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heytheredelulu · 1 year ago

Text

Little Bookworm 18+

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Content Warnings: unprotected sex (p-in-v), rough sex, dirty talk, size kink, dubcon kink (as long as Bucky can keep a straight face), tummy bulge, language, a good ole coochie slap (once), cum play, a little fluff, some aftercare

Your boyfriend can’t think of anything more adorable than watching you read. One night while you’re in the shower he picks up the book you left on the nightstand: “Haunting Adeline by H.D. Carlton” and thumbs through it, very quickly realizing just what kind of books his sweet little bookworm is really into.

Inspired by my IRL husband’s reaction to my smutty reads.

Note: I don’t own any characters or works referenced in this oneshot and shout out to H.D. Carlton for creating Zade Meadows and giving us the house of mirrors chapter that’s been living rent free in both me and @lilacka’s head for over a year.

Bucky absolutely loved to watch you read.

The subtle way your expressions changed as your eyes would glide across the pages made his heart swell with admiration.

He found himself entranced with your concentration, your eyebrows knitting together in thought, your lips quirking up into a smile and even the soft laughter that would sometimes escape you as you delved deep into the world you held in your hands.

He was always more than happy to accompany you to the bookstore, leaning against the shelves and observing you as you thumbed through new titles, stacking your choices in his strong arms before darting down the next aisle to browse further.

He looked forward to the evenings where he could lay his head comfortably in your lap, his arm draped across your thighs as you worked your fingers lazily through his hair while you read quietly above him.

Tonight he lay in bed with his hands folded behind his head, listening to the gentle sound of the shower from the bathroom as you bathed when his gaze fell on your most recent read on the nightstand. The cover was dark with a skull and roses, something about a ‘Haunting’ and an absurd amount of sticky notes jutted out from the pages. His curiosity overtook him and he sat up, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. He thumbed through it carefully before letting it fall open to one of the tagged pages, his eyes scanning the text and widening slightly at the content.

He flipped to another tab, quickly reading through the passage, his breath quickening as he took in the words.

“If I catch you, I fuck you.”

Jesus Christ.

The bathroom door creaked open and he slowly lifted his gaze up to you.

Your damp body wrapped in a towel with your wet hair against your neck and shoulders did absolutely nothing to combat the heat that was already rising within him at what he’d just read.

Your eyes connect for a beat before you glance down to notice the book in his hand, opened to one of your tagged pages.

It was hard to discern if the flush across your cheeks was remnant of the heat of the shower or from the slight embarrassment of feeling caught by your boyfriend discovering the absolute filth you’d been reading.

He raises a brow at you, lifting the book and tapping on the open passage.

“If I catch you, I fuck you?” He asks, tilting his head curiously. “Really?”

You huff and roll your eyes, stepping forward and reaching to snatch the book from his hands but he’s quicker, snapping it shut and holding it just out of your reach.

“No, no. We’re gonna talk about this, doll.” He says, his lips curling into a smirk. “This is what you’ve been reading?”

You shift from foot to foot.

“Sometimes.” You reply with a weak shrug.

He turns the book over in his hands again and idly runs his palm back and forth against all the flags poking out from between the pages. “And do you.. like this stuff?” He asks, not looking up. “Does it turn you on?”

You swallow hard and nod despite the fact he’s not looking at you.

“Sometimes.” You repeat quietly.

“Huh.”

He purses his lips and nods thoughtfully, standing up and tossing the book onto the bed. “I guess you oughta run then.”

Your eyebrows shoot up to your hair line.

Did he just?

Is he going to?

“W-what?” You stutter out, taking a small step back as he closes in on you.

He tsks and reaches out, brushing your wet hair back off your shoulder with two fingers. “You heard me, baby.”

You open your mouth to reply but the words are lost the moment he seizes the edge of your towel in his large hand.

Your eyes connect for a brief moment before he yanks the towel free of your body and discards it on the ground, leaving you exposed, confused and incredibly aroused.

His hand settles on your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple and sending a rush of desire straight to your core. He dips his head to nuzzle his forehead against your temple, his tongue flicking against your earlobe.

“You should probably run now.” He warns in a whisper, taking a step back to give you space for a head start.

You stare wide eyed in disbelief, your head barely able to wrap around what was happening.

“Five.” He says in a threatening tone, bringing his hand down to palm his growing erection under his sweatpants.

You’re frozen to the spot.

There’s no fucking way he’s about to do this.

“Four.”

Okay, maybe he is.

You take off at a run, reaching the bedroom door and flinging it open with him hot on your tail.

Your bare feet pound against the hardwood floor and you rush down the hall towards the staircase, making it only two steps down before his strong arm catches you around the waist and picks you up effortlessly.

You wiggle against his hold, kicking your feet and thrashing.

“You’re not very fast, you know.” He teases, tightening his grip on you, his cock straining against his sweatpants and pressing into your backside.

He carries you back into the bedroom, his arm locked around you in a vice grip and tosses you onto the bed as if you were weightless. He tugs his sweatpants down and kicks them off, his cock bobbing with every step as he stalks towards you.

He braces his palms on the bed, preparing to climb up and pin you but you scramble backwards off the bed and take off again. He pauses, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what-?” he straightens up and turns, watching as you sprint across the room and he frowns, realizing you weren’t going to let him catch you that easily.

“Damnit.” He grumbles, launching himself up over the bed.

He chases you with heavy footsteps towards the bathroom and you rush to shut the door but his hand catches it and forces it open, leaving you completely cornered with nowhere else to turn. “Shit.” You breathe out, looking around for a possible way out. He laughs, a cute and genuine laugh that is just so Bucky, completely betraying the role he was attempting to play.

You cross your arms over your bare breasts and frown. “I’m sorry.” He says, shaking his head. “I- just.. why did you run into the bathroom?” He asks, gesturing around the small room with amusement. “I don’t know!” You huff, your lips pressing into a pout. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“No, you definitely weren’t.” He agrees, swinging his foot back to kick the door shut behind him. “Guess you’re trapped, huh?”

You nod, letting your arms fall away from your breasts. “I guess I am.” You breathe out, your body thrumming with a mix of excitement and desire as your eyes trail down his toned body to land on his fully erect cock. He’s on you in an instant, grabbing your wrist and tossing you to the ground.

You fall hard on your hands and knees onto the plush bath mat, barely able to steady yourself on all fours before he’s on your back, arm hooked around your waist and sinking his cock into your wet, throbbing cunt. You arch back into him, fingers digging into the bath mat and a choked gasp catches in your throat as he pulls you flush to his pelvis, burying himself to the hilt. He snakes his free hand up your abdomen towards your chest, a trail of goosebumps following in his wake, dipping his forehead down to rest against the back of your shoulder. He palms your breast roughly, rolling your peaked nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Bucky..” You whisper, your head falling back.

His forearm tightens around your waist and he releases your nipple with a gentle tug, sliding his hand up to curl around your throat. You moan and wiggle your hips, desperate for him to move, but he holds you still, lifting you up with him as he leans back on his heels.

“I’ll never get tired of this.” He whispers, unhooking his arm from your waist and resting his large hand over the slight bulge in your abdomen. “That’s my cock.” He murmurs, squeezing your throat gently before grasping your jaw and tilting your chin down to look at how he’s stretching you. You whimper and he moves your hand to press down on the bulge of his cock in your belly. “And this is my pussy.” He growls, delivering a slap to your aching clit before he draws his hips back and begins to thrust himself up into you at a steady pace.

A string of soft curses falls from your lips and your head drops back against the crook of his neck, your hand leaving your abdomen and reaching backwards to fist in his hair. “I didn’t realize you were such a freak, baby.” He whispers, his hand tightening around your throat. “I shoulda thumbed through one of your little books sooner.”

His free hand kneads at the flesh of your thigh and he groans, his balls slapping against your ass as he fucks up into you. “I- I-“ You stutter, unable to think straight as your head grows dizzy with pleasure. “Oh no, am I fuckin’ my baby stupid?” He asks with a grin, bringing two fingers to tease at your bottom lip. You open on instinct and he slips them into your mouth, letting out a shaky breath as you suck and swirl your tongue around the digits.

“Fuck.” He hisses, pressing his slick fingers to your clit. You gasp, your fingers curling around his wrist as he strokes your sensitive bud, pulling you closer towards your impending orgasm.

“You gonna come, little bird?” He whispers, trying to reference your book and quickening his fingers against your clit. “It’s ‘little mouse’.” You correct, your lips quirking up into a smirk at his admirable attempt. “Whatever.” He hisses, pinching your clit between his fingers and sending a jolt of white-hot pleasure through your body. You choke out a strangled cry as you come, your legs trembling and back arching against him as your cunt clenches around his cock.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He grunts, shoving you forward to the floor and falling to his knees. You scramble forward, his cock slipping from your dripping hole as you try to steady yourself in the dizzying wake of your orgasm.

“Oh no, no you don’t.” He growls, grabbing your ankle and dragging you back towards him. You lose your balance and fall flat, your breasts smashed against the cold tile as he presses his weight down on you, running his cock back and forth along your folds before thrusting back into you. “T-too much!” You whine, squirming underneath him.

“Tell me to stop.” He grunts, knowing damn well you never would. He hooks his forearm under your waist again and angles your hips upward, taking you deeper than you even thought possible.

Choked sobs of euphoria escape your throat as your cheek rests against the floor, dragging back and forth across the tile from the force at which he’s fucking into you. Your limp body shakes uncontrollably as your pussy spasms and waves of ecstacy crash over you faster than you can count them. Your orgasms explode through you like a string of firecrackers as you curse and mumble incoherently.

He pulls out abruptly, grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your back, moving to straddle your chest while he frantically fucks his fist. He comes with a shout, gasping as he paints your face with ropes of hot, sticky cum. “Fuck.” He pants, looking down at you in admiration as he brushes his thumb along your cheek, gathering up his seed.

He pinches your flushed, sticky cheeks together with his free hand. “Open.” He says softly, slipping his thumb into your mouth when you do. You suckle his thumb, greedily cleaning it with a swirl of your tongue, looking up at him through half lidded eyes. He sighs contentedly before moving off you and rising to stand, reaching into the shower to turn on the water.

“And I had just showered.” You mumble as you take the hand he offers you and pull yourself up on wobbly knees. “Don’t you dare bitch about the water bill when it comes.” You tease.

He chuckles softly and pulls you into him, holding you against his chest with one strong arm while the other reaches out to test the temperature of the water. “I won’t.” He says, stepping in first and gently helping you in after him. He wraps his arms lovingly around you and rests his chin atop your head as the warm water cascades over you both.

“Let’s clean you up, doll. It’s late and we have plans in the morning.” He says quietly, his eyes slipping closed as his hand runs idly up and down your back. You lean back and look up at him with your brows furrowed in confusion. “We don’t have plans tomorrow.”

His eyes flutter open and he grins. “The hell we don’t.” He replies, reaching for the shampoo bottle and squeezing the contents into the palm of his hand. You open your mouth to protest when he doesn’t answer your question but he simply twirls a finger, gesturing for you to turn around.

You sigh, turning your back to him and he begins to lather the shampoo in your hair, gently massaging your scalp with his fingers. “So what’re these plans?” You ask quietly after a long moment of silently enjoying his hands tenderly working through your locks. He leans forward, his broad, wet chest pressing against your back and brings his mouth to hover beside your ear.

His breath sends a shiver down your spine as he lets out a low, breathy laugh and whispers, “I’m taking you to buy more books.”

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annewithaneofthegreengable · 9 months ago

Text

His bookworm

max verstappen x reader

my masterlist

Content Warnings unprotected sex (p-in-v), rough sex, dirty talk, language, a little fluff,...

Max absolutely loved to watch you read.

The subtle way your expressions changed as your eyes would glide across the pages made his heart swell with admiration.

He looked forward to the evenings when he could lay his head comfortably in your lap, his arm draped across your thighs as you worked your fingers lazily through his hair while you read quietly above him.

He flipped to another tab, quickly reading through the passage, his breath quickening as he took in the words.

“If I catch you, I fuck you.”

Jesus Christ. What the fuck have you been reading the whole time? He knows that his knowledge is not very educated as he had said before he only read two books in his life, and one was Mark Webber’s autobiography.

The bathroom door creaked open and he slowly lifted his gaze up to you.

Your damp body wrapped in a towel with your wet hair against your neck and shoulders did absolutely nothing to combat the heat that was already rising within him at what he’d just read.

Your eyes connect for a beat before you glance down to notice the book in his hand, opened to one of your tagged pages.

He raises a brow at you, lifting the book and tapping on the open passage.

“If I catch you, I fuck you?” He asks, tilting his head curiously. “Really?”

You huff and roll your eyes, stepping forward and reaching to snatch the book from his hands but he’s quicker, snapping it shut and holding it just out of your reach.

“No, no. We’re gonna talk about this, Liefde.” He says, his lips curling into a smirk. “This is what you’ve been reading?”

You shift from foot to foot.

“Sometimes.” You reply with a weak shrug.

You swallow hard and nod despite the fact he’s not looking at you.

“Sometimes.” You repeat quietly.

“Huh.”

He purses his lips and nods thoughtfully, standing up and tossing the book onto the bed. “I guess you oughta run then.”

Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline.

“W-what?” You stutter out, taking a small step back as he closes in on you.

He tsks and reaches out, brushing your wet hair back off your shoulder with two fingers. “You heard me, Liefde.”

You open your mouth to reply but the words are lost the moment he seizes the edge of your towel in his large hand.

Your eyes connect for a brief moment before he yanks the towel free of your body and discards it on the ground, leaving you exposed, confused and incredibly aroused.

“You should probably run now.” He warns in a whisper, taking a step back to give you space for a head start.

You stare wide-eyed in disbelief, your head barely able to wrap around what was happening.

“Five.” He says in a threatening tone, bringing his hand down to palm his growing erection under his sweatpants.

You’re frozen to the spot.

There’s no fucking way he’s about to do this.

“Four.”

Okay, maybe he is.

You take off at a run, wanting to reach the living room. Your bare feet pound against the hardwood floor, making it only two steps down before his strong arm catches you around the waist and picks you up effortlessly.

You wiggle against his hold, kicking your feet and thrashing.

“You’re not very fast, you know.” He teases, tightening his grip on you, his cock straining against his sweatpants and pressing into your backside.

You breathe out, your body thrumming with a mix of excitement and desire as your eyes trail down his toned body to land on his fully erect cock. He’s on you in an instant, grabbing your wrist and tossing you to the ground.

You fall hard on your hands and knees onto the soft and silky bed sheet, barely able to steady yourself on all fours. He pinches your ass cheek, the sharp sting making you yelp and arch your back. "On your back," he commands, voice low and authoritative. You obey, scrambling to flip over and presenting yourself to him like an offering. He climbs onto the bed, straddling your hips and lowering himself onto you. His hard cock nudges your entrance, the heat seeping out to coat your folds. He leans down, his lips finding your neck and biting down gently. He palms your breast roughly, rolling your peaked nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Max..” You whisper, your head falling back.

“Yes, Liefde. Tell me what you need.”

"More," you gasp, arching into his touch. His fingers pinch your nipple harder, making you moan. He obliges, moving down to lap at your breasts with his tongue, suckling and nibbling until you're writhing beneath him.

His mouth trails down your stomach, his tongue leaving a wet path in its wake. He nuzzles your mound, inhaling your scent before spreading your legs wider. His tongue delves between your folds, lapping at your clit and probing your entrance.

He works you over with his mouth, tongue and lips devouring your pussy like a starving man at a feast. He teases your clit with his teeth, flicking it back and forth before sucking it into his mouth and swirling his tongue around the sensitive nub. With one arm wrapped around your thigh, holding you open to his assault, he slides a finger inside of you. It curls upwards, searching for that elusive spot that will send you over the edge. He finds it and begins to rub in steady circles. As your body starts to tremble and your juices flow freely, he adds a second finger, scissoring them to stretch you open and prepare you for his thick cock. He pumps his fingers in and out of you at a relentless pace, his thumb still circling your clit and his mouth never leaving your pussy. The low groans of satisfaction and lust escape from him unfiltered, resonating against your skin as he continues his assault. His body tenses with pleasure from bringing you closer to your climax, driving him deeper and deeper into his own indulgence. "Cum for me, Liefde," he growls against your sensitive flesh, the vibrations making you shudder. "I want to taste your release." He doubles his efforts, fingers pistoning into you and his thumb pressing firmly on your clit as he sucks hard on your throbbing nub.

As your body writhes under his expert touch, his free hand reaches up to firmly grasp your breast, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh. He teases and tugs at your hardened nipple, all the while working you towards your peak with his skilled digits and tongue.

“I’ll never get tired of these .” He whispers.

Choked sobs of euphoria escape your throat as your cheek rests against the mattress, while he’s fucking into you with those skillful fingers, the one that were so talented at controlling the steering wheel now moving in and out of your tight, little hole. Your limp body shakes uncontrollably as your pussy spasms and waves of ecstacy crash over you faster than you can count them. Your orgasms explode through you like a string of firecrackers as you curse and mumble incoherently.

“I- I-“ You stutter, unable to think straight as your head grows dizzy with pleasure. “Oh no, am I fuckin’ my baby stupid?” He asks with a grin, bringing two fingers to tease at your bottom lip. You open on instinct and he slips them into your mouth, letting out a shaky breath as you suck and swirl your tongue around the digits.

“Tasting yourself, Liefde. Is it good? Someday soon I’m gonna have your juice as a replacement for Red Bull when I’m in the car. You know just to hype myself up a little bit more on the track.”

At that moment, you swear you were just nodding along with whatever he was saying, knowing he is the one who controls all your orgasms now.

Max stood up, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Time for the main event," he said, unzipping his pants and freeing his thick, hard cock. He stroked it a few times, the tip glistening with precum. "Are you ready, Liefde.”

“Y…yes.”

He wasted no time, grabbing her hips and thrusting into her from behind. She moaned at the feeling, her walls tightening around him as he started to move.

He went hard and fast, each thrust making her gasp and moan. He slapped her ass, the sound echoing through the room as he kept fucking her. "You like that, Liefde? You like it when I fuck you like this?"

"Yes, yes, fuck me!" she cried out, pushing back against him, desperate for more. He grabbed her hair, yanking her head back as he pounded into her harder, the couch creaking beneath them. "I'm going to fill you up, make you mine,”

His hips start to move faster, the head of his cock spreading your folds open as he teases you with shallow thrusts. With each one, he grinds against you, making sure to hit that sweet spot. His hands move from your thighs to your wrists. He pins them down above your head, holding them there with a firm grip as he begins to thrust into you properly. Each thrust is slow and hard, making you cry out with pleasure. Your back arches off the bed as he pounds into you relentlessly, the headboard banging against the wall with each powerful drive. Beads of sweat drip down his chest, mixing with the trail of precum on his cock as he fucks you into the mattress. “You gonna come, little bird?” He whispers, trying to reference your book and quickening his fingers against your clit. “It’s ‘little mouse’.” You correct him, your lips quirking up into a smirk at his admirable attempt. “Whatever.” He hisses, and with a final thrust, he buries himself as deep as he can go. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He grunts, shoving you forward and falling to his knees. You scramble forward, his cock slipping from your dripping hole as you try to steady yourself in the dizzying wake of your orgasm.

“Oh no, no you don’t.” He growls, grabbing your ankle and dragging you back towards him. You lose your balance and fall flat, your breasts smashed against the cold sheet as he presses his weight down on you, running his cock back and forth along your folds before thrusting back into you. “T-too much!” You whine, squirming underneath him.

“Tell me to stop.” He grunts, knowing damn well you never would. He hooks his forearm under your waist again and angles your hips upward, taking you deeper than you ever thought possible. His cum spills into you in hot, sticky spurts, filling you up and leaking out around the base of his cock. After catching his breath, he pulls out slowly and flops down next to you on the mattress. His fingers trace idle patterns over your skin as he admires the way your chest rises and falls with each breath or how your hair is spread out in a messy halo around your head.

“Let’s clean you up, Liefde. It’s late and we have plans in the morning.” He says quietly, his eyes slipping closed as his hand runs idly up and down your back. You lean back and look up at him with your brows furrowed in confusion. “We don’t have plans tomorrow.”

You sigh, turning your back to him and he begins to lather the shampoo in your hair, gently massaging your scalp with his fingers. “So what are these plans?” You ask quietly after a long moment of silently enjoying his hands tenderly working through your locks. He leans forward, his broad, wet chest pressing against your back and brings his mouth to hover beside your ear.His breath sends a shiver down your spine as he lets out a low, breathy laugh and whispers, “I’m taking you to buy more books.”

liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1 and 85,427 others

yourusername I wanna wear his initial round my neck not because he owns me, but 'cause he really knows me.

tagged: maxverstappen1

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user1 ain’t this max’s gf??? no way he bagged a baddie 😭

user2 my wife 😭

user3 my baby's fly jetstream 🥺 high above the whole scene

user4 I don't rlly think shes his type tbh

user5 thank god I'm not the only one 😭

user6 smells like pr relationship!!!

user7 bro stfu!!! let them live

user9 I still don't like her...

maxverstappen1 but I like her, SO WHAT? yourusername I like u too, Maxemilian Verstappen 🫶🏻 redbullracing we like u too, y/n maxverstappen1 I'm ur driver, why don't u like me? redbullracing 🏃 gotta go bye schecoperez I like u max, don't worry

user10 OH SHE ATEEE

user11 the outfits slay

user12 the M initial stfu

liked by yourusername, landonorris, charles_leclerc, and 1,962,028 others

maxverstappen1 I'm the one she's walking to, so call it what you want.

user36 AHHHHH AHHHHH AHHHHH AHHHH

f1 can I call her mine

maxverstappen1 ? redbullracing back off she is ours first

user40 i’m crying??

user41 does this mean i don’t have a chance with y/n anymore ?? ☹️

user42 THAT SHOULDVE BEEN MEE standing next to her

maxverstappen1 it's actually my place, next to her

charles_leclerc congratulations too you both 💗

maxverstappen1 thank you charles 💙💙 yourusername im sorry i took your husband charles 🥺

user43 if my man doesn’t love me as much as max loves y/n i don’t WANT HIM

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris, and 126,882 others

yourusername we went book shopping today and i think he didn't approve all of my romance books 😢

redbullracing dump him

carmenmmundt i agree lilymhe me too maxverstappen1 i don't

username43 what’s the better view? max or y/n?

yourusername me ofc maxverstappen1 her ❤️ username43 go away u lovebirds is my comment section 🥲

username44 look at how in love they are omg

username45 hope you both got a well deserved break!!

maxverstappen1 you make me the happiest Liefde 🥰 BUT please I can't keep up with ur books anymore and we ran out of space on the shelves already

landonorris buy a bigger house then redbullracing u can always leave ur books at our headquarter yourusername see Maxie

username46 can I have a relationship like this in the future pls

#max verstappen smut #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen fluff #f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x you #f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 blurb #fanfic #fanfiction #formula 1

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ragingbookdragon · 1 year ago

Text

She blinked in her drunken haze at the bartender who nudged a glass of water towards her; her brows drew in confusion, and he said, “Look if you want to keep paying, I’ll keep serving, but you look like you need a ride home rather than more drinks. Drink some water and find a ride.”

Throwing a poor thumbs up, she watched as he walked off and she pulled out her phone, thumbing her password in so she could go to her contacts; his was one of the first and she managed to press call, laying the phone down on the bar, her head laying atop it. They picked up on the second ring.

What.

“Lt,” she slurred. “Will you come get me?”

You’re drunk, aren’t you?

It was rhetorical, she knew that, but she responded anyway. “Yeah, drank too much.” She closed her eyes. “Will you please come get me?” she smiled when she heard the annoyed sigh come across the line. “Pleeeeeeeeeeease,” she whined.

Pay your tab and I’ll be there in a few minutes.

“You’re not going to pay it for me?”

You’re pushing your luck much farther than how much you think I actually tolerate you.

“You tolerate me more than most.”

Whatever.

The line went dead, and she fished around in her pocket for a few bills, laying them on the counter as she lifted herself up and headed for the door. As she stepped out into the night, she drifted to an enclosed corner and sat down on one of the paved bricks that extended from the outside wall, shutting her eyes as she rested her head on the cold stone. She listened as people walked past her, taking in the laughter, the random bits of conversation, sometimes arguments, and breathed deeply as her brain rolled around in her skull.

It wasn’t until she felt the shift of the moonlight from her face to shadow that she cracked an eye open and gazed up at the masked man glaring back at her. “Hi, Lt,” she murmured, and he didn’t even blink.

“C’mon.”

He turned and started walking towards the parking lot when she whined and said, “You aren’t even going to help me up?”

His feet stopped on the pavement, shoulders lifting up and down before he spun around and walked back over, holding out his hand.

“Thank you,” she chirped and took it, letting him pull her up; she didn’t let go of his hand as they walked and at one point in her drunken stumbling, he stopped and let out a tired sigh, bending his knees to kneel beside her. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Get on,” he retorted, and she looked between his face and his back.

“You mean on your—”

“Get. On.” He growled and she hurriedly draped herself on his back, letting out a startled noise as he stood up suddenly, large hands clasped on the bottoms of her thighs as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

She blinked as she rested her head on his shoulder and murmured, “Wow, the air is so clear up here.” She heard it, the slight snort and she couldn’t help but smile as he carried her. “Lt?”

“What.”

“Thank you for coming to get me. I know I’m a pain in the ass.”

“At least you’re self-aware of how much a major pain in my arse you are. Bigger than Soap is on his worst days.”

“Now that’s just plain mean,” she mumbled, sniffling slightly. “I’m sorry.”

He stopped again and turned his head, looking at her. “I’d rather you be a pain in my arse than be nothing to me at all.”

She gazed at him with wide eyes, unable to stop her mouth from flopping open and he looked down then back to her eyes. “Really?” she asked in disbelief.

“You might be the biggest pain I’ve ever had the displeasure of having, but you’re my pain and I intend for it to stay that way.”

Her mouth shut and she melted against his back as he continued walking, gingerly snuggling closer to him, knees hugging his hips, arms tighter around him as she joked, “I love you too, Lt.”

“Nope, we’re not there yet.”

She paused, then wondered aloud, “You think we’ll ever be there one day?”

It was a long moment before he finally murmured back, “…yeah, maybe one day, pet.”

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deadrobinthoughts · 1 month ago

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† marry me : various.

♦ request: drafted request ♦ beta’d: nope ♦ a/n: none

𝐃𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧 —

The morning is soft and golden, a lazy warmth curling between you like something that belongs here. The city hums beyond the window, the muffled sounds of Gotham waking, but neither of you are in a hurry to move. Dick is half-asleep, one arm draped over your waist, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek a quiet comfort. His fingers skim slow, absentminded circles against your back, the kind of casual, easy touch that only comes from years of knowing someone by heart.

You’re not thinking when you say it. It isn’t planned, isn’t something heavy or serious, just a thought spoken aloud in the quiet. "We should get married."

For a moment, he doesn’t react. There’s a slight hitch in his breathing, a fraction of stillness in the way his hand stills against you. And then, carefully, deliberately, he opens his eyes. They are softer in the morning, deep blue and a little dazed from sleep, but there’s something else there now, something awake, something searching.

"You think so?" His voice is quiet, hoarse from sleep, but not teasing.

You shift slightly, tilting your head to look at him properly, brushing the edge of his jaw with your fingertips. "Yeah," you murmur. "It just makes sense, doesn’t it?"

Something in his expression cracks. Because it does. Because of course it does. Because there is no version of his future where you are not in it, no reality he would ever want where you are not the person he wakes up beside.

For all his life, Dick has been good at keeping people at arm’s length, at making things light and easy, never too serious. But this? This is real. And he wants it. He has always wanted it. And now, you’re giving it to him like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝 —

The night is still clinging to him - bruised knuckles, adrenaline still lingering in his bloodstream, the sharp scent of leather and gunpowder thick in the air. He’s sitting at the edge of the bed, methodically wrapping a fresh bandage around his wrist, the movements sharp and precise, muscle memory at this point. He doesn’t look up when you step in, doesn’t acknowledge your presence, but he doesn’t have to. He knows you’re there.

You kneel in front of him, settle between his legs with careful ease, reaching for his hands before he can pull them away. Your fingers ghost over raw skin, over the places that have been broken and healed more times than you can count. He doesn’t stop you, doesn’t flinch, but you can feel the tension in him, coiled tight beneath the surface.

"If I ask, will you run?" Your voice is quiet, but there is no hesitation in it.

Jason stills.

His breath goes uneven, his pulse kicking sharp beneath your fingertips, but he doesn’t move. His eyes flicker over your face, searching for something - for the joke, for the out, for a reason to pretend that this is not what it is.

"You don’t want that," he says finally, his voice rough, something uneven in the way it lands between you. "Not with me."

You tilt your head, your grip on his hands tightening just slightly. "Says who?"

He exhales, slow and sharp, fingers twitching around yours. "Says me."

You let the silence settle, let him sit in it, feel it, face it. And then, finally, you murmur, "I know it's a surprise, but you aren't always right."

For a moment, Jason doesn’t know what to do with that. Doesn’t know how to hold it, how to believe it. But you don’t let go. And he realizes, maybe for the first time, that you aren’t asking him to prove himself.

You’re just asking him to stay.

𝐓𝐢𝐦 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐞 —

The loft is dim, the only light coming from the pale glow of Tim’s monitors, the familiar hum of a dozen open tabs filling the silence. He’s at his desk, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, head buried in another night of chasing something only he can see. You’re curled up on the couch, watching him in quiet amusement, because for all his brilliance, Tim Drake is painfully oblivious to his own needs.

So you say it.

Not seriously. Not carefully. Just casually, tossed out like an afterthought, meant to be nothing.

