured him. “She just misses you. She didn’t say it like that, but it was in her voice.”

Max leaned back against the chair, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah. I miss her too. It’s different now. Leaving.”

There was a long pause. Then, quietly, Victoria said, “Do you ever think about how weird it is? That we’re both here now? You’re about to be a dad. I have three kids. It still knocks the wind out of me sometimes.”

Max gave her a small, tired smile. “I know. Same.”

She scraped her fork through the last of her dessert, then set the plate down on the table. “I used to think... we’d never get away from it. That we’d always carry the mess, the pressure. That we’d bring it with us into everything.”

He didn’t have to ask what she meant. The long drives in the van. The karting weekends that weren’t always fun. The pressure. The noise. The silence afterward. Jos doing his best—but not always getting it right. Their mother, trying to shield them. The way everything had always been about the next race.

They’d come out the other side—but not without cracks.

Max didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. She knew he understood.

“But then I see you with Belle,” she continued softly. “And I think... maybe we did it. Maybe we broke the cycle.”

Max swallowed hard. “I want to. I really want to.”

“You are,” she said. “She’s calm with you. Happy. And you—” she paused, then smiled, eyes a little glassy. “You look like someone who’s ready to love a kid better than we were loved.”

He looked away, throat tightening.

“I’m not saying it was all bad,” Victoria added gently. “But it wasn’t always good either. And I think... I think we both know that. And we’re both trying to do better.”

Max nodded. “That’s the goal.”

Victoria leaned over, bumped her shoulder against his. “You’re going to be good at this. Fatherhood.”

“I’m scared sometimes,” he admitted.

She laughed. “Good. That means you’re taking it seriously.”

Max looked down at his hands, then out the window toward the desert sky.

“I just want him to feel safe,” he said. “From the first second he’s born. I want him to know... he’s loved. No matter what. Always.”

Victoria reached over and took his hand. “Then he will. Because he’s yours.”

And Max, who had spent most of his life building walls, let himself believe it—just for a moment. That maybe they really had made it out. Maybe love could rewrite what pressure had written into them.

Maybe this was how it was supposed to be now: Better. Softer. The start of something new.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1archivebot: 🎄 Max Verstappen’s Christmas Plans: ✅ Wife ✅ Newborn or very pregnant wife ✅ Blanket fort in Monaco ✅ Victoria in charge of cravings menu ❌ Charles, unless he brings dessert ✅ High-stakes, home-baked pastry diplomacy

@/chaoticneutralf1: i love how max casually said “you’re not entering my house unless you bring dessert” with the calm threat level of a mafia don

@/teamwifeyverstappen: the fact that belle is due ANY day now and max is like “she’s not moving and i will body-check anyone who suggests otherwise” this man is a husband first, world champion second

@/lonelyheartsconstructors: someone find the twitch clip of that february stream bc i know belle is not planning christmas this year and max’s rage about weaponized incompetence still lives in my head rent-free

@/bellesweaters: [video clip] Max Verstappen, Team Redline stream, February 2024: “Why do men just assume the women in their lives will handle everything? How is that cute? It’s embarrassing.” And then he proceeded to drag the concept of ‘my sister will handle it’ for 6.5 minutes Now in Qatar: “Charles can come. If he brings dessert.” THE GROWTH. THE CONSISTENCY.

@/teamredlinewives: someone said max Verstappen is the only man who could flip a dessert requirement into a feminist manifesto and i haven’t stopped laughing since

@/monacobumpwatch: someone PLEASE do an edit of that stream rant to “This Is Me Trying” by Taylor Swift because that man was fighting for his life on behalf of Belle

@/f1files: the funniest part is charles genuinely asking “am i invited?”

@/open_wheel_emotions; thinking about max’s team redline stream in feb where he went on a 10-minute feminist rant about men doing nothing for the women in their lives and now he’s the christmas gatekeeper like: “bring a dessert or face consequences”

@/gridgossip: all i’m saying is: belle should not have to lift a FINGER this christmas and it looks like max already enforced that as law

@/girlfriendsofthepaddock: reminder that in february max said:

“They put in so much effort and get nothing back. Their family forgets things that matter to them.” “To love people who don’t even notice when you’re hurting?” and then spent the entire season making sure belle was celebrated, protected, and seen.

@/verstappenfiles: him saying “you better bring dessert” sounds funny until you realize belle’s spent years doing emotional labor for people who forgot her birthday. max is making sure that never happens again. and he’s doing it with pie.

@/nobutmax: thinking about belle this christmas being 9 months pregnant, in monaco, surrounded by people who love her, feet up, snacks in reach, and her husband enforcing a dessert tax like a protective dragon. she’s won.

@/f1oracle: the real championship this year is max verstappen vs emotionally negligent men and max is undefeated

@/gridsnacks: season highlight for me is not a race it’s max in february being like

“do something about it.” and then doing something about it for belle all year

@/fernbabyfern: this is your sign to make dessert and thank the women in your life who plan every holiday and get zero credit max verstappen would want you to

@/fernsandflags: people finally putting together that stream from february where max went on a full TED talk about men doing nothing for the holidays while his gf handled everything and now we’re here like: oh. OH.

@/verstappensbabybump: max in february: “i’ve seen someone plan everything and not get even a thank you” everyone now: BELLE. HE WAS TALKING ABOUT BELLE.

@/bellewatch: belle is about to give birth and max is gatekeeping the front door like an overprotective butler “what did you bring?” “tiramisu.” “homemade?” “…no.” door slams

*** Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Charles: Soooo… has anyone thought about Christmas plans? Asking for a friend. Who may or may not have just been publicly shamed by Max Verstappen.

Lorenzo: Wait—what did I miss?

Lorenzo: Is this a real question or are you stalling because Max made you promise dessert in front of half the media center?

Arthur: 😭😭😭 “if you don’t bring something sugar-based I will lock the door” King behaviour tbh

Charles: Can we please focus I’m trying to make plans!

Pascale: I was going to check in with everyone this week. Would love to have a family dinner, but I know things are different this year.

Belle:

Yes.

Very different.

Because I will either be 41 weeks pregnant or having a newborn and I am not moving from our house 😊

Arthur: Reasonable.

Lorenzo: Extremely reasonable.

Charles: So…you’re not coming to Christmas dinner?

Belle: No. But you can come to mine. Well. Ours. Max and I are staying home and his family is coming over.I can’t guarantee anything fancy, but there will be cookies and mocktails. You’re all welcome if you bring dessert. That’s the rule now.

Pascale: I’ll make a bûche de Noël. If you’ll have me too.

Belle: If you bring the bûche, you’re in.

Charles: So we’re all going to Max’s for Christmas?

Lorenzo: We’re going to Belle’s. Max just happens to live there.

Arthur: touché

Belle: Bring slippers. I’m not hosting a shoed Christmas.

[swordgrace]

𝐚 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠. — clark kent.

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you’re not fond of flying — thankfully, your boyfriend is superman.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: clark kent (corenswet) x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.6K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none, just pure fluff & flirting!

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: I loved superman (2025) so much, it meant a lot to me! I would love to write more for him if there’s a demand / interest! this was a warmup! enjoy! 🫶

It’s nighttime in the city — gleaming, vibrant, and tranquil.

Typically, you’d be asleep at his time of night or watching reruns of movies on the television, but instead, you’re lingering outside.

“What if you drop me?”

Teetering perilously along the precipice of your balcony, you refused to step forward, hands grasping at the frame of your sliding door.

Behind you, the glass panel is left ajar, enough for you to still cling to, one hand clutching on as you begin to sway, brows furrowed together.

Metropolis loomed below, a sea of twinkling lights that sparkled through dusk, persistent; The Daily Planet spun on somewhere in the distance.

Clark hovered mere inches away, still dressed in the azure-and-crimson of his Superman attire, mouth upturned into a smile of sheer disbelief. He found the whole thing humorous, admittedly.

“You think I’d drop you?” He muses, arms crossing over his chest, tone saturated with amusement.

“Maybe,” It’s a weak counter as you swallow, brows furrowing together with a quizzical expression. You’re stalling — he knows it, and so do you. “Superman isn’t immune to sweaty palms.”

His shoulders shake with a huff of laughter, but he’s characteristically patient, blue hues full of a quiet expectancy.

“You’ve heard of a trust fall, right? Think of it like that,” Clark prompts, cape billowing with the light gust of a dusk breeze. “I’ll catch you.” He assures, still smiling.

After promising a rooftop excursion, you figured it’d be something like walking up the stairwell, or using the fire escape — not flying.

Despite your wariness of being flown around, you were eager to see what awaited you at the very top. Though, the longer your gaze lingered on the cityscape below, the more nauseous you became.

“What happens, hypothetically, if you don’t catch me? What if something happens and I slip?” Blubbering on, you refuse to let go of the door, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“Hypothetically, you’d fall — and I’d catch you,” Clark reiterates, nose beginning to wrinkle with amusement. “You don’t trust me?” He prompts, and you sigh.

“I absolutely trust you,” Rebuking his claim with fervor, you know that he’s teasing you. Still, it doesn’t ease your anxiety by much. “I just … It’s me I don’t trust, or the wind.”

With a click of his tongue, he notices the way you’re gripping onto the frame still, head canting to one side. “All you have to do is walk forward, and hold onto me — no falling required.”

“I don’t want to think about falling, Clark.” You groan theatrically, nails ticking over the plastic as you deliberate. He’s content to wait all evening if he has to — you both work in the morning.

“Hm,” He lofts a brow, inching closer until his musculature nearly invades your doorway. The closeness makes your breath hitch, catching the glint in his eyes. “Need a little motivation?”

The teasing lilt within his voice pulls a chuckle from you, mouth twitching into a smile instead of a grimace. “A little wouldn’t hurt.”

There’s something innately boyish about the way he smiles, lashes fluttering, or the way in which his mouth parts in wonder, marveling at you.

It’s quiet, a passing beat before he tilts forward, lips pressing against yours. He’s indestructible, invincible; he kisses you like you’re glass, delicate and tender.

Black curls frame his temples, swept through by your wandering hand, the one that isn’t anchored to the doorframe.

A steady exhale pushes through your nose, slow and deliberate, pitched with excitement. The wariness slowly unfurls, and you hardly notice yourself drifting forward.

Clark lets you move on your own accord, without any prompting or interference from him. When you gain the courage to let go of the door, thick arms cage in around your waist.

As promised, he holds you close, lips still twined together in another warm kiss. He feels your hands twist into fists against his biceps, clutching onto him as if you might be swept away.

Slowly, he drifts away from the balcony, and he listens to the erratic swing of your heartbeat, from mellow to swift.

“Clark,” Barely above a whisper, you feel the solid ground slip away from beneath your feet, hands snagged tight into his suit. “Are we …”

“I’ve got you,” The warmth of his timbre wraps you in reassurance, arms steady and thick around your waist. “I wouldn’t look down.” He muses, and you almost take it as a challenge.

Mere wisps apart, your eyes slowly screw open, and you’re met with him; dazzling, charming, and devastatingly handsome. There’s a twinkle in his eyes, his smile marked by pearly teeth.

“Jesus,” Panic sets in for a moment as he slowly flies up, up again; you’re so high that parts of Metropolis start to look minuscule from a distance. “This isn’t as bad as I thought.”

“You still don’t trust me, do you?” Clark teases, hand idly caressesing circles into the small of your back. “You’re gonna break my heart.” His remark earns him a laugh from you.

“I trust you, I promise. It isn’t so dangerous.” You pout, feeling a brusque breeze trail over your silken pajamas, gooseflesh curling across your spine.

Warm lips press against your brow, reverent and gentle, a touch of sunlight to your temple. “We’re almost there.” He murmurs.

“This would be way more romantic if I wasn’t so nervous.” A brief laugh escapes you, and his smile splits into a glowing grin, partially hidden within your hair.

“It can still be romantic,” He counters, holding you close as he sluggishly flies towards the rooftop of your apartment building. “Just look up.”

You do, and it’s mesmerizing; in the clear skies above the city, the celestials loom overhead, millions of twinkling stars coupled with a particularly bright planet.

Veiled clouds drift overhead, the sky largely unobstructed, and the air seems crisp and filling the higher you go. The soft glow of string lights on the rooftop glitters through the night.

“This is amazing,” Awestruck, your apprehension dissolves into wonder, but you’re still a little nervous about flying. He doesn’t make any sudden movements, for your sake. “You get to see this all the time.”

“It never loses its charm,” Clark murmurs, gaze following after yours, lost within the tangle of stars above. “The stars, the sky, the planet.” The fondness within his voice is unmistakable.

“I love that about you,” Soft, your eyes flutter back to him, loud in their marveling of him. That was something you appreciated — his humanity, his passion for the world. “It’s sweet.”

Flattered, a laugh escapes him, warm and airy as the two of you drift through the sky as if you’re in slow-motion. The moment stretches on, and you’re left feeling elated.

“You never lose your charm, either.” His statement makes your features burn, heat curling over the nape of your neck. It’s accompanied with his smile — kind, amiable, and boyish.

“Thanks, Clark.” Smitten, your gaze drops toward the curve of his mouth. He meets you halfway without protest or prompting, the kiss lingering mid-flight.

It’s exhilarating; the wind gently kisses your back, his arms protective, keeping you pinned. As you drift through the air, you feel weightless, lost within the labyrinth of his kiss.

The first to draw away, you’re reluctant, lips parted and heart leaping into your throat. He’s perfect; he’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of and beyond.

Clark’s quiet appreciation of you doesn’t go unnoticed, dark lashes dusting over the skin beneath his eyes. The more you fly, the less tense you are; your heartbeat slows.

“You’re staring again.” You mumble, becoming smitten when he laughs, teeth scraping over your bottom lip.

His lips press against your cheek, as kind as summertime, firm and indestructible underneath your palms. “You caught me.” Clark utters, a rosy pallor crawling through his face.

“You aren’t exactly subtle about it.” Hushed, your tone lowers to a gentler octave, one that scratches something in the back of his mind.

It’s his turn to feel the excitable prick of being flustered, lips parting, curling into another exuberant grin. His dimples are cute; deep-set and overwhelmingly kind, the light reaching his eyes.

“I can try to be subtle,” Clark offers through another burst of laughter, and you laugh, too. You don’t want him to be subtle; the attention he lavishes you in turns your insides warm. “You’re beautiful.”

“That’s the opposite of subtle,” Giggling, you hardly notice the solid concrete slipping underneath your feet as he sets you down. “I like it, though.”

“More romantic now, isn’t it?” He teases, causing you to grin, nose wrinkling with amusement. Butterflies lurch within your stomach, and your hands fall to his chest.

Regaining your footing, you’re still clinging to Clark like a lifeline, as if he might fly away, never to return. His grasp on your waist begins to loosen, albeit reluctantly.

The rooftop is tranquil, with a cozy lounge, twinkling lights, and no wandering eyes. “Very romantic.” You concede, rocking up on your toes to kiss him.

His reciprocation is exceedingly gentle, chest expanding with a deep exhale, air pushing through his nose. Clark stays still, lashes fluttering a time or two, as if he’s in a daze.

A beat passes, and then another; you stay glued to him, unable to keep from smiling. The thrill of flying remains, adrenaline still simmering within your veins before it stills.

“So, Superman,” You begin, fingertips idly tracing over his collarbone. “I think I want to try the flying thing again sometime.”

Clark laughs, grip tightening on you as if to silently prompt you to hold on. “Really? I went very slowly,” He muses, teeth glittering white. “Where do you want to go next time?”

“I don’t know,” Clicking your tongue, there’s an idea that forms within your mind. “How about another rooftop? Dinner, maybe?” Your suggestion elicits another chuckle from him.

“Yeah,” He agrees, forehead gently nudging against yours, followed by a peck of lips over your brow. “I think I can arrange that.”

[kdh-tally]

Baby x Rumi!YoungerSisterReader [pt 3]

Prompt : It's day 2 of you been stuck with the Saja Boys. You end up fighting with Romance and Abby.

Author's Note : Guys I had a whole other idea for how this chapter was gonna go... Baby and Y/n were gonna go on a date (but not a date) lol. However! I feel like its too soon for that so we get this instead <3

Read -> Part 1 then Part 2

It was day two of five of being left in the boys dorm. Y/n was starting to enjoy herself. 

The majority of her first day was spent playing video games with Baby and Mystery in their room. She really did enjoy spending time with the two. Unfortunately, they were forced to go on live stream to provide fans with some interactions. 

This left Y/n wandering their huge dorm building alone. She was exploring the vast rooms when she came across one that was quite empty with what looked like a boxing ring in the center. Smiling to herself, she stepped inside.

She wasn't too surprised that the boys had a training room. She'd known they were demons after all, and even after defeating Gwi-ma they enjoyed practicing and sharpening their skills. She let out a laugh of amusement as she noted the completely beaten up and tattered training dummies.

She knew what demon claws could do, after all she had them as well. 

Y/n was half demon, like her sister Rumi, however she took on more of her fathers features. Maybe it was the reason her aunt never seemed to enjoy being around her, always choosing to spend her time with her older sister. 

In addition, Y/n was also part hunter. The Honmoon did answer to her voice as she also received physical manifestations of its power. Her throwing stars. 

She remembered the first time she had gotten them to form, shyly asking Zoey for help seeing as their weapons were quite similar. Unlike the extremely hyper girl, Y/n had no desire to get close to demons at all. 

She had to practice aiming from far distances as well as how to wield her weapon to her advantage. That as well as her hunter and demon speed made her almost undefeatable in battle. But even this didn't please Celine as she would never see the girl as more than her evil half. 

She shook her head, bringing herself back into the present. Quickly doing some dynamic stretches, she focused on summoning her weapons only to be distracted by familiar voice. 

"Why are you here alone doll?" She looked to the door only to see Romance and Abby, the two pink haired boys watching her. 

She immediately felt guilty for invading their space, her walls slowly rising up against them. "I'm sorry. I'll leave--"

"No stay," Abby interrupted, gesturing to the training dummies. "Show us what you've got."

Y/n's eyes widened. She knew how to fight, however with the two set of eyes on her she had no idea if she would be able to perform half as well as she usually did. However, the boys had done nothing but make her feel comfortable in their home, even some of that kindness was most definitely due to their fear of her older sister and her friends. 

She shook off her nerves before focusing on the dummies once more. She pretended the boys weren't in the room and began humming a simple tune. While it wasn't one of the songs that could bring light to the Honmoon, it would be enough for her to summon her weapons. 

Her throwing stars appeared almost immediately as she was quick to attack. Though the targets were inanimate, it was obvious that even with quick moving targets she would've been able to defeat them quickly. 

She spun through the tight spaces between each dummy, leaping over a paticularly tall one to impale it with her weapon. The few stars she threw across the room cut through each target and returned back to her hands. While running, she held the stars between each finger, using them as knives.

As her song came to an end, she stood tall in the center of all the training dummies and targets. They looked ten-times worse than they did when she found the room. From the door, Romance and Abby stared in shock. 

"If she had tried to kill us with one of the hunters we would definitely be dead..." Abby muttered before getting a punch to the gut from Romance.

"You can't let her know that," he whisper yelled. 

Y/n laughed at their antics and they both smiled. They were happy the girl had gotten more comfortable around them to not only show her skill but laugh freely. 

"You want more practice?" Romance grinned, tying his hair up into a messy ponytail as he slipped into the ring. Abby following close behind him, summoning some of his own demon features. 

The two stood opposite of Y/n, the training dummies already cleared from the ring. Y/n let out a small confident smirk, a look they hadn't seen on her yet. With that, she got into her fighting stance and they attacked. 

----

It had been a long live stream. 

Baby was rummaging through the fridge, looking for a snack to eat. Both he and Mystery had just finished their live with the fans and he was incredibly hungry. 

He eventually decided on a container that definitely didn't belong to him. It was probably Romance's seeing as he cooked the most. He was about to close the fridge when he noticed a box of strawberry milk on the door. On it was a note with 'Y/n's ;D' scribbled on it. 

He hadn't realized it but a wistful smile had spread across his face. Grabbing the drink, he closed the fridge and headed to his room.

He was walking through the long hallway when he heard what sounded like music. Out of curiosity, he followed the voice till he got to the boys training room. 

He almost dropped his food when he got a proper view of the situation. Romance and Abby lay on the floor, struggling to get up while Y/n stood opposite of them. She was grinning like an excited kid, tossing a star into the air and catching it with ease. 

As she stood, he could hear lyrics of an unfamiliar, but still comforting, song leave her lips. He didn't know that she could sing. He didn't know she could do it so well.

He tried to look away, pretend her siren-like voice hadn’t drawn him in but he couldn’t. Not when she looked like that.

"Okay!" Abby yelled, voice muffled from the ground he was face planted in. "We yield"

Y/n was feeling playful, grinning teasingly at the two. "You sure?" Even though her look wasn't even directed at him, Baby swore he couldn't bring himself to think. He wanted her to look at him like that.

"Y/n please," Romance huffed, gasping for air after their intense battle session. "We'll never challenge you again."

Y/n laughed, letting her weapons disperse into the air. It was only then that she took notice of the blue haired boy by the door. She felt her skin heat up, demon marks that she usually kept hidden flaring up.

Baby's lips unconsciously parted as he took her in even clearer. Messy hair, gorgeous markings, and a smile that could put an end to any war. In order to not seem like a creep, he forced himself to speak "Have you always had those?"

Y/n tilted her head at him in confusion. What could he have been talking about?

"He's right," Abby spoke, finally sitting up right after yielding. "Your demon markings just appeared."

The girl's eyes widened as she looked at her hands. She was confused. She normally had these under control, being able to hide them with an ease Rumi couldn't grasp. However, as the blue haired boy kept his attention on her, they glowed a bright hot pink. 

"I-i," she stuttered, trying to calm down her speeding heart. 

Romance smirked as he realised what was happening. Demon markings did flare up when one was particularly emotional, or around someone that made you feel emotional. 

His eyes looked between Baby and Y/n, a pleased glimmer in his eyes as he took note of his maknae's dazed expression. He got up, pulling Abby, who was still recovering, up with ease. "We have some work to do actually," he announced, ignoring Abby's confused face. "Have fun!"

With that, the two teleported out the room leaving Baby and Y/n. The two looked at each other in silence.

She slipped out of the ring, walking up to stand before the boy. “How much did you see?” she asked sheepishly. 

“Enough to know not to get you angry,” he chuckled, looking down at her. She rolled her eyes, punching his shoulder and trying to ignore the way her pattern flared up from where she touched him.

He eyed the glowing lines around her hands with curiosity, he wasn’t even aware she was half demon but considering Rumi was her sister it made sense. He’d have to talk to her about it later.

"I got you something in case you were hungry," he remembered, holding out the milk carton to her. Y/n’s eyes widened in joy as she quickly snatched the box out of his grip. 

“I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” she beamed. Fighting took a lot of energy. Y/n began walking out the room, Baby following closely behind as he listened to her every word.

He found it so endearing how talkative she was under the shy persona. He could listen to her speak for days.

Tag List (If I Forgot Anyone Let Me Know!) :

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[meropeeonmee]

LITTLE TRAITOR - Joe Burrow

Descriptions: A football player’s worst nightmare? His son cheering for the other team.

MASTERLIST!

It started on one of those slow, sleepy Sunday afternoons where the whole house seemed wrapped in a soft hush—blankets scattered across the couch, the scent of warm popcorn in the air, sunlight slipping through the curtains in long golden streaks, and the sound of the game humming from the television like a steady heartbeat in the background, and Joe was exactly where he wanted to be, stretched out in his favorite corner of the sectional, legs crossed, hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, one hand behind his head, the other gently resting on the little body tucked close beside him, where his three-year-old son Hugo sat with his knees up and his feet bare and his entire tiny frame wrapped in a too-big Bengals hoodie that swallowed his arms and bunched around his neck, the kind of sweatshirt he’d refused to take off all weekend because “it’s like Daddy’s,” even though it kept sliding off his shoulders, and for the first part of the game Hugo was quiet, eyes wide and darting, head tilted like he was trying to unlock the rules just by watching, only occasionally reaching into the popcorn bowl and chewing slowly like he had to concentrate to keep up, until midway through the first quarter, when a receiver sprinted down the sideline and the crowd on the broadcast roared, Hugo suddenly sat up straight, tugged on Joe’s sleeve with his small hand, and asked, “Where’s the red team?”

Joe turned his head, confused but patient, and looked back at the screen, saying, “You mean the other team?” but Hugo frowned and shook his head, puffing out his cheeks a little like he did when he was frustrated and said, “Nooo, Daddy. The red team. The one that goes super fast. With Travis. He do the spins. He’s so fun.”

And that was the moment it clicked, like a light flickering on in Joe’s head a second too late—Hugo wasn’t just talking about any red team, he meant the red team, the Kansas City Chiefs, and not only that, he meant Travis Kelce, which meant somewhere between Joe’s last road game and Hugo’s unsupervised screen time, their three-year-old son had picked a favorite player, a favorite team, and that team… wasn’t Joe’s.

Joe leaned back into the couch with a hand on his face, half groaning and half laughing, muttering, “Oh no. Not you too,” and from the kitchen, his wife raised her eyebrows like she’d been expecting it and said, “You left your iPad out last week. He found a whole YouTube rabbit hole of Travis Kelce touchdown dances,” and Joe looked back at Hugo, who was now clapping at a commercial on TV like it had something to do with the Chiefs and said softly, “This is betrayal. Tiny, adorable betrayal.”

But it didn’t stop there—it turned into a full-blown era. Hugo insisted on wearing red socks every day, ran around the house yelling “Go Chiefs!” at the cat, demanded bedtime stories about “Travis and his zoom shoes,” and once, during a FaceTime with his grandparents, climbed onto the table just to shout, “The red team is the best team EVER!” as Joe watched in horror and mild amusement from across the room. At one point, Joe found Hugo building a Lego stadium on the living room rug with one lone red player standing in the middle and when Joe asked, half-hoping, “Is that me?” Hugo looked up, blinked, and said without hesitation, “No, Daddy. That’s Travis’s house. You’re in the other part.”

The internet got wind of it after Joe mentioned it in an interview, trying to play it cool but clearly losing the household rivalry, saying, “Yeah, my son’s been rooting for the Chiefs lately. We’re in a complicated phase,” and a clip of the interview went viral within hours, and days later, Travis Kelce responded on his podcast with a wide grin and a laugh in his voice, saying, “Hugo, I got you, buddy—welcome to the Kingdom,” and from that point on, Hugo acted like it was official, like he had been drafted.

At the same time, something else was quietly becoming a Very Big Deal in Hugo’s world—his first loose tooth, which started wiggling a little after Thanksgiving when he bit too hard into a caramel apple and froze mid-chew, gasping, “Mommy! My tooth is wobbly! It’s gonna fall out forever!” and ever since then, it became his daily obsession, something he checked every morning in the mirror with his mouth stretched open, something he told every barista and grocery clerk about, something he whispered about at bedtime like it was a secret mission, holding his tiny clear tooth container like it was solid gold, repeating over and over, “When it comes out, the fairy’s gonna come with sparkle money,” and he started saying things like, “If I scream really loud, maybe my tooth will pop,” and once during dinner, he stopped chewing mid-bite and said, “I think it’s thinking about falling out,” which made Joe almost spit out his drink from trying not to laugh too hard.

Then came Sunday again—the Chiefs were playing, Hugo had been talking about it all week, even picked out his red hoodie three days early, asked Joe five times that morning if they could watch it together, and Joe had promised, had cleared his afternoon just for this, but sometimes life has a way of messing with perfect plans, and a last-minute team call pulled Joe away right before kickoff, and when he kissed Hugo’s head and said, “I’ll be back soon, buddy,” Hugo didn’t say anything, just curled up on the couch and looked at the TV like maybe if he watched hard enough, the game would wait for him, and when Joe came back that night, the living room was quiet, the popcorn bowl mostly full, and Hugo was asleep under a blanket with his foam finger drooping beside him and his tooth container unopened on the table, and Joe just stood there for a second, heart soft and heavy at once, before kneeling beside him and whispering to his wife, “Let’s fix this.”

The next morning, they didn’t tell Hugo where they were going until they were halfway there, bundled in jackets, snack bag in the backseat, Joe smiling in the mirror and saying, “Want to see the red team in real life?” and Hugo gasped so big he choked on his apple slice and shouted, “WE’RE GOING TO CHIEFSLAND?! TODAY?! RIGHT NOW?!” and then, holding up his tooth container, added with all the seriousness in the world, “I gotta show Travis my wiggly tooth before it pops out!”

Arrowhead was bigger than anything Hugo had imagined, and when they walked up the stadium steps and he saw the sea of red, the loud music, the fans dancing in rows, he clutched Joe’s hand and said, “This is the best place in the universe,” and Joe, trying not to cry-laugh, just nodded and said, “Yeah, it kind of is.” They found their seats and Hugo stood the entire time, foam finger in one hand and juice box in the other, yelling “Go Travis, go Travis, gooooo!” even when the play wasn’t for him, and in the third quarter, when Travis caught a touchdown and pointed toward the crowd, Hugo jumped so high he nearly launched himself off the seat, screamed with all the force in his tiny lungs—and just like that, it happened.

He stopped suddenly, touched his mouth, turned to Joe and his mom with eyes as big as planets and said, “My tooth… it’s gone,” and they searched everywhere—under the seat, in his jacket, in the snack bag—but the tooth had vanished, lost to the loudest scream in Hugo’s life, and when they finally gave up, Hugo curled into Joe’s lap with a trembling lip and said quietly, “Now the fairy won’t come. She won’t know I did it brave.”

The next morning, at the Chiefs training facility, Joe knelt beside Hugo in a hallway that echoed with every footstep, the lights bright overhead and the walls lined with red and gold, and Hugo’s red beanie sat crooked over his curls as he clutched his empty tooth container in both hands like it was still filled with possibility, and when Travis Kelce finally walked in—tall and grinning, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows like he wasn’t about to make a three-year-old’s whole year—Hugo went quiet with awe, his small fingers curling tighter around Joe’s hand as he whispered, “Daddy… he’s even bigger than the TV.”

Travis crouched with the ease of someone who’d done this before, who knew how to speak to kids without making them feel small, and said, “Hey, little man. I heard you lost something important yesterday,” and Hugo nodded seriously, holding out his empty tooth container and saying, “I screamed when you did the big spin and the touchdown and then—boop—it was gone, and now the fairy’s gonna be sad ‘cause she doesn’t know where to fly.”

Travis made a big show of thinking, then reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a shiny gold Chiefs coin, holding it like it was rare treasure and saying, “Good thing she left this with me. Said it’s for the loudest, bravest, most awesome Chiefs fan in the whole stadium.”

Hugo gasped—audibly, like he’d been holding his breath since kickoff the day before—and looked down at the coin like it was glowing from the inside, then looked up at Joe and whispered, “She really knew I was loud?” and Joe just nodded and said, “She definitely knew.”

They left the facility an hour later, Hugo practically floating out the door, coin in hand, hood up over his curls, asking Joe things like “Do you think Travis eats cereal?” and “Is ketchup still allowed if we’re Bengals again today?” and Joe just smiled, giving his wife a look that said we might be raising a Chiefs fan, but she only raised an eyebrow and said, “Maybe we’re raising both.”

That night, after dinner and bath and one story turned into two, Joe sat beside Hugo’s bed, the room dim and soft with the glow of the nightlight shaped like a football helmet, and Hugo, already blinking slow with sleep, rolled onto his side and whispered, “Daddy…?”

Joe looked up from folding his hoodie on the chair. “Yeah, bud?”

Hugo rubbed at his nose, then said, so small and certain it made Joe’s heart catch, “I still like the red team, but when I grow up, I think I wanna play with you.”

Joe moved closer, brushing Hugo’s damp curls back from his forehead, his chest full and his throat tight, because there it was—not shouted in a stadium, not posted online, but spoken in the quiet of his little boy’s room, that innocent, gentle truth that no matter how many players Hugo admired or jerseys he wore, he still wanted to be like his dad.

“You already do, buddy,” Joe said, voice low and steady. “More than you know.”

And as Hugo drifted to sleep with his gold coin under his pillow and the empty tooth container beside it, Joe sat there a little longer, watching his son’s chest rise and fall, and he didn’t care which team Hugo rooted for next Sunday or the Sunday after that, because in this house full of football and foam fingers and fleeting moments, he knew this one would stay—this small, perfect moment where his son, in his own quiet way, had chosen him.

[liuhsng]

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ strings and satin ( pjs ! ) — part 4

✩ˎˊ˗ enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — jay x fem!reader

⤷ part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 ⤷ word count — 17.4k ⤷ based on this request by 🍓 anon ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — part four is finally here ! i’m so sorry for the wait but i swear it’s worth it, i promise. i hope you guys haven’t been waiting too long—thank you for being patient with me ! enjoy, my loves 🤍

⤷ warnings — smut (minors dni), college au, guitarist!jay, ballerina!reader, college!jay, college!reader, college!enhypen, band!enhypen, fake dating trope, friends to lovers, established relationship, soft domestic undertones, protective!jay, possessive!jay, mutual pining even after getting together, oral sex (f & m receiving), fingering (f receiving), desperate!jay, praise kink, manhandling (gentle but possessive), body worship, grinding, spanking, fluff

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — now that you and jay are official, the air between you feels heavier—charged. stolen touches linger too long, kisses deepen too fast, and every look he gives you feels like it’s daring you to close the space completely. with college week fast approaching, balancing everything gets harder, but the intimacy between you two only flames—late nights turn into tangled limbs and breathless laughter, both of you teetering on that thin, burning line between wanting and taking. because once you cross it, there’s no going back.

The café was alive with chatter and clinking cutlery, a refreshing contrast to the tense, quiet air of libraries and dorm rooms during finals week.

You sat at a corner table with Sunoo, Jungwon, and Ni-ki, laughing lightly as the three younger boys animatedly argued over who should pick the playlist for the car ride later.

“Alright, what do you guys want? I’ll go order,” you said, already standing, your fingers itching to pull out your phone to note down their orders.

But Jungwon immediately shook his head, his little dimples peeking out as he grinned. “We’ll wait in line with you.”

“Yeah, at least let us. We’re the ones who dragged you out for lunch,” Ni-ki added, already slipping out of his seat like it wasn’t up for discussion.

You let out an amused sigh. “You guys are unbelievable.”

“Come on,” Sunoo said with a teasing huff, gently nudging you forward. “At least let us do this much, (Y/N). Consider it penance for forcing you to leave your Netflix cave.”

You laughed softly, trailing behind them in line. “Okay, okay. I won’t fight you on it.”

The line moved slowly, the delicious smell of pastries wafting through the air, and you felt Sunoo’s curious gaze from beside you. He tilted his head slightly.

“So…” he started casually, though his tone betrayed his nosiness. “What’s up?”

You gave him a knowing glance. “You finally get to hang out with me, and that’s all you’re going to say?”

Sunoo pouted dramatically, tugging on your sleeve. “Oh, come on. You know what I mean! There’s something in that brain of yours. Spill.”

You sighed, biting back a small smile as Jungwon and Ni-ki edged closer up the line. “Fine. I met Jay’s parents last Saturday… and he met mine on Sunday.”

Sunoo froze mid-step like you just dropped the juiciest tea of the semester.

His eyes widened, and then a slow, mischievous smile spread across his face. “What?” he whispered-shouted, smacking your arm lightly.

Your lips twitched. “You heard me.”

Sunoo’s eyes widened before his whole face lit up. “Really? No way!”

Jungwon, who’d been eyeing the dessert display at the front, glanced back at Sunoo’s outburst. “What’s ‘no way?’”

“She met Jay’s family,” Sunoo announced, practically bouncing on his heels.

Jungwon’s lips curled into a soft smile as he stepped closer in the moving line. “Good for the both of you. It’s getting serious, huh?”

You nodded sheepishly, feeling the warmth rise in your cheeks.

Meanwhile, Ni-ki, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the menu board above the counter, hummed thoughtfully. “One platter for fettuccine alfredo and ravioli… and garlic bread. How’s that sound?” He finally turned to glance at all of you.

You, Sunoo, and Jungwon nodded in unison, and Ni-ki simply said, “Perfect,” as the line shuffled forward.

Then Ni-ki chimed in casually, like he wasn’t about to drop a bomb. “It’s good that you met Mrs. Park. I miss her cooking.”

Sunoo immediately agreed, clutching his chest dramatically. “Seriously! We barely get to hang out at Jay’s anymore. It’s just not the same when the chefs cook instead of her. The love isn’t there!”

You laughed, remembering the warmth of Mrs. Park’s kitchen. “You can actually taste the difference. I love Mrs. Park’s cooking a lot.”

Jungwon raised his brows and glanced back at you again as the group stepped closer to the cashier. “Did she call you her daughter-in-law yet?”

You blinked in surprise, laughing. “Wait, how’d you know?”

He shrugged coolly, a knowing smirk on his lips. “Just a hunch. She called us Jay’s groomsmen once… you know, when the time comes.”

“She actually did,” Ni-ki confirmed nonchalantly, still scrolling on his phone now that he’d memorized the menu. “She said I’d look best in a black suit.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, trying to suppress the laugh that threatened to slip. “You guys are insane. She really said that?”

“Yup,” Jungwon said with a grin. “And she even said Sunoo would cry the most at the wedding.”

“Hey—” Sunoo whirled on Jungwon, face already flushed as he pouted.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, your shoulders shaking slightly. The three of you shuffled to the side to wait as Ni-ki stepped forward to place the order.

Your eyes flicked to the glass display, catching sight of the chocolate cake that sat perfectly in one corner.

You reached out to lightly poke Ni-ki’s arm. He tilted his head down at you, his blonde hair falling just slightly over his brows.

“Order one ravioli and one slice of chocolate cake for takeout too, yeah?” you murmured.

He blinked, then nodded casually, adding it to the order.

Just as Ni-ki reached for his wallet, you pulled out your card with practiced speed and handed it to the cashier before he could even react.

“Really?” he scoffed, eyes narrowing at you.

You only shrugged with a teasing smile. “Come on. Let me treat my little brothers.”

“I’m going to transfer you the money,” Ni-ki warned flatly.

You shook your head, amusement dancing in your eyes. “Nope. Jay never lets me pay for anything. This is my payback… for him and for you guys.”

Ni-ki sighed dramatically, shoving his wallet back into his pocket. “Fine. But don’t think this is over.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” you teased, taking back your card from the cashier as Sunoo laughed beside you.

You all made your way back to the booth. Sunoo slid in beside you again while Ni-ki took the spot across from you, staring out the glass window with his chin propped on his hand.

His hair caught the soft sunlight filtering through, making him look oddly serene—until his voice broke the quiet.

“I’m glad it’s not fake anymore.”

Your head snapped toward him, eyes wide. “Ni-ki.”

Sunoo made a noise of agreement beside you, nodding slowly. “Me too.”

You felt your face heat instantly. “Sunoo—”

Jungwon, seated at the end of the booth, furrowed his brows in confusion, his sharp eyes darting between them. “Wait. Not fake anymore?”

Ni-ki froze, realizing his mistake too late. He turned to you, a guilty smile tugging at his lips. “Oops.”

“Oops?!” you whisper-yelled, clutching your glass of water like it was a lifeline.

Your wide-eyed glare shot between Sunoo and Ni-ki, heat rising in your cheeks as you tried to process how fast this conversation was spiraling out of your control.

Ni-ki had the audacity to look unbothered, leaning back in his seat as he swirled his water like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb. Sunoo, on the other hand, bit back a laugh, pressing his lips together as his shoulders shook.

You turned sharply to Ni-ki, your voice a harsh whisper. “How did you even find out?”

Ni-ki gave a nonchalant shrug, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Oh, Zuha told me.”

Your brows furrowed, suspicion growing. “Zuha told you?”

“Well… I might’ve forced it out of her.” He took a calm sip of his drink, completely unaffected by your scandalized expression.

“Forced?” you repeated, leaning forward in disbelief.

He shrugged again, unfazed. “It seemed like she was hiding something. So… I hid her laptop and told her I’d throw it in the pool if she didn’t spill.”

“Ni-ki!” you gasped, covering your mouth in horror.

Sunoo couldn’t help the laugh that escaped this time, shaking his head. “You really hate your cousin, don’t you?”

Ni-ki glanced at him, the corners of his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “That’s how it runs in the family.”

Your jaw dropped slightly at the casual confession, but you didn’t even get the chance to scold him before Sunoo chimed in.

“And you?” you asked, spinning to face him like he was next in line for questioning. “How’d you figure it out?”

Sunoo gave you an almost offended look, as if the answer was obvious. “I had a hunch! You two were walking on eggshells around each other for weeks. It wasn’t hard to see something was… off.”

You groaned, pressing your hands to your face. “I can’t believe this. I thought we were being careful.”

Jungwon, who had been silently observing all this with a curious tilt of his head, finally spoke up, his voice calm but edged with intrigue. “So you two were faking it at first?”

You slowly lowered your hands, meeting his sharp gaze. “Yeah,” you admitted softly. “It was… to shut everyone up, I guess.” You trailed off, not wanting to admit out loud how exhausting the rumors had been before all this.

Jungwon hummed thoughtfully, his lips quirking slightly. “But it’s real now, right?”

Your eyes flickered between the three younger boys—your ‘little brothers’ who seemed far too invested in your love life—and you gave a small, almost shy nod. “Yeah… it’s real now.”

Jungwon let out a small sigh of relief, leaning back in his seat. “Good. I like Jay for you. He’s good.”

Sunoo grinned wide, practically bouncing in his seat. “Plus, Jungwon would’ve found out eventually anyway. Even if Ni-ki didn’t slip. He’s too smart for his own good.”

Jungwon’s lips curved into a small, pleased smile at Sunoo’s compliment, but the moment was short-lived.

Ni-ki, ever the menace, leaned back casually in his chair, sipping on his water before smirking. “Yeah, too smart. That’s why he fell on his ass trying to put on his socks earlier.”

Your laugh burst out before you could even stop it, nearly choking on your drink as Sunoo gasped.

“Ni-ki!” Sunoo scolded, reaching across the table and smacking the younger boy on the arm.

“Ow—hey!” Ni-ki winced, rubbing his arm with a frown. “What? It was funny!”

“You’re the worst,” Sunoo muttered, shaking his head as he tried to suppress his own laugh.

Jungwon, however, didn’t even look embarrassed. He just let out a soft laugh, his hand brushing his bangs out of his face.

Before you could add to the teasing, a waiter appeared at the table, carrying a tray stacked with platters of pasta, garlic bread, and desserts.

He carefully placed them down one by one, giving a polite nod as Sunoo flashed him his signature sunshine smile and said, “Thank you so much!”

You began passing out plates, handing one to Ni-ki, but your phone suddenly vibrated on the table. Glancing down, you saw Jay’s name pop up with a little camera icon. A video call.

“Speak of the devil,” you muttered, swiping to answer as you handed Ni-ki his plate.

The screen filled with Jay’s face, framed by the soft sunlight filtering into Decelis’s music building.

He was walking through a hallway, his guitar case slung across his back and his other hand adjusting the rings on his fingers. “Where are you?” he asked immediately, his voice warm with curiosity.

You shifted the camera slightly, pointing it at the three boys across from you. “Eating out with Sunoo, Jungwon, and Ni-ki.”

At the mention of their names, all three heads shot up. Sunoo and Jungwon grinned and waved enthusiastically while Ni-ki gave Jay a small salute with his fork.

Jay’s expression softened as he waved back. “Hi, guys.”

You laughed, turning the camera back to yourself. “He says hi.”

Jay nodded, his steps slowing as he glanced down at something offscreen. “I’m done buying guitar strings with Heeseung. We’re heading back now.”

“Okay,” you said, spearing a piece of ravioli with your fork. “We’ll be back before two. I bought you food, by the way.”

His lips curled into that familiar, heart-melting smile that made your stomach do somersaults. “Thanks, pretty. You’re the best.”

You grinned back. “No problem.”

“Alright, I’ll let you guys eat. Bye, I love you.”

Your heart gave the tiniest flip as you murmured back, “I love you too,” before the screen went black, signaling the end of the call.

The silence that followed was deafening. You didn’t even have to look up to know the three sets of eyes trained on you.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze—and sure enough, Sunoo, Jungwon, and Ni-ki were staring at you with identical sly grins plastered on their faces.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned, rolling your eyes as heat crept up your neck.

Sunoo wiggled his eyebrows. “I love you too,” he teased in a singsong voice.

You covered your face with your hands, letting out a small whine. “Why are you guys like this?”

The door creaked softly as you pushed it open, the familiar scent of coffee, guitar polish, and faint lavender wafting out to greet you.

“Go on,” you said with a smile, gesturing for Sunoo, Jungwon, and Ni-ki to step in first.

The sight that met you made your heart swell.

The band was mid-practice—Heeseung hunched over his mic, lost in the melody; Sunghoon plucking at his bass with that concentrated frown he wore when he was in the zone; and Jay’s guitar resting against a stand as he leaned back on the stool with his phone in hand.

Your own circle of friends weren’t any quieter. Yunjin’s voice hissed sharply across the room, her brows knitted as she pointed at Chaewon. “I’m telling you, it’s two spins, not three!”

Chaewon, ever the firecracker, stuck her tongue out with zero remorse. “You’re not even part of the dance team, Yunjin! Stay in your lane.”

Yunjin scoffed, flipping her hair dramatically. “Excuse you, I’ve watched you guys practice more than I sleep. I practically am honorary dance captain.”

Eunchae and Kazuha were sprawled on the floor nearby, sharing a single pair of AirPods as they watched a movie on Sakura’s laptop.

Kazuha’s head lolled slightly, clearly dozing off, while Sakura sat cross-legged beside them, scrolling through fabric swatches on her tablet.

You smiled warmly, stepping inside as you called out, “We’re back!”

Jay’s head snapped up immediately, and before you could even blink, his guitar was abandoned on the stand. He strode over in long, eager steps, his grin boyish as he scooped you into his arms.

You let out a surprised laugh, hugging him back. “I was only gone for an hour!”

“That’s too long,” he murmured into your hair, holding you just a little tighter before pulling back to press a quick kiss to your cheek.

Rolling your eyes fondly, you held up the bag of takeout. “Here. You’ve been rehearsing all day, you need to eat.”

“Thanks, pretty.” His fingers brushed against yours as he took the bag, his smile softening as he gazed at you like you’d hung the stars.

Across the room, Sunghoon made an exaggerated gagging sound. “Ugh. Couples.”

Jay shot him a smirk over his shoulder, one hand still resting on your waist. “Shut up. You’re just jealous.”

Before you could even retort, Yunjin appeared like a whirlwind, tugging at your arm.

“(Y/N), thank God. Save me from arguing with her.” She shoved you gently toward Chaewon, who looked more than ready to restart round two of their debate.

“Tell Chaewon that the first part only has two turns. Two. Not three. She’s making it harder for herself.”

You sighed with a small laugh, placing a reassuring hand on Chaewon’s shoulder. “Yeah, Chae. It’s only two.”

Chaewon huffed, crossing her arms before reluctantly spinning in place as she muttered, “Fine. But if I trip, it’s on you two.”

You chuckled and turned back to Yunjin. “Are the costumes ready?”

“Yup!” she said brightly, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “They’re arriving tomorrow afternoon. The tailor sent photos and they look amazing.”

“That’s a relief.” You smiled, glancing over your shoulder to see Jay watching you fondly, already unpacking his food.

You padded over to where Jay sat cross-legged on the floor, his guitar momentarily abandoned beside him. He looked up as you settled beside him, his features softening as you leaned gently into his shoulder.

“Hey,” he murmured, tilting his head toward you. “What’s up?”

You let out a long sigh, your gaze trailing to the ceiling as you mumbled, “Nothing. Just… everything’s happening so fast.”

He studied your profile for a moment, his hand paused mid-reach for the fork in his takeout container.

“Us… or the day?” he asked carefully, his tone teasing but laced with curiosity.

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “The day, babe. Definitely the day.”

Jay smirked faintly, finally bringing a spoonful of pasta to his lips.

He chewed thoughtfully, swallowing before speaking again. “I barely have the time to take you out on a date anymore. Everything’s so busy.”

“I know, right?” you said with a small laugh, fingers absentmindedly brushing against the frayed edge of your jeans. “I’m getting pulled into dance practice every single day. It’s exhausting.”

He hummed low in agreement, his free hand turning palm-up for you to see. “My hands are getting more calloused by every practice too,” he noted, flexing his fingers and running a thumb across his calluses.

You took his hand gently, running your thumb across the rough patches with a little smile.

“It shows your hard work,” you said earnestly. “Don’t worry, Jay. You still look good.”

His lips curved into a tender grin, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Thank you, pretty.”

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, letting out another soft sigh. “I really hate College Week.”

He chuckled at your bluntness. “Can’t say I share the same sentiment.”

“Why’s that?” you asked, glancing up at him from beneath your lashes.

“Because I finally get to watch you perform,” he admitted with a quiet sincerity that made your chest flutter.

You laughed shyly, looking away as your cheeks warmed. “Minus that part.”

Jay shook his head, still smiling. “Nope. Even with that, I really love College Week.”

You groaned dramatically, your head falling back against his shoulder. “I wish I loved it too.”

He reached out to grab another bite of pasta, speaking around a small laugh. “You don’t enjoy the booth decorating at least?”

You shook your head with a sigh. “I’m always in charge of tying the ribbons. It’s so tiring.”

Jay barked out a laugh at that, setting his food down for a moment as he turned more toward you. “That’s because they know you’re obsessed with ribbons. You probably tie them better than anyone else.”

You narrowed your eyes at him playfully. “Are you mocking me right now?”

“Never.” His grin widened, the corners of his eyes crinkling as you laughed and shook your head at him.

But before you could fire back a teasing remark, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You frowned slightly, pulling it out to check the notification. Your eyes scanned the message quickly, and you let out a soft sigh as you straightened up.

Jay immediately noticed the shift, his expression softening as he asked, “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, slipping your phone back into your pocket. “Nothing bad. We just need to practice out on the field stage.”

He nodded knowingly and stood with you, grabbing your bag from where it rested on the floor. “Got it.”

You walked toward Heeseung, who was tuning his guitar again. “Hey, Hee, can I borrow your mic real quick?”

Heeseung raised a brow, lips quirking. “What for? Gonna serenade us?”

You cradled the mic with both hands like it was a precious relic. “Maybe later. Right now, I have to wake the dead.”

He chuckled, handing it over with a smirk. “Go crazy, then.”

You turned on your heel, facing Kazuha and Eunchae who were dozing off in the corner, headphones still loosely hanging from their ears. You held the mic up to your lips dramatically.

“Wake up!” you shouted, your voice echoing across the studio like a siren.

Kazuha and Eunchae flinched so hard they nearly toppled over, both glaring at you with wide, sleep-deprived eyes. “What the fuck, (Y/N)?!” Eunchae yelled, clutching her chest.

You laughed, clutching your stomach as you doubled over. “Sorry, but we have practice out in the field stage! Come on, coach’s orders!”

Sakura groaned from her seat, rubbing her temples. “Even the volunteers too?”

You nodded as you handed the mic back to Heeseung, who was trying not to laugh. “Yep. We need help with the set design. Apparently, the banners keep falling.”

“Great,” Kazuha muttered, dragging her legs off the couch.

“You’re welcome,” Heeseung teased as he put the mic back on its stand.

Jay came over, holding your bag out for you. His eyes searched your face with that quiet warmth you loved so much. “Have fun, okay? And be careful.”

You smiled, taking your bag from his hands. “I will. Don’t worry about me.”

Before you turned, you rose on your toes and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, your lips lingering just long enough to make his ears turn faintly red. “See you later, Jay.”

“See you, pretty.” He watched you go, his hands shoved into his pockets, the corners of his lips twitching up when you threw him one last smile over your shoulder.

As soon as you and your group disappeared down the hall, Jake elbowed Jay lightly. “Come on, lover boy. We still need to run through the surprise song.”

Jay tore his eyes away from the door where you’d disappeared, the faintest grin tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, his tone teasing but soft.

“Remember the lyrics this time,” Sunghoon called out from across the room, tuning his bass.

Jay rolled his eyes good-naturedly as he slung his guitar back over his shoulder. “I remember the lyrics. Come on, let’s go.”

Jake chuckled under his breath. “Bet you don’t. She’s got you so distracted it’s embarrassing.”

Jay didn’t deny it. He just strummed his guitar lightly, mumbling under his breath as his fingers slid over the strings.

“Yeah… she does.”

The Tuesday sun was merciless, its rays beating down on your back as you let out another dramatic huff, wiping at the sweat trickling down your temple with the back of your hand.

You were standing precariously on a wobbling stool, arms raised as you adjusted and smoothed out another long pastel ribbon onto the ballet class booth’s wooden frame.

“Why is it so hot today?” you muttered under your breath, grumbling as you reached for another strip of double-sided tape from your apron pocket.

“Kazuha!” you called, squinting down at her where she was crouched on the ground surrounded by colorful cardstock and markers. “Do you have a pair of scissors?”

She didn’t even look up, simply holding a pair up in the air like she expected you to come get them yourself. “Here. Don’t cut your finger off. We need those hands for the showcase.”

You let out a breathy laugh, hopping down from the stool and grabbing the scissors.

“Thanks.” You perched back up, cutting the little ends of each ribbon into neat V-shapes, utterly focused on making them look perfect.

Kazuha finally glanced up at you, amusement flickering in her eyes as she shook her head with a fond smile. “You are the most ballet student I’ve ever met. Like, textbook ballet student energy.”

You let out a laugh as you handed her back the scissors and dramatically stuck your tongue out. “Come on, Zuha. This booth represents me. Us. It has to be the cutest one here!”

You gestured with both arms toward the long row of colorful booths lined up along the edge of the field, their banners fluttering in the breeze.

The smell of wood glue, paint, and freshly cut flowers mixed in the air as students bustled about decorating their own spaces.

Kazuha chuckled, going back to cutting out photobooth props in the shape of pointe shoes and roses. “You’re impossible. It already is the cutest booth.”

You hummed in agreement, stepping off the stool and brushing off your skirt. Your eyes briefly flicked to the large stage set up in the middle of the field, a curious frown tugging at your lips.

“What’s up with the stage setup today anyway? I thought everyone was supposed to be working on booths?”

Kazuha didn’t even bother looking up. “Who knows. I heard there’s a bunch of people in their department who can cover for them. Some special practice or something.”

You were about to ask her more when—

A sudden burst of loud music ripped through the air. The opening instrumental of ‘Karma’ blared from the speakers, and you instinctively grinned, spinning on your heel.

The sight on the stage made your chest warm. There they were—all dressed casually in dark colors that still somehow managed to make them look intimidatingly cool.

Jay stood to the left, tuning his guitar as the students lining the field broke out into excited cheers.

Heeseung leaned into his mic, testing it with a smooth, “One, two—Enhypen soundcheck.”

The cheer that erupted nearly blew the roofs off the booths.

Jungwon let out a breathy laugh as he twirled his drumsticks in his hands, leaning slightly forward into his mic. “Please don’t expect anything impressive, okay? We’re just practicing!”

The students responded with playful boos, some shouting things like:

“We don’t believe you!”

“Just perform now!”

Heeseung laughed, a rich sound that carried across the field. “Come on, guys. We’ll perform for real in a few days! Don’t drain your energy yet.”

Jay glanced toward the booths, and despite the distance and the crowd of students, his eyes found you almost immediately. He recognized you right away—how could he not?

Your usual colorful wear of pastel skirts and crisp white tops made you stand out like a soft beacon amidst the bustling field.

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face as your hand shot up in the air, waving high.

He smirked, his fingers strumming a teasing riff on his guitar. “Pretty girl in the ballet booth—you’re distracting me.”

The students screamed at the comment, some laughing while others gasped at the boldness.

Kazuha nudged your arm, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Oh my god, (Y/N). He so called you out.”

You covered your face with your hands for a moment, shaking your head with a laugh. “I’m going to die of secondhand embarrassment.”

You waved one more time toward the stage, and Jay mirrored the gesture with a quick grin before turning his attention back to his guitar.

Heeseung’s voice came through the speakers, counting down with an easy confidence. “Alright—three, two, one—let’s go!”

The opening chords of ‘Karma’ rang out, met with loud cheers and clapping from some of the students gathered around the field.

You turned to Kazuha with a small huff, brushing off the faint heat on your cheeks. “Come on. We’ve watched them sing that a hundred times already. Let’s finish this booth before Coach sees us slacking.”

Kazuha laughed, twirling the pair of scissors in her hand. “You’re the only one who calls setting up a booth ‘slacking,’ you know that?”

Ignoring her tease, you cupped your hands and called out to two juniors who were helping out nearby. “Hey! Can you two come over here for a sec?”

The girls jogged over, stopping in front of you with bright, eager faces. “Yes, (Y/N)?”

You handed them the now-empty supply boxes stacked at your feet. “Can you guys please run to the props and materials department and ask them for more ribbons and glitter? We’re running low.”

“Sure! We’ll be quick,” one of them chirped, as they grabbed the boxes and headed off toward the university building.

You let out a soft sigh, placing your hands on your hips as you glanced at the booth’s nearly finished sign.

The sound of drums and guitar riffs still filled the air, but you forced yourself to tune it out, humming softly to yourself to keep your focus.

Sakura strolled over, her laptop bag slung carelessly over one shoulder as she eyed the work in progress. “Kazuha, do you have a minute? I wanted to talk about the fabrics for the headpieces for Friday’s performance.”

Kazuha perked up, setting down the scissors. “Oh, right. I was meaning to ask if we’re going with the chiffon or if Coach decided on satin instead.”

You glanced at both of them, smiling faintly as they fell into a hushed discussion. “If you ask me, chiffon’s easier to tie, but satin has that elegant finish,” you murmured absentmindedly, reaching for the next ribbon to cut.

Sakura nodded thoughtfully. “Exactly. But satin’s harder to keep in place during spins…”

Kazuha sighed. “I’ll take whatever doesn’t make our heads itch halfway through.”

You chuckled softly under your breath, settling back into your rhythm as the band’s music thumped faintly in the background, your hands moving almost automatically as you tied yet another ribbon to the booth’s banner.

“Could someone grab me more tape?” you called over your shoulder as you smoothed the ribbon into place.

Two juniors hurried off to fetch it while another pair approached you with hesitant smiles.

“(Y/N), sorry to bother you—do you know where we can ask about the concert ticketing? Some students have been asking, and they thought maybe you’d know since you’re staff for the event.”

You exhaled a laugh, rubbing your temple lightly. “Ah, right… yeah. Tell them to check with the central booth near the field entrance—they’ve got the updated lists and prices.”

“Got it! Thanks,” they chirped before scurrying off.

Being both a performer and part of the staff felt like juggling a thousand tiny tasks at once.

You were so focused on getting the stubborn tablecloth to stay put on the booth’s table—kneeling slightly to smooth the edges and trying to tape them down—that you didn’t notice how the loud chatter and music around you had started to die down.

A hush fell over the people nearby, fading into muffled whispers.

It wasn’t until you felt a pair of strong arms snake around your waist, a familiar scent of cedarwood and citrus filling your nose, that you startled with a tiny squeak. “What—”

You twisted your head slightly, only to see Jay standing there, his face alight with a warm, amused smile. His navy jacket framed his shoulders perfectly, the contrast sharp against his black shirt and pants.

“Hi,” he murmured softly, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder.

Your initial surprise melted instantly into a smile of your own. “Hi,” you said back, your voice softer than you intended.