"We should get married."

Tim freezes.

Completely, utterly freezes.

You glance up from your phone, biting back a laugh at the way he’s suddenly locked in place, fingers hovering mid-typing, his entire system short-circuiting before your eyes.

"Wait, what?" His voice is flat, stunned, like he just took psychic damage.

"You should have seen your face just now." You grin, stretching lazily. "Classic."

For a long moment, he says nothing. Just stares at you, mouth slightly open, like he’s trying to piece together whether this is real or a glitch in the matrix.

And then -

"Do you mean it?"

And oh.

Because now, he’s thinking about it. Now he’s looking at you like he’s considering it. Like it’s something he could have. Something he wants.

And suddenly, maybe you do mean it.

𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 —

You say it to mess with him.

Because Damian is always composed, always measured, always so damn serious. You love to push him, to test the boundaries of that unreadable mask, to see how much he will let you get away with.

So you wait for a moment when he’s distracted—seated at his desk, sketching in his notebook, utterly unaware of you watching him.

"We should get married."

There is a pause.

And then - slowly, carefully - he sets the pencil down.

When he turns to face you, his green eyes are quiet, unreadable.

"I do not jest about such things."

And oh.

Because you were joking.

But he isn’t.

Damian Wayne does not love lightly. He does not give what he is not willing to keep. And now, you have said something that cannot be undone.

Because if you mean this - if you are asking for this - then you are asking for something he will give you completely.

And suddenly-

Maybe you do mean it.

𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 —

It isn’t meant to be a heavy moment. It isn’t planned, isn’t some great declaration, isn’t anything more than an absentminded thought spoken aloud as you lean against the kitchen counter, sipping your coffee in the dim light of early morning.

"You should marry me."

Your voice is light, teasing, barely breaking the quiet between you. It isn’t meant to change anything.

But Bruce stops.

He was flipping through the morning paper, reading one of the latest Gotham articles, already half-distracted by the weight of the day ahead. But now, he isn’t turning the page.

His grip on the paper tightens slightly, jaw locking, but he doesn’t move.

"What did you just say?"

His voice is low, measured, as if he’s giving you a chance to take it back. As if he’s not sure if he heard you right, or if he’s already started imagining what it would be like if you meant it.

You blink at him, sipping your coffee. "I said.. you should marry me."

Silence.

And now he’s looking at you.

Not a passing glance. Not something brief. A full, steady gaze, like you just spoke something into existence that he cannot ignore.

Because Bruce Wayne does not let himself want.

Not like this.

Not out loud.

And now, you’ve given him something to want.

And if you don’t take it back - he will never let you go.

𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐢𝐧 —

Cass has always been careful with words.

Not because she doesn’t feel them - but because she feels too much.

And so, when you say it, when you look at her like it’s the simplest thing in the world, she doesn’t know what to do with it.

"We should get married."

You say it softly, the weight of it sinking between you as you sit together on the rooftop, watching the lights of Gotham flicker below. The wind moves through her hair, strands catching the glow of the neon skyline, and for a long moment, she doesn’t speak.

She just watches you.

Not with shock. Not with hesitation. With something deep and unreadable.

"Forever?"

It isn’t a rejection.

It isn’t fear.

It is a question.

Because Cassandra Cain knows how to be a weapon, how to be a shadow, how to exist in the spaces between people without ever truly belonging.

But she does not know how to be someone’s forever.

And yet - you are offering it to her now.

And if you mean it-

Then maybe she can learn.

𝐃𝐮𝐤𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐬 —

You don’t plan it.

You don’t think before you say it.

It’s late, too late, and you’ve both been running on fumes, coming back from a long night in the Narrows, the weight of exhaustion settling into your bones. Duke is sitting on the fire escape outside his apartment, one foot resting against the metal railing, head tilted back against the brick wall, eyes closed but not asleep.

And you say it before you can stop yourself.

"We should totally get married."

Duke snorts.

Not because he doesn’t care, not because he’s laughing at you, but because he thinks you’re joking.

And then - he realizes you aren’t.

He opens his eyes, head turning slightly, gaze sharp beneath the glow of the streetlights.

"Are you serious?"

The way he says it - it’s not doubtful. Not hesitant. Just quiet, cautious, like he doesn’t want to get his hopes up.

Because Duke Thomas has never been the guy people stay for.

Has never been the person someone chooses in the end.

But now, you are looking at him like he is something worth choosing.

And he doesn’t know what to do with that.

Because if you’re serious - if you really mean it - then he’s already yours.

𝐑𝐨𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐞𝐫 — ( bonus )

It happens like a punch to the gut.

Not a soft moment. Not a sweet, dreamy confession. Not a candlelit dinner with an open velvet box.

It happens because Roy Harper doesn’t know how to accept good things without bracing for the pain that comes after.

It happens because you don’t know how to love him halfway.

"We should get married."

You don’t say it softly. You don’t hesitate, don’t cushion the words with humor or give him an easy way out. You just say it, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like it’s obvious, like it’s already been decided and the only thing left is for him to realize it.

And Roy-

Roy doesn’t know how to breathe.

You had been watching him for a while, watching the way he kept his distance without actually leaving, watching the way he smiled like it didn’t hurt, watching the way he always stood on the edge of something without ever stepping forward.

Because Roy Harper does not let himself want things.

Not things like this.

Not things that last.

Not when everything he has ever held onto has slipped through his fingers, burned to ash, or walked away before he could even start to hope.

But now - you are here.

And you are not leaving.

And now, you have said something he doesn’t know how to hold.

So he does what he always does.

He laughs.

A short, sharp breath, more exhale than amusement, because that’s the only way he knows how to deal with things that make his chest ache. He shakes his head, leans back against the kitchen counter, tries to play it off the way he plays off everything that matters too much.

"You know, most people ease into this kind of thing," he says, smirking like it doesn’t hurt, like it doesn’t feel like you just took a knife and pressed it gently against his ribs. "What, no romantic speech? No getting down on one knee?"

But you don’t let him run.

You step closer.

And Roy - Roy flinches. Not physically, not in a way that anyone else would notice, but inside, deep in his ribs, in the part of himself that always expects love to come with conditions.

"Roy." Your voice is steady, grounding. "You know I don’t need all that."

And that’s the worst part.

Because you don’t.

Because you have never asked him to be anything other than what he is.

Because you don’t want the cleaned-up version of him.

Because you want him, just as he is.

And that terrifies him.

Because if you really mean it - if you really want this — then that means you think he’s someone worth staying for.

And Roy Harper has never been someone people stay for.

His mouth feels dry.

His fingers twitch at his sides, his whole body locked in that instinctual urge to move, to step back, to put space between himself and whatever this is before it can sink too deep.

But he doesn’t.

Not this time.

Because you are still looking at him like this isn’t a mistake.

And for the first time in his life - he lets himself think about it.

Not the loss.

Not the inevitable heartbreak he always expects.

Not the way people always leave.

Just this.

Just you.

And maybe - just maybe - that’s enough.

#dc comics #dc scenarios #batfam #batfam x reader #batboys #batboys x reader #jason todd x reader #damian wayne #red hood x reader #dick grayson #cassandra cain x reader #cassie cain #dick grayson x reader #tim drake x reader #damian wayne x reader #duke thomas #duke thomas x reader #roy harper x reader #roy harper

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pathologicalreid · 6 months ago

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an ode to a conversation stuck in your throat | s.r.

in which Spencer tries to talk you out of taking a job across the country

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: miscommunication (sigh), very cheesy, brief mention of wine, defining the relationship, insecure spencer, easily confused reader, chemist!reader word count: 1.04k a/n: if i could go a week without writing a dwg song fic that would be crazy. also surprise it's chemist!reader again.

"Thanks for stopping so I could change,” you say to Spencer, leading the way into your apartment and locking the door behind you. “I’m sure lab dress code and David Rossi dress code are miles apart,” you continue, hanging your backpack on the wall.

Spencer hums in response, “You’d look great in anything you wear.”

Your face warms at the compliment, “You’re sweet. You can just wait out here, I shouldn’t be more than a couple of minutes,” you gesture to the living room, smiling at him before heading off to your room.

Nervously, you pull off your lab-safe attire and discard all of it into the laundry hamper before putting on the dress you’d chosen for dinner tonight. It’s not overly fancy, but you hope his team will like it. You hope his team will like you.

Looking at yourself in your dresser mirror, you reconsider your choice of shoes, switching from a pair of kitten heels to flats before walking out the door, “Hey, Spence, is Rossi’s patio heated, or should I bring a sweater for when the sun goes down?” You stop in your tracks when you find Spencer, still in the entryway, looking at the color-coded whiteboard calendar you keep by your front door, “What’s up?”

His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his slacks, and he looks upset. What’s worse is you think he might be upset with you. “What’s this dinner you have planned next Friday?”

You feel like a child who’s been caught doing something they shouldn’t be, draping the proposed sweater over the back of a kitchen stool and crossing your arms in front of your stomach. “It’s a work dinner,” you answer nervously.

“With?” Spencer asks, but he’s not pushy about it, there’s something desperate in his tone.

Pursing your lips, you look at the purple writing on the calendar, “The chair of Biochemistry and Molecular Genetics at Northwestern, and a representative from the college's dean. They’re offering me a job with a private lab and my own team of researchers… so they’re taking me out to dinner.”

Spencer’s face fell, “They’re offering you a job in Chicago?”

“Well, that’s where Northwestern is. Evanston, if you want to get technical about it,” you respond, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

He looks at you dumbfoundedly, “I don’t want to get technical about it. When were you going to tell me that you’re taking a job in Chicago?” It almost seems like he’s afraid.

You raise your eyebrows in curiosity, you’ve been seeing each other for a month, and you’ve never known Spencer to jump to conclusions. “I’m not,” you tell him, keeping your tone void of any accusation, “They’re just taking me to dinner.”

Spencer sighs, “But they’re offering you a job. In a different state. In a different timezone.”

Admittedly, he was beginning to sound a bit ridiculous to you, “Don’t you field offers from colleges all the time? They want you to teach or tell you to become Spencer Reid, PhD, PhD, PhD, PhD, or whatever?”

His eyes follow you as you move to sit down at the kitchen counter, “It never gets as far as dinner.”

“I’m not taking the job,” you tell him simply, shrugging your shoulders demurely.

Spencer falters at that, knitting his brows together as he tries to piece together the answers you’re willingly giving him, “If you’re not taking the job then why are you going to dinner with them?”

Hiding a small smile, you give him the truth, “They pick up the tab. I go to a lot of these and I get good food out of the deal. These people love to schmooze but I’ve never been offered anything that I would be inclined to accept.” This specific job seemed perfect on the surface, but they weren’t willing to let you choose what to research. That was non-negotiable for you.

“I could schmooze you,” he insists, “You don’t need other people to schmooze you.”

You giggle at him, waving him over to you so you can look him in the eyes when you tell him, “I go for free food and good wine. No other reason.” Your smile was gentle, but inside your heart was pounding. He was scared I was going to leave, you think to yourself.

He sighs, “Will you… will you tell me in the future when you get these dinner offers?” His voice is tentative, almost as if he’s afraid you’ll think he’s asking too much of you.

Nodding, you reach out and take one of his hands in yours, “I can, but I didn’t think were at the ‘I’m being courted by another workplace, and I wanted to let you know’ stage yet. That’s kind of a girlfriend thing,” you explain.

Spencer frowns, “Aren’t you?”

Tilting your head to the side, you look at him curiously, “Aren’t I what?”

“My girlfriend,” he clarifies.

Your eyes go wide, “Oh! I didn’t think so, I thought you had to ask yet.” Although you’re far from a relationship expert, you’d had to ask your PhD advisee what to wear before your first date with Spencer.

The panicked look on his face returns, “I’ve been telling people you’re my girlfriend. Should I not have been doing that?”

Shaking your head, you beam up at him, “I don’t mind. I just thought you had to ask about that kind of thing.”

“I don’t know,” he admits, “I’ve never really done this before.”

The two of you sit in an awkward silence for a moment before you decide to speak up again, “So, just so we’re on the same page. I’m not moving to Chicago.”

Spencer frowns again, and you have to hold yourself back from using your thumb to smooth out the crease on his forehead, “Will you?”

Confused, you lean your head back, “Move to Chicago?”

“Be my girlfriend,” he amends quickly.

You nod, “I would love to.”

“And just so we’re on the same page,” he ducks his head down, so close to a kiss that it makes you feel dizzy, “I like to think I’m the only one who can really court you.”

Laughing, you lean forward and peck his lips, “I would be insulted if you didn’t think that.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot #chemist!reader #flufftober #margotober #QE2

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bullet-prooflove · 6 months ago

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Could I request Yellowstone boys looking after a drink significant other please?x

Ryan is probably the one that got you in trouble in the first place and he assumes complete for responsibility for that. He's the one giving you a piggy back if your feet hurt or carrying you from the truck to the house because you took your shoes off in the car. You always get a little frisky and Ryan's always a gentleman, kissing your fingertips and telling you tomorrow, when your sober. He tucks you into bed, kisses your forehead before collecting your shoes and any miscellaneous items of clothing you’ve slung around and making sure they’re in a place you can find them.

Travis thinks you’re fucking adorable when you’re drunk. It doesn’t happen often but when it does he’s there for it. You always get super affectionate, flirty and silly and he loves it. Gives you entire attention even if you are chatting shit. Travis is very protective and keeps an eye on you, not because he doesn’t trust you but because he’s spent years on the rodeo circuit and he knows assholes, hell he’s been that asshole. Anyone shows to much of an interest, he’s literally getting between the two of you and telling that fella you’re taken and to fuck off.

When the two of you get home, he helps you get into one of his t-shirts and climbs into bed alongside you. You spend the night curled up against him as his fingers comb through your hair.

Rip’s experience of drunks before you was Beth. You are far more easy to handle. You’re a lot more controlled and don’t go completely off the rails. When Rip is picking you up, he always requests that you stay inside the bar because he hates the thought of you being out in the cold, and he also knows that bad things happen to woman in dark parking lots.

When he steps inside he usually watches you for a minute. If your dancing, he’s coming over to join you before he takes you home, if a guy’s anywhere near you he’s stepping in to protect his territory. He has no chill when it comes to you.

When he gets you in the truck, he has the music low because he knows you like to sing a long and the heating on because it gets cold. He asks you about your night, if you had fun.

In the house he makes you drink some water, give you a snack and tucks you into bed before making sure the house is completely locked up and joining you.

Walker thinks you're the cutest thing. The two of you dance and sing together in the parking lot, he doesn't give a shit who sees, he just likes having you in his arms. Let's you wear his hat because he thinks you look adorable in it.

The dancing continues at home and ends up with the two of you falling you asleep on the couch together, Walker singing you to sleep.

Kayce is all smiles when he comes to pick you up especially if it looks like you’re having a lot of fun. He drapes one arm around your shoulders and kisses your temple.

“Oh hey darlin, you ready to go…” type of thing.

Keeps you tucked into his side in the parking a lot, it’s a territorial thing he doesn’t even realise he does, a way of keeping you safe. You usually fall asleep in the truck in the way home. He tucks his jacket around you for the journey, checking on you as he drives. He hates waking you up so he carries you into the house and puts you to bed, leaving a glass of water on the night stand.

Jamie loves to see you have fun, he’s addicted to your smile, your happiness. When he comes to the bar, he sticks around a while, watching you dance and laugh. He discreetly pays your bar tab before cutting in for a dance. Jamie just loves around you, so one dance turns into three more.

When he does get you home he’s very sweet and tender as he undresses you. Lingering teasing kisses as he helps you into your pyjamas. When he climbs into bed a long side you, the two of you stay up laughing while you tell him about your night. You fall asleep, draped across him, mid-sentence and Jamie just hugs you close.

#jamie dutton #jamie dutton x reader #walker yellowstone #walker yellowstone x reader #rip wheeler #rip wheeler x reader #kayce dutton #kayce dutton x reader #travis wheatley x reader #travis wheatley #ryan yellowstone #ryan yellowstone x reader

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kentoxo · 6 months ago

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friction | you x crush!nanami pt. 1

pairing: reader (f) x crush!nanami

synopsis: [AU] you have always had a crush on nanami. since the day you were hired as his personal assistant, you've been right at his side combating numbers and making money within the finance department for the company you two worked for. but, things take a turn when nanami catches wind of your feelings, and rejects you. little did he know the weight of his mistake.

warnings: angst, heartbreak, sexual tension, jealousy (future smut)

a/n: first!! ever!! story-driven smut!!! im so excited! literally love this man sm and have yet to make any sort of fic on him. ahhh!! let me know if yall like this idea! i'll be releasing mini parts sporadically as my free time allows me to :)

December | Tokyo, Japan

Nanami relied on you, simply because you made it a point to become ever so reliable to him.

Monday through Friday, you would always arrive just a few minutes before him, feigning an earlier arrival with your coat stowed away, and your computer on with work tabs open on the monitor. This morning, like every morning, went exactly within your expectations. You’d know he arrived by the sea of ‘goodmorning, Mr. Nanami’ flooding the office. The firm steps of his Italian oxfords would always remind you to straighten your back and await him with his cup of coffee in hand.

“Goodmorning, Nanami,” you hum, your words sliding off your tongue like butter. You don’t look at him, as you were busy basking in the privilege of long-dropped formalities. Although Nanami was very strict with work and coworker relationships, he only accepted you speaking to him informally. At least, in regards to his honorifics.

“‘Mornin’,” Nanami huffs. He takes a seat beside you, stripping away his black peacoat. It was a heavy winter in Japan, so in the ocean of snow and winds were city workers and dwellers, draped in coats or inappropriate attire. You knew it was rude to stare, but you were always entranced from seeing his body in his usual beige suit. A veiny hand presents itself before you.

You carefully fill his hand with his hot-brewed coffee, “just the way you like it. Your favorite barista was in today, finally. He was out with a cold, and took a few days off sick.”

Nanami’s free hand frantically moves his mouse, impatiently waiting for his computer to illuminate on. “It’s unfortunate his counterparts cannot mimic his talent. We may have to poach him into our corporate cafe.”

You begin to draft an email, the lingering warmth from his coffee resting in your hands. “I can draft an email for you if you’d like. You have a meeting with Mr. Takada at 2, so it could be opportune to mention it.”

His eyes casually flicker over to the calendar pinned on the dividing cubicle wall, between both of your computers. It was organized in neat font thanks to you and your handwriting. Hazel eyes begin to scan the calendar, with Nanami lightly cupping his mouth. “And were you able to postpone the team meeting for today?”

You nod, never missing a beat, “I’ve long sent the email, and made my rounds earlier today to remind them that we will not be gathering today. I’ve set up an alternative forum that works for everyone's schedule, including ours.” You reach over for a folder you had neatly sitting in your ‘complete’ basket. “I’ve already printed copies for the documents we’ll be going over, and booked conference room 3.”

“My favorite,” Nanami breathed out between swigs of his bitter coffee. “Did you double check everything?”

“All documents were revised 3 times for mathematical errors, grammar, and consumability. I’ve also prepared catering to be brought tomorrow, as the meeting would take place at the beginning of everybody's shift.”

The blonde man stripped off his blazer, revealing his alluring, navy blue shirt. He neatly drapes it over the back of his seat and leans back once again. He crosses his arms over his chest, the bulge of his bicep evident under the fabric of his dress shirt. “Any new updates from Mr. Takada or the team?” You could hear the office quiet down, the sudden silence of keyboard tapping and casual conversation.

“Mr. Takada has yet to send anything, so that is still pending. The team, however, has made quite the advance in their work. They’ve already predicted our numbers for the end of the year, with our solidified, confirmed numbers already calculated and organized in a shared Excel.”

Nanami smirks mischievously, “I don’t believe it. How’d you manage to get that out of these loafers?” A few of the staff playfully complain, receiving a small chuckle from Nanami. You felt your cheeks warm up from his hidden dimple coming to the spotlight of his lips.

They all go back to their work after exchanging light words and laughter. You lean over slightly towards Nanami, not giving him any sort of eye contact. “I let them choose the breakfast we will be catering for the meeting,” you whispered playfully.

He leans as well, “you truly are a woman of trade, Y/N.” He quickly opens up a few documents on the screen while finishing the final drop of his coffee. His bottom lip glistened with coffee, having him casually drag his tongue to wipe it off. “How about our lunch for today? You and I, that is,” he made sure to clarify.

You opened your drawer and fished out a menu. It was a menu from a seafood restaurant that opened close to the office. You slid it to him, opening it up to reveal his annotations when he initially looked through it. “I scheduled an order for both of the dishes that you had circled. Both options look delicious, so I figured we could sample from one another's plate.”

Nanami turns to you, his lips hinting at a smile. He lightly tugs the bottom of his lip with his teeth, sending shots directly at your heart. “What are we drinking?”

“I couldn’t find your favorite iced tea, but they have this pomegranate drink that I think you’d enjoy greatly,” you hum confidently, “it has yuzu in it.”

Nanami’s lips finally curve into that saccharine sweet smile. “Why do I even clock in anymore?” Nanami jokes, “I can be on autopilot so long as I have you Y/N. Thank you for being so diligent.” He begins to rise from his chair, causing a few of your fellow coworkers to look over. “I’m off to the kitchen to grab some snacks. Would you like anything from the cafe?”

You nod, “tell any of the baristas my name, they’ll know. They also have those apple pies you like today, so definitely grab one while they’re still available.”

With an excited hum, Nanami walks away from you, your eyes glued to how good that blue skirt hugged his torso. Broad shoulders, sharper blades, and muscular. His scent wafted you when he left his seat, the notes of sandalwood and frankincense taking you over. But your thirsting thoughts simply had to be bursted by Yū Haibara. He temporarily took a seat in Nanami’s seat, and turned your chair over to face him.

“Keep staring and maybe you might actually start drooling,” Haibara humors. Before you, Haibara was Nanami’s only right hand man. He is not as diligent as you are, but he keeps up with Nanami the way others can’t. “I thought you wanted to keep your crush a secret?”

Before you could respond, your hand immediately cups around Haibara’s mouth. “I’ll punch the drool out of your mouth so we can twin– can you please not say that out loud, in the office?” You grit your teeth after your words, letting your hand fall to reveal a cheeky smile from the obsidian-haired man.

“That is the most aggressive thing you’ve ever whispered to me,” Haibara whispered back, finally using his head voice. He was lucky his voice wasn’t too loud or else you would’ve mauled him. “That’s no way to speak to your manager.”

“If you were my manager, nothing would get done,” you teased, looking back at your computer to analyze some of the numbers Nanami sent you. “Did you need something, or are you just here to mess with me?”

“Both!” Haibara hums. “I’m not messin with ya, rather I just want to keep my eye out for you. I’ve already told you about how Kento feels about dating. I would hate to see you–”

“I know, I know,” you quickly shut down, waving your hand in his face. “I’m not trying to act delusional or anything. I already like him, so there’s nothing I can do.” Haibara stays quiet, not wanting to bother you.

Haibara knows when to draw the line when he teases you. He reveals a paper from who knows where and offers it to you. It was a thank you letter from the Sales Department. “I visited them as soon as I came in today. They thanked you for helping them with a small project and asked to transfer you back.”

You picked up the letter, your cheeks going warm again. You pucker out your bottom lip and hold the letter to your chest. “I miss my team so much! Ah, it felt so good to work with them again!” Your eyes then flicker at Nanami’s small name tag beside your desk.

It wasn’t that Nanami was this amazing man, but he was wonderful. When you were transferred from the Sales Department to the Finance Department, you weren’t sure you were going to do well. Especially considering you were transferred specifically to be Nanami’s assistant. But on your first day, you noticed that Nanami joined you in the empty desk beside your own. His office was not big enough to host you and your needs, so he has refused to use his office since then. He told you it was necessary to work with one another, and that sacrifices on his end must be seen in order for work to get done.

Since then, you have never let him down.

“But I’d never leave this,” you say, the sentiment in your words striking Haibara. “Their words are kind, but Nanami’s words are heavy. I feel… appreciated by him.”

Haibara scoffs enviously, crossing his arms over his chest, “wish that was me. Nanami never made me feel appreciated. He didn’t even congratulate me when I was promoted to Head Manager!”

“And I still won’t,” a deep voice sounded from behind you. Turning around, a smile tickled your lips as Nanami came back. One hand occupied your drink, while the other held a steaming hot apple pie. He delicately places your drink on the corner of your desk before going to Haibara, lightly spinning the chair with a push from his knee. “Off.”

“Am I nothing to you?” Haibara moans theatrically. “You’re commanding me like a dog on your couch.”

Nanami assumes his seat after ripping Haibara off of it, “I’d still let a dog sit on my couch. Anyways, what did you need Ms. Y/L/N for?”

Haibara quickly rushes to your side while playfully sticking his tongue out towards Nanami. “I was passing her a letter from the Sales team. They want to steal her back from us.”

You quickly elbow his stomach from him not saying the whole truth.

But it was too late. “Is that right?” Nanami murmurs. He moves his mouse to wake up the computer, immediately getting back to his workflow. “They can try, but it’ll never happen,” Nanami said simply, “I’d never approve it.”

It was… a compliment? Well, that’s how it felt like to you. It felt like Nanami wanted you all to himself, but only in a work capacity. Despite this being platonic and strictly work related, it still sent waves of emotion to your heart.

Haibara chuckles, “who knows? Maybe Y/N will go on her own accord.” You look back at Haibara, practically seething at his unthinkable words. Haibara quickly puts his arms over his stomach, protecting himself from another potential blow.

Nanami quickly removes his hands from his keyboard and looks over at Haibara. His face was distasteful. “Move away from my assistant before you rub your stupid on her. While you’re at it…” Nanami reaches over to his rack of documents and pulls out a very thick folder with a label that reads ‘To Do.’ He eagerly holds it out to Haibara, who reluctantly takes it from him. “These are all the clients we need to look through. Pick out at least 20 that you think would be an asset to the company if we worked with them.”

Haibara, without another word, drags his feet back to his office. You try to hide your smile as you excitedly pick up your iced drink. Taking a sip, you let out a satisfied sigh. “Thank you for getting me this, Nanami. I hope there wasn’t a line or anything.”

“None at all,” Nanami hums. “I didn’t realize that you liked your drinks so sweet, Y/N. I could swear you usually get a different drink.”

Your shoulders hang a bit from his words, but you were still quite upbeat, “it’s been the same since I was transferred to your department.” You made sure not to imbue your words with disappointment as you would hate to make him feel guilty. “It’ll be a year soon since I’ve joined the Finance Department.” You pointed to the day on the calendar, which was marked clearly with an X.

Nanami looks over at you with a warm smile, “you have been a wonderful addition to the team. I’m glad that Mr. Takada knew what I needed, and recommended you.”

Unable to contain your happiness from his flattery, you quickly glue yourself to your monitor. You tap away at your keyboard like a maniac, attempting to calm the quick beating of your heart. Your drink, in a way, was tasting a little sweeter than usual after his words.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut #nanami kento #nanami x you #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jjk nanami #jjk kento #kento nanami #nanami smut #jujutsu nanami #nanami x reader #jjk fic

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drowning-in-paragraphs · 3 months ago

Text

PUSH AND PULL

a/n: Hey! Sorry it's been a long time, but rn I have a lot of exams… While I finish them, here's something I've written before.

jude bellingham x gf!reader

warnings: they fight but happy ending! long af

summary: In love, mess is inevitable—especially when you're as stubborn as Jude and you. A fight breaks out, and with it, comes chaos. But instead of facing it like adults, you both become kids again, unable to stop poking at each other and pushing each other's buttons. Whether it's a teasing remark, a too-close-for-comfort touch, or a pointed silence, you both dance around your feelings, caught in the tension of unspoken frustration. However, when the stubborness between you becomes unbearable, one kiss shatters the walls you’ve both carefully built.

The flat was a battlefield of silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the sharp-edged, suffocating kind, where every creak of the floorboards sounded like an accusation. Jude sat sprawled on the couch, legs wide, one hand gripping the remote. The TV played highlights from some old match, but you could tell from the way his eyes lingered on the screen without focus that he wasn’t watching.

You also sat on the couch, cross-legged, your laptop balanced on your thighs. With the television humming faintly in the background, you pretended to be engrossed in your laptop, fingers brushing aimlessly over the keys. Your hair fell over one shoulder, hiding the way you glanced at him every so often, wondering if he would break the silence. He did not. What he did, was catching you once, his dark eyes locking with yours for a brief moment, before you both looked away as if burned.

The tension in the room was suffocating, as if the air itself refused to move. Neither of you dared to take the first step to break the silence, which stretched between you like an invisible wall. The funniest part was that, in a house so vast, the two of you had ended up in the same room, sharing the same couch, barely a few inches apart. It was almost ridiculous. Tho, you didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. Internally, you rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

The fight from last night sat heavily between you. It was the kind of argument that left no room for winners, only wounds. You weren’t even sure how it started. He neither. A jab here, a poorly timed comment there, and before you knew it, the words turned sharp, biting into places neither of you wanted exposed. And now, all that was left was this: icy silence and the simmering frustration of two people who loved each other too much to let go but were too proud to make the first move.

Jude turned up the volume on the TV—just a notch higher than necessary. A small, petty move, but you caught it. You gritted your teeth and opened another tab on your laptop, pretending to type while your jaw clenched.

He leaned back, draping an arm casually across the back of the couch, his shirt hitching up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. A silver of his abs. You noticed—of course, you noticed—but you stubbornly refused to let your gaze linger. He was doing it on purpose, you were sure of it. The smug bastard.

To be fair, you weren’t entirely innocent either. You’d been wandering around the house all day without a bra, and you were well aware of how his eyes occasionally darted toward you before he quickly looked away. It wasn’t overt, nothing you could call him out on, but you could feel his awareness of you, just as you were hyper-aware of him.

In retaliation, you slammed your laptop shut, regardless of the tabs you had open. The noise echoed through the room, over the loud volume of the TV, and for a moment, Jude’s eyes met yours. There was a challenge in his gaze, a slight arch of his eyebrow, but he didn’t say anything. Then, as if nothing, you opened the device again.

After a while, your boyfriend, decided that now the couch was not as comfortable as it was minutes before and went to the kitchen. In there, Jude’s movements were deliberate, exaggerated in a way that felt almost taunting. He opened the fridge with more force than necessary, the door creaking loudly, and lingered there for what felt like forever before finally pulling out a bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap with unnecessary force, the crack of the seal piercing the silence.

“You could’ve done that quieter,” you muttered, not looking up from your screen.

He snorted, the sound low and derisive. “You’ve been so sensitive later.”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t respond. Instead, you tapped harder on your keyboard, the clatter of the keys a pointed counter to his earlier disruption. It was petty, childish even, but you couldn’t help yourself. If he was going to be difficult, you could be too. You knew he hated that, and when you turned back, you caught the briefest twitch of his lips, as if he was holding back a smirk.

The audacity of him almost made you snap again.

The minutes dragged on, and the uneasy rhythm of your coexistence continued. Jude eventually moved to the living room, sprawling across the other end of the couch. His long legs stretched out, nudging your thigh as he adjusted his position. It wasn’t accidental—you could tell by the faint smirk that tugged at his lips when you glared at him.

“Can you not?” you snapped, shifting slightly away from him. Honestly, even when you were angry, you still liked the warmth of his contact, but you knew that pulling away would bother him.

“What? I’m just sitting,” he said, his tone infuriatingly casual. But then he moved his leg again, deliberately pressing it against yours, skin against warm skin. This time, you didn’t move, choosing instead to act as if you didn’t notice at all.

“Sitting doesn’t involve invading someone else’s space.”

He didn’t respond, but the smirk on his face only deepened, as if he found your irritation amusing. Leaning further back into the couch, he made himself completely comfortable, clearly unbothered.

You turned your focus back to your laptop, though you weren’t sure why you bothered. It wasn’t like you were getting any actual work done.

When he grabbed the remote and started flipping through channels, the sound of the TV growing louder with each change, you shot him another glare. He didn’t acknowledge it, his gaze fixed on the screen as if he couldn’t feel the weight of your annoyance.

“Are you trying to be obnoxious, or does it just come naturally?” you asked, your voice sharp.

He finally turned to look at you, annoyed, raising an eyebrow. “You’re one to talk.”

The air between you crackled with unspoken tension, but neither of you said anything more. Instead, you both retreated into the silence, your mutual frustration simmering just below the surface.

By early afternoon, the passive-aggressive dance had reached new heights. You were in the kitchen, making yourself a coffee when he got up moments later, brushing past you as he headed to the sink. You could have moved, made it easier for him, but you didn’t. Neither did he. Your shoulders bumped, and you felt a spark of irritation—at him, at yourself, at the situation.

“Excuse me,” he said finally, his tone clipped but low, his breath brushing your temple as he reached over you for a glass. You stepped aside, not because you wanted to but because your pride wouldn’t let you linger there like some lovesick fool.

He filled the glass with water, the sound of it cascading against the sink somehow louder than necessary. His presence so close to you was suffocating, but you refused to move too far. He stood there for a moment with heavy eye contact after taking a sip, leaning against the counter like he was waiting for you to react.

You didn’t.

Instead, you grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it, appearing uninterested. You saw him glance at you from the corner of his eye, and for a fleeting second, you thought you saw amusement flicker across his face. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.

The rest of the afternoon passed in much the same way—sharp glances, clipped words, and small actions that seemed designed to provoke the other. When Jude left his empty glass on the coffee table instead of taking it to the sink, you picked it up with exaggerated care, your movements pointedly loud as you placed it in the dishwasher. When you adjusted the thermostat without asking, he changed it back moments later, the beep of the controls echoing like a challenge.

This repeated a few times.

Neither of you said what you really wanted to say. The words hovered in the air, unspoken but undeniable, like a ghost haunting the space between you.

As the night deepened, the tension between you became almost unbearable, thick and suffocating in the dimly lit room. You lay curled up on the bed, your fingers mindlessly scrolling through your phone, the glow of the screen illuminating your face. At the other end of the mattress, Jude sat hunched over his own device, the faint light from his screen carving sharp shadows across his features. His face was drawn tight, his brows furrowed in a way that made the lines of worry and frustration painfully obvious. You couldn’t help but wonder if you looked the same—tired, distant, and weighed down by the silence hanging between you.

You despised this chasm that had grown between you, the quiet hostility that lingered unspoken in the air. The silence wasn’t a comfortable one—it was filled with an unrelenting tension, an undercurrent of anger and hurt that felt alien and wrong. This wasn’t what you had envisioned. It wasn’t what you wanted. You loved him, even now, even through the haze of pain and frustration that churned within you. That love was still there, steady and unwavering, but it felt harder to reach, buried beneath the heavy layers of everything left unsaid.

Jude shifted slightly, his movement breaking the stillness. His fingers brushed against your arm, light as a whisper, a touch so brief it was almost nothing—but it wasn’t nothing. The contact jolted through you, surprising in its warmth and its ability to remind you of what once felt so natural. For a moment, you both froze. The touch lingered, suspended in time, carrying more weight than such a small gesture should. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, he pulled his hand away, retreating back to his side of the bed.

The silence returned, heavier than before.

The bed had grown colder as the hours ticked on, the tension between you and Jude acting like an invisible barrier, keeping you both firmly planted on opposite ends of the mattress. Sleep came to you first, though not peacefully—it was the restless kind, with the occasional shuffle and murmured sigh as your body sought the warmth that your pride kept you from asking for.

Jude stayed awake longer, his phone abandoned on the nightstand. His gaze flickered toward your sleeping form, the soft rise and fall of your shoulders pulling at something deep inside him. Even in sleep, there was a tightness to the set of your jaw, a lingering sign of the frustration that had consumed the day. He wanted to reach out, to smooth the lines away with his thumb, to press a kiss to the crown of your head like he always did when you argued. But the memory of your sharp words, and his own stubbornness, kept him still.

Eventually, exhaustion claimed him, and he drifted off into a restless slumber.

Next morning, the dim light of morning crept through the cracks in the blinds, casting soft stripes across the room. Jude stirred first, his body stiff and warm under the tangled sheets. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, until he became acutely aware of two things: the faint scent of your shampoo and the fact that his arm was draped securely around your waist.

His heart thudded once, heavy and slow, as the realization hit. Sometime during the night, you two had moved closer, the invisible wall of your argument forgotten in sleep. Your back was pressed against his chest, your legs loosely intertwined, his nose buried in the crown of your hair. It felt impossibly natural, like the way you used to fit before the fight. His hold on you was firm but careful, as if even his sleeping self knew you were something precious, something not to let go of.

Jude’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles before his pride crept in, whispering to him that this was just a fluke. He wasn’t supposed to be happy about this, was he? You were still angry—still caught in the push and pull of your unresolved tension. But damn it, holding you like this felt good. Really good. It felt right. He allowed himself one more selfish second to savor the moment before you stirred.

Your soft murmur pulled him from his thoughts. You shifted slightly, pressing closer to his chest, your body melting into his as if seeking his warmth even in sleep. His heart ached, and a wave of affection so fierce it startled him coursed through his chest. He wanted to kiss you, to tell you he was sorry for the things he said, the things he didn’t say. But pride anchored him in place, so instead, he lay there, pretending he didn’t feel anything at all.

You woke to the steady rhythm of his breathing and the unmistakable weight of his arm around you. For a moment, still caught in the haze of sleep, you sighed contentedly, nestling closer to the warmth behind you. It felt safe, familiar, and so achingly right that it made your chest tighten.

But then, reality crashed in like a bucket of cold water. You froze, eyes flying open, as you realized exactly where you were—and who you were with. The fight, the tension, the stubborn refusal to bridge the gap between you—it all came rushing back, drowning out the soft thrum of happiness that lingered from waking in his arms.

Still, you didn’t move immediately. Instead, you let yourself linger for just a moment longer, feeling the solidness of him behind you, the warmth of his breath against your neck. Your heart ached with love, raw and unrelenting, a stark contrast to the frustration still simmering beneath the surface. How could you feel both so intensely at once?

You wanted to turn around, to meet his gaze and let the love you felt show on your face. But the pride that had fueled your argument held you still. You couldn’t be the first to crack—not after last night. So, you did what you always did: you pushed the feelings down, buried them under a layer of indifference, and carefully shifted away.

You swung your legs out of bed, avoiding Jude’s gaze as you reached for your robe. He remained lounging on his side, his dark eyes tracking your movements.

“Morning,” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep. It wasn’t quite warm, but it lacked the sharp edge from yesterday.

“Morning,” you replied, fastening the belt of your robe with deliberate nonchalance.

As you padded to the kitchen to start the coffee, Jude followed, his footsteps soft but noticeable. He leaned casually against the counter as you worked, his arms crossed over his chest. The silence between you hung heavy but was no longer suffocating—just thick with the remnants of stubborn pride.

“You’re not going to make me a cup too?” he asked, arching a brow when you filled a single mug. A smirk tugged at his lips.

Yep, that early in the morning.

You turned, lips also twitching. “Last I checked, you have two hands and know where the mugs are.”

That smirk persisted, and for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t mocking—it was teasing. “Wow. So generous this morning.”

You shrugged, raising your mug to your lips. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

Jude shook his head, stepping forward to grab his own cup. You moved to lean against the counter opposite him, your mug cradled in both hands. He stood closer than necessary, the distance between you shrinking inch by inch as the minutes passed.

“You were hogging the blanket last night,” he stated suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me? I was hogging the blanket? You’re the human furnace who takes up three-quarters of the bed.”

He scoffed, setting his mug down. “Three-quarters? Dramatic much? You sleep like a starfish.”

A laugh escaped before you could stop it—a real, unguarded laugh that felt like a balm to the tension still clinging to the edges of the morning. Jude’s lips quirked into a grin, the kind that softened the sharp lines of his face and made your heart skip despite yourself. You rolled your eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of composure.

The teasing was lighthearted, a refreshing shift from the icy tension of the previous day. But underneath it, the stubbornness remained—a silent promise that neither of you would be the first to openly admit you wanted peace.

Jude leaned against the counter, his coffee in hand, watching you with that maddening smirk. It wasn’t just his expression; it was the way he stood, as if the entire kitchen belonged to him, as if he were perfectly at ease and you were the one who had to figure out how to navigate the unspoken rules of this little game.

“You’re staring,” you pointed out, raising an eyebrow as you sipped your coffee calmly.

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Can you blame me? You’re kind of hard to miss.”

“Oh, please,” you retorted, setting your mug down and crossing your arms. “I’m not in the mood for your cheesy one-liners. They are not working.”

“It wasn’t a one-liner. It was an observation,” he replied smoothly, taking a step closer. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief as he added, “And besides, it’s not my fault you look cute when you’re grumpy.”

Your jaw tightened, but the corners of your lips betrayed you, twitching upward for just a moment before you caught yourself. “I know you miss me, but this is not the way of fixing things.”

“Miss you?” he shot back, leaning closer, his proximity making your heart stutter. “I woke up with you cuddling against me so…”

You rolled your eyes and turned away, feigning nonchalance as you began to tidy the already clean counter. “That’s not how... forget it,”

The morning passed in a steady rhythm of petty jabs and fleeting touches that neither of you could resist. When you walked past him to grab something from the pantry, his hand brushed lightly against your lower back—just enough to make your skin tingle. You shot him a look over your shoulder, but he was already looking elsewhere, as if the contact had been incidental. You knew better.

Later, as you stood by the sink rinsing your mug, Jude joined you, crowding your space under the guise of washing his hands. The sink was large enough for both of you, but he leaned in anyway, his arm brushing against yours, his warmth seeping into your skin.

“Do you mind?” you asked, tilting your head to glare at him.

“Not at all,” he replied with a grin, his voice laced with mock innocence.

You huffed, turning to move away, but his hand darted out to catch yours. The suddenness of it made you freeze, and for a moment, you just stared at each other, the air thickening between you. Jude’s thumb brushed against the back of your hand, a simple, unassuming touch that sent shivers racing up your arm.

But just as quickly, he released you, his smirk returning as if to mask the moment of vulnerability. “Don’t trip over your own stubbornness,” he said, stepping back.

You bristled, turning sharply to face him. “Me? Stubborn? That’s rich coming from you.”

The tension that had been simmering all morning suddenly flared, sharp and electric. That was what you both needed. “You’ve been impossible since yesterday,” he shot back, his voice rising just enough to match yours. “I’m not the one slamming laptops shut and stomping around like a child.”

Your eyes narrowed, and you took a step closer, your chest brushing against his as you jabbed a finger at his chest. “And I’m not the one deliberately trying to piss the other off!”

Jude tilted his head, his smirk fading into something darker, more serious. “Oh, you think I’m the one pushing buttons here? Newsflash, love—you’ve been just as bad.”

“Love?” you repeated, your voice dripping with incredulity. “Don’t you dare—”

Before you could finish your sentence, Jude’s hands moved, quick and decisive. One slid to the small of your back, the other cupped your ass firmly, and in one smooth motion, he pulled you against him and lifted you off the ground. A startled gasp escaped your lips, but it was swallowed almost immediately as his mouth crashed against yours.

Finally, you thought to yourself, something you would never say out-loud.

The kiss was hot and demanding, a clash of teeth and tongues that mirrored the intensity of your earlier fight. Jude’s lips moved against yours with a ferocity that left no room for argument, his grip on you possessive and unyielding. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your hands finding purchase in his neck as you pulled him closer.

For a moment, you forgot everything—the fight, the pride, the stubbornness. All that existed was the heat of his mouth on yours, the solidness of his body pressed against you, and the way his hands gripped you like he never wanted to let go. It was messy and desperate and so painfully raw that it left you breathless.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were red and swollen, his breathing uneven as he stared at you with a mix of frustration and something deeper, something softer. “You argue too much,” he said, his voice rough and low.

You blinked at him, your chest heaving as you tried to process what had just happened. “And you—”

“No no, shhh,” he interrupted, his mouth crashing against yours again. This time, the kiss was slower, more deliberate, but no less intense. It was an apology, a truce, and a declaration all rolled into one.

When he pulled back this time, his hands lingered, one sliding up to cup your cheek while the other stayed firmly at your waist. His thumb brushed lightly across your skin, and the intensity in his gaze made your breath catch. His chest was heaving, just like yours, as if the kiss had stolen the air from both of you.

You stared at him, the heat of his touch grounding you even as your heart raced. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence thick with everything that had just been said without words.

Finally, you broke it, your voice soft but steady. “I’m sorry,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “For… being difficult. For letting it drag on like this.”

Jude raised a brow, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. “Oh, so you can apologize,” he teased, though the smirk on his face softened at the edges.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched despite yourself. “Juuude, don’t ruin the moment,” you warned, your tone light.

“I’m not,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Keep going, come on, I want to hear you say how wrong you were.”

Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it, and you swatted lightly at his chest. “Don’t push it.” But then your smile faded, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. “I really am sorry, baby.”

His teasing faded as he looked at you, the sincerity in your voice settling over him like a balm. “Yeah, well,” he began, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you just a little closer. “I’m sorry too. For being a stubborn ass. And for… picking fights when I should’ve just talked to you.”

You tilted your head slightly, your hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders. “We’re a real pair, aren’t we?”

His thumb traced circles against your hip, his touch impossibly warm. “We’re kind of great, though,” he whispered, his voice almost teasing. “When we’re not driving each other crazy.”

You let out another soft laugh, his breath warm against your lips. “You’re not wrong.”

The air between you shifted, the playfulness giving way to something deeper. Your lips hovered over his, your breaths mingling as the tension built again, electric and magnetic. You kissed him this time, slow but deliberate, pouring every ounce of affection and apology into it. His grip on your waist and ass tightened, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the way his heartbeat echoed yours, fast and unsteady.

When you finally broke apart, his lips were slightly swollen, his eyes dark and half-lidded as he gazed down at you. “You’re a tease, you know that?” he muttered, his voice husky.

You smirked, the heat still thrumming through your veins. “Only for you.”

“Lucky me,” he murmured, his tone both teasing and sincere. Then, without warning, he bent slightly, sliding his hands down to your thighs and hoisting you up effortlessly. A surprised laugh escaped you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried you out of the kitchen.

“Jude—what are you doing?” you asked, though your tone betrayed more excitement than protest.

“Making up properly,” he replied, his voice low and rough in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “No more interruptions.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you leaned into him, your hands threading through his hair as he kissed you again, his lips stealing every thought from your mind. Whatever tension had lingered between you melted away completely, leaving only warmth, laughter, and the undeniable pull of each other.

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honeyhae-svt · 3 months ago

Note

I was up all night thinking about a wonwoo fic. Bunny hybrid x Wonwoo. it just fits wonwoo more cus like, he's a nerd, and a computer kind of guy, going to the dark internet just to explore some sht or for fun then he comes across a bunny hybrid for sale in the marketplace. Please notice. Ily and thankyou <3 (ps. i chose to request this to you cus i love your fics sm)

Lean On Me - 내게 기대

Jeon Wonwoo x F!Reader

genre / tags: fluff, smut, hurt/comfort, hybrid AU, bunny!reader x human!wonwoo, gentle dom!wonwoo, breeding Kink (mild undertones), cockwarming (i will never shut up about wonwoo cockwarming), aftercare, established feelings warnings: NSFW (18+ only): explicit smut, detailed descriptions of sexual acts, hybrid characteristics (reader has bunny ears, slight animalistic instincts), mentions of past mistreatment/trauma (handled with care), overstimulation, clingy/intimate dynamic due to reader’s heat cycle, emotional vulnerability during aftercare. smut warnings: fingering, oral (f. receiving), penetration (piv), breeding kink implications (no pregnancy mentioned), cockwarming 9it's just so wonwoo), unprotected sex, sensual dominance from wonwoo, consensual and soft tone throughout. wc: 10,379 a/n: i think i've been writing wonwoo fics too much. i'm in love with jeonghan pls come back. (honestly, i love wonwoo sm too). DON'T LIKE DON"T READ please wtf this is animal play. seventeen taglist: @archivistworld <33 (no pressure, but if you want to be added on my taglists, there's a form i made (check my pinned post and click on "join taglist".) Preview: "Wonwoo’s fingers traced along the edge of your thigh, moving with a patience that made you ache even more. The heat within you pulsed stronger with every gentle touch, every whispered reassurance. ‘Wonwoo... please,’ you whimpered, burying your face in his chest as your tears soaked into his shirt. His voice was low, soothing, as he kissed the crown of your head. ‘I know, bunny. Let me take care of you.’ When his fingers slipped inside you, the relief was instant yet fleeting. The heat still burned, demanding more. And as his lips brushed against your own, you knew you were in safe hands, even as your instincts screamed for something primal.In the aftermath, with his shirt draped over you and his scent everywhere, you curled into his chest. Wonwoo's fingers lazily stroked your ears, his quiet promise lingering in the air. ‘I’ll keep you safe, always.’”

Wonwoo sat in the dim light of his apartment, the soft hum of his computer the only sound in the room. The clock on the wall ticked past 2 a.m., but sleep was the last thing on his mind. He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping rhythmically against the keyboard as he navigated a hidden marketplace on the dark web.

The site's interface was crude, with grainy images and glitchy text. He wasn't here for anything specific—this was just something he did when he was bored. It wasn't about breaking laws or finding trouble. For Wonwoo, the dark web was a rabbit hole of bizarre curiosities: forums about conspiracy theories, marketplaces selling counterfeit antiques, and coded discussions he'd never understand. Tonight, however, something caught his eye.

A new listing had appeared at the top of the page:

"Hybrid Companion for Sale - Limited Edition, One of a Kind."

The thumbnail image showed a woman, or at least, what looked like one. She had delicate bunny ears that drooped slightly, pale white skin, and wide, doe-like eyes that seemed to stare right through the screen. Her hair was soft and silvery, cascading over her shoulders like freshly fallen snow.

Wonwoo furrowed his brows, unsure whether to laugh or close the tab. "What the hell?" he muttered under his breath, leaning closer. It had to be a hoax, right? Some twisted art project or a desperate scam. But the listing's details were oddly... thorough:

"Bunny Hybrid #1438 Condition: New, untested. Perfect for companionship. Compliant and affectionate. Warning: For indoor use only. Price: 0.15 BTC (approx. ₩5,850,300 KRW - 4,000 USD) Delivery: Discreet, within 48 hours."

Wonwoo's skepticism grew. Untested? Indoor use? The phrasing felt clinical, like she was some kind of product. A chill ran down his spine, but curiosity gnawed at him. He clicked the listing.

The description expanded, revealing more photos. They showed her sitting on a minimalist chair in an empty white room, her ears twitching slightly. She wore a simple white dress, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The closer he looked, the harder it was to dismiss her as a mannequin or a clever CGI creation. She looked alive.

Wonwoo's hand hovered over the keyboard. This was insane. Why was he even considering this? But something about her expression in the photos stopped him. She didn't look scared or sad—just... empty, like she didn't know she was being sold.

"It's fake," he told himself. "It's probably fake."

But the listing had a countdown timer. "Auction closes in 10 minutes."

Before he knew it, Wonwoo had opened his crypto wallet. His fingers moved on autopilot, transferring the required amount to the provided address. The process felt surreal, like he was watching someone else make the decision for him. When the transaction confirmed, he stared at the screen, half expecting the site to crash or for the listing to disappear.

Instead, a message popped up: "Purchase Confirmed. Delivery instructions will follow shortly."

His stomach twisted. What had he just done?

Minutes later, an encrypted email arrived with a single line of text:

"Pick-up location: [Redacted]. Arrive at 11 p.m. tomorrow. Alone."

Wonwoo closed the laptop and pressed his palms against his face. This was either the biggest mistake of his life or the start of something he couldn't quite name.

The next night, Wonwoo pulled his hoodie tighter around himself as he approached the location—an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. The air was damp, and the faint sound of dripping water echoed in the distance. His heart raced, every instinct screaming at him to turn back.

Inside, the space was dimly lit, with a single crate in the center of the room. No guards, no people. Just the crate.

He approached cautiously, his footsteps echoing against the concrete floor. The crate was wooden, with slats that allowed him to see inside. He crouched down, peering through the gaps.

You were there, curled up and motionless. Your bunny ears twitched slightly, the only sign you were alive. Up close, you looked even more delicate. Your pale skin seemed to glow faintly under the dim light, and your breathing was soft and steady. You wore the same white dress from the photos, now slightly crumpled.

Wonwoo swallowed hard, unsure of what to do. He tapped lightly on the crate.

Your eyes fluttered open, and you sat up slowly, your gaze locking onto his. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, you tilted your head, your bunny ears perking up slightly as if studying him.

"Hey," he said awkwardly. "I'm... Wonwoo."

You didn't respond, your expression unreadable. Slowly, you reached out, pressing your hand against the slats of the crate. Your fingers were slender, your nails neatly trimmed. Wonwoo hesitated before pressing his own hand against yours, the wood separating you.

"I'm here to take you home," he said, his voice soft.

You blinked, your ears twitching again. And for the first time, your lips parted.

"Home?" you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper.

Wonwoo sat on the couch, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. You sat on the floor near the coffee table, your posture tense and ears twitching as you took in your new surroundings. You hadn't said much since leaving the warehouse, only responding with short nods or quiet murmurs when he asked if you were okay.

The silence was suffocating. Wonwoo cleared his throat. "Uh, are you hungry? Thirsty?"

You blinked, tilting your head slightly. "Thirsty... what's that?"

His eyebrows shot up. "Thirsty. Like... do you want water?" He stood and walked to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it from the tap. "Here."

You hesitated before taking the glass from his hands. Your fingers brushed his, and he noticed how cool your skin felt. Bringing the glass to your lips, you took a tentative sip, your nose wrinkling slightly at the taste.

"It's... plain," you muttered, setting the glass down.

Wonwoo chuckled softly. "Yeah, it's just water. I guess you're not used to it."

You shrugged, your ears flicking forward. "I don't remember what I'm used to."

That caught him off guard. He crouched down to meet your gaze, his tone careful. "You don't remember anything? Not even where you came from?"

You shook your head, looking away. "Just... flashes. Bright lights. Voices. Nothing else."

Wonwoo frowned, a pang of guilt settling in his chest. Whatever you'd been through, it wasn't normal. He couldn't shake the feeling that you'd been treated more like an object than a person.

"Hey," he said gently, "you don't have to figure everything out right now. Just... take it one step at a time, okay?"

You looked back at him, your wide eyes softening slightly. "Why are you being nice to me?"

The question hung in the air for a moment. Wonwoo rubbed the back of his neck, unsure how to answer. "I don't know," he admitted. "I guess I felt like I couldn't just leave you there."

Your lips curled into the faintest smile, and for the first time, your shoulders relaxed.

Later that night, as Wonwoo set up a makeshift bed for you on the couch, he couldn't shake the feeling that someone—or something—was watching him. He double-checked the locks on the windows and doors, his paranoia rising. It didn't make sense; no one had followed him, and the pickup had been clean.

"Wonwoo?" Your voice broke his train of thought.

He turned to see you standing by the couch, your bunny ears drooping slightly. "Yeah?"

"Are you... afraid of me?"

The question hit him like a truck. "What? No! Why would you think that?"

You hesitated, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress. "Because... they were. The people before you."

Wonwoo's stomach twisted. He approached you slowly, hands raised as if to reassure you. "I'm not afraid of you," he said firmly. "Whatever happened before, it's over. You're safe here."

You studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Okay."

But as you lay down on the couch and he retreated to his room, he couldn't shake the unease creeping over him. Something wasn't right.

The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator. Wonwoo lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, but sleep refused to come. His thoughts kept circling back to you—your hesitance, your fragility, and the way your ears twitched slightly every time he spoke.

A soft creak pulled him from his thoughts.

He turned his head toward the door, catching sight of your silhouette in the faint glow of the hallway light.

"Can't sleep?" he asked, his voice low.

You hesitated before stepping further into the room. "I don't think I've ever slept on a couch before."

Wonwoo sat up, rubbing his face. "Oh. Sorry about that. I should've—"

"It's not bad," you interrupted, your voice soft. "It's just... quiet."

The words made his chest tighten. "Do you want to sit?" He patted the edge of the bed.

You hesitated, your eyes darting to the floor before you shuffled closer, perching on the edge of the mattress. The tension in your shoulders was unmistakable.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked gently.

You glanced at him, your ears twitching slightly. "Talk about what?"

"Whatever's on your mind."

A soft, humorless laugh escaped your lips. "You really want to hear it?"

He nodded, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. "Yeah. I do."

You sighed, your gaze fixed on your hands. "I don't know who I am. I don't know why I was there or what they wanted from me. All I know is... every time I think about going back, it feels like my chest is caving in."

Wonwoo's hands clenched into fists. He hated the thought of you being scared, of someone putting you in a position where fear was all you knew.

"You're not going back," he said firmly.

Your head snapped up, your wide eyes meeting his. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I won't let it happen," he said, his voice steady. "I don't know how or why I ended up finding you, but I'm not going to let anything happen to you now that you're here."

The weight of his words hung in the air. Your ears lowered slightly, and for the first time, he saw a glimmer of relief in your expression.

"Thank you," you whispered.

Without thinking, Wonwoo reached out, his hand brushing against yours. Your fingers twitched but didn't pull away. It was a small gesture, but it felt monumental.

"You're not alone anymore," he murmured.

For the first time, the tight knot in your chest loosened.

The next morning, Wonwoo woke up to the smell of burnt toast. Groaning, he stumbled out of bed, rubbing his eyes as he made his way to the kitchen.

There you were, standing by the toaster with a frown, a slightly charred piece of bread in your hand.

"Uh, what's going on?" he asked, stifling a laugh.

You turned, your cheeks flushing pink. "I thought I'd try to... cook. But it's harder than I thought."

He walked over, taking the toast from your hand. "You're supposed to set the timer, not just guess."

You crossed your arms, your nose scrunching in frustration. "Well, no one told me that."

Wonwoo couldn't hold back his laughter this time. The sound startled you, and before you knew it, you found yourself laughing too. It was small and hesitant at first, but then it grew, bubbling up from somewhere deep inside you.

It was the first time he saw you smile.

And damn, it made his heart stutter.

After breakfast—well, what could be salvaged from your experimental cooking—Wonwoo sat across from you at the small dining table. He had insisted on making the second round of toast himself, and now the two of you sat in companionable silence, nibbling on toast and sipping coffee (or, in your case, a very sugary cup that he'd adjusted after seeing you gag at the first sip).

"So," Wonwoo said after a moment, breaking the silence. "Do you have a name?"

You froze mid-bite, your ears perking up. "A name?"

He nodded, his eyes soft. "Yeah. What do people call you? Or... did they call you anything?"

You frowned, the question pulling at a thread of memory that seemed just out of reach. "I... think it's Y/N," you said slowly, the name feeling both familiar and strange on your tongue.

"Y/N," Wonwoo repeated, testing it out. He smiled slightly. "It suits you."

A blush crept up your neck, and you quickly looked down at your plate. "It's just a name."

"It's your name," he corrected gently. "That makes it special."

You glanced at him, your chest tightening at the sincerity in his gaze. No one had ever spoken to you like this—like you were a person, not a thing.

"But," he added, leaning back in his chair with a playful smirk, "I think I'll call you Bun instead."

"Bun?" You blinked, your nose wrinkling slightly.