He released you gently, taking a step back, and only then did you notice the eyes around you—classmates, juniors, even random students—watching with sly smiles and poorly concealed curiosity.

Some were whispering to each other, a few even giggling.

You rolled your eyes with a laugh, used to it by now. Instead, you turned your full attention to Jay, playfully clicking your tongue as you tugged on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Aren’t you hot in this?” you teased, tugging the fabric lightly.

Jay tilted his head, his grin widening. “What? I’m not allowed to look good for my girlfriend while she runs around making everything look cute?”

You gave him a mock glare, but the heat creeping up your cheeks betrayed you. “Jay,” you said his name like a warning, but it only made him laugh.

“You’re seriously incredible, you know that?” he said, eyes softening as he glanced at the perfectly decorated booth behind you. “Pretty and hardworking.”

“Flattery won’t get you a ribbon on your guitar,” you quipped, crossing your arms.

“Oh, c’mon,” he chuckled, reaching out to fix a stray hair near your cheek. “It should get me at least a kiss, though.”

You let out a soft laugh, sighing dramatically as if defeated by his puppy-dog eyes. “Fine,” you muttered, standing on your toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

The grin that spread across Jay’s face was pure victory—smug yet boyishly charming.

“Knew it,” he murmured, his fingers grazing yours teasingly before he straightened up, still trailing after you as you gathered loose scraps of paper from the booth’s corner.

“Do you need help with anything?” he asked, hands slipping into the pockets of his jacket as he fell into step beside you.

You raised a brow at him, tilting your head slightly. “Don’t you have your own booth to handle?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure the others can manage without me for an hour. Jungwon’s got it under control. I’m free labor now—strictly for you.”

Shaking your head with a reluctant smile, you muttered, “I don’t know how Jungwon deals with you every day.”

“Oh, come on, pretty,” Jay said with a playful grin, leaning closer. “You deal with me all the time.”

You pouted, fighting back a laugh. “Unfortunately.”

Jay placed a hand over his chest in mock offense, gasping. “Wow. Cold.”

You rolled your eyes and thought for a second before sighing. “Well, actually… I do need help grabbing the banner papers from the storage room near the back building. They’re too heavy for me to carry alone.”

At that, Kazuha and Sakura both perked up from where they were cutting out more booth decor, their gazes snapping toward you.

Just as Chaewon walked up, brushing dust off her hands, she tilted her head curiously. “Wait, the back building? What do you need there?”

“(Y/N)’s getting the banners,” Kazuha answered before you could, her lips twitching as she shot you a mischievous look.

Chaewon blinked, frowning slightly. “Isn’t it… kind of creepy there? No one goes there anymore. Plus, aren’t most of the cameras broken?”

Sakura added with a little shiver, “And it’s so quiet… I heard people say they feel like they’re being watched.”

You gave them both a sharp glare, crossing your arms. “Please. That’s exactly why I’m taking this musclehead with me.”

Jay’s brows shot up, a hand touching his chest. “Oh, I’m the muscle now?” he said, lips twitching like he was trying not to laugh.

“Stop acting like you don’t sleep in the gym, Jay,” you shot back, already walking off toward the pathway leading to the back building.

Your friends exchanged knowing looks as Jay let out a laugh, quickly jogging to catch up with you.

“Go get your girlfriend, lover boy!” Kazuha called after him with a grin.

“Yeah, good luck, Jay!” Sakura added, her voice teasing.

Chaewon smirked, hands on her hips. “Try not to get scared first, musclehead.”

Jay glanced over his shoulder at them, shaking his head with a soft laugh as he caught up to your side. “Don’t listen to them, pretty. If anything’s scary, it’s me leaving you alone for even a second.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands dramatically. “God, how am I supposed to survive you and your mouth?”

“You don’t,” Jay said smoothly, smirking as he matched your pace. “You just let me carry the heavy boxes and keep looking cute while doing it.”

You rolled your eyes at his teasing, though the corner of your lips twitched as his warm hands slipped around your waist, gently steering you further down the path.

“Stupid coach… and her stupid banners,” you muttered under your breath, glaring half-heartedly at the pavement as you walked.

Jay chuckled lowly behind you, his breath tickling the side of your ear. “Come on, pretty. It can’t be that bad spending extra time with me.”

“It’s not that,” you sighed dramatically, tilting your head to glance at him from the corner of your eye. “I just… I should be resting right now. I’m running on coffee and two hours of sleep, Jay.”

He hummed, reaching up with one hand to gently brush a loose strand of hair away from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear with surprising tenderness.

“Think of it this way, okay?” he murmured, his voice soft yet coaxing. “After this… I’ll treat you to a late lunch. Anywhere you want. Deal?”

Your brows furrowed slightly, but you couldn’t help the small hum that escaped your lips as you considered it.

“That… actually sounds good,” you admitted, your steps slowing just a little as you leaned into his hold.

“Of course it does,” he said, lips twitching into that boyish grin you’d grown so used to. “I’m full of good ideas, pretty.”

“Debatable,” you muttered with a soft laugh, and he squeezed your side playfully.

Soon, the familiar buzz of chatter and music from the booths faded into silence as you reached the edge of the back building. The air was noticeably cooler here, the shadows of the tall trees casting long streaks across the cracked pavement.

Jay glanced around and whistled lowly. “Kinda creepy, isn’t it? No wonder your friends were so dramatic.”

You sighed, slipping your fingers into his and tugging his hand away from your waist. “Come on, Park. Let’s just get this over with.”

He smirked, letting you drag him along, his longer strides easily keeping pace with yours. “Lead the way, boss. I’m just the muscle, remember?”

“You said it, not me,” you shot back with a grin, your fingers squeezing his hand just a little tighter as you approached the storage room doors at the far end of the hall.

Jay leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low teasing tone. “You sure you’re not holding my hand because you’re scared, pretty?”

You turned your head just enough to glare at him playfully. “Shut up, Jay.”

His laugh echoed softly against the walls, warm and unbothered as his thumb brushed against your knuckles. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

His laugh faded into a soft hum as the two of you fell into a comfortable silence. Your joined hands swung lightly between you as your footsteps echoed down the well-lit hallway.

It wasn’t suffocating like you expected—the quiet felt almost soothing with Jay beside you.

You turned the corner and gestured toward a plain door with a faded sign that read ‘Storage Room 3.’ “Well… here it is,” you murmured, reaching for the handle.

Jay followed you in as you pushed the door open. The faint scent of cardboard and paper hit you immediately, and you flipped on the light, revealing rows of neatly stacked boxes on industrial shelves.

“We need to at least carry three full boxes of paper,” you said, stepping inside and glancing around for any sign of them.

Jay only shrugged, already tugging his jacket sleeves up his forearms. “Easy. Come on, what do they look like?”

You hesitated, a small flush creeping up your neck. “…They’re in pink boxes.”

That earned you a laugh, his deep voice echoing against the bare walls of the storage room. He let go of your hand to clap once, grinning. “Pink? Seriously? Alright, let’s find your magical ballet pink boxes then.”

You scowled playfully, crossing your arms. “Don’t make fun of them. It’s cute.”

“Sure it is, pretty,” he teased, stepping toward the left side of the room. “You take the right, I’ll take this side. Whoever finds them first wins bragging rights.”

“Bragging rights? What are we, five?” you muttered under your breath, earning another quiet laugh from him as you carefully began reading the labels on the boxes.

Despite how stocked up the storage room was, it was surprisingly clean—no cobwebs or dust layering the boxes. Your fingers trailed lightly over one labeled Event Streamers, then Props, but no pink in sight.

Jay, meanwhile, crouched down to inspect the lower shelves, his brows furrowed in focus as he read each label aloud. “Towels… extension cords… plastic utensils—wow, they really throw everything in here.”

You grinned faintly, peeking at him from the corner of your eye as you scanned another row. “Sounds like you’re losing, Jay.”

Jay’s laugh rumbled warmly across the small room, his head shaking as he crouched down by another row. “Don’t get too cocky, pretty. I’m just warming up.”

You smirked to yourself, fingers skimming over more boxes before your eyes lit up. “Found them!” you exclaimed, pointing upward at a shelf just above your head.

Jay straightened immediately, his brows raising as he strolled over with that trademark grin tugging at his lips. “Have you now?” he teased, coming to stand beside you.

You nodded confidently, turning to him with a triumphant smile and sticking your tongue out at him in mock victory. “Told you I’d win, Park.”

He hummed lowly, amusement flashing in his eyes as he glanced up at the neatly stacked pink boxes on the shelf. His smirk widened, lazy and dangerous, as he leaned a shoulder against the metal rack and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Well then…” His voice dipped, rich and teasing. “Get them, baby.”

Your mouth fell open slightly as you turned to him with wide eyes. “Excuse me?”

One of his brows arched as he pushed off the shelf, stepping closer—his movements slow. Your breath hitched as you instinctively took a step back, only to feel the cool metal of the shelving press against your spine.

Jay tilted his head, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he nodded toward the boxes. “Go on, pretty. Get them.”

Your cheeks flared with heat, fingers curling nervously at your sides. “I… I can’t,” you admitted softly, your gaze dropping to the floor to avoid the weight of his stare.

“Can’t you?” he murmured, the corner of his lips quirking as if your flustered reaction was his favorite show.

You shook your head, staring intently at a scuff mark on the floor.

“Tsk.” He clicked his tongue, his boots echoing slightly as he took another step closer.

“Too bad.” His voice was low, mocking in its sweetness. “Guess I won then.”

Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing slightly.

“That’s not fair,” you protested, though your voice lacked conviction with how close he was now—his scent wrapping around you, the warmth of his body practically searing into your skin.

“Isn’t it?” Jay hummed, tilting his head. His dark eyes bore into yours, sharp and playful all at once. He leaned down, close enough for his breath to brush against the shell of your ear.

Your back pressed harder against the cold shelves as your lungs forgot how to function.

“What?” His voice was barely above a whisper, smooth as silk.

“You found them…” His lips curled into a smirk you could feel even without looking. “…but I’m the one taking them.”

“That’s not fair,” you repeated, weaker this time as your fingers clutched the edge of the shelf behind you.

Jay chuckled low in his throat, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

“Life’s not fair, pretty girl.” His hand came up, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear—knuckles ghosting over your heated cheek.

You felt your knees threaten to buckle as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his smirk as wicked as ever.

“Now… are you gonna stand there all flushed,” he teased, gaze flicking down to your parted lips for a split second, “or are you gonna let me claim my prize?”

Your throat felt dry, heart pounding in your chest so loud you were sure he could hear it. The heat of his stare alone made your knees wobble.

He tilted his head slightly, a low hum vibrating in his chest as his hand came to rest on the shelf beside your head, effectively caging you in.

His presence felt overwhelming—like the air had thickened with every inch he closed between you.

“Hmm?” he prodded, voice dropping a pitch lower, rougher.

You looked up at him with wide eyes, cheeks flushed, lips quivering like you wanted to speak but couldn’t form words.

His smirk deepened at your silence. “I need words, pretty girl.” His breath fanned across your lips as he leaned even closer, his nose nearly brushing yours. “Don’t make me wait.”

“Y-yes…” you finally managed to mumble, barely above a whisper.

But that was all he needed. That one shaky word snapped something in him.

“Good girl.”

In the next second, his lips were on yours—hot, hungry, demanding. His hand slid to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make you whimper as he pulled you closer.

The other hand cupped the back of your head gently, keeping you from bumping against the unforgiving metal shelves.

Your hands fisted into his shirt desperately, knuckles white from the way you clung to him as though he might disappear.

He groaned low against your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest. His tongue swiped along your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, coaxing a soft gasp from you.

And when you did, he took full advantage—his tongue pushing past your parted lips, tangling with yours in a kiss that was all teeth and heat and want.

Your back arched against the cold shelving as his body pressed flush to yours, his warmth consuming every inch of you. His knee came up, sliding between your legs to part them ever so slightly, stopping you from closing them again.

“Mmph—Jay,” you whimpered into his mouth, trying to press your thighs together out of instinct, only for his leg to hold you open firmly.

“Uh-uh,” he murmured against your lips, his free hand ghosting down your side before gripping your hip tightly. “Keep them open for me, sweetheart.”

Your head felt light, the scent of him and the taste of his mouth making it impossible to think. He kissed you harder, rougher, his tongue claiming every inch of your mouth like he owned it.

Your nails dug into his shoulders through his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate for more.

“Jay—” you breathed out between kisses, your voice breaking from the intensity.

He pulled back just enough to smirk down at you, his forehead pressing to yours as his thumb brushed your swollen bottom lip.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he whispered, voice husky, eyes locked on the way your chest heaved as you struggled to catch your breath.

You barely noticed his hand sliding lower until you felt his fingertips toy with the hem of your skirt, brushing lightly against the sensitive skin of your thigh.

Your breath hitched as he trailed upward, fingers slipping beneath the fabric.

“Jay—” you whispered, your voice catching in your throat

His lips curved into a knowing smirk as his cold fingers made contact with your warm skin, making you flinch and bite down a gasp.

“Shh… you’re fine,” he murmured, pressing a kiss just beneath your jaw, then another to the delicate skin of your neck.

His hand roamed higher under your skirt, his palm hot now as it smoothed up the curve of your thigh. You tried to press your legs together, but his knee was still lodged firmly between them, holding you open for him.

“Fuck, you’re warm,” he growled softly against your ear. His free hand slid around your waist, fingers brushing teasingly against the waistband of your shorts.

He tugged lightly, his knuckles grazing lower before pulling back just enough to tilt his head at you.

“You still with me, pretty?” he asked, voice low and sinful, his thumb tracing slow circles over your hipbone.

You nodded shakily, breath stuttering out of your lungs. “Y-yeah…”

“Good girl,” he praised, a smug grin pulling at his lips.

Then he lowered himself slightly, lips trailing down to your collarbone, peppering kisses over the thin fabric of your shirt before he nipped at your waist. You felt your hands tangle helplessly in his hair, fingers curling tightly as his breath ghosted over your stomach.

“Jay…” His name slipped out in a whisper, so soft you weren’t sure he heard it.

But he did.

His hand dipped lower, fingers slipping past the waistband of your shorts and brushing over the lacy fabric of your underwear. He froze there for a moment, thumb grazing the delicate edge.

“Lace, huh?” he teased, voice dripping with amusement. “You trying to kill me, baby?”

You let out a shaky laugh that turned into a sharp inhale when his fingers pressed lightly against the damp spot just above your folds.

“Oh? Fuck.” His smirk widened as he rubbed slow, teasing circles over the wet patch. “You’re wet already?”

Your hand shot up to cover your mouth, muffling the whimper that escaped.

“Don’t hide from me,” Jay chided softly, his voice thick with heat as he pushed the fabric aside just enough for his fingers to graze your bare skin. “I wanna hear you.”

You shook your head, your other hand clutching at his shirt as though it was your lifeline.

“You’re adorable when you try to be quiet,” he murmured against your stomach, his lips brushing so low you felt them against the top of your shorts. “But let’s see how long that lasts…”

Before you could protest, his fingers hooked under the delicate fabric, pulling it aside with a quiet, deliberate motion. The cold air of the room hit your slick folds, making your entire body shudder.

“Goddamn…” Jay’s breath hitched slightly, his composure cracking for just a second as his fingers slid along your folds—slow, teasing strokes that left your knees weak. “You’re so wet I can feel it dripping.”

“J-Jay—” you gasped, your hand falling from your mouth as your head tipped back against the shelf.

“There’s your pretty voice,” he murmured approvingly, leaning in to press a heated kiss to your jaw before his lips traveled lower, nipping gently at the soft skin of your neck.

Then his fingers slipped lower—finally, finally parting your folds—and one long, skilled finger slid between them, brushing against your entrance.

You let out a strangled whimper, your hips bucking slightly.

“Oh, fuck… you’re so fucking soft.” His voice came out strained, huskier now as he pushed in slowly, his finger stretching you deliciously as your walls fluttered around him. “You’re gripping me so tight already, baby.”

Your hands flew to his shoulders, clutching at his shirt as though it would help you. “Jay—oh my god—”

“Shh…” He pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips, his finger curling ever so slightly inside you before dragging out halfway, only to slide back in again. “Don’t get loud yet. What if someone walks in?”

Your breath hitched, but the thought barely registered as he added a second finger, the stretch making you gasp loudly this time.

“Ah—fuck—Jay—”

“There she is,” he whispered, kissing the shell of your ear as his fingers began a slow rhythm. “So needy. So fucking wet.”

His thumb brushed up to circle your clit, making your hips jerk. “And all this for me?”

You nodded frantically, words failing you as he curled his fingers just right, grazing that spot deep inside that made your legs tremble.

“You’re taking my fingers so well, pretty girl,” Jay growled lowly, his lips trailing hot kisses down your neck as his thumb pressed harder. “So fucking tight. So wet I can hear it.”

And sure enough, there it was—the obscene sound of your arousal each time his fingers thrust in and out, filling the tiny storage room with wet, lewd noises.

“Listen to that, baby.” He chuckled darkly, his pace quickening just enough to make you whimper. “Hear how messy you are for me? Fuck.”

Your head fell forward against his shoulder as his fingers worked you open faster, harder. One of your hands slid into his hair, tugging helplessly as the heat in your stomach coiled tighter and tighter.

“Jay—please—”

“Please what, sweetheart?” he asked, his smirk evident even as his voice came out rougher now. His fingers didn’t let up, the pads curling against your sweet spot over and over.

“I—don’t stop—please—” you gasped out, barely able to form a sentence.

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Jay’s teeth grazed your earlobe as his thumb circled your clit faster.

“I wanna feel you come all over my fingers, pretty girl. Think you can do that for me?”

Your answer was a strangled whimper, your walls fluttering wildly around his fingers as the coil in your stomach snapped.

“J-Jay—oh—fuck—” you gasped, your hips stuttering as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you.

“That’s it… there you go, baby,” he murmured lowly, watching your flushed face contort in pleasure as you came undone on his hand.

The slick, wet sounds grew louder as his fingers continued to pump you through your high, slowing only when your thighs trembled violently.

When he finally pulled his fingers out, your legs gave out beneath you, but Jay was quick—his free hand shooting up to catch you around the waist.

“Woah, easy,” he murmured with a small chuckle, his arm steadying you as your shaky legs threatened to collapse completely.

He hoisted you upright, pressing you firmly against his chest. You panted against him, clinging to his shirt as your body trembled from the aftershocks.

Jay looked down at you with a grin that was equal parts smug and soft before lifting his slick-coated fingers to his mouth. He slid them between his lips, sucking them clean with a low hum.

“Fuck, you’re sweet,” he muttered, his eyes locked on yours as heat rushed to your cheeks. “Could get addicted to this.”

“Jay—” you breathed out, burying your face into his chest as your blush burned hotter.

He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Breathe for me, baby,” he whispered, his tone turning gentle as his thumb brushed over your jaw. “You did so fucking well.”

He carefully tucked a stray strand of hair sticking to your damp forehead behind your ear, his dark eyes softening as he studied you. “So pretty like this… all wrecked because of me.”

You let out a weak sigh, trying to regain feeling in your legs as he kept a steady arm around your waist.

“God…” you mumbled, voice still breathless. “You’re still carrying the boxes.”

That earned you a low laugh from him, his chest rumbling against your cheek as he tilted your chin up with his thumb.

“Really?” he smirked, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. “I just made you cum so hard you can’t stand, and that’s all you can say to me?”

You pouted faintly, but your lips twitched into a small grin as you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.”

Jay laughed again, resting his forehead against yours as his fingers trailed soothingly down your spine.

“You’re welcome, pretty girl,” Jay murmured against your lips, giving you one last tender kiss before pulling back with a soft smile.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your face still warm as he helped you steady yourself.

His large hand wrapped around yours, guiding you up with ease. “You okay now?” he asked, his brows slightly furrowed in concern as his thumb brushed over your knuckles.

You nodded, your lips tugging into a shy smile. “Yeah… I’m okay.”

“Good.” He gave your hand one last reassuring squeeze before letting go and stepping toward the shelf.

Without hesitation, he bent down and grabbed the stack of three pink boxes like they weighed nothing at all, hoisting them into his arms with a casual grin.

Your jaw dropped slightly as you blinked at him in disbelief. “Jay—three boxes? At once?”

He only chuckled at your shock, his eyes glinting mischievously. “What? You thought I was all talk?”

You crossed your arms, still staring as he adjusted the boxes in his hold effortlessly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously strong,” he corrected smoothly, shooting you a wink. “Now, care to open the door for your musclehead boyfriend?”

You rolled your eyes with a laugh but walked ahead anyway, tugging the door open as he followed close behind.

“You’re lucky I like you,” you teased, holding it open just long enough for him to step out.

Jay smirked, walking past with ease and tossing you a smug glance over his shoulder. “This is the only time I’ll let you open the door by yourself, you know. Don’t get used to it, pretty.”

You scoffed playfully, falling into step beside him as the two of you made your way back to the booths. The quiet of the back building gave way to the familiar bustle of the field as laughter and chatter reached your ears again.

Jay set the stack of pink boxes down on the booth’s table with a soft thud, rolling his shoulders slightly from the weight but still wearing that satisfied grin.

Kazuha, who had been snipping at stray threads on one of the fabric pieces, paused mid-cut. Her brow arched high as her eyes flickered from Jay to you, and then back again.

You frowned, adjusting your skirt asKazuha’s grin grew even wider, mischief dancing in her eyes as she nudged Sakura, who had been kneeling nearby sorting through an array of headpiece fabrics.

Startled, Sakura looked up from her pile, her gaze immediately locking on you and Jay standing side by side. you stepped forward. “What?”

She didn’t even try to hide the knowing smirk tugging at her lips.

“What’s wrong?” you asked cautiously, eyes darting between the two girls as your stomach twisted in suspicion.

Kazuha rested her chin on her palm, her expression impossibly smug. “Well,” she drawled, exchanging a look with Sakura. “Looks like you two had fun back there.”

Your brows furrowed as your head tilted slightly in confusion. “Huh? What are you—”

But then you caught it. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Jay’s lips—more specifically, the faint shimmer of your glittery pink lip gloss smudged at the corner of his mouth.

Your breath hitched, heat rushing up to your cheeks as mortification settled in.

“Oh my God,” you whispered under your breath, feeling your entire face go hot.

Without thinking, you rushed over to him, grabbing his arm as he blinked down at you in surprise. “Hold still.”

You reached up, using the edge of your sleeve to gently wipe at the gloss on his skin, your movements quick and flustered.

Jay, of course, only laughed—deep and amused as his lips tugged into that teasing grin you both hated and loved.

“Sorry,” he said with a chuckle, not looking the least bit sorry as he let you fuss over him. “Didn’t realize I was wearing your makeup as a badge of honor.”

“Jay,” you hissed under your breath, still dabbing at his mouth as your ears burned hotter.

He tilted his head slightly toward your hand, smirk still firmly in place. “What? I didn’t hear you complaining earlier.”

“Shut up.” You pressed your palm gently against his chest, pushing him back just enough to glare at him—though your flustered expression ruined any chance of it being effective.

Behind you, Kazuha’s laughter rang out while Sakura tried (and failed) to hide her giggles behind a piece of fabric.

“You two are so embarrassing,” Kazuha teased, reaching for her scissors again. “Seriously, get a room next time.”

You groaned, covering your face with both hands as Jay’s chuckle vibrated low in his chest.

You sat cross-legged on the studio floor, fingers deftly tying the little satin ribbons on the fabric pouches while Eunchae sat across from you, her brows furrowed in concentration as she carefully tucked the final satin headpiece inside one.

It was Wednesday late afternoon, the golden light from the high windows spilling across the polished floors. The soft scent of fabric glue still lingered faintly in the air, mixing with the faint hum of a ballad playing from someone’s forgotten speaker.

“I still can’t believe you joined the costume department last minute,” you teased, reaching over to flick her forehead gently.

“Weren’t you so adamant about staying out of this?”

Eunchae pouted, hugging a finished pouch to her chest dramatically. “I didn’t want to be left out! You guys are always so busy with ballet and costumes and meetings… I felt like I was third-wheeling the entire friend group.”

You laughed, your hand reaching up to pat her head affectionately. “Our little baby,” you cooed, making her groan and shove lightly at your arm.

“Don’t say it like that. You’re acting like I’m ten,” she grumbled, though the small smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.

You shook your head, setting the last pouch into the basket beside you. “Okay, little baby, we’re done.”

You pushed yourself off the floor and offered her a hand. “Come on, we should be heading home.”

Eunchae accepted your hand with a dramatic sigh, standing and brushing off her pants. “You mean I have to go home and help Yunjin with her meeting with the juniors.”

She shot you a knowing look as she grabbed the basket. “You, on the other hand, have a date.”

You laughed, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you got up from the floor. “Come on, it’s not really a date. We’re just ordering takeout and watching whatever’s on Netflix.”

“Mmhm.” Eunchae’s grin widened as she followed you out of the studio, her sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floors.

The hallway outside buzzed with life, students pouring out of their classrooms with laughter and chatter bouncing off the walls. It was loud, but comforting in a way—like the kind of background noise you’d grown so used to that it felt like home.

As the two of you made your way down the hall toward the lockers, Eunchae nudged your side with her elbow. “I’m too young to be an aunt, you know.”

You nearly dropped your phone at her words, whipping your head toward her with wide eyes as your hand smacked her arm lightly.

“Come on—you know I’d have to love someone enough for it to even get that far.”

“Oh, uh-huh.” She sang the words out teasingly, leaning closer with a mischievous little smirk. “That’s why your boyfriend’s all over you every chance he gets.”

You groaned, rolling your eyes dramatically as you turned the corner to your locker. “Eunchae—”

“Look behind you,” she interrupted with a whisper-shout.

You frowned but turned anyway—only for your breath to catch slightly at the sight of Jay casually walking toward you.

His bag was slung over one shoulder, his guitar case in the other hand, hair a little messy from practice and a lazy smile tugging at his lips as he spotted you. He raised a hand, waving.

You instinctively waved back, cheeks warming as Eunchae bit back a squeal beside you. “I’ll get going,” she said quickly, balancing the basket of headpieces on her hip.

“I gotta get this to Sakura anyway. Have fun on your not-date.” She winked, slipping past you before you could retort.

“Hong Eunchae—”

Too late. She was already halfway down the hall, and you were left stuffing loose papers from your bag into your locker with a sigh.

“Hi, pretty.”

You startled slightly at the voice so close before realizing someone was leaning lazily against the locker beside you.

Turning your head, you found Jay watching you with that boyish grin, his sharp features softened by the warm light spilling in from the windows.

“Hi,” you replied, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself as you closed your locker with a metallic clink. “You’re early.”

He shrugged, shifting his weight and tilting his head at you. “You say that like you’re not my favorite part of the day.”

Your cheeks burned instantly as you looked away, fiddling with the strap of your bag. “Smooth.”

“Always,” he teased, his voice low and warm. “You ready to go?”

You nodded, lips twitching into a small smile as you slid your hand into his outstretched one. His fingers curled around yours instantly, thumb brushing absentmindedly across your knuckles as if it was second nature to him now.

You were sprawled out on Jay’s bed, mindlessly scrolling through your phone. The faint sound of oil sizzling and the aroma of garlic and spices wafted down the short hall, making your stomach growl.

With a soft sigh, you set your phone aside and stretched your arms over your head, the thin straps of your silk tank top slipping slightly as the fabric clung to your skin.

You didn’t think much of it as you padded barefoot across his room, the hem of your matching lace-trimmed shorts brushing the tops of your thighs.

Trudging out into the living space, you were greeted with the warm glow of the kitchen light and Jay’s tall figure moving around with quiet efficiency.

His back was turned to you, the muscles in his shoulders flexing under his plain white shirt as he stirred something in a pan. His black shorts hung low on his hips, the scene so domestic it made your chest ache a little.

A soft smile tugged at your lips as you moved past the couch and perched yourself on the counter next to the sink, your legs swinging lazily.

“You know…” you said casually, your voice cutting through the gentle clatter of pans.

Jay stiffened slightly before glancing over his shoulder, eyes finding yours—and the sight nearly knocked the air out of him.

You—sitting there with a lazy, knowing grin in that silky tank top that clung to every curve, and those lace-trimmed shorts riding high on your thighs—looked like every sinful thought he’d ever had come to life.

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, his eyes dragging up and down your body before he quickly turned back to the stove, gripping the spatula tighter than necessary.

“You’re trying to kill me.”

You giggled softly, leaning back on your hands, head tilted in mock innocence. “What? I’m just sitting here.”

Jay shook his head, his jaw tight as he focused on the sizzling vegetables. “Yeah, sitting there like that.”

You smirked, eyes glinting mischievously as you pointed to the neat arrangement of vegetables and sauces on the far counter. “When I said I was craving Chinese…”

He glanced back again, only to find you swinging your legs lazily, the movement making the hem of your shorts ride up just a little more. He swore under his breath.

“…I thought you’d buy or order. Not this,” you teased, gesturing at the cutting board stacked with colorful peppers and neatly lined condiments.

Jay huffed a short laugh, trying to mask how his chest was tightening just looking at you. “What can I say? I like making things from scratch.”

You gave him a playful pout, legs still swinging. “Mm, so I can’t even be mad… it smells really good.”

“Good.” His voice was lower now, a little rougher. “Because I’m putting my whole heart into it.”

He flipped something in the pan and muttered under his breath, “Trying to distract me too…”

You grinned. “Distract you? Me? I’m innocent, Jay.”

He turned then, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed, spatula still in hand. His eyes locked on you, sharp and unblinking.

“Innocent?” His brow arched. “Sitting on my counter looking like that? You call that innocent?”

Your smile widened. “What? I’m comfy. It’s your apartment, your rules, right?”

“Mm.” He pushed off the counter, taking slow steps toward you, and you felt your heart stutter. “My apartment. My rules.”