"Yeah," he said, his smirk widening. "You've got bunny ears, and it's cute. Just like you."

Your ears twitched furiously at the compliment, and you couldn't stop the blush from spreading across your cheeks. "You can't just—say things like that."

"Why not?" he teased, his voice light. "It's true."

You glared at him, though the effect was ruined by the way your lips twitched upward. "Fine. Then I'm calling you Woo. See how you like it."

He chuckled, the sound warm and rich. "Woo, huh? I think I can live with that."

For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a genuine warmth blooming in your chest—a feeling you didn't quite know how to name.

That evening, the two of you ended up on the couch, a random movie playing in the background as Wonwoo showed you how to navigate the TV remote. You had leaned closer to him, your curiosity outweighing your usual cautiousness.

"And this button changes the volume," he explained, his voice low.

You nodded, your face scrunched in concentration as you tried it out. The sound of the TV grew louder, and you quickly pressed the button again to lower it, a triumphant smile lighting up your face.

"See? Easy," he said, his lips quirking up as he watched you.

You turned to him, your smile fading slightly as you realized how close you were. His face was only inches from yours, his dark eyes steady and unreadable.

"Woo?" you whispered, your voice barely audible.

"Yeah?"

"Why are you so nice to me?"

He tilted his head, his gaze softening. "I already told you. You deserve to feel safe."

"But why do you care so much?" you pressed, your eyes searching his face for answers.

He hesitated, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. "I don't know," he admitted finally. "Maybe because you remind me that... not everything in this world is as cold as it seems. You're... different, Bun. And I want to protect that."

Your breath caught in your throat. No one had ever spoken to you like that—like you were something worth protecting, worth caring for.

Without thinking, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his. It was a small gesture, but it felt like the world had shifted.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice trembling.

Wonwoo's hand turned, his fingers curling gently around yours. "You don't have to thank me," he said softly. "Just... stay. That's enough."

Your heart ached at the raw honesty in his words. And for the first time, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, you had found a place where you truly belonged.

The night deepened, the warm glow of the living room casting soft shadows on the walls. Wonwoo had stepped into the kitchen to grab some water, leaving you curled up on the couch with a blanket draped over your shoulders.

You tugged the fabric closer, your thoughts swirling. For the first time in forever, you didn't feel like you had to be on guard. You didn't have to hide or brace yourself for what might come next.

But that didn't stop the memories from creeping in.

"Bun?" Wonwoo's voice broke through the fog. He was standing in front of you now, holding out a glass of water. "You okay?"

You blinked, quickly nodding. "Y-Yeah."

He didn't look convinced. "You sure? You've been quiet for a while."

You hesitated, your fingers clutching the edge of the blanket. "I was just... thinking."

"About what?" he asked, sitting down beside you.

You swallowed hard, debating whether to tell him. But something in his gaze—steady, patient, understanding—made you feel like you could.

"It's about... me," you said slowly, your voice barely above a whisper. "What I am."

Wonwoo stayed quiet, giving you space to continue.

"I'm not like you," you said, your ears flattening against your head. "I don't just... exist like a normal person. There are... things about me—about my body—that I can't control."

He tilted his head slightly. "Like what?"

You took a deep breath, your cheeks burning with shame. "Like when I go into heat."

Wonwoo's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't say anything, waiting for you to explain.

"It happens every few months," you continued, your voice trembling. "It's... painful. And if it's not treated, it gets worse. But..." You paused, your chest tightening.

"But?" he prompted gently.

Your voice broke as you said the next words. "But the people who used to 'treat' me... they didn't care about the pain. They only cared about using me for themselves."

The silence that followed was deafening. You couldn't bring yourself to look at him, too afraid of what you might see in his eyes—disgust, pity, or worse.

But when Wonwoo finally spoke, his voice was calm and steady. "That's not going to happen again."

You blinked, glancing up at him. "What?"

He shifted closer, his expression firm. "No one's ever going to hurt you like that again. I promise."

Tears pricked at your eyes, and you quickly looked away. "You say that, but... what if it happens? What if I can't control it, and you—"

"Stop," he said, his tone gentle but firm. He reached out, his hand resting lightly on yours. "I'm not like them. I'd never take advantage of you."

The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache. For the first time, you felt like someone saw you—not as an object or a tool, but as a person.

"Do you... do you really mean that?" you whispered.

He nodded. "Every word. And if you ever feel like it's too much, we'll figure it out together. On your terms."

You couldn't stop the tears from falling now, the weight of his words breaking down the walls you had built around your heart.

Wonwoo reached out, his thumb gently brushing away a tear. "Hey. It's okay. You're safe here, Bun."

For the first time, you believed him.

Wonwoo watched as you nodded off on the couch, your breathing evening out, though your grip on the blanket was still tight. Even in your sleep, it seemed like you were holding onto years of fear and mistrust.

He sighed softly, standing to grab the glass you'd left on the coffee table. The sound of his footsteps was faint, careful not to wake you as he moved to the kitchen.

It wasn't like him to get involved in something so... complicated. He usually preferred simplicity—quiet evenings alone, a book in hand, the hum of his PC in the background. He didn't go out of his way for people, not because he didn't care, but because people rarely gave him a reason to.

But you? You were different.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed as he stared at the glass. There was something about you that tugged at his attention, something beyond the strangeness of finding you on a marketplace. You were guarded but vulnerable, sharp but soft. It made him want to protect you, even if he wasn't sure why.

When he returned to the living room, you were awake, your wide eyes watching him from beneath the blanket.

"Did I wake you?" he asked, his voice low.

You shook your head, your ears twitching slightly. "No. I just... I couldn't sleep."

He sat down on the armchair across from you, his movements slow and deliberate. "Something on your mind?"

You hesitated, your fingers curling around the edge of the blanket. "It's just... strange," you admitted. "Being here. With you."

He tilted his head slightly, waiting for you to elaborate.

"I'm not used to this," you said quietly. "Not used to... feeling safe."

Wonwoo's gaze softened, though his expression remained neutral. "You don't have to get used to it all at once," he said after a moment. "Take your time."

Your lips parted slightly, surprised by his words. Most people didn't give you time—they expected things from you, demanded things you weren't ready to give. But Wonwoo? He was different.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shrugged, leaning back in the chair. "I don't know. Maybe I just like rabbits."

A small, breathless laugh escaped you, and his lips quirked into a faint smile.

"I mean it," you said, your tone soft but insistent. "You don't even know me."

"You don't know me either," he pointed out. "Maybe I'm just trying to get on your good side so you don't eat all my snacks."

You laughed again, the sound lighter this time. "I don't think that's how this works."

He shrugged, his eyes glinting with quiet amusement. "Maybe not. But if it makes you laugh, I'll take it."

For a moment, the room was quiet again, but it wasn't the heavy, suffocating silence you were used to. It was... comfortable.

"Wonwoo?" you said softly.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you," you said, your voice barely audible.

He didn't respond right away, his gaze steady as he looked at you. Then, with a small nod, he said, "You don't have to thank me, Bun. Just get some rest."

You smiled faintly, your heart feeling a little lighter as you settled back into the couch.

And for the first time, you felt like maybe, just maybe, things could be different.

The morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the living room. You stirred awake, stretching slightly under the blanket. Wonwoo was already up, sitting at the dining table with his laptop open, headphones on, and a cup of coffee in hand.

His attention was glued to the screen, his expression calm but focused. You watched him for a moment, feeling a strange sense of peace.

"You're up early," you said, your voice soft.

He glanced over at you, pulling one side of his headphones off. "Couldn't sleep much," he replied. "Thought I'd get some work done. How about you? Did you sleep okay?"

You nodded, sitting up and clutching the blanket around you. "Better than I expected. Thanks for... everything."

He gave you a small nod before returning his attention to the screen.

As you rubbed the sleep from your eyes, you realized something: you hadn't had a proper bath in... well, you couldn't remember how long. Your ears twitched slightly at the thought, and you stood, glancing toward the hallway.

"Wonwoo?" you called hesitantly.

"Hmm?" he replied, not looking up.

"Where's the bathroom?"

He pointed down the hall without breaking his focus, but when you hesitated, he finally looked at you. "Everything okay?"

"I..." You fidgeted with the hem of the blanket, avoiding his gaze. "I don't really... know how to do it myself."

That caught his attention. He blinked at you, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. "You don't know how to... take a bath?"

You shook your head, your cheeks warming. "I always had someone help me before," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stared at you for a moment, processing your words. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Alright. Come on."

"What?" You looked at him, wide-eyed.

"You said you need help, right?" He stood, closing his laptop. "Let's figure it out."

Your ears twitched nervously as you followed him down the hall, clutching the blanket tightly around you.

When he opened the bathroom door, you peeked inside. It was clean and simple, with a glass shower and a bathtub on one side. Wonwoo turned to you, his expression unreadable.

"Alright," he said, crossing his arms. "What do you need me to do?"

You hesitated, your cheeks flushing. "I don't know... maybe just show me how it works?"

He nodded, stepping into the bathroom. He turned on the faucet, adjusting the temperature and letting the water fill the tub. "It's pretty straightforward," he said. "You just..."

He trailed off when he noticed you still standing by the door, fidgeting nervously. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"It's just... a little overwhelming," you admitted. "I'm not used to doing things on my own."

He sighed again, softer this time. "Okay. Look, I'll help you get started, but you're going to have to trust me, alright?"

You nodded, biting your lip.

He grabbed a fluffy towel from the rack and handed it to you. "Here. Wrap this around yourself and let me know when you're ready."

You stepped inside, closing the door halfway before wrapping the towel around you. "Okay," you called out nervously.

Wonwoo stepped back in, careful to keep his eyes on the faucet. "Alright," he said, his voice calm. "You can sit on the edge of the tub for now. I'll show you how to use the showerhead and the soap."

You followed his instructions, perching on the edge as he adjusted the water. He handed you a bottle of soap, explaining how to lather it and rinse it off. His voice was steady, patient, and somehow soothing.

When you fumbled with the soap, he caught your hand gently, guiding you. "Like this," he said, his fingers warm against yours.

You glanced up at him, your heart skipping a beat. For someone so quiet and reserved, he had a way of making you feel... safe.

"Got it?" he asked, his eyes meeting yours.

You nodded, your cheeks flushing. "Yeah... thanks, Wonwoo."

He gave you a small smile, standing up. "I'll give you some privacy now. If you need anything, just call me."

As he left the bathroom, closing the door behind him, you couldn't help but feel a strange warmth in your chest. Maybe, just maybe, this new chapter in your life wouldn't be so bad after all.

It started out small.

You didn't even notice it at first—just a faint, restless warmth in the pit of your stomach. It was subtle, ignorable even, as you moved through the rest of the day. Wonwoo had gone back to working on his laptop while you explored the apartment, your curiosity keeping you distracted for a while.

But as the hours dragged on, the warmth grew. It wasn't just in your stomach anymore; it spread through your chest, your arms, and your legs, like an itch just beneath your skin that you couldn't quite reach.

By evening, you found yourself sitting on the couch, knees pulled up to your chest, biting your lip as you tried to focus on the TV. But it was impossible. The sensation was overwhelming now, and your ears twitched uncontrollably as you fought to keep your breathing steady.

"Hey," Wonwoo's voice pulled you out of your thoughts. He stood in the doorway, his brow furrowed as he looked at you. "You okay?"

You didn't trust yourself to look at him. Your cheeks burned as you nodded quickly. "I'm fine," you mumbled, your voice tight.

He didn't look convinced. Wonwoo stepped closer, his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants. "You don't look fine," he said. "What's wrong?"

You shook your head, curling up tighter. "It's nothing," you insisted. "I just... need a minute."

But he didn't leave. Instead, he crouched down in front of you, his dark eyes scanning your face. "You're warm," he said, his voice soft but concerned. "Do you have a fever?"

You flinched as he reached out, his hand brushing against your forehead. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through you, and you jerked back, your ears flattening against your head.

"It's not a fever," you said quickly, your voice trembling.

Wonwoo tilted his head, his gaze narrowing. "Then what is it?"

You hesitated, your cheeks burning as you tried to find the words. "I... I think it's my heat," you finally admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

He blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Your heat?"

You nodded, burying your face in your hands. "It's normal for hybrids," you explained, your voice muffled. "It happens every few months. But I didn't think it would happen so soon..."

Wonwoo was silent for a moment, and you dared to peek at him through your fingers. He looked... surprisingly calm.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked, his voice steady.

Your heart skipped a beat at the question. You hadn't expected him to take it so seriously. "I don't know," you admitted. "It's usually... manageable. But it's worse when I'm alone."

He nodded, standing up and holding a hand out to you. "Come on," he said.

You stared at his hand, confused. "What?"

"You said it's worse when you're alone," he said simply. "So don't be alone."

Your cheeks burned as you hesitated, but eventually, you reached out and let him pull you to your feet. He led you to the couch and sat down, patting the spot next to him.

You sat down tentatively, your heart racing as the warmth in your chest seemed to grow even stronger. Wonwoo didn't say anything, but he placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, his touch grounding.

"Better?" he asked after a moment.

You nodded, leaning into him slightly. "Yeah... a little."

As the evening went on, you found yourself growing more comfortable in his presence. The warmth was still there, but it was less overwhelming now, tempered by the steady rhythm of his breathing and the gentle weight of his hand.

For the first time since the heat had started, you felt like you could breathe again.

Your whole body was burning. It wasn't just the heat in your stomach anymore—it was a desperate ache that throbbed with every passing second, pooling low in your core. You squirmed against the couch, trying to find some relief, but it only made it worse.

Wonwoo's hand was on your head, his fingers lazily stroking through the fur at the base of your ears. The slow, comforting rhythm sent shivers down your spine, but instead of soothing you, it only stoked the fire inside you.

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore it, trying to focus on anything else. But the longer you sat there, the harder it became. Your thighs pressed together involuntarily, your body instinctively searching for some kind of release.

Wonwoo noticed.

"You're fidgeting," he said quietly, his deep voice cutting through the haze in your mind. "Are you okay?"

You froze, your ears twitching at the sound of his voice. "I-I'm fine," you stammered, even though you weren't.

He didn't buy it. His hand moved from your ears to your shoulder, gently turning you to face him. His dark eyes searched yours, and the concern in his gaze made your heart ache.

"You're not fine," he said softly. "Talk to me. What's going on?"

You bit your lip, looking away. How could you possibly tell him? How could you explain this unbearable, shameful need that was consuming you?

"It's... it's my heat," you finally admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's bad this time."

His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't pull away. If anything, his grip on your shoulder tightened, grounding you. "How bad?" he asked.

Your cheeks burned as you avoided his gaze. "It hurts," you murmured. "My body... it's aching. I feel like I'm going to explode."

Wonwoo was silent for a long moment, his hand still resting on your shoulder. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm and steady, but there was an edge of something else—something you couldn't quite place.

"Have you ever... had anyone help you before?" he asked carefully.

You nodded, your throat tightening at the memory. "Other hybrids would help sometimes," you said. "But it was never... gentle. They only cared about... breeding."

His jaw tightened, his expression darkening slightly. "And the men?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

You hesitated, your ears flattening against your head. "They didn't care about me either," you admitted. "They just used me for their own pleasure."

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken anger and something else—something softer, more tender.

"You deserve better," Wonwoo said finally, his voice firm. "You deserve to be cared for."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. "Wonwoo..."

His hand moved to your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. "If you'll let me," he said softly, "I want to take care of you."

Your breath caught in your throat. The heat in your body flared at his touch, but it wasn't just physical anymore. There was something deeper, something that made your chest ache just as much as your body did.

"Are you sure?" you whispered, your voice trembling.

He nodded, his dark eyes holding yours. "I want to help you," he said. "But only if you want me to."

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding, your cheeks burning. "Okay," you murmured.

Wonwoo's lips curved into a small, reassuring smile. "Good," he said. "Just tell me if it's too much, okay?"

You nodded again, your heart racing as he leaned in closer, his warm breath brushing against your skin.

Wonwoo's hand stayed on your cheek, his touch impossibly gentle. His thumb grazed along your skin, grounding you even as your body trembled. The ache inside you was unbearable, but somehow, his presence made it a little easier to endure.

"I'll go slow," he murmured, his voice low and soothing, as if he could sense your nerves. "Just trust me."

You nodded, swallowing hard as his other hand came to rest on your waist, pulling you closer. Your knees pressed into the couch on either side of him, and you felt his warmth radiating against you. It was overwhelming, but it wasn't bad. It was... comforting.

His fingers slid to your ears, brushing over them in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. You couldn't help the small, breathy sound that escaped your lips, and his eyes darkened slightly at the sound.

"Does that feel good?" he asked, his voice soft yet weighted.

You nodded, biting your lip as your hands instinctively gripped the fabric of his shirt. "Yeah," you whispered, your voice shaky.

His lips curved into the faintest smile. "You're sensitive," he murmured, his fingers continuing to trace along your ears. "I'll be careful."

The way he spoke to you, the way he looked at you—like you were something precious, something worth protecting—made your chest ache almost as much as your body burned.

"Wonwoo..." You didn't even know what you were asking for, but his name slipped from your lips like a plea.

"I know," he murmured. "I've got you."

His hands slid down your back, pulling you flush against him. Your forehead rested against his shoulder as his fingers traced small, soothing circles along your spine. It wasn't enough to stop the heat, but it was enough to make you feel safe.

Slowly, he tilted your chin up, his dark eyes searching yours. There was no rush, no impatience. Only warmth and care.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your breath hitching as his lips brushed against yours—tentative at first, testing the waters. But when you leaned into him, he deepened the kiss, his hand sliding to the back of your neck to hold you steady.

The heat in your body flared, but this time, it wasn't unbearable. It was electric, sparking to life with every touch, every movement.

His lips left yours to trail along your jaw, down the column of your neck, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. You couldn't stop the small, breathy noises that escaped you, and you felt him smile against your skin.

"Still okay?" he asked, his voice rougher now, laced with something deeper.

"Yes," you whispered, your fingers curling into his hair. "Please... don't stop."

He didn't. His hands explored your body with a gentleness you'd never experienced before, his touch careful and measured. He was patient, never rushing, always watching your reactions to make sure you were comfortable.

Your body moved instinctively against his, searching for relief, and he guided you through it, his voice a soothing constant in your ear.

"You're doing so well," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. "I've got you. Just let go."

And for the first time, you did.

Wonwoo's gaze softened, his fingers gently retreating from your trembling body. He leaned closer, cupping your flushed face with his hand. "You're lying," he murmured, his deep voice steady yet filled with concern. "Your body's still burning up."

You avoided his eyes, embarrassed by how the heat in your core seemed to intensify again, worse than before. It wasn't something you could control, and you hated feeling this vulnerable in front of him.

"It's... just how it is," you whispered, your voice shaky. "I'll be fine. I don't want to bother you—"

"Stop that," he interrupted, his tone firm but still gentle. "You're not a bother, and I told you I'd take care of you."

His words made your chest tighten, a strange warmth blooming there, different from the feverish heat that raged through the rest of your body. You looked up at him, your ears twitching slightly as his thumb brushed over your cheek.

"But... I've never done this with anyone I trust," you admitted, your voice barely audible. "I don't know what to do."

Wonwoo's lips quirked into the faintest smile, his hand moving to gently stroke your ears again, as if to soothe you. "You don't have to do anything," he reassured you. "Just tell me what feels good, and I'll handle the rest. Okay?"

You hesitated for a moment before nodding, your fingers clutching onto his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before pulling back to meet your eyes. "Let's try to make this a little easier for you," he said, his hands moving to carefully lift you into his lap.

The shift in position sent a jolt of warmth through your body, and you instinctively buried your face in his shoulder, your arms wrapping around his neck. His hands settled on your waist, holding you securely as he whispered against your ear.

"Just relax," he said softly, his breath warm against your skin. "Let me take care of you."

His hands began to move again, trailing down your sides, his touch firm yet unhurried. The contrast of his cool fingers against your heated skin made you shiver, and a soft whimper escaped your lips as he dipped lower, tracing the curve of your thighs.

"Wonwoo..." His name left your lips in a breathy plea, and he responded with a low hum, his lips brushing against your temple.

"I'm here," he murmured, his voice steady and comforting. "I've got you."

As his hands worked their way back to your aching core, you felt your body tense in anticipation, your breath hitching when his fingers slid between your folds once again. He was slow, deliberate, as if he was determined to learn exactly what made you feel good.

You couldn't stop the soft moans that spilled from your lips as his movements grew more confident, his thumb circling your clit in a way that made your entire body tremble. He watched you carefully, his dark eyes filled with a mix of concern and fascination, as if he couldn't get enough of the way you responded to his touch.

"You're so beautiful like this," he said softly, his voice laced with something deeper, something that sent a shiver down your spine. "Don't hold back. Let me hear you."

His words broke through the last of your hesitation, and you let yourself fall into the sensation, your head tilting back as waves of pleasure rolled through you. But even as your body tensed and finally released, you could feel the heat building again, stronger than before.

You let out a shaky breath, your forehead resting against his shoulder as your ears drooped slightly. "Wonwoo... it's not stopping," you admitted, your voice trembling with frustration and embarrassment.

He tightened his hold on you, his fingers gently brushing through your hair. "Then we'll keep going," he said simply, his tone unwavering. "I'll stay with you until it's over."

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and filled with uncertainty. "You... you'd really do that for me?"

He smiled, the kind of soft, reassuring smile that made your heart ache. "Of course. I'd do anything for you."

The desperation in your voice, the way your trembling body clung to him—it was enough to make Wonwoo's self-control unravel. He brushed your tears away with a gentle hand, his dark eyes meeting yours, searching for any hesitation. When he saw none, only the pleading desperation in your gaze, he nodded softly.

"You sure, bun?" he asked, his voice thick with restraint, but the nickname rolled off his tongue like honey.

You could only nod frantically, your hands gripping his arms. "Please," you whispered, the ache too unbearable to handle any longer.

Wonwoo moved carefully, lowering himself between your legs, his broad shoulders holding your thighs apart. His fingers slid down to spread your folds again, his touch deliberate, making sure you were still ready for him. The sight of you, wet and needy, made him groan low in his throat, his cock straining against the last layer of fabric between you.

He pulled his underwear down in one swift motion, his length springing free. You gasped at the sheer size of him, the heat in your core only intensifying as you realized what was about to happen.

"I'll go slow," he murmured, positioning himself at your entrance. The tip of his cock teased your slick folds, and you whimpered at the sensation, your hips bucking instinctively.

The moment he started to push in, you moaned loudly, your body arching as the stretch sent a wave of pleasure and pain through you. He froze halfway, giving you time to adjust, his hand stroking your side in soothing circles.

"You're doing so well," he murmured, his voice a mix of praise and restraint. "Relax for me, bun. I don't want to hurt you."

His words melted into your ears, and you tried to relax, focusing on the way his hands steadied you. Slowly, he pushed in further, filling you inch by inch until he was fully seated inside you. You let out a breathy moan, your hands clutching at his shoulders as the overwhelming fullness consumed you.

"God, you're so tight," he groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder. "So perfect."

The heat in you was relentless, but the way he stretched and filled you brought a strange sense of relief, as if he was the only thing that could soothe the ache. When he started to move, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in, your body reacted instinctively, your hips lifting to meet his.

"Wonwoo... faster," you begged, your voice trembling as the pleasure began to overshadow the pain.

He didn't hesitate, his thrusts growing faster and deeper, each one hitting a spot inside you that made you cry out his name. The sounds of skin against skin filled the room, along with your soft cries and his low, guttural groans.

"You're so good for me," he rasped, his lips finding your neck, kissing and biting softly as he pounded into you. "Taking me so well."

Your ears twitched at the praise, and your hands slid up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. Every movement, every thrust seemed to push you closer to the edge, the heat in your core intensifying until it felt like you might explode.

"Wonwoo, I—I'm close," you whimpered, your nails digging into his back as your body tensed beneath him.

He nodded, his pace quickening as he held you tighter, determined to bring you over the edge. "Let go, bun. I'm right here. Let go for me."

His words were all it took to push you over, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. You cried out his name, your body shaking as the heat finally broke, leaving you breathless and trembling in his arms.

Wonwoo followed shortly after, his thrusts growing erratic as he buried himself deep inside you, groaning your name as he came. The feeling of his warmth filling you made your body relax completely, the last remnants of your heat fading away.

He stayed there for a moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both caught your breath. His hand came up to stroke your ear gently, his touch soothing as you leaned into him.

"You okay?" he asked softly, his voice laced with concern.

You nodded, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah... I feel so much better now. Thank you, Wonwoo."

He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You don't have to thank me. I'll always take care of you, bun."

Wonwoo's arms stayed wrapped around your waist as you sat perched on his lap, your legs straddling him. His forehead rested lightly against yours, and he let out a soft hum, his thumb tracing gentle circles over your lower back. You were still catching your breath, your body trembling slightly, but the closeness between you was soothing.

"You're adorable," he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a soft kiss, as if testing the waters.

Your hands slid up his chest instinctively, clutching at his hoodie for balance. "Says the guy who just—" you paused, cheeks warming, "—made me feel things I didn't think were possible."

Wonwoo smirked faintly, his hands resting on your hips. "Well, I guess we both learned something new today," he teased, leaning in to capture your lips again.

The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, like he was savoring the taste of you. His hand wandered to the small of your back, holding you securely in place as you pressed your body closer to his. The warmth between you both was intoxicating, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside didn't exist—only the two of you tangled together on the couch.

You broke the kiss, panting softly, your forehead resting against his. "Wonwoo..." you whispered, voice shy yet yearning.

His eyes searched yours, filled with a tenderness that made your chest ache. "What is it, bun?"

You smiled softly, your fingers brushing against the nape of his neck. "I feel... safe with you," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

His heart swelled at your words, and he pressed another kiss to your lips, gentle and reassuring. "You'll always be safe with me," he said firmly, his hand stroking your ear affectionately, earning a soft whimper from you.

As the heat of the moment lingered, Wonwoo shifted slightly, careful not to move too much and overwhelm your still-sensitive body. The weight of the intimacy between you felt heavy but comforting, like a quiet promise unspoken.

"You're really something, y'know," he muttered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

You let out a quiet giggle, your cheeks flushing. "And you're not so bad yourself," you teased, nuzzling against him, your ears twitching slightly from the affectionate strokes of his fingers.

He let out a quiet laugh, his chest rumbling beneath you. "Guess we make a good pair then."

The two of you stayed like that, wrapped in each other's arms, sharing soft kisses and whispered words. The tension from earlier was gone, replaced with a warm, unspoken connection that neither of you wanted to let go of.

Wonwoo let out a soft groan, his hands firmly gripping your hips as you shifted slightly on his lap. The motion sent a jolt through both of you, and you gasped, your body still sensitive from earlier. His length was still buried deep inside you, and the intimate connection left your cheeks flushed and your heartbeat erratic.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice low and strained, the warmth of his breath brushing against your cheek. "I'm trying to take it slow, but you're making it hard."

You bit your lip, your hands braced on his shoulders for balance. "I-I wasn't trying to do anything," you whispered, your voice shy yet laced with a tinge of mischief.

He smirked at your flustered state, his hands sliding up to your waist to hold you steady. "Sure you weren't," he teased, leaning in to kiss the corner of your lips.

Your ears twitched slightly at the sensation, and you couldn't help but let out a soft whimper, your body instinctively clenching around him. The reaction drew a deep groan from Wonwoo, his grip on you tightening as his self-control teetered on the edge.

"You're going to drive me insane," he muttered, his forehead pressing against yours.

You giggled softly, a shy smile playing on your lips. "Maybe I like seeing you like this," you teased, your voice barely above a whisper.

Wonwoo's eyes darkened slightly at your words, a playful smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. "Oh, is that so?" he asked, his tone dripping with mock challenge.

Before you could respond, he shifted his hips slightly, the movement sending a spark of pleasure through your body. You gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your breath hitched.

"W-Wonwoo!" you stammered, your cheeks burning.

He chuckled softly, his hands guiding your hips to keep you steady. "Relax, bun," he said gently, his tone soothing yet teasing. "I've got you."

The way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that mattered in the world—made your heart flutter. You leaned in, capturing his lips in a tender kiss, your body instinctively responding to his touch. The warmth between you was overwhelming, yet you couldn't bring yourself to pull away.

As the two of you stayed locked in each other's embrace, the world outside faded away. It was just you and Wonwoo, connected in a way that felt deeper than words could ever describe.

Wonwoo's hands slowly roamed up your back as you remained seated in his lap, the warmth between your bodies making you feel like you were melting into him. His lips brushed against yours in a slow, lazy kiss, and the intimacy of the moment made your ears twitch slightly.

"You okay?" he asked softly, his thumb brushing soothing circles on your hip.

You nodded, nuzzling into his neck, but your body betrayed you. The heat still lingered, subtle but growing again, your sensitivity making you squirm slightly. Wonwoo's hands tightened their hold on you, sensing your restlessness.

"Still not enough, huh?" he murmured, his voice low and filled with understanding.

"I-It's not..." you trailed off, too embarrassed to finish your sentence, but he tilted your chin up, his eyes meeting yours with a gentle, reassuring gaze.

"I'll take care of you," he promised, his lips brushing yours softly before his hands gripped your hips. With a slow movement, he adjusted your position, and the subtle shift made you moan quietly.

Wonwoo leaned back on the couch, guiding you to move at your own pace, letting you take control. You slowly lifted yourself before sliding back down, and the stretch had both of you exhaling in unison. The intimacy of it—the closeness—made your chest tighten with an overwhelming mix of emotions.

You began moving with his help, finding a rhythm that had you both panting softly. The warmth of his hands on your waist, his whispered words of encouragement, and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered made your heart race.