He stopped in front of you, his hands braced on the counter on either side of your thighs, caging you in.

“You really have no idea what you’re doing to me right now, do you?” Jay murmured, his face close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.

You blinked up at him, feigning innocence even as your lips twitched. “I’m just waiting for dinner…”

His gaze darkened as it flicked to your parted lips, lingering for a heartbeat too long before trailing lower—over the way the silk of your tank top clung to your chest, catching in the faint light of the kitchen.

You swore you saw his jaw flex for a moment before he exhaled sharply through his nose.

But his expression softened. A teasing smirk tugged at his lips as his dark eyes flicked back up to yours.

He leaned in slightly, pressing a quick, playful kiss to the tip of your nose.

“Get the plates, pretty,” he murmured, voice low but warm. “Dessert can wait.”

You raised a brow at him, trying—and failing—to hold back the grin tugging at your lips.

“You’re sure about that?” you asked lightly, your tone laced with just enough teasing to make his smirk widen.

“Mm. For now,” Jay replied smoothly, stepping back so you could slide down from the counter. “But don’t test me.”

You laughed softly under your breath, hopping down and padding over to the dishwasher.

As you pulled out two plates, you glanced over your shoulder at him, catching the way he was watching you out of the corner of his eye while stirring the sizzling noodles.

“Kitchen or living room?” you asked, stacking the plates carefully in your hands.

“Living room,” Jay answered without hesitation, a little grin forming on his lips. “I know we’re gonna end up watching something anyway.”

You smiled at that, the domesticity of it making your chest ache in a good way.

“You’re not wrong,” you murmured, carrying the plates over to the coffee table in the living room. You set them down neatly, grabbing glasses from the cabinet and a bottle of juice from the fridge on your way back.

Jay had arranged all the dishes neatly on the counter: a steaming bowl of stir-fried noodles, two smaller plates of dumplings and spring rolls, and a perfectly plated dish of sweet and sour chicken.

“Jay… did you make enough food to feed an entire building?” you teased, your lips curving up as you admired the spread.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I just… made everything,” he said casually, his shoulders lifting in a little shrug as he carried over the large bowl of noodles.

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you arranged the glasses and juice on the table. “Overachiever.”

“Guilty.”

Jay sat down next to you on the couch, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the aroma of the food. He grabbed a pair of chopsticks, twirling them in his fingers for a moment before scooping up a small bite of noodles.

“Alright. Moment of truth,” he said, blowing lightly on the steaming food before holding it up toward your lips.

You blinked, startled for a second, then let out a small laugh as you leaned forward obediently.

“You’re feeding me now?” you teased, your lips parting.

“Damn right I am,” Jay replied with a grin. “Open up, pretty girl.”

You rolled your eyes playfully but did as he said, taking the bite as he watched you expectantly. The moment the flavor hit your tongue, your eyes widened.

“Oh my god,” you mumbled, covering your mouth with your hand as you chewed. “Jay, this is so good. Like—restaurant-level good.”

He let out a low chuckle, eyes softening as he watched you. “Yeah? You’re not just saying that to make me feel good?”

You shook your head eagerly. “No! I’m serious. This is amazing.”

“Good,” he said, his grin turning into a satisfied smirk as he grabbed another bite for himself. “Means I’m keeping my girlfriend well-fed.”

You gave him a playful side-eye but didn’t argue, too focused on savoring the rich flavors still lingering on your tongue.

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence as you continued eating.

Here and there, you’d exchange small conversations—about the day, about how you kept catching your neighbor’s cat peeking through your window, and Jay teasing you about how many shows you’d started but never finished.

But eventually, the plates were forgotten. You found yourself half-lying across his lap, your head resting against the armrest of the couch while his warm hand idly traced shapes on your arm.

The other hand absentmindedly combed through your hair, twirling the strands around his fingers as ‘Bridgerton’ played on the TV.

“This is… interesting,” you mumbled, your voice soft and a little drowsy.

Jay hummed wordlessly in agreement, his eyes fixed on the screen.

He’d been surprisingly quiet for most of the episode—likely too distracted by you sprawled across him in that silk tank top and shorts, looking like the embodiment of temptation.

And then it happened.

The moans. The subtle rustling of clothes. The unmistakable sounds of a sex scene filling the room.

Jay moved slightly beneath you, clearing his throat as his gaze darted away from the screen. His fingers paused in your hair for a beat before resuming their slow motions, though you could feel the slight tension in them now.

You grinned, biting your bottom lip at the rare sight of your usually level-headed boyfriend so visibly affected.

“What’s wrong, Jay?” you teased lightly, purposefully moving on his lap so your body pressed against him in a way that had his breath hitching.

“(Y/N)…” he warned softly, his tone low but lacking bite.

You ignored it, your hand resting innocently on his thigh through his black shorts. But your fingers weren’t so innocent as they splayed slightly, caressing the firm muscle beneath.

Jay’s jaw clenched, a low groan escaping his throat. Still, he said nothing.

So you tried again. This time your fingers traced slow, teasing patterns higher up his thigh.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he muttered, his voice rougher now, almost strained as his dark eyes flicked down to meet yours.

You only hummed in response, a little smile playing on your lips. “Who said I wouldn’t finish?”

Jay exhaled sharply through his nose, the muscles in his arm tightening slightly where his hand rested on your shoulder.

Then you moved again, rolling so you were lying fully on your side, facing him as your fingers toyed with the waistband of his shorts.

“Can I have my dessert now, please?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head with wide, pleading eyes that you knew he couldn’t resist.

Jay swore under his breath, his free hand moving to grip the back of your head, gathering your hair into a loose makeshift ponytail as he exhaled a low chuckle.

“You’re such a little tease, you know that?” he murmured, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Go ahead, baby. It’s all yours.”

Your grin widened as you tugged down his shorts, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. Your palm pressed against the bulge straining through the thin fabric, feeling the heat and weight of him.

Jay’s head fell back slightly against the couch, a deep groan rumbling from his chest.

“No teasing,” he growled, his grip on your hair tightening slightly as his dark eyes bore into yours.

You only looked up at him with a smile that was far too sweet for the sinful things running through your mind.

“Hmm, no promises.”

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down slowly until he sprang free—thick, long, and flushed a deep shade of red at the tip.

Your breath caught for a moment as you bit your lip, eyes flicking up to meet his.

Jay was watching you closely, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling a little quicker now.

“Pretty…” his voice was low and strained, his thumb stroking the side of your face as he murmured, “Don��t make me lose my fucking mind.”

You only gave him an innocent look—one he didn’t believe for a second—before letting your tongue dart out to give the flushed tip of him a tentative kitten lick.

“Fuck—” Jay’s hand tightened slightly in your hair as his head tipped back against the couch. His thighs tensed under your palm, and you felt the muscle jump as you flicked your tongue against him again.

“Goddamn, (Y/N)…” he muttered, his voice breaking slightly as you trailed your tongue slowly around the sensitive head, tasting the bead of precum that had gathered there.

Your lips curved into a smile as you pressed a gentle kiss to the tip before flattening your tongue and giving one long, deliberate lick from the base to the tip.

Jay let out a low groan, his hand guiding your head forward instinctively.

“You’re such a tease,” he growled, his voice wrecked as you wrapped your lips around him finally, taking him in inch by inch. “So fucking pretty with your mouth on me.”

You hummed around him, the vibration making him curse under his breath.

“Shit—don’t do that or I’m gonna—” He cut himself off with a sharp inhale when your hand wrapped around what your mouth couldn’t reach, stroking him in time with the slow bob of your head.

You pulled off just enough to lick a stripe along the underside of his length before taking him back in, cheeks hollowing as you sucked a little harder this time.

Your other hand moved to rest on his thigh, feeling it tense and twitch under your touch.

“Fuck, baby… just like that,” Jay groaned, his thumb rubbing slow, messy circles against the side of your neck as his other hand stayed tangled in your hair.

You felt him hit the back of your throat, and you pushed just a little further until your gag reflex kicked in.

A choked sound escaped you, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as you pulled back slightly, saliva dripping messily down your chin.

“Fuck—” Jay’s eyes darkened further at the sight of you so wrecked already, lips red and swollen, eyes watery as you looked up at him.

“You’re fucking perfect.”

You spat softly into your palm, wrapping your slick hand around him again as your mouth returned to the flushed head. Your tongue swirled around it before sucking hard, making him groan deep in his chest.

“Shit, you’re gonna be the death of me,” Jay muttered, his hand guiding your movements now as his hips shifted slightly in the couch cushions.

Your lips and hand worked together, twisting your wrist slightly as you stroked him while your mouth focused on his sensitive tip. Every now and then you’d take him as deep as you could, your throat tightening around him as he cursed lowly.

“F-fuck… just like that, baby. So good for me,” he groaned, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek from the stretch. “Taking me so well. Fucking hell.”

You pulled back with a wet pop, your lips glossy with spit as you panted softly.

“You taste so good,” you murmured, your voice hoarse, before licking a long stripe up his length again.

“Fuck—” Jay groaned low, his hand tightening slightly in your hair as his head tipped back. The hand that had been resting lazily on your arm shifted, dragging down slowly until his fingers hooked at the waistband of your silk shorts.

You felt the tug and froze for just a second, your breath catching around him as he muttered darkly, “These need to come off.”

The sound of fabric sliding down your thighs sent a shiver through you. Half your body was still draped across his lap, your legs bent awkwardly on the couch, but Jay didn’t seem to care.

His dark eyes flicked down, and he let out a low growl when he caught sight of your panties—already soaked through.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” he murmured, his thumb pressing a tentative circle over your clothed core.

The sensation made you whimper, muffled around his length as your hips gave the tiniest jerk. The sound pulled a dangerous smirk from Jay as he arched a brow.

“Oh? That made you whine, pretty girl?” he teased, his voice strained but still laced with amusement. “You like having my cock in your mouth and my hands here?”

You let out a broken moan around him in response, your lips tightening instinctively as you sucked harder.

“Shit—” Jay cursed, his fingers moving now with more purpose as he rubbed slow, firm circles over the damp lace.

Then, without warning, he hooked the fabric to the side, fingers sliding against your slick folds.

“Goddamn…” he muttered under his breath, his thumb brushing your clit as two fingers plunged into you in one smooth motion.

Your body jolted at the sudden intrusion, a loud moan vibrating around his cock as your walls clenched around his fingers.

“Fuck, that sound,” Jay groaned, his free hand tugging your hair back slightly so he could watch your wrecked expression as you tried to keep taking him. “You’re dripping, baby. Making a fucking mess for me.”

His fingers curled inside you, finding that perfect spot with practiced precision. Your hips bucked against his hand, and he chuckled lowly.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice deep and rough now. “Mouth full of me, pussy so tight and wet for my fingers. You’re such a fucking sight.”

You whimpered again, your thighs trembling as his pace quickened. The obscene wet sounds of his fingers plunging into you mixed with the slick, messy noises from your mouth working on his cock.

“Don’t stop,” Jay gritted out, his hand guiding your movements on him as his thumb pressed harder on your clit.

“Wanna feel you fall apart while you’re sucking me off. Think you can do that, pretty?”

You let out a choked whimper around his cock, your hips jerking as he pressed his thumb harder against your clit. The vibration of your moan made Jay’s head tip back with a guttural groan.

“Fuck—always so fucking sensitive for me,” he muttered, his pace in your core quickening.

The slick, wet sounds of his fingers plunging into you filled the room, mixing with the obscene slurp of your mouth working over his length.

Your thighs trembled as you tried to focus on keeping him in your mouth, but the coil in your stomach tightened unbearably. Jay noticed, his hand gripping your hair tighter as his dark eyes bore down on you.

“Don’t you dare pull away,” he growled, curling his fingers perfectly. “Wanna feel you fall apart right here, baby. Wanna feel your mouth go tight around me when you cum.”

A strangled moan vibrated around his cock as your walls fluttered wildly around his fingers, your body arching against the couch cushions.

You tried to stifle the sound, but it came out broken and needy, muffled by the weight of him on your tongue.

“Good girl,” Jay groaned, his thumb brushing soothingly over your clit even as your thighs shook from the aftershocks.

“Fuck, you’re perfect like this. Falling apart for me while keeping me in your mouth. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You whined faintly around him, your lips still wrapped tight as your cheeks hollowed, determined to keep going.

Jay’s jaw clenched, his free hand leaving your hair as he pulled his fingers from your core, bringing them to his lips.

“Fuck—” he hissed as his tongue darted out, licking them clean with a low growl. “You taste so fucking sweet.”

Then, without warning, his now free hand came down in a sharp smack against your ass, making you yelp around his cock. The sudden sting had your hips jerking forward, and Jay groaned deep in his chest.

“Shit—don’t do that unless you’re ready to make me lose it,” he muttered, his breath coming faster now as his hand smoothed over where he spanked you, only to give another sharp slap that had you moaning again.

“I’m close, baby. So close,” he panted, his hand tightening in your hair again. “Just a little more… fuck—”

A deep groan tore from his throat as his hips gave a slight thrust. You felt the first hot spurts hit the back of your throat as he cursed lowly, his chest rising and falling fast.

“Shit, (Y/N)… so fucking good,” he growled as you swallowed around him, not pulling away until he twitched one last time against your tongue.

You let him go with a soft pop, pulling back slightly to look up at him, your lips swollen and glossy with spit. You stuck your tongue out with a little grin, showing him you’d swallowed every drop.

Jay’s dark eyes softened instantly, his chest still heaving as his thumb brushed over your bottom lip. Then he leaned down, cupping your jaw as he pressed a tender kiss to your mouth.

Gone was the feral hunger—this kiss was slow, warm, his lips moving lazily against yours as if he couldn’t bear to break the connection.

“You’re amazing,” he murmured between kisses, his other hand smoothing over your hair.

“So good for me. You’ve got me completely fucking ruined, you know that?”

You giggled softly against his lips, still breathless, and he smiled as he pressed another kiss to your flushed cheek, then your nose, then your temple.

“The dishes can wait,” Jay said suddenly, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “You’re all I’m thinking about right now.”

Before you could respond, he was already slipping his hands under your thighs, lifting you easily into his arms. You squeaked in surprise, clinging to his shoulders as he carried you bridal style toward his bedroom.

“Jay—” you began, but he silenced you with a soft peck to your lips.

“No arguments,” he murmured with a small smirk. “You’ve completely worn me out. Now I’m gonna hold you all night.”

It was already Wednesday evening before you realized how late it had gotten. The golden sun cast a warm glow over the grassy field, streaks of pink and orange bleeding into the sky as the sound of music still lingered faintly in the air.

Your practice skirt swished against your thighs as you caught your breath, sweat sticking your hair slightly to your temple.

You’d been in your element all afternoon—perfecting every twist, every sharp turn and graceful extension until it felt like muscle memory.

As the song faded out, Sion released your hand, his breathing a little heavier too, and gave you a bright grin.

“Good job, partner,” he said, offering you a casual fist bump.

You laughed softly, bumping your fist against his. “You too. No more near-disasters with that lift. We’re getting there.”

His grin widened, and he shook his head. “Hey, that one wasn’t my fault.”

Before you could tease him further, your coach’s voice echoed across the field as she stepped onto the small stage set up nearby. She grabbed the mic, drawing the attention of every dancer and techie still scattered around.

The grassy field was littered with colorful balloons and bits of confetti from the earlier events—a chaotic but oddly charming mess.

“Alright, everyone!” she called, her voice warm but commanding. “You all worked incredibly hard today. I’m so proud of every single one of you.”

You smiled as you bent to adjust the strap of your heel, standing straighter when your coach’s eyes briefly landed on you.

“And I want to take a moment to outwardly commend Jeong (Y/N), our White Swan,” she continued, her grin widening.

“You’ve been moving like you were born for the stage. Elegant, powerful—exactly what this choreography needs.”

There was a small round of applause and some whistles from the sidelines, including Sakura and Eunchae from the costume team waving their hands dramatically in your direction.

“Our star dancer!” Yunjin cheered loudly, cupping her hands around her mouth.

“That’s our (Y/N)!” Sakura called, earning laughs from the nearby technical department as they clapped and hollered too.

You shook your head, embarrassed but grinning as you raised your hand in mock salute.

“Thank you,” you called back with a laugh, cheeks warm as your teammates joined in the clapping.

“Alright, alright, let’s bring it down,” your coach chuckled. “Cool down and get some rest. Big day tomorrow—official performance. Costumes and tech, you’ve done enough for now. Go relax too.”

Sakura, Yunjin, and Eunchae let out exaggerated sighs of relief, fanning themselves with their clipboards as they made their way off the field.

You glanced at Chaewon, who was stretching her shoulders nearby, and gestured subtly for her to step up and lead the cooldown.

Her brows furrowed in mock annoyance, and she placed a hand on her hip. “Me? Again? You’re the coach’s favorite today, (Y/N). You do it.”

You raised your brows, biting back a grin. “Hey, I just nailed a whole routine. My legs are already jelly.”

Chaewon scoffed but took her place at the front anyway, clapping her hands to gather everyone. “Fine, fine. But you owe me, Jeong.”

You exhaled, the weight of hours of practice finally settling into your bones as the cooldown stretches began. Your muscles ached, but it was the good kind of ache—the one that told you you’d given everything today.

As the group dispersed, Kazuha and Chaewon approached with your belongings in their arms.

“Here,” Kazuha said with a warm smile, handing you your bag.

“Don’t forget your water,” Chaewon added, tossing you your bottle with a knowing look.

“Thanks, guys,” you murmured, slinging your bag over your shoulder as the three of you stepped off the stage and down onto the grassy field.

By the time you reached the sidewalk, all three of you were laughing about how Chaewon’s cooldown playlist somehow always snuck in random ballads no one asked for.

But the sound of laughter wasn’t just yours.

You froze slightly at the sight that greeted you. The band was there—all of them.

Jake and Sunghoon were tossing a football back and forth like overgrown kids, their movements occasionally too dramatic, causing the ball to fly dangerously close to other people.

Sunoo and Jungwon were in a full-on sprint, shrieking as Ni-ki chased them like some horror movie villain, his long legs easily closing the distance.

Heeseung was lying completely motionless on the grass, his arm draped over his eyes, probably dead to the world.

But your eyes were pulled magnetically to one figure—Jay.

He was leaning lazily against a lamppost, one ankle crossed over the other, hands in his pockets. But his posture was deceptive because his dark eyes—soft yet sharp—never once left your figure as you approached.

He nodded slightly in acknowledgment, his expression unreadable.

You tilted your head, brows furrowing in confusion. Before you could say anything, Chaewon placed her hands firmly on your back and shoved you forward.

“Hey—!” You stumbled slightly, whipping around to glare at her, but she just grinned and shrugged.

“Kazuha and I need to help the tech team out,” Chaewon said sweetly, already pulling Kazuha away.

“Wait, what—?” you began, but she clicked her tongue like a mother scolding her child.

“You’ve already done enough, babes. You’re the main dancer for a reason. Now shoo—have fun with your man.”

You rolled your eyes, clutching your bag tighter as you turned back toward Jay.

He hadn’t moved from his spot, but now there was the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“You tired?” he asked when you reached him, his voice low and warm in the cool evening air.

You shook your head, trying to calm the rapid thudding in your chest.

“Good,” he murmured, reaching out to take your hand. His fingers laced with yours naturally, and you followed him wordlessly as he led you away from the field, past the noise of the others, toward the empty bathrooms near the edge of the grassy area.

“Why are we here?” you asked suspiciously, brows raised as you glanced at him.

He didn’t answer—just gave you that maddeningly calm look as he pushed open the door and guided you inside.

“Jay—”

The next thing you knew, you were pressed against the cool metal of the locked stall door, your bag sliding off your shoulder as he set it neatly on the floor.

Your breath hitched. “Jay… what—”

He dropped to his knees in front of you, fingers already tugging at the waistband of your tights.

“Jay!” you squeaked.

He clicked his tongue, looking up at you with dark, dangerous eyes. “Relax, pretty. I already got you new ones. And another pair for tomorrow’s performance.”

Your jaw fell slack. “You… what?”

“I had to ask Sakura what color to get,” he admitted with a smirk, fingers curling into the fabric of your tights. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

Before you could even react, the sharp sound of fabric tearing filled the air. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance.

“Jay, you’re insane—”

“Mm,” he hummed in amusement, his thumbs hooking the ruined waistband of your tights to drag them down just enough. “You keep saying that like it’s news.”

And then he was pushing your underwear aside, the cool air against your slick heat making you shiver.

“Already wet?” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your sensitive skin. “Were you thinking about me the whole practice, pretty?”

“Jay—wait—”

But he didn’t wait. He dove in, his tongue flattening against your folds before dragging upward in a slow, sinful lick.

Your knees nearly buckled. A sharp squeak escaped you, your hand flying up to cover your mouth as a helpless moan tried to break free.

Jay’s hands gripped your thighs firmly, holding you steady as his tongue circled your clit with maddening precision.

“You taste even sweeter after practice,” he muttered against you, his warm breath making you shudder. “Fuck, I’ve been thinking about this all damn day.”

You let out a muffled whimper, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair as he continued devouring you like a man starved.

His strong hands gripped the undersides of your thighs, holding you up effortlessly against the cool metal door as his mouth worked you open.

His arms weren’t just for show—corded muscles flexed beneath his skin as he kept you steady, your legs threatening to give out from how relentlessly his tongue moved.

“Jay—ah, f-fuck—” you gasped against your palm, trying in vain to stay quiet.

He hummed low in his throat, the vibrations shooting straight through your core as his tongue flicked teasingly at your clit before dragging back down to lap at your folds again.

Sometimes he’d go maddeningly slow, flattening his tongue to savor you, only to suddenly swirl it fast around your sensitive nub, pulling a broken moan from your lips.

He pulled back just slightly, his lips slick and glistening as he looked up at you with dark, hooded eyes. “So fucking sweet, (Y/N). You gonna give it to me?”

You couldn’t even answer, your hips twitching against his mouth as he dipped back in. His tongue thrust past your folds with a groan that vibrated against you, and you fell apart.

Your hands fisted in his hair as a strangled sound escaped you, your back arching against the door. He didn’t stop—not until your body sagged weakly in his hold, trembling with the aftershocks.

“Good girl,” Jay murmured, licking his lips with a satisfied hum as he cleaned every trace of you from his mouth. “Fucking perfect.”

He stood smoothly, his hands steadying you as your legs threatened to buckle. You clung to his shirt, panting as your forehead pressed to his chest.

“Easy,” he said softly, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.

Then, almost like he couldn’t help himself, he cupped your jaw and kissed you deeply. You could taste yourself on his tongue, and it made your knees weak all over again.

When he pulled back, his thumb brushed over your flushed cheek as his eyes softened slightly.

“I was jealous,” he said suddenly, voice low.

You blinked up at him, still trying to catch your breath. “Jealous?”

His jaw tensed a little as he nodded stiffly. “Of your partner.”

“…Sion?” you asked carefully.

“Yeah.” The way the name sounded on his tongue—clipped, almost sour—made you press your lips together to keep from smiling.

“You watched the performance?”

Jay gave a little shrug, eyes flicking to the side. “Only the end.”

You tilted your head at him, amusement flashing in your gaze despite the post-orgasm haze. “Just the end?”

His lips quirked in the faintest smirk, but his arms didn’t loosen around you. “Didn’t need to see the rest. I already know you’re the best one out there.”

Your heart fluttered at his words even as your eyes rolled. “Smooth, Park Jongseong.”

He only hummed in response, his lips curling into a faint smirk as he leaned in again, capturing your mouth in a slower, deeper kiss.

His hands slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him like he couldn’t stand even a centimeter of space between you.

But with a small laugh, you placed your palms on his chest and pushed him back slightly.

Jay’s brows furrowed immediately, his lips parting in surprise like a kicked kitten. “What—why are you stopping me?”

“No sex until tomorrow,” you said firmly, though the twitch of amusement at the corner of your mouth betrayed how hard you were trying not to laugh at his expression. “Not even head.”

His frown deepened, his pretty brows drawing together as his hands fell to his sides dramatically. “What? Why?”

You gave him a pointed look, still slightly breathless from earlier. “Jay, I need my legs to work tomorrow. Do you want me limping through the entire performance?”

He blinked at you, processing your words for a second before he sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

“My girlfriend is a god of the stage. I respect that,” he muttered begrudgingly, his lips pressing into a thin line as his gaze dropped to the floor.

“But depriving me of my favorite pastime?” His dark eyes flicked back to yours, narrowed slightly in mock betrayal. “That’s insane.”

You burst out laughing, clutching his arm as your body shook. “Jay, you’re so dramatic.”

He clicked his tongue and bent down, his hands gentle as he helped you step out of your ripped tights and skirt, the remnants of fabric still clinging around your thighs.

His touch lingered longer than necessary, fingers brushing teasingly up the back of your knee, but he didn’t push.

“Guess I’ll suffer in silence then,” he grumbled, straightening back up and plucking your bag from where it lay carelessly on the floor.

He unzipped it and pulled out a pair of your loose pants, holding them out to you like some tragic prince. “Here, pretty. Can’t have my star performer catching a cold.”

You rolled your eyes fondly and took them from him, slipping them on as he watched silently, still looking mildly offended.

Once you were dressed, he stepped closer, brushing his thumb over your flushed cheek. “Tomorrow night, though…”

His voice dipped low, dangerous. “You’re not escaping me.”

You swallowed hard, fighting back the shiver that ran down your spine. “We’ll see.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you swore Sakura could feel it as her fingers carefully swept iridescent glitter across your eyelids.

Each brush sent tiny specks of shimmer catching the harsh backstage lights, making your reflection look ethereal in the mirror propped in front of you.

“You’re okay, (Y/N). Breathe,” Sakura murmured softly, almost like she was trying to steady herself too amidst the chaos that was the backstage.

You tried to smile at her reassurance, but it came out small, weak—like your lungs couldn’t fill fully.

Before you could say anything, Eunchae hurried up behind you, her small hands adjusting the satin headpiece that lined your hair, soft white feathers fanning delicately from it. She clipped a few more pins to secure it in place, her brows furrowed in focus.

“Hold still,” she whispered. “One wrong move and this thing will fly into the audience like a frisbee.”

Despite your nerves, you let out a quiet laugh, and Eunchae smiled in victory. “There. Perfect. You’re going to blow them away.”

Your lips twitched upward, grateful for her efforts, but the sound of the crowd’s cheers—loud, raucous, unrelenting—seeped in through the stage curtains. Your stomach twisted painfully.

Sakura noticed your frown immediately as she touched up the powder along your jawline, her warm brown eyes meeting yours in the mirror.

“Hey,” she said gently, her thumb brushing a stray fleck of glitter off your cheekbone. “Don’t think. Just dance.”

You gave a tiny nod, inhaling slowly through your nose.

As Kazuha settled in, her eyes flicked toward you, catching the way your fingers twisted nervously in your lap. She smiled, soft and reassuring.

“You’ll do great,” she said simply, her voice carrying that calm strength she was known for. “You always do.”

You turned your head slightly toward her, eyes narrowing playfully despite the thundering in your chest. “My Duchess,” you teased, referring to her role in the performance.

Kazuha rolled her eyes dramatically, her lips quirking upward as the makeup artist began dusting shimmer across her collarbones. “Keep that up and I will bite you.”

That drew a real laugh out of you this time, enough to loosen the tension knotting your shoulders.

“Violent Duchess,” you murmured fondly.

“Terrified Swan,” she countered with a wink, her words laced with affection.

You let out a shaky breath, finally pushing yourself up from the chair as Sakura patted your shoulder.

“You’re good to go,” she said, tucking the last stray hair into place and stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Now go out there and make them cry.”

You managed a small smile, smoothing your hands down the flowing white fabric of your costume. The feathers on your headpiece caught the warm glow of the vanity lights, dancing like embers with each nervous breath you took.

As you turned toward the side of the stage, your eyes caught movement near the instruments.

Enhypen was there, scattered in various states of pre-show focus—Sunghoon and Jake adjusting their earpieces, Jungwon testing a mic stand, and Ni-ki thumbing through some of the microphones like he was choosing weapons.

But your gaze inevitably locked onto Jay.

He was standing near the amps, his guitar leaning casually against the wall as he tugged slightly at the thick silver chain resting on his collarbones. He muttered something to Heeseung, probably asking for another guitar pick, and adjusted his in-ear monitors.

And for a moment, the noisy chaos around you faded into a hush.

His eyes swept over you in one long, slow drag—like he was drinking in the sight of you dressed in white satin and feathers, glowing under the dim backstage lights.

The corner of his lips parted slightly, his hands pausing mid-motion as though he’d completely forgotten what he was doing.

You didn’t even have time to react before he was moving toward you. His steps were purposeful, his gaze locked on yours until he finally reached you.

Without hesitation, his hands slid onto your waist, thumbs brushing feather-light against the delicate fabric.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice low and reverent. “You look so beautiful.”

Your cheeks warmed under his intense gaze. “Thank you,” you murmured softly.

His shirt—a crisp white button-up lined with bold black and red patterns—caught your attention. You reached up without thinking, unfastening one more button at the collar and smoothing the fabric down with your fingers.

“There,” you said with a satisfied nod. “Now you look handsome too.”

A grin tugged at his lips, boyish and soft as he tilted his head slightly. “Only handsome?”

You smirked faintly. “Devastatingly handsome, Park Jongseong.”

“Better.”

Before you could say more, he leaned down, his nose brushing yours as his lips ghosted dangerously close. But just as his mouth met yours—click.

You both startled slightly and turned your heads to see Eunchae standing there, holding up a camera with a sheepish grin.

“Sorry!” she said, laughing. “But you two were too cute. Can I send this to the team? They’re begging for a backstage update for the school page.”

Sakura stood a few feet away, arms crossed as she gave Jay a pointed look. “Don’t ruin my artwork, Park. I spent twenty minutes getting that glitter perfect.”

You broke into laughter, covering your mouth with your hand as Jay pressed his lips together, his ears faintly red. He looked at Sakura, then back at you, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

“You’re scary when you’re protective of her, Sakura,” he murmured.

“Damn right,” she replied coolly.

Eunchae giggled again. “So… can I post it?”

Jay’s hand slid from your waist to lace with yours gently, and he squeezed. Then, leaning down slightly, he whispered in your ear, his breath warm and low:

“After your performance.”

You turned your head to meet his dark, soft gaze and nodded, the corner of your lips curving upward.

“Promise?”

“Promise,” he said, pressing the lightest kiss to your temple before stepping back reluctantly. “Now go break their hearts, my swan.”

⤷ part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5

⤷ permanent taglist — @m1kkso @ilovhoonie @jiyeons-closet @manobillie @yjmylove @in-somnias-world @cripplinghooman @yeossified @ateez-atiny380 @chemiru ⤷ piece taglist — @strawjayrries @dearestdreamies @chuuyaobsessed

© 2025 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[evansbuckle]

tattoo!artist!reader X Bucky Barnes

I've been thinking about this trope for a hot minute, and part of me wants to write more specific drabbles for these two, but we'll see. Hope you enjoy! Likes & reblogs always appreciated <3

word count: 1k

Warnings: little to no proofreading, maybe swearing? Reader uses she/her pronouns, and is referred to as 'the girl'. Mentions of Bucky mentalling struggling (very vague allusions to self-harm desire) Some mentions of body parts, but no specific body descriptions.

Bucky struggles and his brain is constantly crying out for distractions. He tried the journaling, and the knitting, and the rubber bands on the wrist but nothing quiets his mind. Until he stumbles upon a reddit post of some user sharing that body modifications (tats, piercings,) help still things, even for a brief moment.

So he walks into the first tattoo parlour he finds; it’s small, filled with sketches and people covered in borderline scary ink head to toe. He sticks out, badly. He doesn’t know what he wants or what he's doing there, but quickly figures his dead best friends birthday is a good place to start, so he makes an appointment and comes back.

He sits on the chair, and watches a girl prepare a fresh needle and ink with quiet grace. He appreciates that she doesn’t push him to talk, only asking if he’s ready, and telling him when she’s going to start. He barely registers the needle touching the skin on his flesh bicep, too entranced by the way her gloved hands control the vibrating thing. He takes his time looking over her tattoos, the black lines on her fingers visible through the blue gloves. He barely registers her question.

“Sorry, repeat that?”

A quiet chuckle, then “is this your first one?”

“Yeah.”

A brief nod, the hair in her ponytail moving slightly, “any special meaning?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “friends birthday.”

She briefly glances up at him, but doesn’t push the topic, putting the tattoo gun down. Cleans it efficiently, wraps it in second skin, and walks Bucky over to the counter. He pays, tipping generously because he doesn’t know how to tip tattoo artists, and silently decides he’s coming back soon.

Two months pass before he walks back into the same shop, and is met with the same buzzing sound that seems to cover up the soft rock in the background. Half hour later he’s laying down on the same chair, the same girl working on the same arm. It’s a phoenix, rising from the ashes. Symbolic for sure, but Bucky mainly just really likes the birds. 

The girl hums as she tattoos, pink gloves instead of blue this time. 

“New gloves?”

“What?”

“I-just- the last time I was here you had blue gloves.”

A soft chuckle, kind eyes meeting his nervous ones, then “yeah, i fancied a switch up. feeling pink, i guess.”

Three hours go by, and it’s only half done. Bucky’s sent home and told to come back in two weeks. 

So he does. 

He walks back into the same shop, same buzz, same soft rock, same sweet girl. 

He decides to talk this time. He tells her his name, about his recent inclination for body art, his backstory (or at least a modified version). He even asks her out for a coffee. She’s a bit resigned, but his traumatised-yet-still-beautiful eyes end up convincing her. He doesn't stop smiling the whole walk home.

Three days later, Bucky walks into a cute little coffee place downtown, his gaze immediately landing on the girl focused on her sketchbook, decorated hands moving with skill. He spots two coffee cups in front of her, walks over, and sits down. 

It’s awkward at first, small silent gaps, and Bucky stumbles over his words a fair few times, yet each time he’s met with the amused glances of the girl in front of him. When she starts talking, his heart stills. Her stories put a smile on his face, and the rest is soon forgotten. 

A week later, he starts bringing her flowers at work, always paired with “they were pretty, reminded me of you.” Persian lilies, carnations, daises even, whatever first catches his eye when he walks into his local florists. Her co-workers start teasing about the man who’s sweet on her, but glimpses of the flowers never fail to make her smile through long days. 

Weeks after that, Bucky sits in her apartment while she finishes cleaning, or laundry, or whatever housework she needed to do. The girl walks over to sit next to him when she’s finished, artwork covering her arms, hands, parts of her legs and feet. Bucky rarely takes his eyes off the ink, downright enamoured at the way they accentuate her soul, each little drawing showing the world a glimpse of her personality.

“Do you want to try?” Her voice cuts through the silence.

“What?” His gaze snaps up to her. She smiles, grabs his arm, leading him to her spare room. He looks around as he walks in, not having been in there before; it’s fairly empty, mostly a storage room he notes, save for a desk with something that looks like squares of flesh, and ink bottles. She sits him down, quickly gathering everything needed. Tattoo gun plugged in, fake skin in front of him, a small ink cap next to that.

She perches on his lap, showing him how to hold the gun. He listens, obviously, but every fibre of his body is hyper aware of just how quiet this moment feels - someone he cares for, is growing to love, living life with him, willingly. He smiles to himself, wondering how the hell he got to this place when everything was dark two months ago. 

The gun buzzes to life in his hands, and her smaller ones hold him tighter as she guides his movements over the silicone skin. They laugh, and after a while she lets go, letting Bucky freehand it. He tries to focus on the task at hand, he really does, but the warmth of the body on top of his engulfs him, wrapping around his heart like a safety net.

He quickly decides life isn’t quite so bad when there's someone to share the stillness with.

[seaborgium-dazies]

teachers pet~ mdni

Your pervy coworker Aizawa and you somehow always end up in weird situations. Why is he so demeaning and why does it get under your skin? cw: perv!aizawa, f!reader, teacher!reader, use of y/n, mentions of boobs, chubby! reader, anger outburst, brat!reader, brat!tamer aizawa, dubcon, exhibitionism (not mentioned in detail), dry humping / thigh riding hybrid wc: 4.4k a/n: hehehe. based on this drabble. requested here :>

kofi / masterlist

Your weekend was way too short. You hadn't gotten used to the in and outs of teaching and you were constantly overwhelmed, so you knew you should've used the time to prep for next week but who were you to deny yourself occasional fun?

That's how you found yourself getting ready for work on Monday morning with a hangover that was threatening to kick your head in. The lights were blinding and your head was pulsing to the beat of yesterday's music. But you knew you could push through. You had no other choice, after all.

A sigh escaped your lips as you stepped into the familiar halls. Getting through today would be manageable, the only thing that was worrying you was a fellow teacher. Aizawa. Broad shoulders, dry humor and so much knowledge: he never failed to make you weak in the knees.

Maybe that was part of the problem. The way Aizawa carried himself, like there was something sleeping beneath the surface, like there was something begging to be uncovered by you.

Even entertaining thoughts about this was wildly unprofessional and you would never even try to approach someone as intimidating as him, different leagues and all. Plus the contrast between the two of you is just painful: colorful and bubbly you meets grumpy, critical Aizawa.

You make your jokes, you sing-song your words and you ignore the judgy looks Aizawa sends your way, usually. Today was going to be different. Your only goal was to make it through the day in one piece. Keeping your head down, finalizing your study plans for the upcoming week and taking your leave as soon as possible, that's all you wanted.

You speed walked to the teachers lounge, iced lemonade in hand, your sunglasses still perched on the bridge of your nose. You weren't ready for the fluorescent overhead light to assault you just yet but the compromised field of vision was a price you were willing to pay.

The first thing you felt was your back coming into contact with the floor, a cold sensation hitting you from above, spreading over your torso.

"What the f-?!?!"

Disoriented, you look up at who slammed into you, the vein on your forehead already popping with rage.  How you HATED those pupils who ran around the school as if it were a track field.

To your surprise, Aizawa stood in front of you with an outstretched arm. Your eyebrows slid up in shock and a 'tsk' left your lips as you picked up your stuff before accepting his hand.

Well, there went your lemonade…

To noones surprise your whole shirt was drenched, the white fabric clinging to your boobs as if it was vacuum sealed on. You cast a look downward before letting out an equally pained, annoyed and angry,

"Fuck!"

And if Aizawa hadn't pissed you off enough already he murmured,

"Language".

Your eye twitched and you looked up at him,  eyeing him from head to toe. You bit your tongue because you knew you had to remain respectful but he ruined your outfit! Of course you were pissed!

What had turned into a terrible morning for you made Aizawa question whether he really hated mornings as much as he thought. He really wasn't a morning person, but this view might just change his mind about the whole 'hate' part.

Aizawa was in heaven. Seeing your hard nipples, Shirt clinging to your boobs which were bouncing with every angry word that came out of your mouth. It made him want to fuck you senseless. And judging by your short fuse he knew today was going to be a good day for him.

Aizawas mouth was saying "I'm sorry" but something about that slight smirk in his eyes made your blood boil. He seemed …amused .

"What the fuck am I supposed to do now?!"

You sounded defeated, and Aizawa saw the perfect opportunity.

"Well, why don't you just get changed?"

"Because I don't carry spare clothing??"

"Not even in your locker?"

The easy solution to your problem felt like someone had spilled another ice cold drink all over you. You already felt fiery shame because you were exposed in front of your coworkers tall frame, virtually shirtless, but combined with the feeling of being the dumbest teacher in the whole establishment? It took an enormous toll on your heart.

Aizawa didn't wait for an answer.

"I see, follow me"

Before you could even get a word out he turned around and started walking, and you followed him. You were so happy that Aizawa took a route that went through the least crowded parts of UA, you didn't really want anyone to see you like this.

And that was exactly Aizawas thought process too. He got a few really good looks at your perfect boobs, and he's sure as hell going to get something a lot better as soon as you get to the locker room.

You sighed and Aizawa broke the silence.

"What's got you so worked up today?"

Wait, was it that apparent? You scrambled for words, but before you could half ass your way out of it, Aizawa's deep voice sounded through the hall,

"There was no cheery 'good morning sensei' and you're dragging your feet, so don't even try to deny it"

He turned the key and opened the door, letting you in first and catching another glance of your drenched chest.

You sighed before admitting, "I'm just really hungover and have a lot to do", you buried your face in your hands.

"Explains the sunglasses"

Your face flushes a soft pink but you remain silent. You knew that the absence of your bubbly words was a big telltale sign, so you took matters into your own hands.

Aizawa's ears perked up and he stopped opening his locker when he heard your words.

"So when are you gonna replace that lemonade you spilled?"

The absurdity of your request made him want to smile, yet he turned around slowly and looked at you with a raised eyebrow. The serious look made your cheeks flush a deeper pink. Aizawa remained silent as he cast a few glances up and down your body, implying that you're in no position to talk.

Your knees were weak under his stern gaze and he had to use every fiber of his being to not break into a smile at the sight of you.

Your body was tense, your nipples pebbled, arms subconsciously pushing your boobs together. He thanked his lucky stars that you were too lazy to wear a bra today. He turned around wordlessly, his boner was probably visible from outer space.

He didn't have to worry about you seeing it though, you're so oblivious that it makes him smile.

He rummaged through his stuff and gave you one of his signature black shirts as well as a pill and a bottle of water. You took it with a shaky hand, unsure whether it was a good idea.

"This is your payback"

You bit the inside of your cheek, accepting defeat.

"Do you think it's a good idea for me to wear this?"

"Why not? Look at yourself, your shirt is wet"

"It might send the wrong signals"

Cursing internally, Aizawa glanced at you with a questioning look and even though he knew exactly what you were talking about, something else slipped past his lips,

"Hm? Elaborate?"

You were shifting from your dominant to your non-dominant leg in nervousness but you dropped the matter and took the shirt wordlessly. As you turned around he did the same.

You were wondering if the black shirt would even fit you and your plush tits. You took the white wet fabric off, your back turned to your colleague.

Aizawas years of hero experience paid off as he silently turned back around to admire your form. He'd be damned if he said no to the show unraveling in front of him. You took the shirt off, revealing your love handles, your plush back and shoulders. The shirt landed on the floor with a plop, before you took the black one and pulled it over your head.

Aizawa had to hold back a groan as he saw your white lacy bra from the back, swiftly he turned back around before you saw him peeping.

The shirt was tighter than you had hoped but looser than you imagined, it was fine for now. You couldn't help the flip your stomach did when you realized that Aizawas scent enveloped you. Torched sugar, hints of rum and leather climbed up your nose and around your neck - almost as if you were breathing him in.

You turned around and told Aizawa he could too, and as soon as he saw you a sly smile was on his lips. You simply looked amazing.

Your boobs were pressing against the material of his shirt, your nipples clearly visible and the tightness only accentuating their form. An embarrassed blush crept onto your face since you were almost as exposed as before. Somehow this felt worse, as if it was an extension of Aizawa, who was hugging your body or holding your tits.

Aizawa was drinking the sight in and mumbled,

"So?"

"It's kind of… tight. But it smells nice"

you said with an unsure expression. Aizawa would hope so, since he took the time to shrink the shirt and lather it in his cologne. People could call him all kinds of names, but unprepared wasn't one.

Still, he didn't want anyone else to see you like that so he wordlessly tossed a spare dress shirt your way which you accepted with a chirpy thank you before going about his day.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Due to your unhealthy coffee habits Aizawa knew where you'd be most of the time: the teachers lounge. You frequented it so often that the probability to find you there was almost at a hundred percent.

As soon as the lunch hour bell rang Aizawa speed walked to the teachers lounge, he knew you were going to be there and his gamble was confirmed as soon as he heard your infectious laughter through the door .

You were laying on the couch in the teachers lounge, your legs cross legged with your notes propped on your crotch. Midnight was sitting on the other end, half turned facing you.

His eyes immediately landed on your boobs,  holding back a groan at the sight of them jumping with your giggles. The dress shirt was discarded which made sense considering it was only you and Midnight in the room before he came in.

"Hi!~"

You greeted Aizawa with a bright smile and after giving you a halfhearted wave he made his way to the coffee machine. Midnight's clear voice cut through the room and made Aizawa tense.

"Giving y/n one of your spare shirts was so nice of you shota, I'm surprised that it's this tight on them though, considering how big and burly you are"

Aizawa wiped a sour look off of his face and shrugged. Did she do that on purpose? There's no way she could've known that he shrunk his shirt just for this event. But before he could even turn around and say anything he heard your chirpy voice.

"I'm not too surprised, considering"

You gestured to your body, a lighthearted smile on your lips.

"I'm just glad that I don't have to wear that wet shirt anymore. I mean you should've seen that, this morning was like a cheesy movie scene"

A snort left your lips but Midnight didn't miss a beat. Aizawa's facial expression was as unbothered as ever even though he despised the implications about your body. He set his cup of coffee down on the coffee table in front of you

"I would've loved to see that~"

He shot Midnight an icy look before going back to the kitchen island and eaves dropping the rest of your conversation.

"That shirt reminds me of that top you showed me, from yesterday."

"Oh yes!! It's my favorite! I love the cleavage it gives me, it's perfect for clubbing!"

"How was it by the way? Did u find some stallion to spend the night with?"

Midnight's sultry tone made you giggle, but sadly that hadn't been the case.

"Nooo, yesterday was kind of disappointing. I danced with a few guys but the guy i chose left me hanging in the end"

Aizawa could barely think straight, hot red jealousy was coursing through his veins and poisoning his mind. He was pressing his hard dick into the counter, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible so you would elaborate. He didn't register midnight's words but yours rang clear.

"I feel like it's hard enough to find someone that wants to fuck someone with my body; but I didn't feel like being mistreated so at the end of the night it was just me and my vibrator, once again"

Your giggles mixed in with midnight's pep talk, her uplifting words felt like a warm hug to your bruised ego. You truly loved your body but romance was hard, there was no denying.

Aizawa had to use every nerve in his body to not walk over to you and tear those pants off of your body, bury his face in your cunt and bring you to tears with his cock. You really thought it was hard to find someone who wants to devour you? While he was trying his hardest not to do that on a daily basis?

He couldn't stop the grateful feeling blooming in his chest though, your words clearly mean that he could do way more risky stuff and you would be oblivious because you didn't expect him to view you like that.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Aizawa felt the urge to palm his cock at the sight of your fuzzy bright cheeks and wide doe eyes when he told you to just keep the shirt, since he has so many of them. Your joy at the 'gift' made him smile innocently but In reality he had two way more depraved reasons for letting you keep it.

Firstly he just didn't want you to think about the shirt you had discarded earlier. An secondly he loved this subtle form of claiming you. Scaring off unwanted attention even without being present. His smell, his sweat, his fabric against your bare skin - there was no denying that Aizawa was possessive of you.

As you were leaving the school with a warm smile and thousand thank yous leaving your lips, Aizawas cock already stirred in his boxers. He speed walked to the lockers and locked the room, his needy cock about to be enveloped by your shirt.

Yes, he knew it's not optimal, but he didn't care.  Precum stained the white fabric of the shirt as he worked it around his cock. He imagined your hands instead of the shirts fabric, how you'd look on your knees, your sultry eyes looking up at him. How you'd ask to taste him and he'd tell you that you weren't allowed to, not yet anyway.

He gripped the counter, his knuckles going white as the last few pumps brought him to ecstasy.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Your combat Boots squeaked as you stepped along the wooden panels, you had your notes in one hand and an empty cup in the other.

One thing you enjoyed about the teachers lounge and the teachers of UA is that they were always busy so you had the teachers lounge to yourself more often than not. Lately Aizawa had been frequenting it too, although you didn't mind in the slightest, since he taught you how to nail the milk to coffee proportions and how to froth milk properly! Although you were still learning.

Anyhow, who could say no to drinking fancy coffee on a giant terrace overlooking the city?

"Hi!", you chirped as you stepped through the bamboo door. You were making conversation with Aizawa, on your way to perfect your latte macchiato making skills. Your focus was interrupted as the door swung open and present mic as well as all might filled the room with lively chatter.

Aizawa eyed them as they settled next to him, soon the three voices filled the air, chuckles vibrating over the kitchen island.

You were about to foam the milk when Aizawa got up and walked to the fridge.

You fell quiet when his big frame pressed into you from behind, the words wiped from your head as his hand ghosted over your lower back.

"S'cuse me",

Aizawa slurred the lazy words right into your ear while passing and it took everything in you to stop your knees from buckling.

Your face was beet red but you tried your best to snap out of it, luckily your conversation partners didn't seem to notice the sudden change.

You nodded feverishly when all might told you about an interesting student he teaches and how much progress she has made.

You couldn't help a gasp from making it's way out of your mouth as aizawa brushes past you once more.

His defined muscles, his dominant presence, it all made your clit twitch. Of course that didn't go unnoticed by Aizawa, how could it.

A smile crept onto his face and he pressed his pelvis against your juicy ass, the smallest of gasps like music to his ears .

"Let me help you"

He took the frother and the poured milk from your hands, his arms on either side of you. His chest pressed into your back and your brain reverts to factory settings.

He can feel how jittery and nervous his presence makes you, and he can't help but wonder why that is. Is it because your cunt's aching for him?

You suck air in through your teeth and like the ever concerned colleague he is, he notices. Aizawa asks you, his voice dripping with faux worry.

"Everything alright?"

"Y-yeah!", your throat was dry, it took a second try to get the word out, you subconsciously press into his body, enjoying the warmth and gentle dominance of this simple act.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

With every passing day of working at UA the relationships between you and your colleagues grew stronger, you were starting to know the school like the back of your hand and everything felt as if it was falling into place.

Well, almost everything. Your coworker Aizawa still confused the ever loving shit out of you. One moment he's petty, unenthusiastic and harsh and in the next he gently guides your hands while making coffee. He never holds back on critique, whether it be on your lessons, your combat or your organization skills but only speaks good about you behind your back (Midnight told you).

You were starting to worry about the annoyance that he displayed, wondering if it was even normal to be that snarky on a day to day basis or if there was something you did that provoked him to act like that.

One weird incident turned to two turned to losing count.

Your friends were already commenting on the fact that that many freak accidents don't happen naturally and although you didn't want to, you couldn't help but agree.

And with every torn piece of clothing, exposed ass, drenched shirt, accidental restraint through his scarf, misplaced file you couldn't reach or missing belonging, your patience and understanding grew thinner.

And on a random afternoon it came to the point of explosion. Your voice shot through the now empty corridors like a machine gun.

"ENOUGH! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?! Pray tell why the FUCK do you ACT like that?!

Aizawa's eyes widened and before he could even react you had taken a swing at him. The absurdity of the situation caught him off guard and you were able to land a juicy hit to the side of his ribcage.

His perplexity didn't last long and after a blocked hit he had you pressed against the nearest wall while restraining your hands behind your back.

You felt the softness of his scarf against your hands and the anger inside of you just burned brighter.

"Seriously ?! What the fuck is wrong with you!!"

Weeks of pent up tension were now directed at the tall, broody man standing behind you. Your rage only fueled your overtime-working mouth and you shot nasty insults at him.

Aizawas grip on your wrists remained tight, his body pressing yours into the wall. You could feel his chest, one of his leg between yours, pressing you further into the flat surface in front of you.

Aizawa withstood your thrashing wordlessly but you heard a slight chuckle escaping him.

"Did you seriously just laugh?!"

This was starting to get ridiculous, the vein on your forehead was bulging so bad Aizawa was afraid that it'd pop any moment. And as much as he loved seeing you struggle against him, he turned you around, evaluating your condition.

Your eyes widened at he pushed his legs between yours, you could honestly not have that happen right now, not when you were so pissed at him. He already tormented you enough, but having him know how deep your attraction went? It would give him way too much leverage over you.

As you were trying your hardest to focus on anything else other than his thigh ghosting over your core an apology fell from his lips. Aizawas eyebrows were pinched together slightly, but it wasn't enough to convince you that he was actually sorry.

Although he took your angry words with grace and didn't let them affect him, it stirred something in you.

"Don't be such a brat"

His words knocked the wind out of your lungs and you couldn't help but bite your lip. You had stopped moving against him, a red flush coating your cheeks at the proximity.

"You're the worst colleague anyone could ask for!"

The wannabe lethal tone in your voice paired with the blush on your cheeks made you too adorable to take seriously. He still had your arms pinned, now above your head.

"Oh is that so?"

Aizawa ground his leg against you and a breathy gasp escaped your lips. Your head was spinning, his smell was intoxicating and even though you wanted nothing more than to give in, it wasn't an option.

You whined as your head lolled to the side, evading eye contact.

"Let my hands go", you swallowed thickly as you tried to form words, your lust clouded mind making it difficult to process the situation.

To your surprise Aizawa let go of them and they dropped on each side of your body. You looked at him in surprise, your eyes open wide.

"So?"

You scrambled for words as you stood in front of him, your mind completely blank. All you could think about is how much you wanted him, how much you just wanted to reach out and touch him, to feel his tongue on you, his lips, his warmth against you.

"What, cat got the brats tongue?"

His taunting words made your jaw fall open, still dazed, you protested.

"N-no!"

"Then why are you so quiet? If i didn't know any better I'd say that you enjoy being put in your place"

He moved in closer against your body, his words decreasing in volume the closer he got to your ear. By the end of his sentence it was barely a whisper.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Your resistance was crumbling, your desire slipping through as you whispered an honest

"yes".

That was all Aizawa needed to hear, he moved his knee further between your legs, enjoying the soft moan you let out as you felt the friction against your wet pussy.

Moans and whines filled the otherwise empty hallways as Aizawa moved his leg against your messy cunt. He knew that you were incredibly wet by the way your panties moved against your pussy, like water.

It only made Aizawas harder knowing what of an obedient little thing you were for him. His cock prodded against your hip and you had to whine at the pleasure of the whole situation.

Aizawa watched you intently and with every drag across your clit your cheeks burned redder in embarrassment. You felt so exposed, somewhat humiliated and oh so aroused.

The pleasure you got from Aizawas rhythmical movement against your pulsing pussy was only heightened by the filthy things he whisperedin your ear. He completely ignored his boner, giving you pleasure, seeing every little change in expression, seeing your chest bounce: it was worth far more than his own orgasm.

Your hands were grabbing at him, your nails leaving red crescent marks on his shoulders. Your eyes were closed, your head titled back. And as you were approaching your high aizawa spoke again.

"Look at me."

You obeyed and after a particularly pleasurable grind your collapsed forward into his chest with a pornographic moan. Your whole body was jittering with aftershocks and Aizawas warm hands were stroking your back in a soothing manner.

It took you a hot minute until you came down from the high. And when you came to your senses and you pulled away, the dopey smile on your face made aizawas heart jump.

Shame made your cheeks flush an adorable red, once again but when you realized that this wasn't a dream you started panicking. What would this mean, did he even like you like that, were you going to lose your job for lashing out like that? Were you-

Before you could spiral completely Aizawa cupped your cheek and melted your worries away.

"You can relax, you have nothing to worry about".

And for the first time, since you started working at UA, he sounded utterly sincere.

©️ seaborgium-dazies do not steal, edit or feed to AI.

[isufferfromyd]

😳Chapter 3.5👀

✨The demons, they are whispering to me:))) Anyway enjoy a lil preview 😌

Zoey’s gaze flicks over and sharpens. “Whoa. What happened to you?”

Her expression shifts — half mock concern, half amusement, and maybe something a little knowing. She sits up, crossing her legs.

Mira groans, folding her arms across her chest. “You remember the last time we had a movie night?”

“Yeah?” Zoey draws it out, brows scrunching.

Mira raises an eyebrow. “Remember the morning after?”

Zoey blinks. The gears turn. Then — recognition. Her eyes go wide. A flush rises, quick and pink. She nods, sheepish.

Mira huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. “Yeah. I get it now.”

Zoey’s snort turns into laughter — warm and full-bodied — and Mira’s eyes narrow. Embarrassment flares hot beneath her skin.

“I told you,” Zoey teases, grinning. “You wouldn’t let me live it down.”

“You looked wrecked,” Mira mutters.

“I was wrecked. And now you’re wrecked.”

Mira groans again, dragging her hands down her face. “I hate you.”

“You don’t, though,” Zoey sing-songs, scooting to the edge of the bed. “You’re just mad it got to you too.”

Mira shoots her a glare. But she can’t argue. Still, she tries, futilely, for a disagreement, “it’s not that bad.”

Zoey leans forward, half grinning half smirking. “Isn’t it? When we went dancing, you looked like you wanted to climb her like a jungle gym. And somehow, you’ve managed to up that.”

“Zoey.” Mira half-whines, half-warns.

“What? I’m just saying you look like me. Morning-after me. And now here you are. In my room.”

Mira crosses her arms tighter, trying not to let her gaze drift toward the keyboard. Or the pile of hoodies Zoey wraps herself in when she’s writing. Everything in here smells like lemongrass and scented candles and home.

“I didn’t come here for this.”

“Didn’t you?” Zoey teases — softer now.

And for a moment, Mira can’t answer.

Her skin’s still buzzing with heat where Rumi touched her. Where she touched Rumi. The way Rumi had looked up at her — breath caught, lips parted, eyes wide and searching.

They’d been so close. One shift forward and Mira could’ve kissed her.

She wanted to.

And for a second, it felt like Rumi wanted it too. But then she’d stopped it.

And now Mira can’t stop turning that second over in her head — whether she read it wrong, whether she pushed too far.

Her whole body feels tight with wanting, nerves still lit up like a fuse she forgot to snuff out. And the fatigue only blurs everything at the edges.

She stares at the corner of Zoey’s bed, arms folded, brows scrunched.

“You’re allowed to think about it,” Zoey murmurs — quieter now, no tease in her voice.

Mira bites the inside of her cheek. She’s usually the one who sees through everyone else. Rumi. Zoey. Reads them like pages.

She’s still not sure how she feels about being the one read so easily.

“It feels…” Her hand flicks through the air in a vague gesture, then drops again. “Complicated.”

She doesn’t notice when Zoey moves off the bed — not until there are arms around her shoulders, grounding her. Mira doesn’t look up. Not until Zoey’s hand finds her cheek, thumb brushing softly before tilting her chin. Just a little.

Their eyes meet and Zoey offers a small smile. “We know it’s not unreciprocated,” she says, gentle but sure.

Mira’s voice is dry. “Do we?”

Zoey gives her a flat look. “You, out of all of us—”

Mira rolls her eyes.  “I know but—”

“Mira,” Zoey cuts in, another look — and Mira deflates. “Rumi might be crap at asking for the things she wants,” Zoey says, soft but steady, “but we both know she’s crystal clear about the things she doesn’t want.”

Mira lets out a slow breath. “Yeah. I know.” A pause. Then she mutters, barely audible, “I almost kissed her.”

Zoey’s eyebrows shoot up.

Mira looks away.

“Oh?” Zoey draws it out, voice lilting with intrigue. “Dish?”

Mira huffs, shaking her head. “We were just—so close. I was on top of her. And the way she looked at me...” She swallows. “I wanted to. I really wanted to.”

Zoey chuckles softly, her hand drifting to the back of Mira’s neck, tracing light lines there — grounding again but not quite calming.

Mira’s eyes flutter closed.

[rubywillkins]

Hi? Can you do smth different? Only if u are comfortable alright? Lando being mean and cocky, just to tease, and like i end up crying and like than comfy sweet kinda sex? Like he convince her and like say sorry fluff??