"Wonwoo..." you moaned softly, your hands braced on his chest as you moved.

"You're doing so good," he praised, his voice strained but tender. His hands guided your movements, his thumbs brushing over your skin in soothing strokes as he watched you lose yourself to the moment.

The pace gradually increased, your movements becoming more desperate as the pleasure built higher and higher. Wonwoo met you with soft thrusts, his control evident in the way he moved to match your rhythm perfectly.

When you finally reached your peak, your body trembled in his arms, and he held you close, whispering soothing words as you rode out your release. He wasn't far behind, his grip tightening as he followed you over the edge, his groan muffled against your shoulder.

You both stilled, panting heavily, and Wonwoo's arms wrapped around you to pull you into his chest. The weight of exhaustion mixed with relief settled over you, and you nuzzled into him, feeling safe and cherished.

"I think you're trying to kill me," Wonwoo joked softly, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

You giggled, your ears twitching slightly as you leaned into him. "Sorry," you mumbled, though your tone was anything but apologetic.

He chuckled, his hands gently stroking your back. "Don't be. Just... don't move for a while. Let's stay like this," he whispered, his voice filled with affection.

And for a moment, everything felt perfect. But as the heat of the moment faded, the reality of your situation began creeping back in. The two of you had crossed a line, one that could never be undone.

Still, you stayed curled up in Wonwoo's arms, savoring the peace before the world outside the walls of his apartment could interfere once more.

The soft sunlight filtered through the curtains, warming your skin as you stirred awake. You blinked sleepily, the ache of last night still lingering in your body. The weight of his arm around your waist was grounding, protective. Wonwoo was still fast asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to admire him. His face looked softer in the morning light, his sharp features relaxed into something impossibly gentle.

Your bunny ears twitched as his grip tightened slightly, pulling you closer even in his sleep. It was... cozy. Too cozy. You weren't used to this—waking up somewhere that felt safe. You almost didn't want to move, afraid that it would shatter whatever fragile bubble the two of you had formed.

But the warmth between your legs made you squirm slightly, a reminder of everything that had happened the night before. Your face flushed at the memory. You'd never been cared for like that—never had someone look at you like you were more than just... something to use. And yet, there he was, holding you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

Your ears perked up when you felt him stir. His hand flexed on your waist before his eyes fluttered open. His gaze was hazy, still heavy with sleep, but it softened immediately when he saw you.

"Morning," he mumbled, his voice deep and gravelly.

You nodded shyly. "Good morning."

His thumb traced lazy circles on your skin, and you could feel the heat rushing to your cheeks again. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his eyes searching yours.

"I'm okay," you murmured, though your voice wavered slightly. "A little... sore, maybe."

Wonwoo's brows furrowed slightly. "Did I hurt you?"

You shook your head quickly. "No, no! It's not that. I'm just... not used to it. To... someone being gentle."

He didn't respond immediately, but the way his hand tightened on your waist said enough. "You deserve gentle," he said quietly, his tone firm like he wanted to make sure you believed him.

Your chest tightened at his words, and you looked away, unsure of how to respond. This was all so new—too new. And yet, you didn't want it to stop.

The moment was interrupted by the sound of his phone buzzing on the nightstand. Wonwoo sighed, reluctantly letting go of you to grab it. His eyes scanned the screen, and you saw his expression shift slightly—his jaw tightening.

"What's wrong?" you asked softly, your ears drooping slightly at the sudden tension.

He hesitated for a moment before setting the phone back down. "Nothing," he said, though his tone betrayed him. "Just... work stuff."

You tilted your head, unconvinced, but you didn't push. Instead, you sat up, pulling the blanket around you. "Do you have to go?"

"No," he said quickly, sitting up to meet your eyes. "I'm staying right here."

His hand reached for yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The look in his eyes was steady, reassuring. But you couldn't shake the feeling that whatever was on his phone wasn't just "work stuff."

Still, you smiled softly, letting yourself believe him for now. "Okay."

"Why don't we get some breakfast?" he suggested, his tone lighter now. "I'm sure you're starving."

You nodded, your stomach rumbling at the thought of food. As the two of you got up and started moving around the apartment, you couldn't help but wonder—what exactly was he hiding? And how long would this little bubble of safety last before reality came crashing in?

Wonwoo's lips brushed against the crown of your head as you curled up in his lap, his arms wrapped securely around you. The soft blanket he had draped over your shoulders kept you warm, but it was his steady heartbeat under your ear that gave you real comfort.

"You're awfully quiet now," he murmured, his hand absentmindedly stroking between your bunny ears, earning a soft hum from you. "Is something on your mind?"

You tilted your head slightly, meeting his gaze. His expression was gentle, almost serene, but his dark eyes held an intensity that made you feel bare yet safe all at once.

"It's just... I don't know how to say it," you admitted, chewing on your bottom lip.

"Try me," he coaxed, his fingers shifting to lightly pinch your ear, a smirk tugging at his lips when you squeaked.

You hesitated, feeling heat creep up your cheeks. "I... don't think I've ever felt this safe before. Like... you actually see me as me. Not just some... hybrid with—"

Wonwoo silenced you with a soft kiss, his lips lingering just long enough to melt away your worries. "You're not just anything, Y/N," he said quietly, his forehead pressing against yours. "You're you. That's what matters."

Your heart swelled at his words, and before you knew it, your arms were wrapped around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. "Thank you, Wonwoo," you whispered.

"For what?"

"For being... this," you said, leaning back just enough to gesture at him, though you didn't really have the words to explain.

His lips quirked up in that understated smile of his, the one that made your stomach flip. "I guess you're welcome, then."

The moment felt too perfect to break, but your stomach had other plans, growling loudly enough to make you both pause.

Wonwoo chuckled, his chest rumbling against you. "Hungry?"

"...Maybe," you mumbled, your ears drooping slightly in embarrassment.

"Well, let's fix that." He shifted, preparing to stand up with you still in his arms.

"Wait! I can walk!"

He raised an eyebrow. "And miss the chance to carry my cute bunny to the kitchen? Not a chance."

You couldn't fight the grin that spread across your face as he carried you bridal style toward the kitchen, his teasing making your heart feel lighter than it had in years.

After a warm meal that left you feeling full and happy, Wonwoo guided you back to the couch. The evening air had turned cooler, and your soft pajamas were still in his room, far away from where you wanted to be—next to him.

"Here," he said, reaching into the basket of clean laundry he had yet to fold. He pulled out one of his shirts—a soft, oversized black one that smelled distinctly like him, that comforting mix of woodsy cologne and something warm, like coffee.

You blinked up at him, tilting your head. "That's... yours?"

"Yeah." He shrugged, holding it out to you. "You'll be more comfortable in this for now."

"But it'll smell like you."

"And that's a problem because...?" He gave you a lopsided grin, clearly enjoying the slight pout on your lips.

"It's not a problem," you muttered, cheeks warming as you tentatively took the shirt from his hands.

Wonwoo turned away to give you some privacy, though he couldn't help sneaking a quick glance over his shoulder as you slipped into the shirt. It draped over you like a dress, the hem brushing just above your knees, the sleeves far too long for your arms. You tugged at the collar nervously, your bunny ears twitching as the fabric enveloped you in his scent.

"Cute," he said simply, his voice soft but filled with affection.

You froze, your cheeks heating up. "Y-You think so?"

Wonwoo stepped closer, his hands gently landing on your shoulders before he tugged you into a hug. "Of course," he murmured, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head. "You smell sweet, like always. But now..." He took a subtle inhale, his arms tightening slightly around you. "Now you smell like me too. I like it."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn't help but snuggle closer, your head pressing into his chest. "I... like it too," you admitted shyly, your voice muffled against him.

He leaned back just enough to tip your chin up, his dark eyes meeting yours. "Good," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. "You should get used to it."

Your heart fluttered at his words, and you couldn't stop the small smile that tugged at your lips. "You're so smooth sometimes, you know that?"

He chuckled, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Only with you."

The warmth of his shirt enveloped you like a snug cocoon, and with the soft scent of him lingering on the fabric, you couldn't help but feel a little dazed. Wonwoo's shirt was oversized on you, the hem brushing against your thighs as you shifted your weight on the couch. The mix of his scent and the subtle sweetness you naturally carried made the air feel warm and comforting.

He pulled you close again, his large hands gently resting on your waist as he settled back into the cushions. You melted into him effortlessly, his solid chest a perfect pillow. Wonwoo's heartbeat was steady under your cheek, grounding you in the peaceful silence.

"You smell like me now," he murmured, his deep voice low and laced with affection. His lips ghosted against your temple, lingering there in a gentle kiss. "I like it."

You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, your cheeks flushed from his tender words. "That's unfair," you teased, voice soft as you traced a finger along the line of his jaw. "You keep saying things that make me weak."

A chuckle rumbled in his chest, and his lips quirked into that small, crooked smile that made your heart flutter. "Only because it's true. You look perfect like this." His arms wrapped around you tighter, pulling you into his lap effortlessly.

You let out a happy sigh, curling up against him, your legs draped over his as he rested his chin atop your head. "I don't think I've ever been this comfortable," you admitted, your voice muffled against his chest.

"Good," he replied simply, his hand finding yours and intertwining your fingers. The gesture felt as natural as breathing, his thumb idly stroking your knuckles as the two of you relaxed into each other's warmth.

Sleep was tugging at your eyelids now, the day's tension melting away with every gentle kiss he pressed to your forehead, your hair, and even your bunny ears. You nuzzled closer, letting out the smallest, most content hum, which made Wonwoo's heart skip a beat.

As your breaths evened out, he couldn't resist murmuring, "I'll keep you safe, always." He didn't know if you were awake enough to hear it, but it didn't matter. The words were true, and they hung in the quiet air like a promise.

His shirt wrapped around you, his scent lingering on your skin, and his strong arms holding you tight—it was a kind of peace you hadn't known existed.

And as the night stretched on, the two of you stayed that way—wrapped in each other, hearts beating in perfect rhythm.

a/n: let's all thank anon for the request, especially if you liked it (hope you did) mwa's

367 notes · View notes

fleurspun · 4 days ago

Text

Questbound

Summary: A kiss locks the victory of your quest, it's only unfortunate that your quest companion is Luke Castellan—the bane of your existence and ex-lover. Note: I'm back hello hi this time with PJO! I do have Grishaverse drafts to release (someday) but that's for another time!! This is also cross-posted on Ao3 Word Count: 6.9k

In your many years at camp, the best advice you could probably give somebody is not to date another camper.

Not if they’re a fellow counselor.

Especially not if it’s Luke Castellan.

You learned that lesson the hard way years ago, when you were both a lot younger, with spunkier attitudes and clouded minds. It was a relationship wrenched raw with gritted teeth and hushed arguments, emotions clawing at throats and frustration gnawing at the mind. It was nothing short of tiring, and the only remark worth saying was that it wasn't worth it.

(Sort of. You’re a little too proud to admit that you had your fun during the relationship, and that you really did love Luke, or at least loved him to the extent that adolescent teens could. It was carefree and stupid and full of shared, sappy love-sick grins—and that wasn't so bad.

But you were both childish and angry, nonetheless. And that tipped the balance more often than you would have liked.)

Your breakup was a nasty, bitter fallout that screamed and thrashed all the way back down into the depths of forgotten pasts. After that, you and Luke fell into an explosive and rough dynamic of being at each other’s neck at every passing second, which seemed to have attracted attention from the gods above—and because the gods have such a unique sense of humour, one in particular has decided to grant you and Luke a quest.

And quests meant a trip to the attic of the Big House, and a meeting with the hippie-tie-dye Oracle of Delphi.

“Piss off the aunt lately?” Luke sucks at his teeth, ducking under the beams of the ceiling. You can feel his shadow melt into yours when the attic forcibly squeezes the two of you into the walkway cluttered wall-to-wall with quest paraphernalia.

“I didn't. You might have.” you scoff, suddenly a lot more conscious that your back was pressing into his chest, “You did break that poor girl’s heart from Aphrodite’s cabin a week ago. It’s sad, she was sobbing over her barbecue at dinner.”

“Keeping tabs on me, now?” he snickers, “That’s a new low, even for you.”

“I’m going to smack the shit out of you if you don't shut up, Castellan.”

You see Luke at the corner of your eye step ahead of you, giving a theatrical display of zipping his lips shut before snapping into a sleazy grin when you roll your eyes at him.

The Oracle of Delphi finally comes into sight at the edge of the attic, and Luke has to settle a hand across the base of your spine to keep you moving along when you freeze upon seeing the figure. Visiting the Oracle always left an uneasy feeling that settled like sediment at the bottom of your stomach, and Luke knows exactly, despite the low lights of the attic, that you would be picking at the skin beneath your nail.

He taps his finger on your spine to grab your attention, teasing spelled on his face, “Scared, smart girl?”

You swallow thickly before breaking away from his hand, “In your dreams, crook.”

Luke offers you a small chuckle as he anchors his palms on the beams near your head to keep you from bumping into them when you stalk along the attic, wary of the menacing figure right in front of you.

The skeleton is perched near the stained glass window, and silence simmers in the air so thick it almost shrouds your heartbeat in a muffled vacuum. After a few heavy seconds, the Oracle of Delphi slowly creaks into animation. There’s this odd pull of energy surrounding the flimsy skeleton, perfuming a spine-chilling and nerve-wracking pulse into the air, and into whatever summer clothing she had draped over her bones.

“Oracle of Delphi, we’ve come to seek your guidance.” Luke utters, and you cross your arms behind him, observing the decrepit and stop-motion-like movement of the figure. The skeleton encapsulates the feel of the Oracle in a snap of a finger, her arms creaking into animation and her skull snapping to your direction.

There are no eyes in the vessel as of the Oracle, but you can't mistake the sharp stare she gives you as she utters out the prophecy guided by the goddess of love, Aphrodite. And when she does, you feel a burdening weight forming on your shoulders and a thousand prickling needles at your spine.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.

Because to find a “second wind” and bring life and victory to your affairs, the quest from Aphrodite meant that you would have to share a kiss with the Hermes head counselor, your spiteful ex-lover, and the absolute bane of your existence, Luke Castellan.

What a funny joke this was.

—

“Well?” you’re cross-legged atop the ping-pong table, staring accusingly at Luke.

Luke rolls his eyes at you, sharpening his dagger against the wall of the dimly-lit Rec Room, “Well, what?”

The two of you ended up in the counselors’ meeting room just below the attic of the Big House after the prophecy sinked in enough for you and Luke to move down somewhere to confer.

“We’re contesting this with Chiron, aren't we?”

You observe Luke from the table, watching intently as he sighs in frustration, returning the dagger to its leather holster, giving you his full attention now.

“We aren't and we won’t.” he asserts, “And get off the ping-pong table, you’ll break it.”

There’s considerable pressure to his words, but you were never one to back down from his intimidation, so you stand your ground, “I’m going to contest this, Castellan. Whether you like it or not.”

“Under what possible circumstance?” He reasons with slight exasperation, “You know they won't let you contest a prophecy—from Aphrodite—off all gods.”

“It’s a clear case of conflict of interest.” the table creaks, and you heed Luke’s advice to hop off.

“That conflict of interest is a deliberate choice from the goddess. Besides, it’s a kiss. One kiss.” he sighs—you’ve been conferring about the prophecy for a while now, and every second is one wasted on argument instead of preparation, “Do I affect you so much that having me kissing you is such a huge deal? What, afraid you’ll come crawling back for more?”

You squint your eyes at the insinuation.

“The kiss isn’t a big deal for me. I don't care about that, you, and whatever relationship we had in the past.” your voice loses its venomous edge when you see Luke watching you intently through lidded eyes. His gaze is a pressuring expression, as if prompting you to speak more, and your mouth slips beyond grasp when you scoff, “You could kiss me right now and I wouldn't bat an eye.”

Oh shit.

The realization of your statement sinks in the second it leaves your lips. A gasp is stuck in your mouth, and you keenly watch Luke for a reaction.

Luke doesn't shoot his usual retort, taking his sweet time before getting off the wall with a grunt. He walks toward you with a heavy gait, one that echoes in the room as if in mockery of your position.

He finds himself almost between your legs, standing a breath’s width away. Luke chases your gaze when you snap your head the other way.

“Huh,” he smiles, and you feel the sinister intent behind it in your stomach, “Do you wanna repeat that for me?”

There’s a stern look on your face, refusing to budge out of self-preservation and dignity, and he tuts in response, “Look at you. You never change, do you? Pouring out emotion but never committing to it. You’re still all bark and no bite—” he whispers with a rough edge, “Like you’ve always been.”

Luke’s words are an obvious, honest-to-gods ploy. It’s nothing more than plain bait, and he’s waving it in your face to see if he can get you off your high horse and into the ground where he wanted you, and he knows if he pushes this narrative a little further, he can get you to bite down.

You blink, and feel the irritation bubbling, choked into the back of your throat. He didn't have the right to tell you about emotions when he was the one that left after the slightest bit of actual reciprocation.

A second passes and you try to give him a chance to take it back, but he only gives you a cocked eyebrow and a look as if impatiently waiting for your verdict.

He persists, and you huff before staring at him straight in the eye with a burning defiance.

Luke thinks, oh,

He’s fucking got you.

A sharp finger jabs itself into his chest, and Luke finds it exhilarating to have you on your toes, “I said,” the tone of your voice is as tense as a rope pulled taunt, “You could kiss me right now, and I wouldn't do so much as bat an eye.”

Your pride is deadly as it is precarious—this is affirmed when Luke plants his palm on either side of your figure on the table, stepping an inch closer to where he has to crane his neck down to keep you in his sight in response to your dispute.

Luke leans his head forward, the mocking grin etched right in his mouth, “You’re sure?”

You aren't, but you’ve gone so far now that retracting your sentiments is equivalent to admitting complete defeat.

And defeat to Luke Castellan was a defeat you could never stomach.

So you persist.

“Try me.” you lift your chin as if to push him further to do what he’s been threatening to. You decide there was a large chance of Luke bluffing, so you prompt, “You don't have the balls to do it, Castellan.”

The heartbeat in your ribs thrums and pounds at your bones, a clear display of your body knowing that you should run before anything untoward happens, but your burning pride keeps your feet planted on the ground.

Luke is the closest he’s ever been since you broke up, head slanted into place with his mouth just above yours. The position is familiar, and you hate that you feel it in the pit of your stomach; Luke was so terribly close. He studies your most miniscule of movements, eyes wandering and lingering on your jaw, your neck, and your lips.

The action is an arrogant, self-assured display of power, fueled by the slight, unwanted flush on your face ignited by the suffocating proximity and the sandalwood perfume on his neck—and when he tips closer, it hits you that maybe Luke wasn't bluffing at all.

So, you do the next best thing after realizing you backed yourself into a corner: you close your eyes and wait for Luke’s mouth on yours.

…

Except, it never comes.

You peek your eyes open with a slow wind, Luke has a smug satisfaction written all over his face. He slips his mouth just above your ear, breath hot and searing when he whispers, “Liar.”

You swallow your dignity into your stomach at the realization that he just humiliated you to your face, and you whisper back at him with a hardened gaze, “I’m gonna make you wish you were dead, you damn crook.”

“Do your best, sweets.” the endearment is an offensive spit in your face. Luke takes a step back before stretching his limbs with a faux yawn as he walks to the door, “Good luck with the contention. Let me know how it goes.”

—

Luke knows you like the back of his hand.

He knows you inside out, from your oddly niche allergies, to the callouses you have on your fingers because you used to compete in unauthorized, handwritten poetry competitions with the campers from Apollo, Demeter, and Aphrodite before Chiron shut it down.

(The poetry competitions somehow turned into betting games, which were also unsanctioned.)

He knows you’re just about the most brilliant strategist at camp, as proven by the quest paraphernalia displayed in the attic that you’ve managed to snag along the way, but you let the younger campers like Annabeth hone their skills and take center stage during camp games.

He knows you have marks on your neck that map out the shape of the Lyra constellation, traced from your neck down to the bottom of your collarbone, and he knows, by heart, how long it takes to kiss the stars, one by one, before you give out on your knees.

Most of all, Luke knows that when you despise somebody, you despise them with a burning hatred that singes and ignites everything around you with charring smoke and flame.

And that’s what he exactly gets for being the ex from a relationship felled by a spiteful fallout: your loud hatred, concentrated resentment, and your sweet, sweet unbridled attention in the quest.

Frankly, Luke supposes having your attention is worth it, despite being rooted in bad faith and distrust in his actions.

“My feet are killing me.” you suck at your teeth, eyes glued to the thickets, “This route’s going to wear us down faster than Aphrodite could ever do.”

You’ve done nothing but go and complain about Luke’s decisions for the past couple of days, and it’s a deliberate call on your end—being annoying and insubordinate just enough to piss him off, but never too much as to jeopardize the quest and its goal.

To be fair, you were the daughter of a war goddess. Your words held weight, and not to mention considerable influence and accuracy on your calls on strategy and quest location planning.

It was just that you were using your mother’s gifts to piss the hell off Hermes’ kid.

It’s a lure dangled just above his face, just out of reach to push Luke to his very limit. You’re convinced it’s an art form in itself, the act of patience and persistence in getting somebody to break.

But you haven't had much luck, because as the world would have it, Luke knew what you were doing, and decided he wasn't going to give you the slightest bit of satisfaction by displaying irritation.

He’ll do just about anything to keep your eye on him.

“Are they, now?” Luke answers, a few steps away from you. He keeps walking, and when he doesn't hear your feet shuffling behind him, he turns around, “Sore?”

“Deadly.” you groan, rolling your ankles off the ground. In your defense, the trail ahead was rigorous, bumpy, and slippery from the recent rainfall. Not to mention the elevation gain throughout. You had more than enough of a right to complain, “We should’ve just cut through the highway instead of playing hiker.”

There was some truth to your assertion—it really would wear you down, but not so exaggeratedly.

Luke crosses his arms, a usual telltale hint of irritation, but none of it is present in his voice, “And be picked off the asphalt by a rogue Fury?”

“At least a Fury would take the pressure off my feet.” you grumble, and continue walking forward when you realize Luke just wasn't biting down. You look to the sky in an attempt to clear your head.

In your reflections, you fail to notice that Luke’s gone quiet with mischief, and you see your clear fault of letting your guard down when you get picked off the ground and hauled over his shoulder like cattle.

“Castellan—” you gasp, your vision in a whiplash, “What the hell! Put me down!”

Luke secures an arm over the back of your knees, the other one supporting your hip on his shoulder. He speaks to you with no hint of a struggle, “You wanted to put the pressure off your feet, right?”

“And the first solution that came to mind was to carry me on your shoulder?” you say in disbelief, propping yourself up with your arms on his back, “That's not how things work, you freak!”

“You’d rather I carry you in my arms?”

“I’d rather you put me down on the ground!”

“And let you hurt your small princess feet?” Luke coos in a voice so sickeningly sweet, it makes you feel as if nauseous from a sugar rush, “You know I’ve never let you do that.”

“Gods, I hate you.” you grumble with a voice hinting resignation. You go limp on top of his shoulder when you realize there’s arguing with him at this point, “You’re the worst.”

“Get used to it.” Luke says, starting to walk the trail into the forest, “The worst hasn't even happened yet.”

“And that’s supposed to be what?”

He taps you thrice on the back of your knee, “I’ll let you figure that out on your own.”

—

It’s hard to forget that you and Luke are exes by the way you two fall quickly into a routine when left alone. Despite the rough start to your quest that resulted in petty arguments, derailments, and relentless teasing, your disgruntlement with Luke has sort of fizzled out into something a little more tameable, something malleable under shared snickers and a few will-they-won’t-they situations.

It starts off in treks where he takes your pack without a second thought when your breathing lags a little more than usual because you weren't as physically inclined as you'd like, in moments where you catch him forking away at the raisins in your bread so you wouldn't recoil at the sight, and during slow days when the journey is oddly peaceful, and the two of you wordlessly take detours to see pretty trails that Luke gets a little too excited over.

It ends with Luke falling from a spiraling tree root sprawled on the soil, and with flowering wounds on his hands and face.

“You’re a mess.”

You frown over the soft orange spires of the campfire, watching Luke with a pitiful red bruise birthed from his own actions. He’s fussing over his own wounds, and he tries, really, to the best of his abilities, but Luke hasn't attended a first aid class from Apollo’s cabin in years—and it’s showing in the way he tries to treat the bloody marks on his face.

“You’re pitiful.” You comment, looking down at his hunched figure over the sprawled kit. It doesn't help that it’s nighttime and he struggles more and more with adequate light without burning himself on the bonfire, “A disgrace. Pathetic.”

“I’m hurt.” He says, going back to applying an ointment that comes out way too watery because he doesn't know you have to shake it, “I’m hurt and you’re being mean to me.”

You can hear the obvious dramatisation in his voice, evident in the way he draws out his vowels. He’s pitiful and pathetic—just like you said—but for some reason, you find yourself slumped on a log next to him, stealing the balm from his hands.

“Give it to me.” You grit through your teeth, like you’ve been forced to help him by some unknown force, “Best swordsman in 300 years, and he cannot apply healing ointment on himself.”

It’s a comment made under your breath, and when you shake the tube and apply the cream on his arm, you miss the small smile Luke gives you.

The air is so cold with the night air and ripe with tenderness, and the two of you don't miss its hint when you touch Luke’s chin to move his head to the side, applying ointment on the gash lining his cheekbone.

“I’m shocked you’re not even recoiling at this.” You mutter, lathering out a pea-sized amount on his face, “You must hate it so much.”

It’s rare that you strike up a conversation first, but it seems like the intimacy of the moment has gotten to you, so Luke entertains you, “At what?”

“This.” You sign to the two of you, “I’ve done this to you a lot before, but it embarrasses you every time, doesn't it?”

It always started with you having to fuss over him, and with Luke being pissed off—and ended with an fiery argument without fail.

It was a stupid thing to argue about; but when you’ve just passed the honeymoon threshold of a young relationship, everything felt far too intense far too early.

Luke cannot find it in himself to answer immediately, a little embarrassed by the idea of his past actions, so you pacify the situation by talking, “I get it, you know.” You hum, “I was overbearing, and young, and overexcited.”

“And I was stupid, and angry, and cowardly.” Luke answers, an airy chuckle coming out of his lips, “I think we’re just fair. Actually, I might've been worse.”

You shrug, keeping your concentration on the gash. Luke’s eyes are peeking at the side, taking a look at you through feathered eyelashes.

“Hey, smart girl?”

A hum of acknowledgment lets him know you’re listening despite the utter focus on his cheek.

“I really was stupid back then for a lot of things, wasn't I?”

You stop momentarily. It’s wordless knowledge, knowing what he’s referring to, but you aren't sure you want to mull it over right now. The moment is too dangerously intimate to dabble in something so sensitive, so you decide to respond by whispering out an “Mhm.” before continuing on.

Luke watches you and your concentrated look, your lips jutted out and your nose in a slight scrunch. He feels like he’ll physically melt at the feeling of your hands cradling his face.

You’re finished with fussing over his wounds, and in a state of effortless muscle memory from all the times you had to do this to him before, your grip on his chin unconsciously angles him to face you, and you move to give him a peck on the side of his lip.

You’re so precariously near when you catch yourself and jolt into freezing. There’s only a breath’s width between you and him. It leaves you with Luke’s eyes gazing right into yours, eyes as wide as deer in headlights.

You can hear nothing but the crickets of the forest, the crackling of the firepit, and the ring of your slowly accelerating heartbeat. The time stills into a simmering tick.

Luke’s eyes flicker somewhere down in a split-second, and he squints at you, “Were you going to give me a kiss?”

You’re taken out of the trance, and in a flash of panic, quickly push Luke’s face away from yours, “You look horrible up close, Castellan.”

It’s an offhand comment, but Luke doesn't seem to mind when he scoffs out a comment of his own, “Oh please, we’ve made out a lot closer before.”

A red flush comes out of your face, shocked that he would bring up something so old, “And I hated every second of it every single time.”

You didn't—but his ego doesn't deserve to know that.

“If you hated it so much, you’re about to seethe at the next act of our quest,” Luke shrugs, stretching his arms into the ground behind him.

“And that's what, now?”

“Prophecy says you owe me a kiss, remember?”

—

Oh, shit. You forgot about the kiss.

Completely blinded by your deliberate attempts to usurp Luke’s decisions as primary of the quest, you seem to have forgotten the damning condition of your victory—to share a kiss with your past lover.

Simply put, Aphrodite was bored and decided it was time to pair together people who hated each other to death and make them kiss like dolls.

Was it to rekindle buried feelings? Maybe. Was it to drive the offsprings of gods into insanity? Oh, absolutely.

But whatever Aphrodite wanted to achieve by having you and Luke venture out into the world, it still doesn't do so much as change the thoughts plaguing your head for the last few days.

When was this kiss going to happen?

Since leaving the camp, and after that shred of intimacy that night, every passing moment became ripe with untouched tension, thick enough to cut through with a knife and a saw. You felt your heartbeat pound into your ear at the times when Luke would pull you close when he knew a creature was watching a little too intently, or when he would sit between your legs and let you fuss over his shoulder to have his minor wounds treated.

Normal occurrences at a quest, but with the prophecy looming over your head like an unrelenting shadow of misfortune, you were always distracted at the thought of: is this it?

Your agitation with the prophecy and your fear at the thought that Luke would smoothen you into kindness put you on edge, and soon enough your composure unraveled like loose threads and your formerly safe antics almost cost you and Luke your lives.

But it wasn't always you making the trip a hassle.

Your heavy, dragging breaths fill the tight brick alleyway just on the outskirts of the city you cut through to make a “harmless” shortcut Luke hounded you into taking, where you caught the attention of a rogue minotaur hungry for demigod dessert. Now, you have burnt soles and a creature hot on your tail.

It was a shortcut no different from the one you had insisted on taking, but Luke reason that the alternative trail was the same amount of time, with less elevation, and with more places to get food and water—but before you could leave, you realized why the town felt a lot more deserted than usual.

Luke pulled you inside the slim space by the arm, clutching you close into his body and angling you away from the mouth of the alleyway. He has one hand clamped over your mouth and the other on the base of your spine, pulling you so intensely near that you can smell his perfume and feel the ridges on his chest.

You hear the minotaur’s guttural growls and heavy gait echoing with a sharp thud, slowly and slowly until it disappears out of earshot. It’s only then that you feel the heartbeat pounding into your bones once the adrenaline runs out of your bloodstream.

You seem to realize the minotaur’s disappearance a lot faster than Luke does, with his hand remaining over your mouth and his body still pressed close to yours.

Oh, he was so incredibly close.

The flush on your face deepens at every single passing moment, your fingers picking at the skin beneath your nails, with your body becoming hypersensitive to every point that touches his, fueled by the force of the two brick walls squeezing the two of you together. His body feels warm from the constant running that led you to this moment, excreting bodily heat that seeps into yours the longer he holds you close.

When Luke gazes down after ensuring that the minotaur was out of the immediate area, he finds you studying him with a wide set of eyes. He doesn't say anything, mostly because his ego is enjoying the show, watching you stare at his chest, and his arms, his neck, before ending up on his eyes.

You retain eye contact, and Luke cranes his head to your side to check on you. Luke liked getting in close for things he only wanted you to hear, so when he tipped his head down to ask if you were alright, you stalled—like deer in headlights—and panicked at the feeling of his face so close to yours. You break out of Luke’s hold when the panic seeps into your bones, and you stumble onto the open streets.

You crane your gaze to the left—and meet eyes with the minotaur.

—

The hotel off the highway is dingy and obviously seen better (and more graceful) days, with peeling wall paint, dusty carpets, and a receptionist with a mean streak who barely cares for the customers arriving. The ringer on the desk barely makes a sound over her nail file.

She files her nail with a vigorous back-and-forth, the scratching of the material screeching into your ear like nails on a chalkboard. The bright purple of her hair is mirrored by the bubblegum in her mouth, deflating in a scandalous pop when she decides to entertain you.

Well, not you exactly, but the view of the tall, handsome man standing just behind you. Who was, believe it or not, clutching his injured shoulder.

(Minotaur’s fault; not yours, directly)

You can see the instant attraction in her eyes when it lands on Luke’s figure, and you feel a dull sensation in your ribs.

“Well,” she smacks her lip, looking as if she wanted to undress Luke with her eyes, “Two separate rooms, I hope.”

“Excuse me?” you say, stopping halfway from digging into your bag for the money.

“Two rooms, right?” the receptionist rolls her eyes at you, dragging her words along the floor. She fetches two keys on the counter but keeps them beneath her palm, batting her eyelashes at Luke, “Hey, you—pretty boy. I’m a pretty good masseuse, you know.”

You press your lips together, holding back the incredulous expression your face is dying to spit out.

Two customers annoyed and frustrated at each other, looking for a room; one with a bad shoulder, and the other a sleeve catching on a doorknob away from crashing out into misery.

And the damn receptionist decides it's time to snag a quick hookup?

She continues her little show of seduction, leaning over the counter in her slightly-undone button down. There’s venom and honey dripping on her voice, and a bony finger catches itself on her lip, “I can heal that shoulder of yours real good if you let me come up to your floor.”

It’s unbelievable at this point, you decide. You could tolerate this a lot better if you were having a better day, but today was not that, at all.

Your anger, burning hot and bright, slowly becomes slightly clouded by a churning feeling at the bottom of your stomach when you realize you haven't heard Luke answer—nor did you know how he was reacting to the woman at all.

Was he enjoying the attention? Was he considering blowing off steam with her? Did he like it?

Why do you care?

You don't. That’s what you put your resolve on—and there are more serious things to think about, like how you’re on the verge of failure in your quest. He could fool around with anyone, and that wouldn't be your business. It shouldn't be your business.

Whatever turns him productive enough to lead you to completion of Aphrodite’s favor.

Your thoughts are on the verge of collapse, but as if by some wicked timing, the receptionist shakes you out of your trance and pushes you into irritability tenfold when she slips over to you one key.

“Here’s ‘ya room. Leave your boy to me, hm?”

You feel like a kettle, slowly boiling until it’s time to explode and spill over scalding hot insults and lectures about the lack of decency being given. You’re about to start when you feel a chin nuzzled into your shoulder and a hand at your waist.

Luke whispers in your ear, “She’s not worth it.”, staring at the receptionist dead in the eye before exchanging the one key for money.

“Just one room. We’ll be fine, alone.”

The elevator ride is dragging, and you’re standing on opposite sides as if Luke wasn't just clinging on you from the last minute as a response to the flirty receptionist. He looks at the floor with a restrained expression, and you have a flat frown on your mouth. It takes what feels like decades before the carriage reaches your floor.

The doors open into a narrow hall, dimly lit with matching dull carpets from the lobby. Your room isn't in any better shape than the rest of the building. It might be worse when the door shuts and another misunderstanding erupts.

“What happened back there?” Luke asks, his voice pulled taunt by tension, but held back by the need to not escalate the situation, “Why did you freak out on me?”

Luke knows you’re keeping something secret, you’ve had a shift in behaviour that he doesn't exactly recognize, but feels familiar all the same.

You keep his gaze leveled to yours, “I’m not the one at fault here, Castellan. We wouldn't have been there if we took the original route.”

“Fine,” he groans, “It was my fault we ended up in that stupid alley in the city outskirts. I didn't factor in why the map wouldn't mark it as a route in the first place. But that’s not what I’m asking, isn't it?”

“What are you asking then?”

“Why’d you freak out on me in that alley?”

“And that’s such a big deal?”

“It’s a big deal because that meltdown of yours cost us an injury, supplies, and now transport money that we have to use on this hotel.” he stalks closer, tone suspiciously clear of malice, “You’re smart. You know we don't have enough time or resources for the quest, no?”

“I know that.” you snarl. You don't even know when you stood up, “Shit happens, Castellan. I can't control when and where I panic.”

“But you can.” he shrugs. You have no idea when he got so close, “I may not know what happened, but I do know you—you’re calm, collected; you hate being driven by emotion and you are Athena’s favourite child for a reason.”

You look away to the side, refusing to make eye contact, “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying,” Luke drawls, as if the answer is staring at you, “Either your skills have downgraded for absolutely no reason at all, and you’ve become a shame of a daughter of a war goddess—or, something else has shook you to your core entirely. Something, or someone. That’s my guess.”

It was true—you were shaken by the prophecy and let the panic from it settle far too deep into your bones, but you were a lot more pissed by the way Luke was speaking to you. As if he knew you from the inside out, and to hell with him thinking that way.

He didn't have the right.

“You wanna know the reason, crook?” Your finger jabs into his shoulder, and you have to look up to his towering height to meet his gaze and get your point across. You were at such a close proximity now, it's as if you could taste the smugness in his voice.

He rolls his eyes, and shrugs mockingly, “Well, don't keep me waiting.”

You let out a good exhale before you postulate.

“The prophecy got under my skin.” Luke senses the tinge of nervousness in your voice, the end of your sentence faltering into a low mutter, “As much as I want to be the perfect quest companion you need so bad, the prophecy that we would have to eventually kiss crawled into my head and won't leave my consciousness since.” your voice tries to remain steadfast, “Every time you’re near, I think about the kiss, and I panic because I wouldn't know what to do with myself and I wouldn't know what to do with you. Happy now?”

You pull out a sharp exhale, “You make me nervous, Castellan. You still make me nervous.”

Luke stares at you like gears are turning in his head, his eyes flickering between your gaze and your lips. The realization of what you just said hits you in the ribs, and you feel as if the oxygen in the room is too little to keep you alive and breathing. You swallow your pride and your embarrassment, wide-eyed and on your toes.

You almost move to ask Luke to say something, anything really, but he cuts you off wordlessly when his hand weaves its way into your hair and his mouth finds its slot against yours.

Time grinds into a halt, and you realize that in all the times you imagined the prophesized kiss in shameful fever dreams and trances, you never expected for it to be this: Luke kisses you like he’s been starving for months. He’s deprived and angry and desperate and moves as if there wasn't anything else he’d rather be doing than to dishevel you in the middle of the room and leave your knees weak and trembling like he used to.

Oh, gods. The kiss is like water, like a delirious thirst in your bones finally quenched and an itch you’ve been dying to scratch. You’re stunned at first, but find yourself kissing him back just as quick and just as desperate.

“I waited far too long for this.” he rasps into your mouth, tongue swiping on your bottom lip to open your mouth, “Couldn't get my mind off you even when we broke up.”

“Shut up, Castellan, for once.” you breathe out, and Luke can’t help to restrain himself when he smiles against your lips.

“I tried everything to get close again.” He says in between kisses, ��Who knew we only needed a damn quest?”

The two of you are sprawled on the creaking twin-bed mattress, and Luke, despite his bad shoulder, hauls you into his lap with a burning intention to keep you there. His lips trace from pecking at your lips, to nibbling at the skin behind your ear, to tracing down searing hot, open-mouthed kisses on the bottom of your jaw.

“Castellan, I—” you gasp, melting between his mouth and the hand that’s running lines over your hips.

“That’s not my name.” he mutters between kisses, turning you over with your back to the mattress, “Say my name, smart girl.”

If you were in any sort of proper thought, you’d be flushed red and annoyed at Luke for speaking to you this way—but all rationality is thrown through the window when his lips are on your neck.

You swallow your pride, your dignity, and everything in between, “Luke.” it’s a whimper when it comes out, and he pulls you in impossibly closer.

He hums in satisfaction, dropping his head over one of the moles on your neck. Luke gives it a small lick before smoothing it over with a kiss, “Vega.”

To your collarbone, “Sheliak.”

Down to the mole just above your chest, “Sulafat.”

He’s naming the stars in the Lyra constellation, and your mouth lets out a choked moan, “Luke, shit—”

Luke pulls away after one more quick peck, and he doesn't waste time admiring your figure from head to toe. You’re resting against the white pillows, breathing heavily with a disheveled look when he asks, “You good?”

The moment finally sinks into your mind in a panicked, cascading waterfall of information—that you’ve just shamelessly made out with your ex after a frustrating run, and that you were basically pinned against him on a bed.

It’s a wash of fresh, hot shame. Before you can help it, words spill out your mouth in an attempt to save face.

“That,” you blink, still a little hazy from having Luke’s mouth on yours.

“Go on,” He says, patiently, “Take your time.”

“Well, that’s—uhm” you inhale, “—don’t take that personally, Castellan.” you rasp out, trying to hide the weakness in your voice, “That was just for the quest.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you nod cautiously, “We’ve got the prophecy out the way now, haven't we?”

You doubt you were convincing him any more than you were convincing yourself when Luke gives you a sickeningly sweet grin. He’s still pinned over you, like he refuses to be anywhere else.

“Mhm,” he coos, “Sure it was.”

“That didn't mean anything to me.” you repeat, to yourself more than anyone, “And that didn't mean anything to you.”

“Speak for yourself,” Luke shrugs, now falling into the pillows next to you. He closes his eyes, sinking into the bed, “That meant the world to me.

There’s a mixture of confidence and lack of hesitation in his voice, and when you prop yourself on your elbows to look at him, he was disheveled with smeared lip gloss all over his mouth, and he looked the happiest he’s been in days.

“Hear that?” he goads with a lilt that sounds suspiciously like bait, like he’s prompting you to retaliate, “I said the kiss meant the world to me.”

You find it unimaginable to believe him, but when Luke gathers your hands in his and places them against his lips with a soft exhale, you feel your stern resolve melting at every passing second.

“You don't mean that.” Your voice sounds even weaker now, like you’re hanging on by a thread.

“I do. I mean every single word.” Luke kisses your knuckles, softly whispering, “I can prove it to you, if you’ll let me.”

It’s scary.

It’s a scary realization to know what Luke’s asking for, and an even scarier realization was the fact that you were willing to give him another shot.

A second wind. Like what the prophecy asked for.

“You’re lucky I tolerate you, you crook.”

In your many years at camp, still, the best advice you could probably give somebody is not to date another camper.

But when you’re tasked to go on a journey with them promising a kiss at the end, maybe it wouldn't hurt to give it a chance.

Especially if it’s somebody like Luke Castellan.

“The luckiest alive, smart girl.”

—

“That’s my victory, then, forehead-spawn.”

A sultry voice echoes in Olympus. Aphrodite leisurely fans her face with a smug look, satisfied by the outcome of the prophecy.

Athena gives her nothing but a disgruntled expression.

#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #luke castellan #pjo #percy jackon and the olympians #riordanverse

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strungnews · 11 days ago

Text

TO ME YOU'RE ACTING LIKE YOU'RE TWINS, THIS IS A MESS. IS THIS A TEST?

a 'small' continuation + names of this since some wanted to see more, and I agree. not beta read i just want this gone from my drafts!!

A scoff, hand waving dismissively in the air like a snobby royal. "Don't be stupid, he gives off 'daddy issues' more than the other ones." "You're mistaken, they all have daddy issues. And mommy issues, but that's besides the point. We can't name him 'daddy issues' because that'd be like--I dunno, saying this piece of sand is better than the other grains of sand!"

You scrunch your nose and roll your eyes at William.The two of you have been at it all afternoon renaming the 'Mark Variants' as he had dubbed, to more notable and memorable ones. Since you and William can't for the life of you remember whose who, there's 17 of them! Sue you for not knowing.

It's a weird thing you and William have as an inside joke to one another, having even made a whole game out of it. It was like a harder version of 'Wheres Waldo' but you had to guess if it was mark or one of his 'variants' on the screen.

But you and him weren't playing today, right now you were organizing, real serious stuff. Since a certain someone slipped up and called one of them Jeremy, but he was obviously Mateo. Obviously.

"Ugh, I can't with this! Im running out of braincells trying to give creative nicknames to remember their actual names. God we couldn't have befriended a normal guy? We had to take one that had 17 other versions of him?" William is at his wits end. And you are no help to saving him.

"Hey, you talked to him first, not me." You noisily sipped at your straw, the cup almost empty as you salvage whats left of it.

"And I regret it everyday,"

"No you don't." "Yes I do. "No you don't." "Yes I do," "Nuh uh."

"Yuh uh," "Nuh uh. Remember how 'Nestle-cock' saved your ass by giving the best gift that one time, and your mom still wont stop bringing it up?" William groans disgustedly at the name, and tiredly at the thought. "We're definitely changing that one. Especially that one." You laugh. "Not my fault you took my suggestion. The internet is filled with so much wonders these days." You recall looking up another term for the word 'mama's boy', and as demeaning as it is, you couldn't help but jokingly suggest it. "Remind me to not take them anymore. But that's besides the point! We might as well try and remember their names the normal way."

"It's more fun this way," You shuffle on about your bed to place your empty cup down, lying on your stomach as you watch William visibly age through the monitor of your laptop screen.

"For you, not for me." He points an accusatory finger at you and sighs. "I gotta go, we've been at this since 1:30, I gotta eat." William rubs at his stomach hungrily at the prospect of food, and stretches that you can hear the crack and creak of his body and worn chair.

"Can I come with?" It's cold out today, a much needed change and reprieve from the now oncoming summer heat. Small instances of rain, but never pouring continuously.

William only tuts at you, as if his answer was obvious. "Hell no. If you come, Mark comes. And if Mark comes, your whole dang harem will too!" You snicker, hah, come. He starts picking up his long discarded clothes across his room, coming out of frame the more he collects, and coming back with a shirt in hand.

"What? They are not my harem!" William scoffs and drapes it on his chair. "Sure, keep telling yourself that. Anyways I gotta go, see you and real Mark." Before you could protest his words, he ends the call with a wave.

Your face falls onto one of your pillows and you look up to the end call screen, before clicking off the tab and muttering ‘Gross.’ Because who would want a harem of people that consists of your very good looking best friend that you're totally not crushing on? Not you, pfft.

You hear your phone chime with a notif, and you drag your hand blindly to where it might be, hitting a hard piece of plastic and snatching at it.

William sent a link of his location, a change of heart on his end, offering to let you come with like you were a beggar. You were in his head, but he loved you nonetheless.

You pump your fists in the air in silent victory as you cheer, before you jump and yelp out when at the tapping on your window. A normal occurrence to happen, but it doesn't stop you from clutching your chest and walking over to it.

"Hey..?" Mark says guiltily, probably overheard your surprise from outside.

"What is it this time Grayson?" You scold playfully while watching him step inside your room one leg at a time. You've told him to just knock at your front door instead of acting like a thief in the night, sliding your window open. But Mark says no, thinks he looks cooler this way. Feels even cooler with the impending doom of a fall just one slip up away.

"Well, I just. . . It is a crime to visit my best friend?" He says through a forced smile and walks over to the side of your bed, plopping down on the beanbag where it resides.

"You have William," You offer, knowing full well he probably told Mark that he was probably busy or something, not wanting to have to sneak around in order for Mark to have fun without the weight of his annoying siblings.

"He said he was busy," He says defeated, and deflates on the comfort of your beanbag, practically having his body imprinted on it with how often he sat there.

"So annoying me was the second best option?" "You know it."

Hang outs with Mark feels like trying to screw on a lightbulb while ten other people pushed their way through on a race to do it first.

He never comes to the party alone, having to at least bring one, two, three, maybe even five other family members with him, in order for them to have some semblance of enrichment whenever he so plans to go out with his already very small group of friends. A rule set by his amazing mother.

She just wants everyone to feel included, at the cost of humiliation that is.

And being the good son and mama's boy he is they all are, he obliges with a small kick to the dirt, a mumbled out 'fine, while he puts his hands in his pockets like he was digging for gold. Accompanied by the million dollar pout on his face.

It wasn't ideal to always drag someone with him when he just wanted alone time with his friends, so on occasion he'd offer you to do it at his house.

As if that was any better.

So when things got too overwhelming, he'd sneak into yours or Williams place to cool down. A nice contrast to the loud and bustling house, to a quiet room with him and friends. Not a concern to worry about.

Think of it as his personal bunker that he goes to hide at from his life.

"Anything on your mind?" You break the ice, having to say goodbye to the free food you had been in favor of being there for Mark. You know, like the good friend you are.

He stirs, crossing his arms in thought while he thinks it over. "I dunno. Not much in my head today," "When does it ever?" You counter back without thinking, and he sticks his tongue out at you childishly.

"But I did get caught by Finn earlier. And he told me he wouldn't tell mom if I covered his shift on saturday." Mark takes one of the many stray plushies you have on your bed, and hugs it to close and tight till the seams were threatening to rip apart..

Coincidentally, it was the oldest one you had. Which was the first time Mark had won you a prize at the carnival as kids. Since then he likes to surprise you with new ones each time you guys went out to the arcade. Or when he’d go overseas with his dad.

So much little trinkets and doodads you have lying around your room are a courtesy from Mark.

But with the way he held onto this particular one, you can tell he's also grown fond of it at the memory. Attached even. The feeling was mutual, the plush being the one you favored the most to hug to sleep. Something about it was a lot more personal, a lot more special.

You watch in your peripheral while he buries his face in it in comfort. Inhaling like it was some sort of drug to him, it probably smells like you. You shake your head.

"Oh, Finn. Yeah, right." You repeat, nodding along with him. You’ve heard of the name in passing whenever you’d go to Grayson household, but never really got to put a face on said name. They were all just photocopies of Mark with different attitudes and mannerisms. Plus, so many names were given around the place, you were surprised to even hear the attempt at keeping up with the M lettered names before sticking to normal ones.

"You don't know who i'm talking about, do you?" He raises a brow at you, all smiling and smirking cockily like he caught you in the act.

"What? Pfft, of course I do. It's the uh, he's the one where you know," You start to sweat, before reaching out for your phone and redirecting the conversation.

"William said he went out for food." You suddenly blurt. Way to throw him under the bus.

"I know, he told me."

"Great! Well, I was just about to join him till you came knocking. Wanna come with?" Scrolling through your phone to appear busy, Mark starts to sit up straighter and lean on the edge of your bed to take a closer look at you.

"Heyy, who's Finn?" His elbows dig and dip into your soft mattress, now poking at your vulnerable side, and you swat him away like a fly.

“Your brother??” It’s as if he had forgotten he had multiple copies of himself in his house.

“Yeah, well which one?” Mark’s on his knees by the time you look up, and now climbs up fully to sit next to you. The bed moves with his newly added weight, and he casually slings his arm around your shoulder. Plush now resting on his lap.

“God, do you want me to name all of em or something? Im being quizzed now?” You’re starting to get flustered, evident with how defensive you’re turning.

He’s too close, and you’re sure he can feel your heart racing. His arm feels like it’s suffocating you the more he lingers, his hand draped dangerously close to your racing heart, toying at a loose thread he brushed up on.

As a kid Mark’s always been so touchy, always invading your bubble and needing to be physically close at some extent. It never gets easier as time goes on.

"Yeah sure, I'd like to see that.

“Oh, you jackass,” The heat of your palm on his chest as you push away feels like it’s burning at him inside and out. He wants to chase that feeling and let it eat him alive.

“Cmon, just admit it. You don’t remember who Finn is.”

He pokes at you again, enjoying the way you tense and glare, or the way you suck in a breath and close your eyes, calming yourself down.

“Fine. I don’t know who this infamous Finn is, okay? Now do you wanna go and eat with William?” Speak of the devil and he will come. Your phone chimes again, several messages come in like a flood, which you snicker at.

William sent a candid photo of Mark and the variants, a behind the scenes of a family photo, posed awkwardly. Another one showed two very similar sulking kids with a very exasperated Nolan at the back, forcing them to wear an oversized shirt with sharpie drawn on it. ‘This is our get along shirt.’

“Cute.” You accidentally said out loud, and type back at William. Now ignoring Mark in favor of something more compelling.

“What is?” He peers and nudges you closer to him, ever the nosy guy.

“What are you even doing?” He urges on again, feeling left out. The bed dips further, the more you move away from him and the more he chases after you. Ending up trapped under his weight with a plush wedged between the two of you.

Pressing your phone to your chest and clicking at the power button, you push his too close face away from you. “It’s none of your business,” He smells like the generic 3 in one mens shampoo you would usually smell while walking by a product isle. And the smell only intensifies the more his hair gets ruffled by your hand.

The sudden shift in attitude and secrecy makes Mark perk. If he had ears like a dog, they’d definitely stand tall and proud, with a tail to most likely accompany it.

“You’re hiding something from me, what is it?” Now he’s crowding you in like a damn police dog. Smelling and searching for any explosives or substances that might be on your person. He watches you curl in on yourself, as a sort of barrier to keep from his prying eyes, but this only leaves you vulnerable. Sides wide open to harass.

“Stop—dont-dont touch me!” You laugh and struggle when he tickles you, you have half a mind to kick him in the face the more breathless you’re starting to feel.

“Mark, cut it out!”

“Not until you tell me!” Your arm’s raised up in an attempt to keep your phone away, but Mark only snatches it in his hands and opens up your phone, already knowing your password by heart.

“Fuck. I knew you remembered it, you said you didn’t! Liar.” He only sticks his tongue out at you, and skitters away when you try to lunge back at him.

“Nuh uh,” He catches you when you turn to look at him, vision going thanks to your low iron.

And suddenly Mark has you positioned in a tight chokehold. His fleshly limb imprisonment on you doesn’t relent when he feels you thrashing while he casually looks through your phone.

“This is an invasion of privacy, im telling your mom!”

“Save it for the judge,” he mumbles, wincing slightly when you jabbed at his stomach, but only tightened his arms around you before tapping out.

“Fine-fine, jesus,” you wheeze out and his hold relents. But he keeps you in place like an owner holding its unruly dog. Ironic.

Mark mumbles out a small ‘let’s see here,’ like a grandpa while you blow away stray piece of hair. Hands wrapped around his strangely strong arms, tugging at it as a demand for freedom.

“Why are you looking through photos of me?” The question makes you go still, and he goes further and further into your album of your photos. The proximity suddenly feeling too much as you try to pry his arms off again.

“I didn’t even post some of these! Where are you getting them from?”

“Facebook,” you mumble, his muscle bulging and moving with each swipe, earning the bright idea to bite at him.

“Ow!”

You take this as ample opportunity to take what was rightfully yours, and smack him with the long discarded and well loved but lumpy plush, right in his face.

“What gives?”

“You almost choked me out you idiot, what do you mean ‘what gives?’ ??” You swing again, in an attempt to smother him with it.

“Stop, stop! Why do you and William even have these?”

He quickly moves to take the descending pillow and pushes you backwards, your arms swinging and scrambling around as if you were out in the beach swimming on a hot day, before falling on the bed with a springy bounce.

Mark hovers over you, a stupid grin on his face, you wanted so badly to smother it off of him.

“Well?” His head is tilted like a puppy, and you look away from him while crossing your arms.

“Its just a game me and Will like to play, okay? It’s ‘guess who’s Mark, the most guesses wins a milkshake’ or whatever.” You say through gritted teeth, and Mark plops right down beside you.

“Really? You guys make bets on us? Can I join?”

“Seriously?” You prop your phone up so the two of you can see, and the text bubbles on William are starting up, seeing as your scuffle with Mark had accidentally given him shakespearean words.

“Ghas” “Al0" “&@f”

William: what the hell are you saying

Truly poetic.

“You two were already starting before I came here?” His hair tickles your cheek, and you swipe it away.

“No, we were doing something else. But he already owes me three milkshakes if need be.” You say, smug and proud like you had just won something award worthy. But Mark only quirks a brow, putting a hand on your phone to scroll up on your messages.

“Bit obsessed with me, no?” He sounds so cocky, full of himself the more he reads through the chat. And you slap his forehead.

“Shut up. If you had to hang out with yourself for like, all your life, you’d know who’s you by now.”

Mark stops at one message, and his face scrunches.

“‘Bald on the sides Mark’?” He reads out loud you and William’s message, and you couldn’t help but snort. He moves his thumb a bit further up, his elbow lightly digging onto your chest and you let out a small ‘ow’, which he movies to fully take your phone from your grasp.

“This is-are you talking about Marco?” Mark says, baffled at your description of his sibling, albeit very amused. Bald at the sides. How . . . Creative. He adjusts his hold on your phone, his pinky playing at the charm you had attached to it.

“Yeah, Marco, Polo, whatever.” You grumble at him, smooshing your face on his shoulder while you watch Mark read through your messages with William like a hawk. Ensuring any unwanted and unsavory conversations you had with William would be safe from Mark’s nosy eyes.

You hear him snort, his chest moving quickly as you feel him laugh while his shoulders shake.

“ ‘The shining twins’??” Mark is full on belly laughing when he sees a picture of Noah and Marcel horribly edited together with the nickname William picked out for them. He has to put your phone down to calm himself before he’s hitting your shoulder weakly with a wheeze.

“God, you guys are great at naming things. Just remind me not to ask you two when someone asks for baby names.”

“It’s not that bad,” you try to argue, plucking your phone from his weight of laying on it.

“It so is. This could be considered bullying you know?”

“We are not bullying anyone. They don’t even know!”

“Yeah, for now.” He threatens, and takes a screenshot of your chat and opens up your photo album.

“Don’t you dare-“ Your hand squeezes at his wrist, and it weakens. Causing your phone to fall and plant on his face with a ‘thud’. You’re surprised it didn’t echo with how empty his head usually is.

Mark lets our a pained groan, your brick of a phone hitting his nose and teeth. You peel it off of him slowly, arm now propping yourself to look down at him, assessing the damage.

“God, I was bluffing,” He says remorsefully. He really shouldn’t have tested you.

You scoff when you see he’s fine, and pinch his cheek. “Now you know better than that. Can we please go out and eat with William now?”

Your puppy eyes aren’t anywhere comparable to Mark’s, but it was enough for him to give in and drop it. But only because your hand rested on his sternum, and he doesn’t know how much he can take you looking down at him with those eyes.

“Fine, fine.” He raises his hands in surrender and sits up. Hair now disheveled and clothes a lot more crinkled than when he had arrived.

“You’re paying for my order though. I didn’t bring extra money with me.”

“Ugh, you’re impossible.”

The walk to the cafe William was in wasn't too far. But long enough for you and Mark to continue on talking.

You spill your guts out on the streets for Mark to see and know, all about the small secrets you've had about him and his variants. He's amused, and sad. Not having been in on the joke even though it'd ruin the whole attraction of it.

The conversation drifts back to Marco, or bald on the sides as you had endearingly said.

He had a rebellious streak in comparison to the rest of them, but honestly they were all unruly in their own way. Marco just liked to express himself a lot more outwardly appearance wise.

"Man, I wish I could get some piercings too. An eyebrow would be cool, don't you think?" You say to Mark, and he only shakes his head.

"Dude, he did his piercings himself. The trips to the hospital because of his infections were not cool." "Hey, he did it himself. Of course i'd go to a professional." You cross your arms defiantly at his dismissive tone.

"Whatever, im just saying. You know?" "Are you suggesting I would look bad with it?"

"What? No! Im just trying to--ugh. What im trying to say, he's a bad influence, almost all of them are. And you wanting a piercing is just further proof of that." Mark said with a pout on his face, kicking a nearby rock.

"Mark," you nudge, pushing him slightly off balance. "They’re your family. Are you trying to say you're better than them?"

He’d grumble at your words, always grumbling when it came to you. He simply turns to look at you and pushed you with a force of a quarterback. Stupid jock.

“Hey!”