Yes Darling I do accept requests like these.♥️

Lando Norris|

More Than a Punchline

“And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming ..Or the moment of truth in your lies…”

“I just want you to know who I am.”

Lando crashed through the door like a whirlwind of boyish energy, tossing his keys onto the counter and calling out, “Smells clean in here. You finally hired a maid or what?”

You looked up from the floor, where you were wiping down the baseboards with a damp cloth, sweat clinging to your forehead.

You laughed softly. “Nope. Just your girlfriend. Remember her?”

He came around the corner and blinked, staring at you in your oversized hoodie and frizzy hair tied in a messy bun.

“Bloody hell,” he drawled, dropping his backpack onto the couch. “Did you roll straight out of bed and just… stay that way all day?”

You raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your tone light. “I’ve been cleaning. All day.”

“Yeah, I gathered,” he replied, gesturing vaguely around. “Looks great. But Jesus, babe. That hoodie’s bigger than you. You look like a walking blanket.”

You gave him a dry smile. “Cozy is in.”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk forming. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Cozy?”

You turned back to the floor. “Lando…”

He didn’t stop.

“No, I mean—it’s cute. In a “she’s given up on impressing me” kind of way.”

That one landed. You froze.

“I didn’t know relationships came with a fashion retirement plan,” he added with a teasing grin, clearly amused with himself.

Your jaw tensed.

“Glad to know my outfit’s the most important part of my day,” you muttered under your breath.

“What was that?” he asked, stepping closer.

You stood up and wiped your hands on a towel. “I said, glad to know you care more about what I wear than the fact I spent the whole day trying to make your flat feel like a home.”

Lando blinked, momentarily thrown. But instead of backing off, he gave you that cocky little smile again—the one he used when he didn’t know how to handle emotions so he tried to laugh his way out of them.

“Aww, come on. Don’t be dramatic. I’m just messing with you.”

You stared at him. “Yeah, well. It’s not funny.”

Lando scoffed, eyebrows raised. “Whoa, someone’s touchy today.”

You looked away, your throat tightening. “Maybe I’m just tired. Or maybe I’m just tired of being joked about all the time.”

He frowned slightly but tried to brush it off with a chuckle. “Babe, if I didn’t roast you, I wouldn’t love you.”

“Well, maybe you could try loving me without making me feel like crap,” you said quietly, voice cracking.

That shut him up.

His smirk fell. His arms dropped to his sides. For a second, you could see the guilt flicker in his eyes—but you were already blinking back tears.

“I thought you'd walk in and notice how hard I worked today. Or that I rearranged your gaming setup like you said you wanted. Or… I don’t know. Say you missed me.” You laughed bitterly. “But no, instead I get called a walking blanket.”

Lando took a step toward you, but you backed up.

“I’m going to shower,” you mumbled. “Maybe then I’ll be easier to look at.”

“Y/N, wait—” he reached out, but you turned away, your voice hollow.

“I don’t want to be the joke anymore, Lando.”

The door closed behind you with a soft but firm click. And for the first time in a long time, Lando felt the full weight of his words settle in the silence.

The bathroom door had barely shut before Lando sat down hard on the edge of the bed, his palms dragging over his face.

He'd gone too far. Again.

It was supposed to be playful. Just his usual teasing. That’s how it always started—something dumb, something light, something he expected you to laugh off with a shove and a roll of your eyes. That’s how you were… until tonight.

Until the tears welled up in your eyes and your voice broke in the way that shattered his chest.

I don’t want to be the joke anymore, Lando.

Those words wouldn’t leave his head.

He waited. Didn’t know what else to do but sit there in the dim light, heart beating fast, legs bouncing with anxious energy.

And then, finally, the bathroom door creaked open.

You emerged in silence—hair damp, hoodie changed, skin flushed from the heat of the shower. You weren’t crying anymore, but your face was tight. Tired. Fragile.

His eyes softened instantly.

“Come here,” he said gently, not standing—just sitting, waiting, hands loosely resting on his thighs.

You hesitated.

“Y/N,” he repeated, voice low. “Please.”

Your bare feet padded slowly across the carpet until you were standing in front of him. You didn’t say anything.

Lando looked up at you, and every inch of his cocky mask had fallen away. No teasing. No grin. Just raw honesty.

“I messed up,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t think. I didn’t stop to realize how much today probably meant to you. And I ruined it.”

You didn’t move, didn’t speak, just listened. He reached up slowly, giving you a chance to pull away, but you didn’t. His hands came to rest lightly on your waist.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel small,” he continued. “I was being a sarcastic idiot. That’s how I am, I know that. But that doesn’t make it okay.”

Your arms slowly crossed in front of your chest, more from habit than anger now. Your voice was quiet.

“You say things like that all the time. Like I’m supposed to just laugh and keep going. But sometimes it… hurts, Lando.”

He nodded, eyes full of regret. “I know. I didn’t hear you when you said that before. That’s on me. I kept crossing the line, acting like it was all a joke because I thought I was being funny.”

He tugged you down gently, until you were straddling his lap, legs folded on either side of his thighs. It was the closest you'd been all night.

“I don't ever want to be the reason you question your worth,” he said, resting his forehead against your chest. “Especially when you’re the best thing I have.”

Your arms slowly slid around his shoulders. You buried your fingers into his hair, the way you always did when you needed comfort. Or when you finally felt safe again.

“I just wanted you to come home and see what I did,” you whispered. “Not how I looked. Not what I was wearing. Just… me. Trying.”

“I see it now,” he murmured against your collarbone. “I see everything now. And I’m sorry.”

You exhaled shakily, the weight of the whole evening pressing down. But here, in his arms, it finally began to lift.

He looked up at you, hand cupping your cheek like you were something precious, something delicate.

“You looked beautiful today. Even in that hoodie. Even sweaty and exhausted. I should’ve told you that first.”

Your lip trembled again—not because you were hurt anymore, but because he meant it. Really meant it.

“I love you,” he said softly. “Even when I’m being a dumbass.”

A laugh bubbled up through your chest despite everything, and he smiled.

“There she is,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “There’s my girl.”

You leaned into him fully now, forehead resting against his. He kissed you once—slow, soft, apologetic.

And when he whispered, “Let me show you how much you mean to me”

He pushed her back onto the couch.

He could see it, already wiggling out from under her waistband.

Y/N felt her heart skip a beat. She could feel the heat rising in her body. She could feel the wetness between her legs. She could feel the desire coursing through her veins. She reached for his belt. She pulled him down on the floor with her.

Lando shoved his hand under her shirt, trying to tug it off, but she resisted. He looked at her, gazing down at him.

"You're going to have to show me first, Lando."

She was doing everything she could to kindle his desire. She wasn't going to abandon it. She reached his belt buckle and swiftly unbuckled it. She pulled it out, then began to pull down his zipper.

She felt his hand slip beneath her top and onto her tit.

She moaned as she reached down and felt his cock throb in her hands. She could feel him pressing against her entrance. He rocked his hips forward, sliding himself inside her. They came together, their bodies melding into one. Their breaths raced, their bodies moved in perfect harmony. She gasped, her body tightening around him as she came, her body pulsing with pleasure. He groaned, his body shaking as he released himself inside her. They lay there for a moment, their bodies slick with sweat, their breaths ragged. He kissed down her neck, tasting the saltiness of her skin and he left her trembling, as their bodies moved in perfect harmony. And as he began to move his hips, sliding back and forth inside her. Her moans grew louder, her body writhing beneath him.

Lando's breath hitching as he felt his orgasm building.

His body clenched hard, his cock pulsing and releasing a load of come, filling her pussy to the brim, as he could feel her lose control, holding his body to her, throbbing deep inside her, feeling her clench and release around his cock, the pleasure radiating through his body.

His breath hitched, his heart slamming against his ribs as the aftershocks rippled through them. The scent of their sex hung heavy in the air, a musky, intoxicating perfume. He could feel her, slick and hot, still pulsing around him, milking every last drop from his cock. The sensation made his knees weak, his body trembling with the intensity.

Her fingers dug into his back, nails scratching lightly against his skin, sending shivers down his spine. He could feel the sweat dripping from his brow, landing on her chest, mixing with her own sheen. The taste of her, salty and sweet, lingered on his tongue, driving him wild.

She moaned softly, her body undulating beneath him, her walls clenching and releasing, drawing out his orgasm, making him crazy. He could feel every inch of her, her soft curves pressing against him, her breath hot on his neck. The sensation of her body, so tight and wet, was almost too much to bear. His cock throbbed, oversensitive, as she continued to move, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through his body.

He could hear her moans get louder, her hips rolling, grinding against him. He slipped a hand between their bodies, finding her clit, swollen and slick. He rubbed it gently, feeling it pulse under his touch. She cried out, her body tensing, her inner muscles clamping down on him like a vice. The sensation was electric, his body jolting, his cock twitching, ready to go again. He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to thrust, to take her hard and fast. Instead, he focused on her, on the sensations coursing through her body, on the way she responded to his touch.

insistent, as her body tensed beneath him. He could feel her breath hitch, her body coiling like a spring, ready to snap.

"Fuck, Y/N," he growled, his voice low and ragged. "You feel so fucking good. So tight. So wet."

Her nails dug deeper, drawing a thin line of blood, the sting only heightening his arousal. He could feel her body convulsing, her orgasm ripping through her, her walls fluttering around him, gripping him, refusing to let go.

His hips jerked, his cock throbbing, ready to fill her again, to claim her, to make her his. He could feel the heat building in his balls, the pressure in his cock, the need to release, to explode inside her.

"You like that, baby?" he panted, his voice a harsh whisper. "You like it when I touch you like this? When I make you come?"

He could feel her nod, her body trembling, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He could feel her body surrendering to him, to the pleasure, to the intensity of the moment. He could see it in her eyes, wild and feral, her pupils blown, her lips parted, her tongue darting out to lick her lips.

He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a rough, demanding kiss. He could taste her, her desire, her need, her desperation. He could feel her body responding, her hips rising to meet his, her walls clenching around him, drawing him in, sucking him deeper.

His hand moved faster, his fingers rubbing, circling, teasing, tormenting. He could feel her body tensing again, her orgasm building, her breath hitching, her moans growing louder, more urgent.

"Come for me, Y/N," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "Come all over my cock. Show me how much you want me. Show me how much you need me."

Her body obeyed, convulsing, shuddering, her orgasm ripping through her, her walls clamping down on him, her body milking him, drawing out his own release. He groaned, his body tensing, his cock throbbing, his release pulsing into her, filling her, claiming her. His body collapsed on top of her, his breath ragged, his heart pounding, his body slick with sweat.

His hips kept moving, slamming against her, poundings her with all his force. He could feel it, building up, so much pressure, so much need. Her hips rose to meet him, her fingers digging into his back, her moans echoing in his ears, driving him wild.

His grip tightened, his fingers pressing against her clit, rubbing, circling, torturing. He could feel her body tensing, her orgasm building, her breath hitching, her moans growing louder, more urgent. Her hips bucked, grinding against his hand, her body convulsing, her orgasm ripping through her, her walls clamping down on him, her body milking him, drawing out his own release.

"Fuck, Y/N," he groaned, his body tensing, his cock throbbing, his release pulsing into her, filling her, claiming her. His body collapsed, his breath ragged, his heart pounding, his body slick with sweat. He could feel her, her body wrapping around him, her arms holding him tight, her breath hot on his neck.

[mountaingutta]

An archivist with amnesia and a malicious motorcycle lives in the walls of a Decepticon warship

Megatron's reaction to the situation:

For some reason, Soundwave is unable to activate the ground bridge and send Arcee off the ship. She manages to reach Optimus. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t remember her, but he’s willing to listen, once he sees Megatron, Soundwave, and the other 'Cons from his office. 

Arcee doesn’t quite manage to convince him, but he doesn’t fully trust Megatron either. Mentioning Ratchet helps turn things around. 

Orion doesn't quite believe the stories about the wicked warlord. When Arcee hears what Megatron said about Ratchet, she laughs heartily and if she ever escapes the Nemesis, she’ll never let Ratchet live it down.

Arcee manages to convince Orion to trust her, but then Soundwave who’s been watching them drops in, forcing them to flee. Turns out the ventilation system on the Nemesis is just barely large enough to fit a bot of Optimus's size. Lucky break for them. Now the challenge is escaping the situation and returning to base.

Problem is, Megatron has ordered the Nemesis up almost into Earth's atmosphere, so jumping out isn't an option. Their best bet is the ground bridge, but it’s heavily guarded. Creating a diversion might work, but they'd need supplies first and those still have to be found.

For now, their new residence is the walls of the Decepticon warship. Weirdly absurd. Kind of amusing. Optimus, still calling himself Orion, can pull off weird stuff others would call miraculous.

For example, he speaks to the walls of the Nemesis, and they purr in response. Somehow, he can rearrange corridors and walls, creating new tunnels and hidden paths. Thanks to that, they manage to build a decent hideout and even swipe some tech they might use to contact their allies. Risky, though.

They even steal energon and fuel up nicely. Arcee isn't quite sure how to feel about this version of their leader. Part of her, surprisingly, feels hurt — especially when Optimus looks at her and doesn’t recognize her. It’s scary to think he might never remember her, or any of them. Worse still is wondering how that could affect the course of the war.

On the other hand, Orion was much wilder and more cheerful. He was almost as chatty as Cliff, though he also spent long stretches just sitting in silence just like Optimus. It seemed that melancholy always surrounded their glorious leader. As mentioned, he did weird stuff. But she figured that was just Optimus’s thing. Still, talking to the ship, climbing on ceilings like an Insecticon, and biting anyone who happened to cross his path, now that was new.

One very positive side of this whole situation: Arachnid is now locked up on the same ship with her. And Arcee has the upper hand.

Orion didn’t seem too concerned about the situation. Or at least that’s what he kept telling himself. But it was all a bit much: the amnesia, Megatron, Ratchet. And now he’s a Prime. And Unicron is real.

Right now, he’s sitting in the depths of a slumbering titan with his new friend — Arcee — hiding from his former friend. What a strange life. At least Arcee’s a good roommate, and the Nemesis is a decent conversationalist, though a bit aggressive and sad. Maybe he and Arcee would get along after all.

And the bonus to all this? During one of their raids, they managed to steal Iacon’s database and wipe it from the Nemesis’s systems. Now Orion spends half his time digging through it. And oh, the things he’s found. Sometimes, Arcee catches him staring into space with a slightly wicked smile.

Meanwhile, the Decepticons are going through absolutely wild shit. The walls are shifting, a Prime is wandering through the innards of their ship along with one of his lackeys. It’s unsettling. Plus, everyone’s pretty sure they’re stealing food.

It’s become normal for bots to head to the armory and end up at Knock Out’s medbay. Or for Lord Megatron to somehow arrive at the storage bay instead of the command bridge. At first, no one admitted there was a problem —  they all thought it was just them getting lost. But eventually, there were too many cases, and most finally realized the issue was with the ship itself, not the crew.

But it was a bit too late. Megatron was beyond furious. During one of his tantrums, he started firing at the walls, yelling at Orion to stop acting like a cockroach and crawl out.

Rumors have begun to spread throughout the ship that it’s not just those two in the walls — there’s some kind of creature that once slept, but has now awakened and hunts lone Decepticons in the dark corners of the Nemesis.

At first, everyone thought it was Arachnid. Lately, the spider-bot had been in far too good a mood. She was delighted that Arcee was trapped, and now it was only a matter of time before she found her and ripped that pretty helmet right off her frame. It would be the start of a new collection and its crown jewel.

The only one keeping a shred of composure is Soundwave. He’s genuinely trying to make sense of the situation and do something about it. Unfortunately, the Nemesis is slipping further out of control, and even his efforts aren’t enough.

The only ones completely unfazed? Knock Out and Breakdown. Those two couldn’t care less as long as no one bothers them.

[thedrotter]

i depend on you (based and very much inspired by @/sometimes317 's piece on twitter)

process pics in read more!!^^

you can tell the moment it struck me that i was practically drawing ship art www

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru absolutely baby talks you when you’re sick.

not in a mocking way. no. this is full-blown softie satoru, disgusting levels of wife guy activated, baby voice on max, coddling you like you’re the most precious, fragile little thing in the universe—and not because he thinks you’re weak, but because it’s the one time you let him get away with it without putting up your usual walls.

because you’re sick. hot forehead, flushed cheeks, big watery eyes that blink up at him like you’re seeing god—or worse, like you might actually cry if he leaves the room. like you need him. and honestly? that does something to him. wrecks him, even.

and you do need him. you’re fevered, shivering, curled up in bed in one of his oversized shirts, your hair a mess, nose stuffy, brain thoroughly fried. your fingers twitch like you want to reach for him but can’t be bothered to try, lips parted in a weak sigh as you breathe through your mouth. your usual bratty, mouthy, too-proud-for-help self? gone. obliterated. absolutely bulldozed by the flu. all that’s left is a miserable little lump of a wife who clings to his sleeve like a koala and mumbles, “’toru… i feel like a soggy towel…”

his whole body stills. there’s a twitch in his brow, like his heart has physically clenched. his lips part, just a little, before curling up in the softest grin. eyes soften behind pale lashes—just a hint of red at the corners from how tired he is too—but none of that matters. not when you’re looking up at him like that. the corner of his mouth tugs upward, not in amusement—but in something far gentler. reverent, even. and then god. he melts. instantly. his heart shatters into a million pieces and reforms just to explode again.

“awww, my poor widdle baby,” he coos, already pressing a kiss to your damp forehead. his breath is warm, his nose brushing yours. “does my soggy towel need her soup? wanna be spoon-fed by the hottest nurse in the world?”

you don’t even roll your eyes. you nod. actually nod. sluggish, dazed. and then flop into his arms like dead weight, forehead nudging his neck, skin hot against his collarbone. you let him hold you like you’re made of glass.

he almost cries. really. because you’re letting yourself be coddled. cuddled. taken care of. no sass. no biting remarks. just tiny, pitiful sniffles and pouty faces and your arms wrapping around his waist like he’s your anchor. like you don’t want him to go anywhere. like you can’t function without him.

and satoru eats that up like it’s a feast.

“you want juice, angel? how about some water? apple slices? forehead kisses every ten minutes? medicine with a kiss as a chaser?”

“mmm… apple. but peeled…” you whisper, voice small and hoarse, eyes half-lidded and glossy.

“of course, peeled! only the finest fruits for my fevered little dumpling,” he gasps, hand dramatically on his chest like he’s been knighted for a sacred quest. there’s a shine in his eyes—something starry, something stupidly in love.

he tucks you in like a burrito, tugs the blankets up to your chin, and then scoops you onto his lap because apparently that’s where you sleep best. his fingers comb through your hair, slow and tender, while your cheek rests limp against his shirt. he puts on your comfort show, even though you barely keep your eyes open long enough to register the sound.

he hums something soft—tuneless and low—while cradling you like a fevered woodland creature. his tone dips lower when he leans in again.

“do you still love me even if i’m gross and sweaty and my nose is red?” you mumble, lips wobbling, brows pinched like the thought genuinely upsets you.

his hand smooths along your cheek. “i love you way more,” he says instantly. “you’re my sweaty, sniffly soulmate. cutest germ gremlin i’ve ever seen.”

“you’re lying…”

“baby, i would kiss your snotty nose right now if you asked.”

there’s something almost reverent in the way he says it—like it’s a vow. and he means it. he’d do it without hesitation, wouldn’t even flinch. because if it’s you, there’s no such thing as gross. not when he’s this stupidly in love. not when every part of you, even at your messiest, makes him want to wrap you up in his arms and never let go.

you groan into his shirt, muffled and pitiful, and he grins like you just serenaded him.

“who’s the most handsome man in the world?” he asks out of nowhere, fingers curling behind your ear, brushing tenderly as if coaxing the answer out. his voice dips low, honey-sweet and just a little smug. not because he expects the answer—no, he needs it. his entire self-worth depends on your silly little validation right now.

“you are,” you mumble, cheeks squished slightly against his chest, nuzzling closer without shame.

his fingers twitch where they cradle your skull. his whole face lights up like a sunrise. pale lashes flutter, and his pupils dilate like he’s just been told he won a lifetime supply of you.

“louder.”

“toruuuuu… it’s you…”

the pleased little noise he makes is downright sinful. his lashes flutter shut as he closes his eyes in smug bliss, and he tilts his head back like he’s soaking in the warmth of your praise. if he had a tail, it would be wagging.

“that’s right,” he beams, practically preening, fingers now stroking under your chin. “say it again. for my health.”

“you’re the handsomest… in the whole world… even when your hair’s stupid…”

he gasps, clutching his chest with a hand like you just shot cupid’s arrow straight through it. “rude and true. i’ll take it.”

his heart is doing somersaults. he’s convinced there’s never been a more fulfilling moment in his life. not the promotions, not the accolades, not even the recognition. just this—this feverish little version of you, croaky and honest and too tired to pretend you’re not as in love with him as he is with you.

he whispers the dumbest, softest shit while holding you against his chest like you’re something sacred. calls you every pet name in the book and then invents new ones on the spot: baby, sweetheart, princess, dumpling, snugglebug, fever bean, coughy cake, angel face mcsweats-a-lot.

you blink up at him between fits of sleep, lips parted like you want to say something else—but all that comes out is a pathetic little whimper. his hand smooths over your spine again, touch featherlight.

“what was that, baby?” he whispers.

“love you…” you murmur, eyes falling shut.

his heart flips. flips, spirals, and lands in a fucking somersault.

he kisses your temple and you go quiet.

and when you finally pass out, nose smooshed into his collarbone, snoring faintly like the most adorable little gremlin, he exhales like it’s the best moment of his life. like the universe aligned just for this. like his purpose has been fulfilled. his hand never stops moving—stroking your spine, combing your hair, tracing shapes into your shoulder blade beneath the fabric of his shirt.

he lives for clingy, soft, unguarded sick-you. because even though he adores the bratty, sharp-tongued, little menace version of you that picks fights and flicks him on the forehead and makes him earn every kiss—this version? this sleepy, dependent little furnace wrapped in blankets and his love? she needs him.

and satoru loves being needed. loves being the one you reach for, even when you’re half-delirious. especially when you’re half-delirious.

he leans down again, voice barely audible now.

“rest up, baby,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your clammy forehead. “you’ll feel better soon. and then i’ll go back to being emotionally bullied by my beloved wife.”

[thebarneschronicles]

Nine Lives

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 9.4k

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.

You can keep pretending. Keep fighting him. But Bucky isn’t one to back down—especially when he knows you don’t really want him to.

Trigger Warnings: Bullet wounds, unprotect sex (wrap it before you tap it!), p in v, dirty talk, BUCKY BARNES (he needs his own warning)

Author’s Note: I had been tinkering with a few scenes in this and the Thunderbolts trailer made me finish it. Hope you like it! B x

-- Bucky Barnes was going to be the death of you.

Whether it was because he got on your last nerve or because you were desperately, irrevocably, undeniably in love with him—either way, he’d be the reason your heart stopped beating.

And honestly? It might happen in the next five minutes. Because God help you, the man was insufferable.

The room smelled like burnt coffee and bad decisions.

Sam stood at the front, gesturing at a holographic map as he laid out the mission plan, his voice steady and patient—too patient, the way a parent speaks when they know their kids are about to cause problems.

You were paying attention. You really were. But out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky leaning against the wall, arms crossed– and looking bored out of his mind.

Every once in a while, he flicked his gaze to you, not saying anything. Just watching.

And you knew that look. That I’m about to do something reckless and you’re going to yell at me for it look.

You gritted your teeth.

“—we’ll go in through the east entrance,” Sam continued, pointing at the building layout. “Stealth is key. No unnecessary attention.”

Bucky made a quiet sound. It wasn’t quite a scoff, but it was close enough.

Sam’s jaw flexed. “Got something to add, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugged, like the whole thing was barely worth his effort. “I just think you’re overcomplicating it.”

Your brows shot up. Oh, here we go.

Sam closed his eyes, visibly counting to ten. “What part is complicated?”

Bucky shifted, pushing off the wall. “The part where we’re tiptoeing around like we’re on a damn field trip. We go in, take out the threats, get what we need. Done.”

You turned in your chair, slowly. “Take out the threats?”

Bucky smirked. “What?”

“What?” you repeated, voice rising. “You mean brute force? Like some kind of rabid raccoon?”

Sam sighed deeply, rubbing his temples.

Bucky grinned, which somehow made it worse. “I’d say more wolf, but sure.”

Your grip tightened on the edge of the table. “Barnes, if you go off-script, I swear to God—”

“Relax, doll,” he said, casual as anything. “I’ll mostly follow the plan.”

Your eye twitched. “Mostly?”

Sam exhaled sharply, muttering to himself. “I should start charging overtime for this.”

Bucky wasn’t done, though—he turned that damn smirk back on you. “You do love bossing me around, don’t you?”

And that? That was the last straw.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, planting your hands on your hips. “We are sticking to the plan, Barnes. No improvising. No wandering off. No turning this into some solo hero death mission.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through gritted teeth as you fought for patience you absolutely did not have. “Why is your solution to everything brute force? Sam has a plan. A good plan. A plan that does not involve you punching your way through every obstacle.”

Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, looking completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed amused. “First of all, rude. Second of all, my way works.”

“You mean it works when it doesn’t get us killed?” you shot back, voice rising. “Which, by the way, is not a guarantee.”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin. “C’mon, doll, you’re overreacting.”

And there it was. That goddamn nickname.

You felt it like a spark in your bloodstream, a rush of heat you refused to acknowledge. Instead, you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Don’t ‘doll’ me, Barnes. I’m serious. We are sticking to the plan.”

“I am sticking to the plan,” he said, far too casually. “I’m just… modifying it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Modifying it?”

“Enhancing.”

“You mean ignoring it?”

He shrugged and you had never wanted to strangle and kiss someone in equal measure more in your life.

God, this man was going to be the death of you.

You took a slow, deep breath, curling your fingers into fists at your sides. “Bucky. No modifications. No enhancements. No Barnes-ifying the plan.”

He tilted his head, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “Barnes-ifying? Huh. I kinda like that.”

You threw your hands in the air. “Of course you do.”

Sam, who had been observing this entire exchange with the long-suffering patience of a saint, let out a loud sigh. “Are you two done? Or should we clear the room so you can work out all that tension?”

Your head snapped toward him. “There is no tension.”

Bucky, the absolute menace that he was, had the audacity to murmur, “Oh, there’s tension.”

Your entire body went rigid. Your face felt hot. You whirled back to him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “I will kill you.”

His lips twitched. “I’d love to see you try, doll.”

You weren’t sure what infuriated you more—the way he said it— doll —like it was his own private joke, or the fact that you liked it. Loved it, even. That it sent a pulse of something traitorous through you, something that made you want to either punch him or grab him by the collar and—

No. Focus.

You squared your shoulders, planting your hands on your hips. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Barnes. You’re going to follow the plan. No making things up as you go along. Got it?”

His blue eyes glinted with something unreadable. “And what if I don’t?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then I’ll personally make sure you regret it.”

Bucky grinned, slow and wicked. “Kinda looking forward to that.”

Your breath hitched. Your brain short-circuited. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because there was absolutely nothing appropriate to say to that.

Oh. Oh, that son of a—

Bucky chuckled, clearly enjoying the way he’d just rendered you speechless. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something low and smug.

“Face it, doll,” he murmured. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”

You scoffed, even as your stomach flipped. “I’d miss arguing with you. That’s it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

The knowing look on his face made you want to smack it off. But more than that, it made you want to—

Nope. Not going there.

You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel. “I’m done. Sam, let’s go before I change my mind and let him get himself killed.”

Sam snorted, giving Bucky a pointed look. “See what you did? Now you’ve pissed her off.”

Bucky only smirked, watching you walk away. “Nah,” he said, mostly to himself. “She likes it.”

—

You didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

And do you know why? Because you knew—knew—he wasn’t lying.

Bucky Barnes didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He wasn’t the type to play games with words, wasn’t the type to tease just for the hell of it. If he said there was tension, if he said you’d miss him, then he meant it. He knew.

He knew before you did.

And that was the worst part.

You had no idea when your constant bickering turned into something else, something deeper, something dangerous. One day, you thought you hated him—the next, you realized you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.

It had terrified you.

So you fought.

You fought harder, argued louder, refused to let him see just how deeply he had burrowed into you. You clashed over the stupidest things—his reckless plans, his stubbornness, the way he called you doll like it was a secret between you. Because if you didn’t fight, if you let the walls slip for even a second, you weren’t sure what would happen.

And it infuriated you.

How dare he?

How dare he make himself at home in a corner of your heart you didn’t even know existed? How dare he take up permanent residence there, until that tiny space expanded into the whole damn thing?

How dare he make you want him when you were supposed to be angry at him?

How. Dare. He.

The memory took over before you could stop it…

It had been a disaster from the start.

The mission was supposed to be a simple recon—go in, get intel, get out. No unnecessary engagement. No close calls. No getting shot.

But Bucky Barnes? He didn’t believe in simple.

You were fuming as you dragged him into the safe house, your grip tight on his arm, ignoring the way his blood seeped through your gloves. He was bleeding all over the place, but of course, he still had the audacity to smirk at you.

“You’re manhandling me, doll.” His voice was rough, teasing. “If you wanted to get handsy, you could’ve just asked.”

You pushed him down onto the rickety cot in the corner, none too gently. “I swear to God, Barnes, if you don’t shut up, I will make your injuries worse.”

Bucky groaned dramatically as he flopped back, far too casual for someone who had just taken a bullet to the shoulder. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—should I be nice to the guy who just got himself shot?” You tore open the med kit, grabbing a pair of scissors and snipping at the sleeve of his tactical suit. 

Bucky’s smirk vanished. “Hey, whoa—this is a perfectly good jacket.”

“You’ve bled through half of it, Bucky!” You glared at him, slicing the fabric open with zero hesitation.

Bucky scowled. “Still wearable.”