"Hey," You say back to William, who was gleefully sipping on his usual frappuccino.

His smile instantly drops when he sees Mark following closely behind you, and his eyes quickly darts around for any familiar faces.

"No harem?" "Excuse me?" "Nope," You interrupt Mark, not sparing him a glance when he eyes you curiously.

William eyes you up and down, like a robot scanning for assessment, before he quickly sips at his drink.

"So," He starts, before Mark excuses himself for a moment. "So," You say along, eyes now watching him order the usuals you and he had, before meeting William's.

"You so told him, didn't you?" "Ugh, I did!" You exclaim, like a dramatic movie scene being acted out. And he only shakes his head in disapproval.

"Can't say im surprised, but I am disappointed." He takes another sip and offers you as a comfort, which you take with much thanks.

"I had to wrestle him for my phone, so don't say I didn't try." "Is that what those messages were? Are you sure you didn't do more than wrestling?" You take a hefty sip with a glare, and slide it back to him. He lets out an 'awe man' at the amount you had taken from his drink. "Don't be gross."

"Who's being gross?" Mark comes back with your caffeinated drinks in hand, and places yours just beside. He opens his hand and closes it repeatedly, before you groan and fish out some money from your wallet.

"Thank yew," He says, and does that quick yet awkward jog to the cashier and back to your table, before finally sitting back down.

"William's talking about having a fat crush on one of your variants." At that, he and Mark almost blow their drinks into splattering all over the table. "What? I do not!" He coughs.

"Yeah? What about Lover bo-" He smacks a hand to your mouth and Mark has still yet to properly recover.

"God I love inside jokes." You say, muffled from William's clammy hands.

a/n: ugh finally im done with this. i can finally work on the other variants of this au heh.. totally dont have a bias, looks over at mohawk mark. yea totally

#news report!#invincible #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x you #mark grayson invincible #invincible variants

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plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 1 month ago

Text

exhibitionism

part I

Pairing: SugarDaddy!Ben x Fem!Reader

Summary: While out on a Friday night with your friends, you're struggling to pay for your second drink of the night. You are about to send it back when a stranger steps in to pay for your beverage. And really, what's the price of a drink?

Warnings: 18+!, Ben once again being his own warning, age gap, language, misogyny, drug consumption, smut (kissing, biting, marking, slapping, dirty talk, clitoral stimulation, overstim, forced orgasms, fingering, handjob, cunnilingus/oral, p in v, cum on face, throttling, rough sex, semi-public sex), mind games, manipulation, degradation, power imbalance, I may have missed some. (There's a bunch in this one, agh!)

Word Count: 7,109

A/N: Part one is just setting the tone, besties. I needed to build the atmosphere slowly because the next few parts of this? Unhinged. Truly. You can probably tell from the title that this one? Gonna be a different breed to the other works I've done. Obviously it's an AU, Ben isn't Soldier Boy here, but some (exceptionally) wealthy prick. And—good god—he's about to be the most controlling I've ever written him. I'm so beyond excited for the next few instalments of this one. I hope y'all are too. <3 Feel free to give me feedback, tell me if you're looking forward to the next part, tell me what you think. My gross little heart loves it. And yes, this is part one... so you know the drill: if the warnings listed above aren't evident yet, they will be. All the love.

Without further ado: EXHIBITIONISM

Power is not taken. It is given.

A glance across the bar. A drink set down without a word. A hand at the small of your back, guiding you somewhere you don’t belong.

It starts small—a single indulgence, a breathless yes.

Then, suddenly, you are on display. Draped over his lap, diamonds at your throat, whiskey on your lips. A possession. A prize. A thing to be seen.

Because men like him do not love. They own.

New York made you tough fast. It had to.

You’d come here alone, chasing a future that didn’t come with a safety net. No trust fund. No monthly deposits from a parent who still called to check in. No handouts, no home-cooked meals waiting for you in a house you no longer belonged to. You’d left it all behind—the family who told you it was them or college, the life you could’ve had if you’d just been what they wanted.

But you chose yourself.

And now? You were paying for it.

Rent was due in five days. You had barely scraped together enough, and there were still textbooks to buy, bills to pay, groceries to figure out. Your job—some soul-sucking gig that barely covered the essentials—kept you too exhausted to focus on anything else. But tonight, for the first time in weeks, you’d let your friends drag you out, promising yourself you’d try to have fun.

They didn’t understand, not really.

They weren’t cruel, just privileged. All born into wealth, raised in big houses, given credit cards they never had to check the balance on. You liked them—loved them, even—but you’d stopped trying to make them understand what it felt like to have nothing.

So you smiled, let them buy overpriced cocktails, laughed at their meaningless complaints, and sipped your one, carefully nursed vodka soda.

The rooftop bar was packed, warm from the heat of too many bodies, the glow of the city stretching out behind it. Your friends were already tipsy, ordering another round while you debated whether or not you could justify one more drink.

You couldn’t.

But for one night, you wanted to feel normal.

You followed one of them to the bar. She ordered some expensive, ridiculous thing—probably something with elderflower and gold flakes.

"Just put it on your tab, babe."

You laughed, shaking your head. "I’ll get my own. I’ll meet you back at the table."

She shrugged, flounced off, and you turned toward the bartender, already digging through your purse.

That was your first mistake.

The second was realising too late that you didn’t have enough.

Shit.

Your stomach sank as you counted out the crumpled bills, the few lonely coins at the bottom of your clutch. You pushed the drink back across the bar, heat prickling up your neck. Elbows on the counter, you pressed your face into your hands, forcing slow, steady breaths.

You could handle this. It wasn’t a big deal. You’d just… go back, tell them you weren’t drinking anymore.

And then—

"How much you need, sweetheart?"

The voice came from behind you.

Rough, low. Amused.

You froze. Shook your head, already mumbling, "No, it’s okay. Really, I—"

And then you looked up.

And fuck.

He was standing right there. Tall, broad, menacingly gorgeous.

A dress shirt stretched across his chest, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the flex of his forearms. Dark, expensive-looking pants. A thick watch on his wrist. Clean, manicured beard, hair swept back, and green eyes that looked like they could see straight through you.

He looked like a million fucking dollars.

And he was looking right at you.

"Tough night, sweetheart?"

His voice curled around you like smoke—low, deep, amused.

You barely had time to process it before he stepped forward, before he was in your space, before he was there like he'd been waiting for this moment all night.

You turned your head just as he slid into the empty spot beside you, just as the bartender reached for the drink you'd pushed away—ready to pour it down the drain.

And then he clicked his tongue. Just once. A sharp, quiet sound, and the bartender froze. Then nodded. Like that single fucking noise was enough to halt the whole goddamn world.

"Another," the man said, fingers tapping once against the polished wood of the bar, easy and sure. He had a voice like a slow drag of whiskey, rich and rough-edged, as he lifted his chin toward the bartender. "And get her extra lemon in both."

No hesitation. No questions. Just a quiet nod as the bartender went to work.

You swallowed, pulse kicking against your ribs, the air between you thick and electric.

Who the fuck was this guy?

"You didn’t have to do that," you said, voice steadier than you expected, even as heat burned up your throat. "I can’t afford to pay you back."

That got his attention.

Slowly, his gaze dragged back to you, head tilting slightly, like he was deciding whether or not your words deserved a response at all.

Then, finally—finally—he smirked.

"Wasn’t offerin' so you’d pay me back, sweetheart."

You exhaled sharply, something tight winding in your chest.

His eyes dropped for a fraction of a second—your mouth, your throat, the rise and fall of your breath—before flicking lazily toward the empty stool beside you. Then back to you.

He didn’t speak, just lifted an eyebrow. A question. An expectation.

You glanced at the seat, pulse hammering. Something told you that this—right here, right now—was the moment. The choice. The one that would set everything else in motion. Your fingers curled around the cool glass, and with a slow, careful nod, you gestured to the seat.

Permission.

His mouth curled at the corner, something smug, something victorious, and he sank onto the stool. And then he leaned in. Just enough to tilt his face toward you, just enough for his scent—woodsmoke, leather, something dark, something rich—to curl into your lungs.

"Ben," he said. Just that. A name, simple and short. A gift, or a warning. "And you are?"

You hesitated, lifting the drink to your lips, tongue flicking over the extra lemon wedge as you took a slow sip. His eyes followed the movement.

You told him your name.

He repeated it, like he was testing it, rolling it over his tongue just to see how it tasted. Then—

"So," he murmured, the word slow, deliberate. "What’s your story?"

A question with no right answer.

You exhaled softly. "Not much to tell. Just… out with my friends."

Ben made a quiet, thoughtful sound, lifting his glass to his lips—but he wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was looking at them.

Your friends, back at the table, ordering another round without even noticing you were gone. All glossy lips, designer bags, endless money, the kind of girls who would never, ever have to count crumpled bills and loose change just to afford a drink.

You felt the weight of his gaze shift back to you before you even turned your head. And when you finally looked up, he was already smirking.

"Yeah." His voice was slow, edged with something sharp. "See, I don’t think you are."

A pause.

"One of them."

The words cut straight through you, precise and exact, slipping beneath your skin like a blade between ribs.

Because fuck—he was right.

You let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh, shaking your head before taking another slow sip of your drink.

"Yeah," you admitted, rolling the condensation-slick glass between your fingers. "You’re right. I’m not one of them."

Ben didn’t look particularly surprised. He just hummed—low, deep, expectant. Waiting.

And for some reason, you gave him more.

"They’re comfortable," you murmured, staring down into your drink, watching the ice melt. "They don’t have to worry about money. College is just a fun, cute idea to them. Something to pass the time before they go off and do whatever rich girls do when they get bored." You swallowed, the truth suddenly sitting heavy on your tongue. "They’re all pretty. They dress nice. They never have to worry about whether or not they’ve got enough crumpled bills in their purse to pay for a measly vodka soda."

Silence stretched between you.

Then—a sharp tut. Ben clicked his tongue, shaking his head like you’d just said something ridiculous.

"They’re not that pretty."

Your brows furrowed. You glanced at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

But he didn’t answer. Not right away. No—first, he looked.

And fuck.

His gaze dragged over you in one slow, unapologetic pass, starting at your legs, bare where they crossed beneath the bar, lingering just a little too long at the hem of your dress. His expression didn’t change, but you felt it when his eyes darkened, when they lingered on the soft, subtle curves of your body, when his gaze flicked up, finally—finally—to your face.

And then he smirked.

"Yeah, they’re pretty," he admitted, his voice a lazy drawl, like he was indulging the thought just for the hell of it.

Then his eyes locked onto yours.

"But you?" He leaned in, forearms braced on the bar, and his next words were just for you—low, rough, dangerous. "You’re a fuckin' knockout, sweetheart."

A flush crawled up your throat, warm and insidious, and you were so goddamn grateful for the dim lighting because what the fuck.

You weren’t used to this. Not the attention. Not like this. Not from a man.

Not from someone who looked like that—who looked like he had at least fifteen years on you, who carried himself like he had twice as much experience, who was looking at you like you were something worth his time, worth his attention, worth every second he was spending sitting here, watching you squirm.

Your breath caught. You took another sip of your drink, hoping like hell it would cool the heat spreading through your veins.

But his eyes? They told you—you weren’t getting off that easy.

Because Ben didn’t stop looking at you.

If anything, his attention sharpened. Every time you wet your lips, every slow sip of your drink, every flick of your tongue against the rim of the glass—he tracked it, eyes dark and unreadable.

He wasn’t subtle about it. Didn’t even fucking try to be. And worse? You could feel it.

Feel his gaze pressing into you, lingering on your mouth, dipping to your throat every time you swallowed, flicking back to your face just to catch the way heat bloomed beneath your skin.

He knew. He fucking knew. But when he spoke again, his voice was easy, casual—like he hadn’t just been devouring you with his eyes.

"What are you studyin'?"

You blinked, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

"Literature and Language," you answered, trying to sound normal, trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped when his gaze lingered just a second longer than necessary before he nodded.

"Huh." A slow, thoughtful sound. "Why those?"

Your fingers curled around your drink, rolling it between your palms. "I love words."

That made him smirk, like you’d just said something that amused him.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, feeling almost shy under the weight of his gaze. "I want to write. I don’t really care what. Just… something."

Ben nodded, tapping his fingers idly against the bar.

"You on campus?" He asked. "Or you got your own place?"

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to answer. But because you weren’t sure why you felt so fucking compelled to tell him the truth.

His voice wasn’t demanding. He wasn’t prying. But something about him—about the way he looked at you, the way he asked, slow and expectant—made it impossible to brush him off.

You parted your lips to answer, but—

"Hey!"

Your name, bright and teasing, cut through the moment.

You turned to see one of your friends making her way over, heels clicking against the polished floor, eyes flicking between you and Ben with obvious curiosity.

He didn’t look at her. Not once. Even as she stopped beside you, even as she smirked and let her gaze drag over him, assessing, intrigued—Ben didn’t fucking blink.

His focus was still on you.

"We’re heading to another club," your friend announced, raising an eyebrow. Waiting. Watching. "You coming?"

And you—God help you—you were about to say no. You were about to say I want to stay. But before the words could even form—

"She’s good," Ben said smoothly.

Your friend blinked, startled, before her eyes snapped back to him.

"We’re having a nice conversation," he continued, voice easy, unreadable. Final. "Don’t worry about her. I’ll make sure she gets home safe."

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. But your friend? She just grinned, because of course she fucking did.

"See ya later, babe!" She sang, giving you a knowing look before turning back toward your table. Back toward the others, who were already watching. Already smirking, like hungry fucking wolves.

Then your friends were gone, and the bar felt quieter, smaller without them. But Ben? He was still here. Still right beside you, still watching. Still holding all of your attention hostage.

He tapped his glass against the wood once, slow and thoughtful. Then—

"You want somethin' different?"

You blinked, shifting slightly in your seat. "I’m okay."

Ben made a noise in the back of his throat, something between a hum and a scoff, before waving a hand, cutting you off before you could say anything else.

"Didn’t ask if you’re okay, sweetheart." His voice was smooth, lazy, but edged with something sharper. "Asked if you want somethin' different to drink."

Your lips parted, but you hesitated.

Ben didn’t.

"I’m gettin’ another whiskey," he said easily, before his gaze dragged over you again—slow, indulgent, knowing. His smirk deepened. "I can get you one of those fruity little drinks if you want."

You frowned, shaking your head. "I don’t choose those for a reason."

His eyebrows ticked up, but he didn’t interrupt.

"I like alcohol to taste like alcohol," you murmured, running your finger along the rim of your glass.

And that? That earned you something new. A slow, low whistle. Ben grinned, sharp and approving.

"Atta fuckin’ girl."

Your stomach flipped, heat curling somewhere low and slow.

"Here," he said suddenly, reaching for his drink. "Try mine. See if you want that."

You barely had time to react before he pressed the glass into your hands, fingers brushing against yours, firm and deliberate. You weren’t sure why, but your breath hitched.

Not because of the whiskey. Because of him. Because of the way his pupils visibly darkened as you hesitated, as you lifted the glass, as your tongue flicked against the rim of the glass—

The same place he’d been drinking from.

Your lips parted around the sip, slow and small, the liquid burning warm and smooth down your throat. You shut your eyes, exhaling softly.

"Fuck," you murmured, sighing just a little.

You didn’t even have to look. You already knew. But when your lashes fluttered open again, Ben was already watching you, one brow cocked, a knowing little challenge hanging in the air between you.

You swallowed, ignored the heat spreading across your skin, and shrugged.

"It’s nice," you said lightly, reaching to slide the glass back to him. "But I don’t want you to spend any more money on me."

Ben scoffed, like the idea of money was a joke.

"Chump change, sweetheart."

Then, without another word, he whistled for the bartender, tapped his glass against the counter, and lifted two fingers in the air.

A silent command.

Seconds later, two fresh glasses of whiskey slid across the bar toward you. Your throat felt tight. You exhaled, a small breath of laughter slipping free before you even realised it.

"You’re a little young to have such a refined palate."

You huffed, rolling your eyes, before saying, "I used to steal sips of my dad’s whiskey when I was little." You paused, eyes flicking down to your glass, swirling the amber liquid absently. "I’ve always liked the burn."

Ben went still.

Just for a second. But it was enough. Enough to notice the way his nostrils flared, the way his fingers tightened around his glass, the way his gaze dropped back to your mouth like he was suddenly thinking about something else.

And then—

"Come with me."

His voice was low, thick with something weighted, something hot.

You blinked. "Where?"

Ben tipped his glass toward the entrance, toward the doors leading outside to the private rooftop patio.

"Need a smoke." A pause. "You should come."

He didn’t ask. Not really.

It was a suggestion. A promise. A fucking test.

And you? You took your glass and followed.

Ben held the door open with his foot, one arm braced against the frame, the other pressing lightly against the small of your back as he guided you outside.

The touch—warm, firm, easy—made you shiver.

His hand didn’t move. Didn’t slide away, didn’t lift, didn’t hesitate as he steered you toward the back of the rooftop patio—away from the clusters of people near the entrance, away from the noise and the neon city glow.

He led you to a hidden corner, tucked behind hanging plants and low-lit lanterns, a secluded little alcove that smelled like whiskey and leather and cigarette smoke. A place that felt expensive. Exclusive. Like somewhere you didn’t belong.

Ben sat, sprawling out across an outdoor sofa, legs spread wide, exhaling slow as he placed his whiskey down on the table. Then he stretched, arms draped over the back of the couch, rolling his shoulders with a satisfied hum before tilting his chin up at you.

"You gonna stand there all night?" He drawled. "Or you gonna come sit down?"

Your breath hitched. You slid your drink down next to his, then hesitated. Ben smirked. Then he patted his thigh.

Patted. His. Thigh.

"C’mon, sweetheart." His voice was low, teasing, wicked as sin. "I don’t bite."

Something thick and molten curled in your stomach, pooling warm at the base of your spine. And you didn’t know why—why the hell you actually listened, why you obeyed like it was the most natural thing in the world—

But you did. You perched yourself in his lap, delicate and careful, settling neatly on his thigh, just like he told you to.

His hand smoothed over your back, slow and deliberate, before wrapping around your waist and pulling you in closer, settling you against him as he sank deeper into the couch.

His warmth seeped through you instantly.

You hadn’t realised how cold it had gotten—the sharp chill of the evening settling deep in your bones, biting at your skin, leaving you barely covered in the slinky black dress.

But now? Now you were wrapped in his heat.

He reached into his pocket, fishing out a pack of cigarettes, fingers working slow as he tapped one loose. You watched as he flicked open his lighter, gold flame illuminating his face, sharp and stunning in the low light.

He took a long drag, exhaling thick ribbons of smoke into the air before tilting his head back to look at you.

"You smoke?"

You hesitated. "Only sometimes."

Ben hummed. "Why only sometimes?"

You scoffed softly, lifting a brow. "Can’t really afford it."

That made him laugh—low and amused, smoke curling from his lips as he shook his head like you were something funny, something ridiculous.

Then—without warning—he plucked the cigarette from his mouth and held it to yours. The move was smooth, effortless, like it wasn’t even a question whether or not you’d take it.

Like he already knew you would.

Your lips parted before you could think, before you could stop yourself, and you let him press the cigarette between them.

Ben’s eyes darkened visibly as he watched you inhale. Watched the way your lips wrapped around the filter, the way your lashes fluttered as smoke filled your lungs.

And then—still watching—he took it back. Lifted it between two fingers, brought it back to his own mouth, inhaling slow and deep from the same spot your lips had just been.

Your stomach flipped. Your pulse pounded.

And in that moment, you understood. He was doing this on purpose. Every touch, every look, every slow, lazy movement. All of it.

Ben shifted slightly beneath you, his thigh flexing against you, his fingers tightening just a little against your hip. And you—God help you—you stayed perfectly still. Right where he put you.

Ben kept smoking, the cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers as he leaned back, the picture of easy, indulgent satisfaction. He didn’t move much—just enough to shift his thigh beneath you, just enough to flex against the softest parts of you when he adjusted his sprawl.

And you?

You didn’t move at all.

Not when he kept feeding you drags of his cigarette, the filter brushing against your lips in slow, deliberate offerings. Not when he exhaled thick ribbons of smoke past your shoulder, keeping you close, keeping you still.

"You didn’t answer me earlier."

You blinked, head tilting slightly, forcing yourself to keep your breath even.

"Sorry?"

"You live on campus?" His voice was lazy, deep, completely unbothered. "Or you got your own place?"

You hesitated for a beat, shifting your drink between your hands before answering.

"I have my own place."

Ben hummed, dragging another slow inhale from his cigarette, eyes steady on you. "That right?"

You nodded. "It’s nothing special, but I managed to get it all by myself. It’s not the worst neighbourhood, but it’s good."

He nodded, exhaling smoke in a slow, steady stream.

"You like it?"

You blinked, caught off guard. No one had ever asked you that before. You’d lived there for two, almost three years now. Since you’d started college. It wasn’t something you’d ever thought about, wasn’t something you’d ever stopped to consider.

It was just… a place. A roof. Somewhere to study, sleep, survive.

"I—" You hesitated, licking your lips. "I like the fire escape."

That made him laugh, short and sharp, the sound richer than the whiskey on his tongue.

"The fire escape?" He lifted a brow, smirking. "Why’s that?"

Your fingers traced absently along the rim of your glass. "I like sitting on it. Reading when it rains."

Ben made a low, thoughtful sound. A soft hum that rumbled somewhere deep in his chest. Like that was interesting. Like you were interesting.

His eyes flicked back to your face, pinning you in place, holding you there, trapping you without even touching you. Then, smoothly, effortlessly—

"You goin' home tonight?"

The question landed like a punch to the ribs. Your throat went dry.

"Or," Ben continued, flicking ash into a tray, his voice even, unbothered, "you wanna come home with me?"

You choked. Your lips parted, a rush of heat crawling up your throat, your skin prickling with something hot and tight and suffocating.

"I—"

Ben’s smirk deepened.

You forced a breath, shaking your head quickly. "I—no, I’m not—" You swallowed hard. "I’m not that type of girl."

That only made him grin wider.

"Yeah?" He exhaled slow, tilting his head as he took another drag, watching you through the smoke. "What kind of girl?"

You panicked. You could feel it, the clumsy mess of heat and nerves unraveling inside you, twisting your stomach into knots.

"I don’t—" You exhaled sharply, tripping over your own words. "I don’t just go home with guys and have sex after only knowing them for a few hours."

Ben let out a low, amused sound. And then—the kill shot.

"Didn’t say we were gonna fuck, sweetheart."

Your face burned. Your heart stopped.

And Ben just smirked. Smirked like he already knew exactly how you’d react. Like he’d known from the second he said it. Like he’d already fucking won.

Heat flushed up your throat, creeping high into your cheeks, and Ben noticed.

Of course he fucking noticed.

His smirk deepened, eyes flicking over your face before his knuckles brushed against your cheek, slow and deliberate, the drag of rough skin making your breath hitch.

"Fuckin’ cute," he muttered, almost to himself.

Your stomach flipped. You swallowed hard, ignoring the pulse hammering in your throat. "Then what did you mean?"

Ben tipped his head, watching you with lazy amusement.

"Hm?"

"If you weren’t inviting me to sleep with you," you clarified, voice softer now, breathier. "Then what did you mean?"

Ben exhaled slow, the cigarette burning amber-red between his fingers.

"It’s a Friday night, sweetheart," he murmured, stretching against the couch, his thighs shifting beneath you. "You could come back to mine."

He paused, tilting his glass to watch the whiskey swirl before flicking his gaze back to you.

"I could show you a good time."

Your stomach fluttered.

"More whiskey," he continued, tapping a lazy rhythm against the rim of his glass. "Better than this shit they’ve got here."

Your brows furrowed slightly.

Better?

The whiskey here was good. Expensive. You weren’t even sure how much better it could get—

"And," Ben added, eyes flicking lower, watching the way your legs pressed together, "I got some coke I’d love to blow up your ass."

You choked.

Ben laughed, rich and warm, whiskey-dark and indulgent, like he was savouring every second of this.

"That a no?" He teased, exhaling smoke.

You sputtered, shaking your head quickly. "I—what the fuck—"

Ben lifted a brow, eyes glinting. "You ever done coke, sweetheart?"

You hesitated. Too long. His smirk widened.

"Only once or twice," you admitted carefully, shifting slightly in his lap.

Ben hummed, something thoughtful, something knowing. Then—smooth as fucking silk—he leaned in just a little closer, fingers tightening against your waist, his breath warm and whiskey-sweet when he murmured.

"So come home with me."

Your pulse kicked.

"We don’t have to fuck," he added, smirking against the rim of his glass. "But if you feel like it after a few lines, I ain’t gonna chuck you out."

Your chest felt too tight. Your limbs felt too warm.

This was stupid. This was dangerous. This was the worst fucking idea you’d ever had.

And yet—

Yet his hand was still on you. Yet his voice was still in your ear. Yet he was still looking at you like he already knew you weren’t going to say no.

Because you weren’t. Because even if you had another choice, even if you had an escape, you’d still go willingly.

You nodded.

Ben’s grin flashed, wide and wicked, all sharp teeth and wolfish excitement.

"Yeah?"

The way he said it—rough, eager, eyes sparking like he’d just heard something delicious—made your stomach flip.

You nodded again. That was all he needed. Ben stood, all smooth, effortless power, knocking back the last of his whiskey in one swallow. Then he grabbed your glass, pressed it into your hands, and cocked a brow.

A challenge.

You understood. Your fingers curled around the cool glass. You lifted it to your lips, savouring the burn, letting it warm you from the inside out.

When you were finished, Ben was still watching you. And then? He grinned. And slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in close like he’d already decided you belonged there.

"C’mon, sweetheart."

He led you through the bar, past bodies and noise and neon glow, steering you out the front doors and onto the street.

That was when you saw it. The car. Big. Black. Sleek and expensive as hell. A driver stood by the curb, leaning against the hood, one boot crossed over the other, hands in his coat pockets.

Ben steered you toward the back door, but before he opened it, the driver let out a low, rough chuckle as he climbed into the front seat.

"Leavin’ early tonight, are ya, mate?"

The accent caught you off guard. British. Cockney. A voice like gravel and burnt whiskey, rough and sharp-edged.

Ben pressed you into the back. You glanced up, catching the driver’s eyes flick toward you in the rearview mirror, a smirk pulling at his mouth.

Ben clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he slid into the spot beside you. "Made a friend, Butcher."

Your stomach tightened.

"Wanted to show her a good time."

You swallowed hard, suddenly so fucking aware of where this was going, of what you’d just agreed to. But then Ben pulled you further into the backseat, and the moment stretched thin, reality slipping away, replaced with the heavy warmth of him against you.

The door shut. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows. And you realised something. Ben had a fucking driver.

A chauffeur.

You felt a slow, sharp pulse of realisation.

Jesus Christ, this man had money.

And as the car glided through the streets, moving toward the nicest part of the city—where buildings stretched high and elegant, where penthouses gleamed from impossible heights—

You couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why the hell was he indulging you? Why had he picked you?

Ben just smirked, pulling you closer, thumb tracing a slow, lazy stroke against your shoulder. And you were nervous now, because you didn’t belong in his world, but you were already inside it.

The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of a sleek, modern high-rise—all clean steel and glass, standing tall against the city skyline like it owned the night itself.

It was the kind of building that made your stomach drop.

The kind of place where people with money, real money, lived—the kind of people who didn’t check their bank accounts before ordering drinks, who didn’t split rent five ways just to make ends meet, who didn’t pick up extra shifts just to afford their next meal.

This was a different world.

The engine idled low, a soft hum beneath your skin, and then—

"So, what’s the plan, mate?"

You blinked.

Butcher was looking at Ben now, one arm slung over the back of the passenger seat, all smirk and knowing eyes.

"You want me to keep the car warm?" He asked, voice edged with thick, cockney amusement. "Or you takin’ the girl back later?"

Your stomach flipped.

Ben exhaled through his nose, grinning like he already knew the answer.

"Clock off for the night."

Butcher let out a low, rasping chuckle, nodding once as he faced forward again, like he’d already seen this a hundred times before.

The door clicked open.

And then Ben was pulling you out of the car, his hand firm against your lower back, guiding you forward—into the lobby, past the marble floors and golden light, past the concierge who didn’t even lift his head.

Because of course he didn’t. Because this was Ben’s world.

And then—

Then he was leading you to a private elevator. Not a normal one. Not one that anyone else could use. No—this one was his. A sleek, polished cage of steel and shadowed mirrors, with only one fucking button.

Penthouse.

Your pulse pounded. You barely had time to process before Ben pressed the button, the doors sliding shut—sealing you inside.

And then?

Then his hands were on you. Not in a foul way. Not in a way that made you want to run. But possessive. Purposeful. Heavy. His fingers gripped your hips, your waist, sliding over the thin fabric of your dress, curling around you like he was memorising every inch.

Your breath hitched as he spun you, pressing you up against the wall with zero hesitation, his body all heat and weight, caging you in.

He wasn’t kissing you. He wasn’t even trying to. But he was everywhere.

One hand hiked your thigh up, draping it over his hip, holding you open against him. His palm slid over the bare skin, rough and warm, trailing fire in its wake. The other? Splayed over your ribs, fingers flexing, gripping, feeling.

You gasped softly, lightheaded, dazed, overwhelmed.

And Ben? Well, Ben just smirked.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, dragging his hand up, brushing his knuckles just beneath the swell of your breast, not quite touching—just teasing. "You’re soft as hell."

Your fingers clenched at your sides, your lips parting, but nothing came out.

"Fuckin’ sweet, too," he continued, voice low, thick with something weighted, something syrupy. His thumb dragged over your jaw, over your cheek, tracing slow, lazy circles against your heated skin.

"So goddamn good."

Your knees felt weak. Your body felt like it wasn’t even yours anymore.

"Fuckin’ glad I spotted you tonight, sweetheart."

The words sent a sharp, heavy pulse of heat straight through you. His breath was warm against your throat, but he still wasn’t kissing you.

Just feeling. Just touching. Just taking.

"So glad you ditched your little friends," he muttered, squeezing your thigh, his fingers pressing into soft flesh, into heat, into want. "Didn’t wanna have to come over and pull you away from 'em."

A pause. A dark little chuckle.

"Would’ve, though."

Your breath shuddered.

Ben tilted his head, watching your reaction, like he was waiting to see how deep he could sink his teeth. His grip tightened.

"Christ on a cross," he rasped, hungry, pleased. "You’re so fuckin’ pretty."

And fuck.

You felt like you were floating, like you weren’t even inside your own body anymore, like he had fully consumed you without even trying.

You hadn’t kissed. You hadn’t done anything.

But he was already all over you. And you were already his.

Ben didn’t take his hands off you.

Not once. Not in the elevator, where his grip stayed firm on your waist, fingers curling possessively over the thin fabric of your dress. Not as he led you down the hall, past artwork that looked like it belonged in a museum.

Not as he pressed a hand to your lower back, slow and steady, steering you toward a door at the very end.

And when he got there? When he reached for the handle, turning it effortlessly, he paused. He smirked. Then, with one push, the door swung open.

And fuckshitfuck.

You stepped inside—hesitantly, breath catching in your throat. Because it was beautiful. Not just rich. Not just expensive.

Money-money.

The kind of wealth that wasn’t loud or gaudy. The kind that settled deep into the bones of a place.

Everything was earth tones, dark woods, deep greens, warm browns. A massive, open-plan living room and kitchen stretched out before you—plush, oversized furniture, sleek coffee tables, a fireplace nestled into the far wall like an afterthought. One entire wall was just glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked New York in its entirety, glittering and endless. And it was pristine.

Except for the drugs.

Half-finished baggies of white powder littered the coffee table. A bag of weed crumpled in the corner. Whiskey bottles stood like monuments—some full, some empty, some abandoned halfway.

A pack of cigarettes lay open beside a vintage lighter that probably cost more than your monthly rent.

The room reeked of money, whiskey, power. Of Ben.

And you just stood there, gawping. Wide-eyed, breath shallow, taking it all in. You hadn’t realised how long you’d been standing there until you heard him chuckle.

"Somethin’ caught your eye, sweetheart?"

You turned, heat creeping up your neck—

And Ben was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with pure amusement. Like he already knew exactly how overwhelmed you were. Like he was enjoying this just a little too much.

And that smirk? The one that said you were exactly where he wanted you? Yeah. That wasn’t leaving his face anytime soon.

"Jesus fucking Christ," you choked out, breathless, eyes still dragging over the room, over the drugs, over the absolute excess of it all. "What do you do for a living?"

Ben laughed. Not just a chuckle, but a real, warm, whiskey-thick laugh, head tilting back slightly as if the question was fucking hilarious.

"Not important."

That was all he gave you. No explanation. No answer. Just a lazy smirk as he jerked his chin toward the couch.

"Go sit down."

You nodded—still dazed, still breathless, still trying to process where the hell you were—but instead of sitting, your feet carried you toward the window. The city stretched out before you, lights spilling across the night, thousands of tiny pinpricks glowing against the dark.

It was beautiful.

So much—so big—so vast and consuming.

You didn’t realise you were staring, didn’t realise how quiet the room had gotten, until you heard him moving behind you.

The low clink of glass against glass. The soft thud of a bottle against the counter. The sound of him fumbling through something, shifting around, pouring drinks.

Then he was closer. The air shifted, thickened, and then the drinks were being placed down on the table beside the couch, and then—

Heat.

Solid and warm and undeniable as Ben stepped up flush against your back. Large, rough hands slid over your waist, slow and deliberate, fingers flexing slightly against your hips, gripping, holding.

You exhaled sharply, but you didn’t move. Not even when his fingers brushed your hair over your shoulder, exposing the bare skin of your neck. Not even when you felt his breath—hot and steady, thick with whiskey and smoke—ghost over the sensitive skin there.

He inhaled. Breathed you in deep, slow, indulgent.

Your eyes fluttered. Your heart kicked.

"Ever seen it like this?" He murmured, voice low against your throat.

You swallowed, hard, struggling to find words. "Never," you whispered.

Then he dragged his beard down your neck. Slow. Rough. Teasing. A scrape of warmth and friction as he traced down to the junction of your shoulder, where he paused, fingers tightening just slightly against your waist.

"Pretty fuckin’ cool, huh?"

You just nodded. Couldn’t do anything else. Didn’t trust yourself to speak. And Ben chuckled—low, rich, satisfied—his breath a warm rush against your skin.

Then, before you could even process it, he spun you—quick, effortless, leaving you lightheaded and breathless—until you were facing him.

"So," he drawled, smirking as his fingers dragged down your arm, as his thumb brushed slow circles into your skin. "About that coke."

A pause. A challenge. An invitation to ruin.

Because you know exactly what he’s asking. And you already know what your answer’s gonna be.

Ben took your hand. The grip was firm, steady, assured—like he was leading you somewhere you’d never been before, somewhere you weren’t supposed to go.

And you let him. You let him pull you back toward the couch, let him sink onto the cushions before pulling you down with him.

His arm draped over the back of the sofa, legs spread wide, thighs brushing against yours as he reached for something on the coffee table. You watched as he picked up a small, round mirror—not a plate, not a tray, but a perfectly cut, polished mirror disk—and set it between you.

Then, he reached for the knife. Not a normal one. Something sleek, expensive, sharp as hell.

You swallowed, watching as he tapped a small bag against the mirror, tipping out soft white powder, letting it fall in neat, delicate little mounds. He worked slowly, unbothered, using the blade to spread it out, separate it, line it up into thin, precise rails of destruction.

One big.

Four small.

Then, without a word, he leaned down. Inhaled the big one like it was nothing, like it was routine, like he wasn’t even thinking about it. The rasp of his breath pulling it in sent a sharp pulse through you, made something tight coil low in your stomach.

Then he tapped the knife against the mirror. A soft, metallic clink. And then his eyes flicked to you.

"Your turn."

You swallowed. Nodded. Leaned down, hands pressed against your thighs, trying not to overthink it.

The powder burned, sharp and electric, snaking down the back of your throat and settling like pure fire in your bloodstream.

You sat back fast, licking your lips, pressing your tongue against your teeth—

Jesus Christ.

It was good. Better than anything you’d ever had before. And you knew. Knew that even that one line—that small amount you just did—probably cost more than everything you were wearing.

And the dress you had on? It was expensive. Because it wasn’t even yours.

It was borrowed.

Just like this moment. Just like this night. Just like the breath you were taking right now, sitting beside him, sinking deeper into something you weren’t sure you’d be able to climb out of.

And Ben was watching you. Watching the way your pupils dilated, watching the way your body relaxed, then tensed, then relaxed again.

And then—softer, darker, lazier—

"Yeah, sweetheart." A slow, amused hum, tapping the knife once more against the mirror, watching the way you were already chasing the high. "That’s the good shit."

Ben tapped the knife against the mirror again, sharp and expectant.

"Go on."

Not a question. A directive.

Your pulse skipped. But you didn’t hesitate. You leaned down again, dragging in another quick, clean inhale, feeling the burn, the sharp flood of heat and adrenaline surging through your system, blooming fast and bright beneath your skin.

Before you’d even sat back properly, Ben was already taking the last two lines, exhaling through his nose, jaw flexing as he set the mirror back onto the coffee table.

Then—without missing a beat—he passed you your drink. And pulled you straight into his lap. Rough. Thoughtless. Uninhibited. The coke had already stripped away the last of his patience, his hands heavier now, more possessive, more desperate to touch.

Your knees hit the couch cushions on either side of his thighs as you let him drag you over him, gasping softly as your weight settled onto his lap.

Your fingers curled instinctively around your whiskey glass, and then you spilled it. Just a little—just a splash, just enough to stain the stark white fabric stretched across his chest. Your eyes went wide.

"Oh my God—"

Ben just waved a hand.

"Don’t fuckin’ matter, doll."

Then, to prove his point, he grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled. Hard. The top few buttons popped clean off, pinging against the glass in your hand, the sharp little sound ringing out between you.

Your breath hitched, then you laughed. A real, bright, breathless laugh.

And Ben froze. Just for a second. Then—low, rasping, amused—

"Shit."

His hand slid up, fingertips pressing into the hinge of your jaw, rubbing slow circles, thumb brushing over your pulse.

"That’s a pretty fuckin’ sound."

You blinked, still breathless, still lightheaded from the coke and the earlier whiskey.

"What?"

Ben’s smirk curled slow, lazy, dark.

"Your laugh." His hand trailed lower, over your throat, over your collarbone. Over your legs, kneading into soft flesh, gripping. "Fuckin’ cute."

The word sent a sharp, electric pulse straight through you.

"You’re fuckin’ cute."

Your heart stuttered.

His hands moved restlessly, hungrily—up your thighs, over the thin fabric of your dress, rubbing slow circles into your hip.

"The fuck were you even doin’ out tonight in that bar, huh?" He muttered, voice rough, almost possessive.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

Ben just smirked.

"Dumb fuckin’ luck."

His hand fisted into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath catch.

"Wasn’t even lookin’ for a girl tonight."

His thumb dragged over your jaw, his grip tightening.

"And somehow, I see a fuckin’ angel at the bar."

You swallowed, hard, pulse fluttering against his palm.

And Ben—Ben just kept looking at you like he already owned you. Like he’d already decided you were his.

Your fingers tightened around your glass. You took a sip, letting the whiskey burn through you, and immediately, your eyes went wide.

"Holy fuck—" You stared at the glass, shocked. "This is good."

Ben’s smirk widened, all smug, all knowing.

"Told you I had better shit."

You took another sip, let the whiskey melt against your tongue, burn down your throat, let your head tip back as you savoured it. And then his hand was on you again. Big, warm, rough—fingers curling around your throat, guiding your face back down, forcing your gaze to his.

Your breath caught.

Ben’s pupils were blown wide, pitch-black, swallowing up the green. Coke-dilated. Lust-drunk. And he laughed. Low and smug and so fucking amused.

"Shit, sweetheart." His fingers tightened just slightly, enough to make your head feel even lighter. "You're fucked."

You blinked, hazy, breathless, lost.

Ben’s eyes dragged over your face, watching. Studying. Memorising.

"No pretty colour left in those eyes anymore," he murmured, voice slow, heavy, lazy as sin. "Swallowed whole by your fuckin' pupils."

A pause. A smirk.

"Can you even see straight?"

And fuck. The way he said it. The mocking lilt. The condescension. You whimpered. Soft. Small. Instinctive.

And Ben saw it.

You watched the realisation dawn on him in real time—

The way his smirk flickered, darkened, deepened. The way his pupils somehow blown out further, his grip flexing slightly against your throat because he fucking knew now.

He knew exactly what you liked.

And now? Now, he wasn’t gonna let it go.

Ben sighed, like he had all the patience in the world. Then, without breaking eye contact, he plucked the whiskey glass from your hand and set it on the side table.

Then—with nothing else between you—he fixed you with his undivided attention.

"Now," he murmured, voice dipping low, dark, warm like syrup.

"You gonna let me stick my tongue down your throat?" A pause. A smirk. "Or you need a bit more coke first?"

You whimpered again. And that was it. That was all it took.

Ben let out a low, satisfied hum, then tightened his grip on your throat and pulled you in. His lips crashed against yours, deep and consuming, nothing soft, nothing hesitant. His tongue licked into your mouth immediately—wet and hot and insistent, tasting of whiskey and sin and the kind of ruin you’d never recover from.

It wasn’t just a kiss.

It was possession. A claim. And you let him take it.

@mostlymarvelgirl @lunaleah @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @itshellfire @nevercameraready @suckitands33 @kayleighwinchester <3

#pfiahc writes #my writing #soldier boy #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy smut #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #the boys #the boys fanfiction #the boys fanfic #the boys au #the boys smut #the boys x you #the boys x reader #the boys x female reader #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy au

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pretty-little-mind33 · 3 months ago

Text

Tangerine x stripper fem!reader

Mini-series summary: When Tangerine opened an underground strip-club to cover for his murder-for-hire business operation, he wasn't expecting to become so easily distracted by one girl in particular.

Chapter summary: You can handle yourself, you've been doing it alone for years, but you can't deny it feels nice when someone else cares for you for a change. (3.6k)

Warnings: sleazy gross rich men, strip clubs, violence, drugs, alcohol, sex work, sexual harassment

BAD FOR BUSINESS MASTERLIST

In the late afternoon, the loud, lively, self-named 'gentleman's club' feels eerily empty. The jazz music plays so quietly that the only real sound is the faint clinking of the glasses as Lennie, the bartender, polishes them.

Tangerine usually never arrives this early, but Leo had conveniently asked him to finish up the paperwork so here he is, walking up the stairs and into his office, which conveniently overlooks the main stage from up in the glassed mezzanine.

His hair is damp from the rain as he rests his umbrella near the door. The classical music from his earbuds drowns out the jazz from the lounge and he holds in a yawn, taming his curls with his hand as he strolls to his desk. He touches the array of papers Leo has left him for him.

Tangerine's eyebrows pinch in disapproval. He drops his phone on the desk, draping his suit jacket on the back of his chair and sinking down, resting his hand on the wood. He drums his fingers, his mind wandering as the music lulls him. He can feel a headache coming on and he pulls out the earbuds, texting Lemon from his phone.

T : Are you working tonight?

L : Ya. Are you?

T : I'm here early. Leo didn't fucking finish his paperwork and now I have to clean up after that arsehole.

L : Dickhead.

T : Bloody motherfucker.

L : Such a Diesel.

Tangerine rolls his eyes playfully, turning his phone over and grabbing his reading glasses to begin on the paperwork. Some fucked up jobs they've been needing to deal with. That and keeping up with the finances to keep this hellhole open.

Investors aren't exactly happy. They want more girls, they want more sex. Tangerine groans. He's starting to regret this. Opening this business. However, when he thinks of the girls, his regret dwindles. It doesn't matter that the establishment is a cover, he pays them well. He's fair and he knows they need it.

If he listens to Leo and closes this place down then where are they supposed to go? Tangerine knows men, especially men that actually work in this business, and he doesn't want his girls to fall into their hands.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing his eyes as he brings the papers in front of him.

Fuck this, he thinks.

Hours pass and the music from below begins to grow louder. He rests his glasses on his desk and stands, stretching his arms. He strolls to the glass and peers down at the floor. The dim lights have been turned on and Lemon and the other bodyguards are preparing for the night. Tangerine hums, walks around to his desk again, and continues to work for a little while longer. Soon, his mind wanders to the girls again and he opens the computer, searching the schedule for tonight.

When he finds your name, he can't help the way his lips curve and his stomach twists. He closes the tab. He feels like a love-sick schoolboy, a perverse one at that, he shouldn't like you as much as he does, but how could he not?

You're the sweetest girl here.

Another few hours pass and Tangerine is concentrating on sending important emails. He's sick of planning these heists, these kills, it makes his head hurt. Lemon would say he's burned out, and that he needs a vacation, but he refuses to listen to his brother.

He refuses to listen to his brother on a lot of things.

It's the sound of your song that pulls his attention away from his computer. That smooth sensual tune you always dance to and he sits up immediately. He looks at the clock over his door. 2 am already? Tangerine stands and makes his way over to the glass, his breath hitching when he sees you on stage.

You're dressed in lacy white lingerie. A small pair of angel wings adorn your back, the strings attaching them wrapping sensually around your torso. Your hair is curled and you're wearing a small golden halo. It's your usual outfit, but you look absolutely stunning.

Tangerine feels just as perverted as the men watching you and his cheeks heat up. He looks at the audience and recognizes some of the usual. Some old 'work' colleagues or wealthy aristocrats. Powerful men. Dangerous men. His jaw clenches. This is why he insisted on so many bodyguards all around. Men that this place attracts are accustomed to having whatever they want, whenever they want it.

Already, these girls are being displayed on a golden platter for them, but Tangerine would be damned if these men tried to push their luck. This place has rules. Strict ones he put in place when he realized Leo wasn't caring. That's why he'd been coming around more often, to make sure that arsehole wasn't being abusive. He tells himself that's the only reason.

His eyes wander back to you. He knows you're almost finished with your routine. Tangerine has it memorized by now. Involuntarily, he feels his trousers tighten around his crotch as he continues to watch the way you dance.

When you tilt your head upwards a little, holding yourself up by the pole, you lock eyes and Tangerine's entire stomach flips. He stays very still, his expression neutral and dismissive. You smile, keeping your eyes on his as you finish the dance and blow a kiss into the crowd.

Fuck. He needs a fucking smoke.

Tangerine makes his way down the stairs and into the lounge. He's assaulted by the smell of alcohol and drugs, as well as the familiar stench of sex the moment he enters the room. He fumbles with his cigarette pack in his pocket and pops a cigarette in his mouth.

"Oi," Lemon's voice interrupts his thoughts from near the entrance door, which is slightly ajar. He's talking to another bodyguard, Wayne, and the latter nods his head at Tangerine. "How's work, bruv?"

Tangerine comes over and blows the smoke outside from the open door. He leans against the wall and looks into the room, keeping an eye out. You've gone backstage. "It's a fuckin' pain in my arse," is all he says and Lemon pats him on the shoulder.

"I'be been tellin' ya Leo is a diesel."

Tangerine sends him a dark look. "Shut up about that already, would ya? You're gettin' on my fuckin' tits."

Lemon only rolls his eyes with a small chuckle and continues his discussion with Wayne. The jazz music continues, now hurting Tangerine's ears as his annoyance only seems to grow.

He prays a drink will dull his incoming headache.

He flicks the burnt out cigarette into the trash can near the exit and walks to the bar. All the girls he crosses, the ones that aren't already entertaining some snobby dickhead, send him warm smiles. He returns them.

"Whiskey. Neat," Tangerine says to Lennie, leaning against the bar.

"'Course, boss," Lennie nods, preparing his usual.

Tangerine looks to the side, catching a glimpse of you a few tables over. You're perched on some older man's lap, your thighs straddling his hips. The man's hands wander from your waist upwards as he whispers something into the shell of your ear, looking towards one of the multiple rooms.

Tangerine's expression sours as his head continues to throb. However, his heart slowly calms when you shake your head and push the man away from you, while still entertaining him.

Lennie sets the whiskey next to Tangerine's hand and looks over. "Prick has been harassing her to go into one of the rooms all night," he says, his tone tense, "I told Trevor to keep an extra eye on him when he's around her. He'll intervene if things get handsy."

Tangerine nods, turning to his drink. He knows Trevor has it handled in case things escalate and he knows you do too. You're no stranger to standing up for yourself, after all, he's seen you slap your fair share of men, but still his stomach twists. He'd rather you not deal with assholes like that. "Appreciate it," he says gruffly from behind his glass as he drinks his whiskey and the music continues to pound his ears.

He shuts his eyes a moment, enjoying the burning on his tongue as it grounds him. Only the sound of your voice shatters the momentary calm as his eyes snap open.

* * *

"Don't touch me!" you shout, not afraid to raise your volume as you stand up from the man's lap. His hand stays firmly planted on your hips, the heat from his pudgy fingers making your stomach churn. He'd ripped the delicate lace of your top, the fabric now hanging onto your stomach and exposing more of the skin of your breast than was already shown. You're flustered as you try and push his hand away again.

"Stop. I said no."

The man only grins, his yellowish teeth showing. "Whores can't say no," he snickers and your eyes round. You glance at the bodyguard, Trevor, who's already approaching because of your initial shout and the stranger stands, advancing on you. This time his hand clenches around your wrist, pulling you into his chest as he gropes your ass with his other hand.

Without hesitation, you swing your arm, hand balled into a fist, and hit him square in the jaw. The man gasps and drops his hold on you as blood trickles down his chin. Your ring had split the bastard's lip.

Your expression darkens and in anger, you swing your arm again, not entirely satisfied with the damage you'd caused, only to feel someone delicately hold their hand under your elbow and pull you into them. You tense, relaxing when you smell that familiar expensive cologne.

"Shh, angel, you're okay," Your boss's voice is hoarse and low in your ear as he holds you close. The lounge has come to a halt, all members watching the scene now as Trevor grabs the man's arm, twisting it harshly behind his back.

"What the fuck?! The slut hit me!" The man shouts as he fights against Trevor.

Your anger spikes again when you hear him call you that but Tangerine's hand on your cheek calms you. He turns your head away and his thumb is rough on your skin. When you look up you realize he isn't looking at you. He's looking at the man, his eyebrows scrunched in an emotion you can't quite read.

Swiftly, he presses a fluttering kiss to your hairline, almost imperceptible to others, before he walks over to the man.

Trevor holds him still and you hold your breath, unsure what Tangerine is planning.

"I'm the owner," Tangerine tells him calmly, looking down at the older man. He's hiding a smirk at how much blood you'd managed to draw from him. "What seems to be the issue?"

The man sniffs, spitting out some blood where you had nicked his lip towards you, "Your whores seem to think they have more authority than they should. I'd nip that in the bud if I were you," he hisses with such contempt you feel even more exposed than you already are.

Tangerine looks at you, his jaw clenching. "I see," he whispers, his blue eyes roaming your figure. He smiles at you and then turns and punches the man so hard in the nose that there is a loud crack. You gasp, covering your mouth as the room erupts into loud gasps. Tangerine stands still as Trevor keeps the man up, his broken nose is now gushing blood.

Tangerine steps forward and fists his hand in the man's collar, keeping him up. His tone is even as he glares at him. "If I were you I'd think twice before touching one of my girls like that—or any girl for that matter."

His eyes narrow and then he chuckles darkly. His tone is mocking when he says, "Now, why don' ya get the fuck out of my establishment before I really lose my temper. Yeah? Good. Trevor, show this wanker out, would ya? Thanks."

Tangerine drops the man, not even looking at him as Trevor drags him out. The lounge is deadly silent now, everyone simply watching him. You're holding your breath, unsure what to do or say.

"Show's over," Tangerine exclaims sternly. He turns to look at you but before he can, one of your friends shrieks and interrupts the moment.

"Hon! Are you okay?" Anette runs up to you in her burgundy heels. Her Texan accent rolls off her tongue like honey and her long auburn hair falls over her shoulders. She's your favorite coworker, and one of your best friends, so you relax when her fingers gently pull up your torn top to cover you. It's ruined.

"Oh, darling," she whispers, knowing how it feels to receive too much attention from the customers here.

She hurries you backstage, ignoring the commotion around you both as she rubs your shoulders. You turn to Annette. "Did you see how hard he punched him?" you ask, your eyes wide. Annette nods, biting her cheek.

"I did. The boss is good like that," she says as she sits you at your vanity, grabbing a sewing kit from her drawer to quickly fix your top. Annette begins to fix your top. She's clumsy with her movements. You nod, staring at your shaken-up reflection; your hair is a mess and your previously picture-perfect appearance looks messy. Tangerine's cologne lingers on your skin your hairline tingles from where he'd kissed you and your stomach twists.

He'd protected you.

Suddenly, you hear a sharp knock on the dressing room door.

"Yeah?" Annette calls, removing the needle from her mouth as she continues to sew. You wince when she almost pricks your shoulder.

"May I come in?"

You and Annette freeze at the voice behind the door and her green eyes widen. "It's the boss," she mouths. You nod, standing up and grabbing one your jumper and pulling it on. You don't have any more desire to be so exposed after what has happened.

"Yeah," Annette says. There is a pause and then the door unclicks.

Once it opens, Tangerine stands in the doorway, arms crossed, and he looks a little awkward being outside the dressing room. He sees Annette and then you and his expression softens. "I'd like to offer to drive you home," he tells you, sounding completely serious and professional. "I understand you may be shaken up because of what happened and I don't want you to stay here in those circumstances. It wouldn't be right."

You fiddle with the hem of the jumper, unsure if you should accept his offer. You don't feel like going out there again and dealing with more disgusting men, but you need the money. You don't speak, your gaze stuck on his as you contemplate your choices but Tangerine remains patient.

Annette, on the other hand, doesn't, so she pushes your shoulder, prompting an answer from you. You stumble forward and the words just fall from your lips.

"I'd like that, if you don't mind," you say, ignoring any nerves around him. Tangerine, while your boss, has always been kind to you. He's a real gentleman.

Tangerine hums, very obviously suppressing a smirk while his eyes remain neutral. "I don't mind. I'll wait outside whilst you gather your things. No rush." You nod and he turns on his heels. Once he's shut the door, Annette squeals.

"Oh my goodness," she says as you gather your belongings into your bag. You take your clothes, folding them over your arm.

"What?" you whisper, hiding behind the curtain to change. Your cheeks feel warmer.

"He has the hots for you!" Annette practically swoons, falling into the chair and drumming her nails on the vanity. You pull up your jeans, adjusting your jumper, and roll your eyes at her words.

"Bullshit," you laugh, "he's just being nice."

"He's taking time from his work to drive you home," Annette says, "C'mon, he totally does!"

You pin your hair up, shaking your head. You stuff the accessories of your skimpy costume into your bag and throw it over your shoulder. Slipping on your sneakers, you pull aside the curtains. Annette is smirking.

"Don't you have work to do?" You deadpan, crossing your arms.

Annette raises her arms in surrender, standing up and pulling up her stockings. She pulls her skirt higher, exposing the sparkling garter hugging her upper thigh. She winks, walking over and kissing your cheek, pushing some loose strands of hair behind your ear.

"If you end up fucking the boss, I'll need all the details," she whispers and pulls away, holding up her hands, her palms touching, as she slowly drags them apart and grins.

You push down her hands, embarrassed. "Stop it."

"It's really a damn shame you can't see the way he looks at you when you aren't looking," she hums, adding one last tease, and then leaves the room through the back exit and into the lounge.

You exit in the opposite direction, walking into the hall and then opening the heavy door to the outside. The cold night air is harsh on your skin and you startle when you see Tangerine leaning against the brick wall, blowing warm air from his nose as he exhales.

"Ready?" he asks, his voice thick.

You nod, clutching the strap of your bag tighter. You follow him through the parking lot in silence, hearing only the sound of your sneakers and his shoes on the pavement. "Thank you for doing this," you say, catching up to him. He slows his strides and looks over at you, his expression still unreadable.

"No need," he says and stuffs his hands in his trousers, "I'm sorry that man laid his hands on ya. Trevor or Wayne should have seen it and intervened sooner, otherwise what do I pay them for—" he pauses, shaking his head, "And I should have intervened sooner."

You shake your head. "It's really okay."

"No, it isn't," he says sternly and opens the passenger door to his car. It's an older vintage black car. It's in such pristine condition you're almost afraid to sit on the leather seat. Tangerine waits patiently as you buckle in and then he walks over to the driver's side. He turns to you, his sharp blue eyes looking into yours. Your breath catches in your throat.

He's incredibly handsome, in a rather dangerous way.

"It won't happen again, angel," he promises, the name rolling from his tongue. You remember when you'd first started working for him; he'd nicknamed you angel and then it just stuck. However, it always sounded different from his lips.

You nod, smiling at him a little as he puts the car in gear and drives onto the road. The radio plays as ambient music and you hum along, resting your chin on your palm as you look out the window. You only live twenty minutes away from the club, but that usually means an hour and a half of public transport so you're really grateful.

"Tangerine?" you suddenly pipe up, turning to him. His eyes are trained on the road. He hums. "Could I have more shifts?"

Tangerine's hands tighten around the steering wheel. "Why on earth would you want more shifts?" he asks roughly, not really thinking of anything more than that more shifts would mean more filthy men possibly trying to touch you. Hurt you.

Your voice is small when you explain, "Well, I do need the money. I'm trying to finish uni and it's expensive."

Guilt washes over him when he hears your reasoning. Of course. He pays you well, he knows this, he's a fair boss but there is only so much he can do and his business partner, Leo, isn't as generous.

"Oh," he says, frowning. After a pause he says, "I'll see what I can do."

You nod, holding your hands together in your lap as your knees touch. You feel a little awkward and you add, "I'm sorry to ask—"

Tangerine's laugh interrupts you and he looks over for a moment, a smile curling his lips. "There's no need for that, I understand—and you can relax," he says and moves his hand as if to touch your knee, only ultimately deciding against it and resting it on the gear shift instead. "You have no reason to be nervous around me. In here, I'm not your boss," he pauses.

You let out a breath, hiding a smile as you bite the inside of your cheek. You want to ask what that makes him if he's not your boss, but you don't.

You're unaware he wants to ask the same thing.

Once he's parked in front of your apartment complex, Tangerine insists he walk you to your door. You turn to him, smiling. "Thanks for doing this," you say in a whisper, once again being captured by the intensity of his blue eyes. Your chest rises and your gaze dances across his features.

Your chest tightens and you act on instinct, the memories you've had with him over the years flashing in your mind; the small and yet significant conversations, the shared glances from across the room when you'd be dancing, the handwritten note on your birthday only you would receive, and of course the fleeting brushes of your hands—

Annette's previous words ring in your ears.

You kiss his cheek quickly, cheeks warm as you pull away. Tangerine looks surprised, his eyes widening as his cheek tingles. You've left a lipstick smudge and you panic, raising your thumb to wipe it away. You make a small squeak, only smearing the lipstick around and then you hurry into your apartment, closing the door behind you.

You slam your back against your door, mouthing a scream into your hand. You curse yourself, unaware that just behind your door Tangerine is grinning like a lovesick fool, his fingers resting against the mark you'd left on him.

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