“Still ruined.”

“You’re ruining it more.”

“Oh my God—do you wanna keep arguing, or do you want me to keep you from bleeding out you reckless, metal-armed asshole?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, because of course he did, the sound painfully casual. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Your hands shook as you tore open the med kit, fingers fumbling over the supplies. “Shut up.”

“Oh, come on, doll, it’s just a—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘scratch.’”

Bucky sighed, dropping his head back onto the cot. “I’m not bleeding out.”

“You got shot, you dick,” you snapped, peeling the fabric away to get a better look at the wound. Through and through, just above his bicep. A clean hit, but it would scar if you didn’t take care of it properly.

Bucky peered at the wound like it was barely an inconvenience. “It is just a scratch.”

Your eye twitched. You gritted your teeth, pressing an antiseptic wipe to the wound with zero mercy.

Bucky hissed, body tensing as he glared at you. “Jesus—are you trying to kill me?”

“Oh, now you feel pain?” You didn’t let up, pressing a little harder just for good measure. “You didn’t seem too concerned when you ran into a hail of gunfire like a rabid golden retriever with a death wish.”

Bucky scoffed. “Golden retriever?”

“You just charged in, Bucky! What part of ‘stealth mission’ do you not understand?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I had to.”

“No, you didn’t!” You grabbed a fresh gauze pad, pressing it against the wound. “Sam and I were handling it just fine before you decided to be stupidly heroic.”

“Doll, you were cornered,” Bucky argued.

“No, I was waiting for backup.”

Bucky gave you a pointed look. “You were outnumbered and had a jammed weapon.”

You locked your jaw. Because okay, maybe that was true.

But he didn’t have to jump in front of a bullet for you.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound unimpressed. “I was fine.”

“You were two seconds away from getting shot.”

“I know, Bucky!” You slammed the antiseptic wipe against his skin, not caring when he hissed. “But you didn’t have to—you didn’t—you— I told you not to do it!” you cried out. “But no, you just had to go full Terminator and jump in front of a goddamn bullet for me—”

You stopped.

Because suddenly, your throat was too tight, and your breath was coming too fast, and you hated that the panic was winning, that it was spilling over.

You weren’t just mad.

You were terrified.

Bucky blinked at you, actually looking concerned now, which only pissed you off more.

“Doll—”

“You think you’re indestructible, don’t you?” You threw the used gauze aside, grabbing another one, your hands shaking as you pressed it to the wound. “Just because you have the serum, you think you can—can take all these stupid risks—”

Bucky sighed, clearly exasperated. “I heal faster than you do, sweetheart. It’s not that deep.”

Something inside you snapped.

“Oh, fuck you, Bucky!”

His eyebrows shot up at that.

“You think the serum makes you invincible?” you seethed, eyes burning. “Is that why you keep throwing yourself into danger? Why you never hesitate before taking a hit? Why you jump in front of bullets like it’s your damn job?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.

“Guess what, Barnes? The serum doesn’t make you immortal! One day, your dumbass luck is going to run out! And what then?”

Bucky stilled, blue eyes searching yours.

But you were unraveling too fast to stop now.

“I swear to God, Bucky, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep—” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice cracking. “I can’t—I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

Something changed in Bucky’s face. The teasing, the smirking—it all vanished.

You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes.

You dropped your gaze, fingers moving on autopilot, taping the bandage down over his shoulder. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but you pretended not to notice.

You felt him watching you.

For the first time since the mission, Bucky was quiet.

The weight of it pressed against your chest.

You swallowed hard, clearing your throat. “Just—just try not to die next time, okay?”

Bucky let out a slow breath, something almost amused slipping into his voice. “Not really my style, doll.”

You snapped your head up, narrowing your eyes at him. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve got a real stubborn track record of coming back from the brink of death.”

Bucky grinned, slow and lazy, like he couldn’t help himself. “What can I say? I’m persistent.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to be the one watching you zero out your nine lives.”

The smirk disappeared.

A flicker of something serious passed through his eyes—so fast you almost missed it.

For a second, you thought he was going to say something that would change everything.

But then, as quickly as it came, he shoved it away.

He exhaled a soft chuckle instead, shaking his head. “You worry too much.”

You clenched your jaw, standing abruptly. “And you don’t worry enough.”

Bucky watched you, his expression unreadable.

You grabbed the med kit and turned away, before he could see just how badly your hands were still shaking.

Because the truth was—

You weren’t sure what scared you more.

The fact that Bucky Barnes kept coming back from the brink of death—

Or the fact that, one day, he might not.

–

You exhaled sharply, shoving the memory aside.

No. Not thinking about that.

You couldn’t.

Because if you let yourself sit with it for too long—

If you let yourself acknowledge how much he meant to you—

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to breathe through it.

Bucky must have sensed the shift in you, because as you stalked ahead, fuming, he was suddenly there—keeping pace beside you, his presence entirely too much. Too close, too solid, too him.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Maybe I just ran out of things to say,” you snapped, not looking at him.

He made a low sound, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “That’ll be the day.”

You whirled on him before you could stop yourself, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you enjoy driving me insane, Barnes? Is it, like, a hobby for you?”

His lips twitched, that damn smirk already forming. “I mean… yeah. Kinda.”

You let out a frustrated noise, turning on your heel, ready to put as much distance between you and that insufferable smirk as possible. But before you could take two steps, his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent a jolt through you. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t forceful, but it was steady, intentional. And for a split second, you couldn’t breathe.

When you looked up, his blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, intense.

“I’m not trying to drive you insane,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with something heavier, something that made your chest feel tight. “I’m just trying to figure out why you won’t admit it.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Admit what?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was searching for something, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to let him see. His gaze dragged over your face, lingering—too long—on your lips before flicking back up.

Your breath hitched.

He was going to say something else. You knew it. Could feel it. But whatever he saw in your expression made him change his mind at the last second. His features shifted, the quiet determination giving way to something smug, teasing. A deflection.

“That it’s a good plan.”

Your pulse stuttered.

This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.

But he was giving you an out. Letting you pretend, letting himself pretend, like this was still just another argument. Another round of your never-ending bickering instead of… whatever the hell this was becoming.

And that? That scared you more than anything.

“It’s not,” you shot back, seizing the escape he’d handed you. You took a step back, yanking your wrist free of his grasp. “It’s stupid. It’s reckless, and it’s going to get one or all of us hurt if we do it.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed, his smirk faltering for the first time. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them before he asked, voice quieter, but rougher—”Why do you never take my side?”

The question hit like a sucker punch.

It knocked the breath from your lungs, left you reeling in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I—” The words caught in your throat.

He wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t throwing out some cocky remark just to get under your skin. This was something real, something raw, and it left you woozy.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Second time I’ve got you speechless today, huh? Must be a new record.”

His voice was light, teasing again, but the look in his eyes said something else entirely.

Then, before you could recover, before you could shove something sharp and defensive between you, he turned and walked ahead—leaving you standing there, heart racing, breath unsteady.

Completely, utterly furious at him.

And even more furious at yourself.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t let him get to you.

Except he had. He always did. And the worst part? He knew it.

You glared at the back of his head as he walked ahead like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just thrown you completely off balance and left you scrambling for solid ground.

Why do you never take my side?

You hated that the question still echoed in your head. That it stung in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.

You stormed after him, your boots crunching against the pavement. “Barnes, we’re not done talking about this.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. “Seemed pretty done to me.”

Your jaw clenched. “God, you are infuriating.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his eyes? His eyes were still sharp, still waiting.

You caught up to him in two quick strides, grabbing his arm to yank him to a stop. “Don’t walk away from me.”

Bucky arched a brow, glancing down at where your fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket. “Thought you couldn’t stand being near me, doll.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at the nickname. Ignored the way your traitorous hand lingered for a second before you let go.

“That plan of yours?” You crossed your arms, tilting your chin up. “It’s reckless. And you know it.”

His smirk faded, just slightly. “And what if reckless is the only option?”

“That’s bullshit, and you know that too.”

Bucky let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You think I’m some idiot who just punches his way through problems—”

“I know you are,” you shot back.

He glared at you, jaw ticking. “But maybe—just maybe—I actually know what I’m doing this time.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but something in his expression stopped you.

There was no smugness, no teasing. Just raw frustration, something worn down underneath.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the words dying on your tongue.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “Should’ve known better than to expect you to trust me.”

The words weren’t loud. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said them. But they landed like a slap.

Your breath caught. “That’s not—”

“Forget it.” 

— 

Shockingly, Bucky had followed Sam’s plan.

And—even more shockingly—it had gone wrong.

In the end, brute force had been the only way to get all three of you out alive.

You weren’t sure when the dust had settled, when the ringing in your ears had finally faded enough for you to hear your own breathing again. But when your vision cleared, Bucky was still standing.

Standing over a pile of bodies, bloodied and exhausted, his chest heaving with exertion.

There was a split in his lip, a gash across his forehead, and a bullet graze along his ribs, the fabric of his tactical suit dark with blood.

And you hated it.

You hated how your stomach twisted at the sight of him hurt. Hated the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides to stop yourself from running to him, from touching him, from grabbing his face and checking.

Most of all, you hated that you had doubted him.

Bucky Barnes had a century of combat experience. He had spent his entire life surviving fights he shouldn’t have walked away from, and still, you had dismissed him. Still, you had refused to listen.

And now? Now all of you were bleeding. All of you were shaken.

But the worst part—the part that made your throat tighten and your breath shudder—was that Bucky wasn’t even gloating.

No smirk. No I told you so.

Just silence. Just his sharp, assessing gaze, scanning the aftermath like he was still bracing for another fight.

By the time Torres had you all back on the plane, you were shaking.

The adrenaline should have worn off by now, but the weight in your chest only grew heavier. You knew—you knew—Bucky would heal faster than you or Sam. Logically, you understood that.

But logic wasn’t stopping the tightness in your throat when your eyes landed on the bruising around his temple.

It wasn’t stopping the way your fingers trembled as you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down in front of him, against every warning screaming in your head.

Bucky exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the seat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” you shot back, voice sharper than intended.

“So are you.”

You ignored that. “Just—hold still.”

For once, he didn’t argue. But when you reached for him, when your fingers ghosted over his skin, his gaze flickered—just for a second—to your hands.

He noticed.

Noticed the tremor in your fingers, the way they weren’t steady.

His brows drew together, just slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his stare, felt the question lingering on the tip of his tongue.

Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers tighter around the antiseptic wipe, focusing too hard on dabbing at the cut on his forehead.

When he flinched, you huffed. “Big bad super soldier can take on twenty guys at once but can’t handle a little stinging?”

His lips twitched, but the teasing was half-hearted. “Not my fault you’re rough.”

You shot him a look. “I wonder why.”

His jaw flexed. “You do like making things difficult.”

“Oh, I make things difficult?” You shook your head, pressing a little too firmly as you cleaned the wound. “I don’t remember me running in headfirst with zero regard for a plan.”

Bucky scoffed. “Right, because your plan went so well.”

You froze, fingers stilling against his skin.

His voice hadn’t been sharp, but the words still landed heavy in your chest.

“You didn’t have to follow it,” you murmured.

Bucky let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Well. I did.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted.

You forced yourself to move again, forced yourself to focus on the cut rather than the way his eyes lingered.

Your throat was dry when you spoke. “You were right.”

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air.

“We should have done it your way,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s fingers curled over the edge of the seat. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you knew he was watching you.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice quiet. “Didn’t do us much good, did it?”

You pressed your lips together. “Would’ve gone a lot worse if you hadn’t stepped in.”

His eyes flickered. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy for it.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.

“I do.” Your voice wavered, but you swallowed hard, pushing through it. “Because I was wrong.”

Bucky was still. Unreadable.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped lower. “That an apology?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real fire behind it. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”

But his eyes? His eyes told a different story.

—

The hum of the jet was steady beneath you, the vibrations deep in your bones, but it did nothing to ground you. The cabin lights were low, throwing long shadows across the metal walls. Sam was already passed out in the back, his breathing even, the tension from the mission finally easing from his shoulders.

You should be doing the same. You should be closing your eyes, letting exhaustion take over, shutting out the memory of the chaos you’d just escaped from.

But you couldn’t.

Because Bucky was still watching you.

He sat across from you, silent and unreadable, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. He hadn’t spoken since you finished patching him up, but he hadn’t stopped looking, either.

It wasn’t his usual sharp-edged irritation or teasing smirk. No playful bickering, no cocky remarks about how he’d been right. Just this.

Something softer. Something heavier.

Something you weren’t ready for.

“You should get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

You shook your head, fingers curling into your palms. “I’m fine.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, like he didn’t believe you. “Yeah? You don’t look fine.”

You hated that he could see it. The tremor in your fingers, the tension in your shoulders, the way you were still breathing too fast, like your body hadn’t realized the fight was over.

You hated that he noticed. That he cared enough to notice.

And then—because you were tired, because you were furious, because he had almost died and you were still trying to claw your way back from the sheer panic of it—you snapped.

“You could have died, Bucky.” Your voice was sharper than you meant, thick with something you didn’t want to name.

His brow twitched, but his expression didn’t change. His voice stayed infuriatingly even. “Yeah. That’s kinda what happens when people shoot at you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing out there?”

“That’s not—” You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

The question hung between you, thick with unspoken things.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched you—his gaze steady, patient, like he was giving you the space to say it.

And God, you wanted to.

But the words sat like stones in your throat, impossible to force out. You clenched your jaw, tried to shove them back down, but they wouldn’t go away.

Because the truth was, you weren’t just shaken by the mission.

You were shaken by the way seeing him bleeding had made your stomach drop, by the way his pained groans had made your hands shake, by the way you had wanted—needed—to run to him, to wrap yourself around him and never let go.

You were terrified.

Because this wasn’t just anger or frustration or a heated argument in the middle of a mission.

This was Bucky.

And you couldn’t lose him.

So instead of answering, instead of trying to put words to the panic still rattling inside you, you did the only thing you could do.

You reached for him.

It wasn’t sharp or defiant, wasn’t out of frustration or anger.

You just—needed to touch him.

Your fingers brushed over his wrist, barely there, hesitant. A point of contact. Something to anchor you.

Bucky stilled.

For a second, he just stared at your hand, at the way your fingers curled against his skin like you weren’t even sure if you had permission to hold on.

Then, slowly, he turned his wrist under your palm, letting your fingers slide over his pulse point. His skin was warm, his pulse steady. Alive. Here.

Your throat went tight.

Bucky’s voice was quieter this time. Rougher. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t let go.

Your thumb ghosted over his pulse, barely a whisper of touch, but it still wasn’t enough.

You didn’t know what you needed, what you were searching for beneath your fingertips, but the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat wasn’t easing the raw ache in your chest.

Your eyes flickered around the cabin.

Sam was still dead to the world, Torres nowhere in sight. The only two people awake on this jet were you and Bucky.

Something inside you snapped.

One second, you were gripping his wrist, tethering yourself to him like that alone would make this feeling go away. The next, you were moving before you could stop yourself—sliding out of your seat, crawling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him like holding on tighter would somehow keep him safe, keep him yours.

Bucky made a sound—something low, something confused—but his hands came up anyway, large and warm and steady as they settled on your hips, instinctive.

His breath hitched, and you felt it against your temple, the subtle shudder of his inhale.

You buried yourself closer, curling into his chest, fingers winding into the hair at the nape of his neck. His scent was everywhere—gunpowder and metal and something distinctly him—and you could have drowned in it.

“If you ever tell anyone I did this,” you muttered, voice muffled against his neck, “I will find ways to kill you.”

There was no bite to it. No real threat.

Just you—raw and exposed in a way you didn’t know how to take back.

Bucky let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t shove you off like he should have.

Instead, his arms shifted, wrapping around you fully, pressing you into him like this was what he had been waiting for, like this was something he had been needing just as badly.

Like he wanted to.

His metal fingers flexed at your waist, pressing against the fabric of your suit, a steadying grip. His other hand flattened against your back, tracing over the curve of your spine as if he was committing the shape of you to memory.

His touch burned.

His warmth was everywhere.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers sliding from his hair to his cheek, brushing over the stubble there, the still-healing cut on his temple. And then—before you could stop yourself—you were tilting his face toward yours.

For the first time since the mission, since the gunfire, since you watched the blood dripping down his temple and felt your entire world tilt on its axis—you met his eyes head-on.

Bucky swallowed.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips.

It was enough.

Your resolve snapped like a frayed wire.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could remind yourself that this was Bucky, before you could convince yourself that you didn’t love him like this—

You kissed him.

It was desperate, messy—nothing like the slow, sweet build-up you had imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.

Your lips crashed against his, your hands fisting in his suit, pulling yourself closer, closer, closer, needing more, needing everything.

Bucky froze.

Didn’t move when your lips parted against his, when your tongue flicked against his bottom lip, when your teeth caught the cut there, tasting blood.

Didn’t react when you kissed him again, soft and searching, when your nose brushed against his, when you sighed against his mouth, the sound fragile and aching.

Didn’t kiss you back.

The realization hit slow, creeping in at the edges of your desperation, sinking its claws into your chest.

He wasn’t—

Oh, God.

The sting of rejection burned hotter than the wounds littering your body.

You tried to breathe, tried to steady yourself, but your lungs felt too tight, your hands shaking as you forced yourself to pull back, to put distance between you before you shattered entirely.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, a shaky breath washing over his lips. Your throat was tight, your vision blurring at the edges. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Your voice broke.

Bucky was still silent.

And that was somehow worse.

It took a second to register the weight of what you’d done, to catch up to you.

You had kissed him.

You had kissed him and he hadn’t—

Your stomach plummeted.

“I’m—” Your breath hitched, panic clawing at your ribs. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

You tried to untangle yourself, tried to scramble out of his lap, to preserve whatever dignity you had left, to put distance between you before you completely fell apart in front of him—

But then—

God.

Then his hands tightened on your hips.

Hard.

Before you could even get further, Bucky dragged you back against him, fingers digging into your skin, like he wasn’t about to let you go. He maneuvered you until your legs were astride his hips, your arms around his neck, your chest pressed to his.

Your breath stilled, eyes wide, heart hammering against your ribs.

His expression had changed.

The shock, the hesitation—it was gone.

In its place was something darker.

Something heated and unrelenting.

Something like want.

Bucky’s breathing was uneven, his lips parted, his pupils blown wide as his gaze flickered between your eyes, your mouth, back up.

Then—

Then his fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His metal hand trailed over your ribs, up your arm, curling at the back of your neck, tipping your face toward his.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low. “Can you do that again?”

Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering against his fingertips. “You didn’t—”

“I froze,” he cut in, jaw tight. “I won’t now.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your lips parted, heart stumbling over itself.

Bucky let out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. His grip on your hips flexed, strong and sure, and for a split second, all he did was look at you.

Like you were something he didn’t know how to handle.

Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to devour you or worship you.

Then—slower this time, more sure—he leaned in.

And kissed you.

You had been right.

Bucky Barnes would be your undoing.

He’d kill you with the way he kissed, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to ruin you, like he wanted to take you apart with nothing but the sweep of his tongue and the heat of his mouth.

You felt it—every glide of his tongue against yours, every careful press of his lips, every sharp inhale between kisses—like a spark lighting up your spine, sinking deep, settling between your legs with a heat so intense you could barely breathe through it.

You shook on top of him, the way he touched you sending shockwaves through every nerve ending in your body. His hands were everywhere—tight, possessive squeezes against your hips, reverent drags of his fingers down your back and thighs, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

A whimper escaped you, completely unbidden, and Bucky groaned, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrated against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, his lips left yours.

You gasped at the loss—until you felt him move.

Felt the warm brush of his breath against your throat, felt his nose skim along the sensitive skin there before his mouth followed.

“Bucky—” His name left you in a sharp breath as he kissed down your neck, slow, teasing, his lips dragging over every inch of exposed skin he could reach.

The problem was—there wasn’t enough.

Your suit covered too much, kept him from truly touching you, and it was driving you out of your mind.

You arched into him, restless, desperate. “Take it off,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Bucky stilled, his lips pausing against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. Didn’t continue.

“Take it off,” you begged, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit, tracing over the zippers, tugging uselessly at the buttons, trying to feel more. “Please, take it off.”

His breath was uneven, ragged. “Doll, there are people—”

“I don’t care.” You tugged at his collar, leaning in, pressing another desperate kiss to the corner of his mouth. “They won’t see.”

Bucky’s hands flexed against your waist, like he was warring with himself.

You kissed him again, lips parting over his, trying to convince him, trying to make him understand, to feel just how badly you needed this, needed him.

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to yours, his chest rising and falling unevenly beneath you.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please, before you change your mind—I need this. I need you.”

That did it.

Something snapped in him.

The hesitation vanished.

And then, suddenly, you were weightless.

Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky was standing, lifting you effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist as he carried you toward the back of the jet, moving with a singular, determined focus that made your breath catch.

Your back hit the cool metal wall of the jet, the impact sending a shiver down your spine, but you barely had time to react before Bucky was kissing you again—hot, rough, devouring.

You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on for dear life.

His hands roamed down your back, over your thighs, squeezing, gripping—and then, finally, finally, he found the zipper of your suit.

“I’m not changing my mind,” he murmured, his voice thick, edged with something raw that made you shiver. His fingers curled around the fabric, tugging just enough for you to feel the weight of his words. “And you’re not changing yours.”

You nodded without thinking, without hesitation, without fear.

There was a faint awareness of the reality around you—the steady hum of the jet beneath you, the wall of gear shielding you from the others, the knowledge that Sam and Torres were mere feet away. The fact that you were both bloodied and bruised from the mission, that maybe this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place.

But then Bucky moved, and all of that faded.

The zipper came down in a slow, deliberate slide, the rasp of it against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, but gentle, pushing the suit down your arms until you could shake it off completely. The moment it was gone, he pulled your arms around his shoulders, guiding them to hold onto him, like he needed you to keep him close.

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost reverent, before dropping to his knees.

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering as his hands gripped your hips, firm and unshakable, guiding the rest of your suit down your legs. His head dipped, his lips grazing the fresh bruise blooming along your hip. He kissed it once, then again—soft, lingering. Worshipping.

You swallowed hard, your fingers threading into his hair as he nuzzled along your thigh, your knee, before rising back to his full height.

“Not getting these off,” he muttered, his fingers ghosting over your soaked panties. You’d be ashamed if it weren’t for the way his lips parted, like he was desperate to get back on his knees, get his mouth on you, There was also something else. The look on his face - regret, you thought - like he wanted to take his time with you, but was disappointed he couldn’t.

His hands moved up your body, skimming over your waist, tracing along your ribs. You shivered at the sensation of warm and cold, flesh and metal. His eyes darkened at the sight of you trembling under his touch.

“We have to be quick.”

You nodded, obedient, but there was something clawing at your chest, something making your breath catch, making your hands shake as you reached for his belt, undoing it with frantic fingers.

“This—” You took a breath, sliding the zipper down, pushing his pants and underwear down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already slick with pre-cum. You ached at the sight of him. Ached to drop to your knees and taste him.

Instead, you swallowed hard and met his eyes. “This isn’t how I imagined doing this with you.”

Bucky let out a low, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Me either.” His voice was rough, wrecked, breaking apart at the seams. His lips brushed your ear as he groaned, deep and ragged, when you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him slow, teasing. “Fuck, sweetheart—”

A shudder rolled through him, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“But I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, voice thick with something dangerous, something devoted. “I promise.”

His arms wrapped around you again, lifting you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your hips rolling forward to grind against him.

“Bucky—”

“You want this?” he asked, pressing you back against the cool metal wall, the contrast making you gasp. His mouth was everywhere—dragging down your jaw, across the swell of your breast, open-mouthed and hungry.

“I do. I—”

The words faltered on your tongue.

Your heart was hammering, your chest was aching. This was reckless. This was insane.

This was everything.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressed your forehead to his, your lips brushing his with every ragged breath. “I want you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “All of you.” Your fingers twisted into his hair, tugging just enough for him to feel it. “Please.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. “You have me.”

His words were iron, unbreakable, true.

Something cracked inside you.

And then—there was no more hesitation.

His lips crashed into yours again, raw and consuming, leaving no space between you, no air, no room for anything but him. His free hand slid down, tugging at your panties, dragging them to the side. Your own hand moved between you, wrapping around his cock, guiding him to where you needed him.

“Jesus, doll—”

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was one full thrust, his cock pressing inside you inch by inch, filling you completely, stretching you to the edge of pain. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your head falling back against the wall as a gasp tore from your throat.

You felt full. Too full.

Your legs shook around him, your walls clenching tight around his cock, the overwhelming stretch making your eyes slam shut, your mouth parting on a silent moan.

Bucky groaned, deep and wrecked, his forehead pressing to your temple. His body was shaking too, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps against your skin.

“Fuck,” he ground out, metal hand locking around your thigh, keeping you open for him. His other hand tangled in your hair, his grip tight, desperate. “Fuck, you feel—Jesus, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, your arms trembling as you clung to him. “I can’t believe you’re inside me,” you whispered, voice barely there, overwhelmed and ruined. “Oh my god, Bucky—”

He snapped his hips forward, and your world split apart.

The pleasure was sharp, blinding, a lightning strike surging through your veins. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned against your neck, his rhythm faltering for a beat. His hands tightened on your hips, metal and flesh both possessive, both desperate to hold on.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he choked out, voice strangled, roughened with something close to reverence. He thrust deep, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you, every sensitive place that made your stomach coil so tight you thought you might shatter.

“For you,” you confessed, arching into him, letting him feel it, letting him know. “All the time. Every time you look at me—”

Bucky snapped his hips forward, harder, deeper, tearing a cry from your lips.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice breaking, cracking at the edges. “Shit, shit—”

“You’re so deep,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. Your nails raked down his back, desperate, pleading, needing. “Bucky, I—I can’t—”

“I’ve got you, doll,” he groaned, pressing his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound you made as he ruined you completely.

Every thrust was a curse, every breath a kiss, and you were careening toward the edge so fast it was dizzying.

The pleasure ripped through you before you could warn him, before you could even process it. Your walls tightened, pulsing around his cock, body shaking so violently that he had to pin you to the wall with his hips, burying himself to the hilt, his hand cradling the back of your head, shielding you as you contorted in his grasp.

His mouth devoured your cries, catching every broken, pleading gasp as the orgasm tore you apart. It was an explosion that didn’t stop, that kept rolling through you, wave after wave.

You rocked against him, desperate for more, still chasing, still needing, barely hearing the way he rasped your name, telling you to slow down, telling you to look at him, warning you that he was—

“God, you’re heaven,” Bucky breathed against your ear, grinding deep inside of you, his voice wrecked, every syllable tinged with something broken, something beautiful. As you slowly came down, you could feel how close he was, how tightly he was holding on, trying to keep himself from falling over the edge. “I can feel you—fuck me, I should pull out.”

“No.”

It came out fast, urgent, a whisper laced with something dangerous. Your legs locked around his hips, keeping him trapped in your hold.

His entire body went rigid. His breathing stilled.

“Baby.”

Bucky’s voice was low, frayed at the edges, filled with disbelief. The word hung in the air between you, unspoken until now.

You froze.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t have given that away. Shouldn’t have let it slip, shouldn’t have handed him something so fragile, something you couldn’t take back.

But what was a drop to someone who was already drowning?

Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. If he wanted to, he could have pulled you off of him without lifting a finger. You had always been painfully aware of how much stronger he was, how easily he could overpower you.

And yet, he stayed still, locked in your hold. Completely at your mercy.

You swallowed, your fingers shaking as they curled into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let him run.

“C’mon, doll,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, stealing a kiss that felt like it was more for him than for you. “Let go.”

His hips rolled, his pelvis grinding against your clit, making you whimper. Your body was still trembling, still oversensitive, but fuck, if he kept going just a little longer—

“I want you to cum inside me,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, your nails digging into his skin.

Bucky froze.

The words echoed between you like a shot fired into the silence.

His hips stilled. His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they held you.

You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to move.

“Doll,” he rasped, warning in his tone, his forehead pressed to yours. He looked wrecked, as undone as you felt.

“Stop arguing with me,” you shot back, voice shaky, grinding against him, dragging your soaked, sensitive heat over him, pulling a moan from his throat so deep it made every hair on your body stand on end.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his grip on you bruising.

“I want this.” You tightened your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer, wrapping him in you, cocooning you both in the moment. “I’m begging you, Bucky. Please.”

“It’s—” He swallowed thickly, voice strangled.

“Irresponsible, yes, but what’s a little irresponsibility?” A breathless laugh escaped you, but your voice broke at the end, too raw to keep up the teasing. You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m on the pill.”

His jaw clenched.

“I need this,” you whispered, the truth clawing up your throat before you could stop it. “I need you.” Your voice cracked, your breath hitched, emotion swelling too fast, too much. “You don’t get it, I—”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he softened.

Something in his eyes clicked, something changed, and suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you tighter, his hands cradling your face like you were precious, like you were fragile, like he had to hold you together before you broke apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

His thrusts were slower, deeper, his lips brushing yours between each movement. His hands wandered, soothing, worshipping.

“Giving you exactly what you want, yeah?”

You nodded frantically, breath labored, losing yourself in the way he felt, the way he surrounded you, consumed you.

“Don’t pull out,” you begged, voice barely there, a whisper of devotion, of desperation.

Bucky let out a shaky breath, forehead pressed to yours. “I won’t, baby,” he promised, voice breaking. His pace picked up, hips rolling against yours, pushing deeper, harder, dragging against your oversensitive clit in a way that had you whimpering. “Gonna fill you up like you wanted.”

Your toes curled at the words, at the image, your walls fluttering around him.

“Oh, please don’t stop,” you gasped, rolling your hips, needing, aching.

Bucky groaned, his head dropping back as his rhythm faltered, as he snapped his hips harder, chasing the end, giving you what you wanted, giving you everything.

“Fill me up, baby,” you pleaded, your voice a broken, desperate thing. “Make me yours..”

And that—

That was what finally broke him.

Bucky snapped.

A curse tore from his throat, his grip on you bruising, unrelenting as his hips slammed into you, chasing the inevitable, giving you everything. His rhythm turned frantic, needy, his body demanding what you had just offered.

And you took it.

You craved it.

Your body tightened around him, coaxing him deeper, begging for more. Every thrust was an answer to a question neither of you had spoken aloud, a declaration in the language of skin and breath and longing.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he gritted out, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot against your mouth. His hand slid down between you, his metal fingers finding your clit and pressing, rubbing tight circles, dragging you back to the edge with him.

Your body shook, every muscle tensed, the pleasure sharpening into something unbearable, something deadly.

“Bucky—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, his voice cracking at the edges, his own body trembling as he held himself back, as he waited for you. “Give it to me.”

You did.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, knocking the air from your lungs, blinding in its intensity. Your body locked around him, your hands clutching desperately at his shoulders as the pleasure ripped through you in violent, unrelenting waves.

And that was it. That was everything.

Bucky followed, slamming into you one last time before breaking, burying himself as deep as he could go, a shuddering groan torn from his chest as he spilled into you, filling you like he promised. You felt it as his warm cum Costas your walls, so much of it you weren’t sure there wasn’t some spilling out.

His body trembled, his arms locked tight around you, holding you close as he gave in, as he let go, as he let himself have this.

For a moment, there was silence.

Just the sound of your breathing, labored and uneven. The quiet, lingering shock of what you had just done.

Bucky’s forehead pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart hammering so hard you could feel it through his suit.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed like that—wrapped around him, his cock still twitching inside of you, his arms cradling you like you might disappear if he let go.

You let your eyes drift shut, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the back of his neck, the weight of him comforting, grounding, even as reality started creeping back in.

You should let go.

You should move.

You should say something.

But when Bucky finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones—

The words died on your lips.

Because he was looking at you like you had just ruined him. Like you had just changed something fundamental inside of him.

Like you had just made him yours.

And you had.

Slowly,, Bucky eased his grip, his arms still wrapped around you, his hands still mapping the shape of you, like he needed to memorize every curve, every ridge, every place he’d touched.

His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, tender kisses that made your heart clench, made something deep inside you ache.

It felt too big.

Too much.

But you couldn’t stop touching him.

Your fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your touch. You pushed damp hair out of his face, ran your knuckles down the slope of his nose, his cheekbone, memorizing him the way he was memorizing you.

A hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheek, his expression unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his eyes were soft, but serious.

“You meant it,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed, lips parting, breath hitching.

“Bucky—”

His other hand was still pressed to your lower stomach, like he could feel himself inside you, like he could brand this moment into your skin.

“I felt it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The way you—” He exhaled sharply, like the words were too heavy to get out.

You closed your eyes, trying to give yourself some kind of reprieve from the enormity of it all.

“Don’t run from this.” His voice was so calm, but it cut through you like a knife. “Please, doll.”

Your throat tightened.

You weren’t sure if it was the aftershocks of pleasure or the overwhelming emotion of it all, but your body was still trembling—and Bucky felt every bit of it.

His arms tightened around you, securing you to him, anchoring you.

“I’m not running,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to search your face, like he didn’t quite believe you.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe yourself.

Because what came next?

What happened after this?

There was you before Bucky Barnes.

There was you after Bucky Barnes.

And they weren’t the same.

[holeforzenin]

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ACCIDENTALLY CALLING TOJI “DAD” DURING SEX

Tw - DAD kink, established relationship, father figure Toji kinda, Age gap (early 20s, late 30s) Not proofread.

A/n - Hey so! This is fiction :Þ

You're gasping beneath him, every shaky breath snagging in your throat as your thighs locks tighter around his waist. Your arms are thrown up above your head as his heavy weight keeps you pinned to the mattress. It's suffocating in the best kind of way possible.

He’s all thick muscles and warmth, every inch of him pressing down hard like he’s trying to brand you with his weight. His skin’s damp with sweat, warm and gritty and he smells like cedar, smoke and something darker— like lust soaked into sun-baked skin.

The sound of your whimpers echoes under the hum of the ceiling fan, paired with the dull thumb of the headboard rocking against the wall. Toji's grunting lowly in your ear, rough voice thick with the kind of tired huskiness that makes your stomach coil.

“Such a needy fucking thing, huh?” he pants, teeth grazing your earlobe before he gently licks at it. “Couldn't even wait for me to get home. Practically jumped me soon as I walked through the door”.

You had to, you spent the whole day alone, overthinking and fidgeting and yearning for him to get home, you're always so good for him, so quiet and well-behaved until you're not. Until you're climbing into his lap while he still has dust on his hands and grease under his fingernails. You'd kissed him without thinking, your breath shaky, hands clumsy, and your thighs already sticky where your shorts pressed into your core.

And now, you're all soaked and stretched, your hips twitching each time he thrusts into you. His hand is on your throat, not squeezing, just resting— enough to make you feel owned by him. His thumb strokes the side of your neck like he's calming a wild thing.

“You always get like this when I'm gone, don't you?” he murmurs, eyes locked into yours. “like you miss me too much that you don't know what to do with yourself”.

You nod stupidly, glossy lips parted— your tongue caught between your teeth as you try to form words but they're foggy and melting away under his pleasurable rhythm. You clutch his back like you're trying to hug him, blunt nails digging into the hard, flexing muscles and your voice is a broken whisper—

“Please, please, I— Toji, I need—”

“Mmm? Need what, sweetheart?” he coos, cruel and gentle all at once, his face just mere inches away from yours. “Tell me. C'mon, don't go dumb on me now”.

You try, you really do but your mind's spinning, undone by how deep he is, how close he’s finally holding you, how safe and filthy it all feels. You wrap your arms around his neck like it'll keep you grounded, your forehead pressing into his shoulder while tears burn at the corners of your eyes, voice shaking as it slips out:

“Please, Dad—!”

The whole room freezes and goes cold. Your breath catches and you're eyes go wide, mortified as ever. Even the ceiling fan seems to stop spinning for a second.

Toji stops moving— not fully but his hips are still, his cock buried to the base inside you, just marinating in your warmth while your slick clings onto his shaft. You can feel the way his cock suddenly twitches at the word. His sharp eyes find yours immediately.

His lips curl into a taunting smirk, his eyes gleaming with something smug and confident. “Huh?” he drawls, low and amused. “What was that?”

You immediately panic, your face burning with embarrassment. “I— I didn't mean, shit I didn't—”

He chuckles at how eagerly you're trying to defend yourself. A rumbling chuckle, his nose brushing yours as he leans down to your face. “You calling me dad now, kid?”. He murmurs, hot breath against your lips.

You squirm under him, shaking your head furiously, wishing you could go by in time and change it. “It was an accident! I swear—”

“Accident, huh?” he softly kisses your cheek, nips it then coasts down to your jaw. “You sure about that? Sure you didn't just let that pretty little mouth slip ‘cause I fuck you better than any little boy your age ever could?”

You're still shaking your head, tears spilling now from shame and pleasure and the overwhelming intimacy of it. He's everywhere— rough voice in your ear, chest smushed against yours, cock thick and pulsing inside you.

“Poor thing,”he whispers. “You thinking about that? Thinking about how I take care of you? Pay your rent. Fix your car. Feed you. Fuck you”.

“Toji— please, don't—”

“Dad, huh?” he murmurs again, rolling his hips once, hard enough to make you cry out. “Y'know, I am kinda like a father figure to you, ain't I?”

He reaches between you, thumb rubbing circles over your clit now, voice a soft mocking croon in your ear. “You get all bratty when I'm not around. Need me to put you in your place. Want my attention. Cry when I don't give it to you”. his hips start rolling against you again.

“Sound a lot like a needy little girl who wants her dad's approval”.

You're sobbing now, your hips jerking and toes curling against his lower back, overwhelmed by shame and pleasure to the point where you're completely ruined. “Say it again,” he breathes. “C'mon. You said it once— say it like you mean it”.

You try to resist— teeth sinking into your lip so hard you could taste blood but your body betrays you. You're shaking under him, soaked and desperate to cum, desperate to finish all over his cock but he's not letting up— he'll drag this out until you break.

So you do end up breaking.

“Please, Dad,” you whisper, voice cracking, cheeks wet with tears. “Please, I wanna cum!”.

He growls, leaning down to kiss your forehead, sounding proud and satisfied. “There's my girl”.

And then he fucks into you harder— deep, punishing thrusts that knock the breath from your lungs. His hand clamps around your throat, not too tight but just enough to make your head spin. He’s mouthing at your neck, all teeth and tongue, sucking marks into your skin like he’s branding you.

“Begging your dad to cum— fucking hell, you're so messed up, darling,” he groans, sounding very very proud despite his words. “But that's okay. I'll take care of you. Always do. Now I get why you're always clinging onto me and looking at me as if I hung the damn moon”.

You came undone with the next thrust, your body convulsing and teeming as pleasure rips through every nerve. You sob his name— or maybe “Dad” again— you can't even tell anymore because you can't think straight nor even breathe properly.

He follows moments later, groaning your name like a prayer. Maybe the name “dad” got to his head because now his swollen cockhead is leaking into your womb and filling you up with his seed like he owns you and plans on planting a baby inside you.

After he pulls out, he gently presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and tender against your skin. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close to his warm chest and you let yourself melt into him, too tired and sore to even think about moving. The exhaustion weighs heavily on your limbs but his warmth keeps you anchored in place.

“Dad, huh?” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, a smirk dancing against your hair. “Might have to get that in writing”. You groan into his shoulder, a mix of exhaustion and frustration creeping into the sound but it only makes him laugh— a warm, smug sound that rumbles through his chest. His arms tighten around you, and you can feel the slight smugness in his grin, knowing full well how much he enjoys teasing you.

[valeisaslut]

Reader asking Ellie to record them fucking, and Ellie ends up getting really into it (love your writing btw!! 💋💋)

say hi to the camera ─⭑.

⭒ word count: 3.6k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content warnings: film student top!ellie x sub!reader, oral sex (r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), strap-on (r!receiving), pussy slapping, hair pulling, filming kink, AFAB!reader, cursing, pet names, rough sex, degradation + praise, MEN AND MINORS DNI, likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

࿐not part of the collide au (rip my absolute queens... this actually hurt my SOUL but hey sometimes we gotta go out of our comfort zone and get feral for... the craft)

you said it as a joke.

but it landed like a command.

it happens halfway through straddling her on the couch, your body already buzzing from the way she’s kissing you—slow and deep, like she’s trying to memorize your mouth. her palms are hot under your shirt, fingertips dragging slow up your ribs.

you lean back just enough to catch your breath, grin sharp as ever.

"you should record this next time."

her lips pause at your throat. she stays there, a little shocked, mouth barely grazing your skin, and then—voice low, amused:

"you want me to record you while i fuck you?"

you shrug, all fake casual, even though your pulse jumps.

"i mean… why not? could be hot."

ellie pulls back just enough to look at you. blinks once. and then she grins—all trouble. her hands drag down your sides, deliberate now, like she’s already directing the first shot.

"you want a sex tape, baby?"

your smile widens. "just for me. like, when you're gone late working on a project and i’m in bed missing you."

she groans. like, actual full-body groan. throws her head back against the couch, rubs a hand over her face like you’ve just ruined her life.

"jesus fucking christ. you’re evil."

you tilt your head. "you love it."

her gaze snaps back to you—darker now, her pupils blown wide, her lip caught between her teeth.

"i will story-board the fuck out of it. lighting. blocking. sound. i'll give you a score."

"you’re such a nerd."

“and you’re the one asking a film major to make a porno, so who’s the real nerd here?”

you laugh, leaning in to kiss her, grinding down on her lap.

“bet you’d narrate the whole thing like, ‘scene one—fucking my girlfriend. interior. night. single cam. practical lighting.’”

she chokes on a laugh, then groans, fingers digging into your hips. “shut the fuck up.”

“no, seriously—‘fade in: slut on couch. extreme close-up. one long take. raw as hell.’”

“i’m gonna ruin you,” she growls, and this time it’s not a joke—rough, all threat and promise.

you just smirk, mouth barely brushing hers.

“yeah, but make it auteur.”

she doesn’t bring it up again for a week. you think she’s forgotten, or maybe it was just talk—a shared fantasy that slipped between the couch cushions and the memory of her mouth on your neck.

but then it’s saturday night. you’re fresh from the shower, hair damp and clinging to your neck, skin still warm, still smelling like her soap. you’re wearing her old gray t-shirt—soft, stretched, worn in the best way—and nothing underneath.

ellie’s already in the bedroom. the lights are low, shadows moving slow across the walls. deftones plays from the speaker—just enough to feel in your ribs, not loud enough to distract.

when you step into the room, you freeze. she’s sprawled out on the bed in a black tank top and boxers, one knee bent, and a camera aimed straight at you.

not her phone. not some propped-up, shaky little attempt at homemade porn. a real camera—matte black, compact, handheld, with a flip-out screen angled toward her face and that unmistakable red recording light already glowing steady.

the kind of camera that says she’s thought about this. planned it. maybe even fantasized about how she’d frame you, light you, direct you. and now you’re here. standing in the doorway, already caught in the first shot.

“wait,” you say, blinking. “are you for real?”

she doesn’t even flinch. just looks up from behind it and grins, wide and wolfish.

“oh, i’m for real,” she says, voice warm and smug.

you snort, tugging the hem of your shirt down instinctively, "with a real fucking camera?"

"yeah, wanna see it in 4K" she responds, tilting it, lens still trained on you. "why? don’t get all shy on me now, babe. you're the one who said record it."

“yeah,” you arch a brow. “i just didn’t think i was dating a one-woman a24 production crew.”

“you’re not,” she says, adjusting the zoom. “you’re dating a visionary.”

you try not to laugh but fail.“you look like a lesbian scorsese.”

“and you look like the hottest thing i’ve ever filmed,” she says, voice thick, thumb adjusting the focus. “so maybe be nice to your director.”

you stay where you are for a second. let her film you standing still. let her zoom in the curve of your thighs, the way the shirt clings to your chest, the outline of your nipples through the fabric. the tension builds between frames, between your breaths.

“you’re actually committing to this?” you ask, voice softer now, a little breathless, as if the heat in the room just kicked up a notch.

“baby,” she says, adjusting the focus without even looking away, “i’ve been storyboarding this in my head since before we even spoke.”

her voice is calm, almost sweet—like it’s not the filthiest thing she’s ever admitted.

“freak,” you mutter, but you’re smiling, laughing again—breathier this time. your body already giving in. you step closer, hips loose, eyes locked on hers.

ellie lifts the camera a little higher, tracks the shift of your body as if she’s afraid to miss a second.

“show me,” she whispers, tone low but teasing. “come on, give me a show.”

and you give her one. you lift the hem of the shirt slowly. not for her—for the lens. you know exactly how this is going to look in playback. the glow of your skin in this light. the way your body starts to reveal itself, line by line.

you pull it over your head and let it drop to the floor, nipples stiffening in the cold air. your stomach tenses under her gaze, and you don’t try to hide the shine between your thighs.

she makes a noise—somewhere between a sigh and a curse—and the camera dips for half a second, like her hand twitched. you see her throat bob as she swallows.

you know that look. she’s not sure whether to keep filming or drop the thing entirely and fall to her knees.

and god, it turns you on even more.

"still rolling?" you ask, voice sugar-laced, cocky.

ellie nods once, "yeah. fucking hell, yeah."

you step closer, slower this time. not acting. not pretending. this isn’t performance—it’s instinct. it’s power. the way she’s looking at you, mouth parted, eyes glazed behind the viewfinder. you know she’s turned on before she’s even touched you.

“you better not cut the part where i called you a pervy little director,” you tease, all teeth.

ellie lowers the camera just enough to meet your eyes, flushed and slightly out of breath. hand still holding the lens like a lifeline.

“cut it?” she says. “i’m putting it in the trailer.”

you grin. shift your weight, your thighs brushing.

“turn around,” she says next, and it’s not a suggestion.

it’s gravel and gravity, all command. her voice has slipped into that other place—firm, sure, focused. all director mode.

you smirk but do what she says. slowly, hips swaying. your hands drag down your own waist as you pivot, and when your back is to her, you arch slightly—just enough. let her see the full curve of your ass, the slick glinting between your thighs.

behind you, there’s a sharp exhale.

"jesus christ," she mutters. then the soft mechanical buzz of her adjusting the zoom.

you don’t need to see her to know she’s locked in. her eyes drinking in every inch, the red light on the camera the only thing keeping her from touching you already.

you glance back lazily. “so, you gonna keep filming, or are you gonna fuck me?”

and that’s it.

the camera dips. her body snaps to attention like it’s muscle memory.

you’re pulled back towards the bed in one smooth movement—no hesitation. the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you drop, your body folding back on your elbows, legs parting without a hint of shame.

ellie stands over you, camera raised.

“holy shit,” she mutters.

she brings the camera lower, letting it drink you in, between your legs, over the slick. the way your chest rises and falls, nipples peaked, skin glowing.

“look at you,” she says. “you’re already dripping, just from being filmed.”

you shift, thighs tightening, and she catches the movement.

"such a fucking dirty girl," she mutters, one hand ghosting over your stomach.

she places the camera down on the nightstand, still rolling, still angled at your spread legs and heaving chest. her focus is so fucking precise it sends a wave of arousal through you all on its own.

and then ellie kneels between your legs like it’s her altar.

angel starts playing low in the background, slow and dark.

has she even prepped the soundtrack? you wonder for a second, half-laugh, half-moan.

(of course she did.)

she starts with your knee. presses her mouth there, slow and warm, a kiss that lingers just a second too long before she trails it upward. her hands follow—one curling firm around your thigh like she owns it, the other gliding up the center of your stomach, dragging heat in its wake.

she slips her palm higher, sliding between your ribs, under the soft weight of your breast.

her thumb brushes over your nipple and you gasp, chest lifting into her hand like you’ve forgotten how to do anything else but respond.

"you feel that?" she murmurs, voice low, like it’s just for you even though the camera’s still blinking red. "your heart’s beating so fucking fast."

you open your mouth to say something smart, something flirty, but then she’s kissing up your thigh again and the thought dies on your tongue.

she reaches your stomach, then your sternum, then your collarbone—and instead of diving down immediately, she pauses. tilts her head. looks at you.

and kisses you.

hot and deep, all tongue and teeth. one of those messy, all-consuming kisses that steals the breath right out of your lungs.

you moan into it—she swallows the sound greedily. her fingers are already moving again. one circling your nipple, the other caressing your side.

she pulls back just enough to speak, her lips grazing your cheek, then your jaw.

"you're perfect" she says, kissing beneath your ear, down your throat, impossibly reverent.

your hips roll up involuntarily, and she smiles against your collarbone.

"getting impatient, baby?"

"ellie—fuck—"

she chuckles. not unsympathetic—just pleased. her mouth finds your nipple next, tongue dragging over it slow, flicking, then sucking it into the heat of her mouth. her other hand moves to your other breast, squeezes gently, then rougher, thumb teasing over the tip until you whine.

"god, these tits," she mumbles against your chest, "camera’s not even doing them justice."

your back arches when her palm lands flat on your stomach, sliding lower, past your hip, fingers teasing the edge of your thigh.

"ellie," you gasp again, helpless this time.

she lets your nipple go with a soft, wet pop. looks up at you from your chest, mouth slick, green eyes lit up with that impossible mix of her—tender and ravenous, as if she wants to worship you and devour you in the same breath.

she shifts downward, dragging her tongue along the slope of your breast, down your stomach, until she’s eye level with your pussy. you’re throbbing, already wrecked, thighs trembling just from the anticipation of her mouth.

she glances at the nightstand, double-checking the angle like it matters. then brings her fingers to your folds, spreading you open with both thumbs, totally entranced by the sight.

“say hi to the camera, baby,” she teases, looking up at you.

and then, without warning, her tongue drags a slow, devastating stripe from your entrance to your clit.

you moan—loud, raw, helpless, trying to lift your hips but her free hand is already there, pressing you down into the mattress.

"f-fuck!" you whimper, voice cracking.

"that's right," she murmurs, licking again. "let it hear every fuckin’ sound."

she starts working you in earnest now—tongue circling your clit in tight, practiced spirals, her mouth warm and greedy. she moans against you, like the taste of you is enough to drive her insane. you can feel every vibration down to your toes.

your hands are tangled in her hair, thighs wide open, whole body arching into her mouth. she slips one hand between your legs and slides a finger inside—curling just enough to make your spine seize.

"holy shit," you gasp. "oh my god—Ellie—"

"more," she whispers against your clit, sliding in a second finger "let it see how messy you get for it."

and then she reaches back—without stopping—grabs the camera from the nightstand with her free hand, flips the screen toward you, and holds it low between your bodies. the image blinks into view—a live, unfiltered shot: your pussy stretched around her fingers, your mouth agape and brows furrowed, your thighs shaking with every thrust.

“you seeing this, baby?” she mutters, eyes flicking between you and the viewfinder. “fuck, look at you.”

and god—you do. you watch yourself fall apart in real time, every wet sound, every twitch of your stomach from overstimulation, every pump of her fingers, every gasp on full display. like it’s art, like it’s proof.

and it’s probably the filthiest, most turned on you have ever felt in your life.

its holy and obscene at the same time—your body laid bare, her fingers deep inside you, your face twisted with pleasure, and all of it immortalized in perfect footage.

you can’t look away. neither can she.

"ellie—please—I’m gonna—"

"do it," she growls, "come f’me, come for the camera."

you come with a cry that splits the room, loud, shaking. your thighs squeeze around her hand and your back lifts off the mattress, body wrung out like a rag.

she doesn’t stop, just slows her pace, works you through it. you’re trembling when she finally pulls away, kisses your thigh, and sits back with the camera resting on her bent knee. she lifts it, points it at your face.

you’re flushed, sweaty. lying in a wrecked halo of your own making.

“so damn perfect like this” she mutters, voice a rasp. "you want more?"

you nod, chest heaving.

"words."

"yes," you whisper. then louder, like she needs to hear it. like the camera does, too. "yes. fuck, yes. please fuck me."

and she grins like the devil.

she tosses the camera onto the nightstand—still recording, angled just right, lens slightly askew—but it only makes it hotter, messy, real. something she’ll watch for hours with her hand down her boxers.

she doesn’t say anything as she crosses the room, opens the drawer, and pulls out the harness. it’s not slow or performative. it’s practiced, casual. she straps it over her black boxers with one hand, the other slicking lube over the thick purple silicone cock. it gleams in the low light, catching the flash of the camera’s red recording dot.

you’re already moving, your body shifting on instinct—onto your hands and knees, face buried in the sheets, ass high in the air like it’s muscle memory.

ellie looks at you and lets out a sound from deep in her throat. almost a laugh, mostly a groan.“stay just like that.”

she climbs behind you, smooth and silent. spreads your cheeks with both hands and groans when she sees how soaked you are.

"fuck, baby. you made a whole fuckin' mess back here."

"ellie—"

she leans down, kissing the small of your back, then bites your ass, playful and sharp. one hand grips your hip, the other slides between your legs—and she slaps your pussy once, just enough to make you jolt and whine. it’s wet, loud, dirty.

she groans at the sound. "jesus. dripping."

then she drags the head of the strap between your folds, slow and heavy.

"you ready for it?"

you nod frantically, pressing your face into the mattress.

“say it.”

“please fuck me. please, i want it. i need it so bad—”

she wanted to draw it out—make you beg, make you squirm—but she’s just as wrecked as you are, barely holding it together. so when she finally thrusts in, it’s with one deep, steady stroke that knocks the air straight out of your lungs.

you gasp, choking. “jesus christ!—”

“god, look at that,” she breathes, pulling back, watching the way you stretch and suck her back in with the next thrust. “you’re fuckin’ swallowing it.”

her hands find your hips. she sets a brutal rhythm, dragging you back onto her cock with every thrust, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls. the sound of your moans, the slap of her thighs against your ass, the headboard slamming the wall—it’s filthy.

she leans forward, chest pressed to your back, and wraps one hand around your breast, squeezing, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you whine. her other hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back.

“you like getting fucked like this?” she hisses in your ear. “like a toy on display?”

“yes—fuck, yes—”

“touch yourself.”

you obey instantly. one hand between your legs, circling your clit in frantic, desperate little motions while she fucks you from behind like she’s trying to split you in two.

you notice that closer is softly but steadily playing, and the camera’s still rolling, capturing everything. the curve of your ass, the tremble in your thighs, the way your body jerks every time she bottoms out.

ellie groans like she feels it too—because she does. she’s grinding against the base of the strap, hungry and relentless, chasing the friction like she’s starved for it. the harness is soaked, her boxers nearly translucent with how wet she is, and every time she thrusts into you, the base rubs right against her clit.

“you gonna come like this?” she pants. “gonna soak my dick like a good little slut?”

“yes—yes—fuck, ellie, i’m gonna—”

“say it.”

“i’m your slut,” you cry out. “i'm your fucking slut—”

and right then, without missing a beat, she grabs the camera off the nightstand, angles it behind you. the lens catches the mess of your ass bouncing against her hips, the wet slap of skin on skin, the slick sound of your cunt stretching around the purple silicone.

and then she slaps your ass, hard. loud enough to echo through the room.

"fuck!" you yelp, back arching, legs shaking violently.

and you come like a landslide. body seizing, muscles locking, then breaking all at once as you scream into the mattress. it rolls through you in waves, loud and long, your thighs trembling, fingers still working yourself as you ride it out.

you feel it when she starts to lose it—her rhythm falters, hips stutter, breath hitching into short, high little gasps. her fingers dig into your waist and she presses forward, deeper, harder, her chest flush to your back like she’s trying to crawl inside you.

“fuck—fuck, baby—i’m—”

her voice cracks, and then she whines—high and helpless, the kind of sound you didn’t know she could make. desperate and slutty and fucking perfect. her whole body goes taut, then shudders, her thighs shaking as she ruts through it. she comes with her face buried in your shoulder, teeth clenched, breath shivering.

the base of the strap is slick and messy between you now, but she grinding against the harness like it’s not enough, never enough. she groans into your skin, broken and dazed, and you can feel her heart pounding against your back.

and when she pulls out, it’s slow and careful, hands suddenly tender where they'd just been rough. she leans forward and kisses your spine—once, then again—her breath hot and uneven against your skin.

“you okay?” she murmurs, palm sliding up your back in soft, grounding strokes.

you nod, barely able to form the word. “better than okay.”

she laughs, quiet and breathless, into your shoulder. a little dazed, wrecked herself.

she rolls you onto your back, her hand never leaving your skin, and collapses beside you. the room is humid with sex, thick with sweat, heat and the echo of everything that just happened. the air itself feels heavy, slow.

in her hand, the camera is still rolling. its red light blinks steadily, casting a faint glow over the two of you.

ellie flips the screen towards herself, then turns the lens on you—zooming in dramatically on your wrecked face.

“say hi, baby” she teases, still catching her breath.

you blink up at the lens, dazed. hair a disaster. lips kiss-bruised. eyes glassy like you’ve just returned from the dead.

“hi,” you mumble, grinning like a fool, “i just got fucked into the stratosphere.”

ellie then pans the camera to her own face—sweaty, flushed, hair sticking to her forehead—and raises both brows like she’s in a documentary.

“filmmaker. method actor. strap goat. i do it all.”

you burst out laughing, weakly swatting at her.

she grins, crooked and proud, turning the camera back to you. “and you just won best actress in a leading role, doll.”

“so, what’s the title?” you ask, giggling into the pillow.

ellie snorts—eyes gleaming like she just won an oscar and knocked someone out in the same damn night. she adjusts the angle, tilts the camera so you’re both in the frame: flushed, sweaty, radiant, completely ruined.

then, with the most serious voice she can manage, she deadpans to the lens—

“the slut and the lesbian scorsese.”

you wheeze. “shut the fuck up.”

“already submitted to sundance, actually.”

“you’re insufferable.”

“director’s cut drops next week.”

you try to slap her but miss—too sore, too high on her, too in love. she just laughs, smug and glowing, and zooms in one last time on your face.

“five stars,” she murmurs, “would absolutely fuck again.”

⭒ perm taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <3): @talyaisvalslutsoldier @miajooz @andiemiaswife @mayfldss @sewithinsouls @coastalwilliams @hotpinkskitties @ssijht @pleasejoel @pariiissssssss @liddy333 @beeisscaredofbees @d1catwhisperer @the-sick-habit @elliescoquettegirl @elliewilliams-wife @yueluv3rrrr @your-eternal-muse @ellies-real-wife @katherinesmirnova @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @thxtmarvelchick @natscloset @lesbiansreverywhere @2against3 @wwefan2002 @ilahrawr @harmonib @piastorys @azteriarizz @starincarnated @natssgf @ukissmyfaceinacrowdedroom @iadorefineshyt @claudiajacobs @urmomssideh0e @kingofeyeliner @womenlover0 @ferxanda @imunpunishable @elliewilliamsloverrrrrrrr @bambi-luvs @maru0uu @mikellie @gold-dustwomxn @nramv

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ omg… first fic NOT set in the collide au in literal MONTHS and it feels SO weird but soooo good to write something different omfg 😭 rockstar!ellie and popstar!reader yall still haunt me everyday. my favorite lesbians for the rest of the eternity. i’ve missed this kind of chaos. huge love and tysm to my gorg mootie who sent this amazing request before i even started collide—you live in my brain rent free forever bby!

i might play around with a few more fics + requests before launching the next big series i’ve been outlining (👀), so stay tuned babes. ily all dearly ♡

Please leave a comment if you’re interested in being on my perm taglist!

credits for divider: @cafekitsune <3 – images from pinterest - edited by me