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verstappenverse · 10 hours ago

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oh i think i have a request 🤭 maybe max starts to date reader cause of a bet but he ends up actually falling in love with her…kinda angst but maybe fluffy and happy ending as well?

The Bet and The Fall

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max starts dating you on a bet never expecting to fall for you, but as your relationship grows he must confront the fallout of his careless gamble.

4k words / Masterlist

You never thought the end of your year would involve Max Verstappen.

The first time you saw him, he’d been exactly what you expected. Quick wit, easy smirk, and just enough arrogance to carry the weight of his success. He’d walked into the bar with a confidence that commanded attention, his laughter spilling into the room like it belonged there. And maybe it did.

You didn’t think much of him then. He was just another face, another fleeting encounter on a night out. But fate or something cruelly ironic had other plans.

It started with an accident, a spill of your drink when you turned too quickly, bumping straight into him. His reflexes were sharp, of course, the glass never hit the ground.

"Smooth," he’d said, voice tinged with amusement as he set the glass down.

You’d laughed it off, brushing away your embarrassment. "Thanks for the save. You’re faster off track than I thought."

That had earned a raised brow and a crooked grin. "You know who I am?"

"I’m not living under a rock."

Max shrugged, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You don’t look like the type who goes to parties like this.”

Your laugh was genuine, surprising even yourself. “And what does that mean exactly?”

"Nothing bad." he said, watching you closely. "But I’m good at reading people."

"And what do you read from me?"

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… you seem like you’re trying to figure out how you ended up here.”

“You’re not wrong,” you admitted, glancing around the room. “I’m here because my friend insisted. Apparently I need to ‘live a little.’”

Max’s smile widened, and there was something disarming about it, “And are you? Living a little?”

You shrugged, feeling oddly at ease despite the absurdity of the situation. “I guess I am now.”

He’d offered to replace your drink, and you’d let him, thinking it was nothing more than a kind gesture. He shifted slightly closer, the noise of the party fading into the background as the two of you talked.

The conversation flowed more easily than you expected. Max was charming in a way that felt unpolished, his humour dry and his smile boyish despite the confidence he carried. He asked questions about you, what you did, where you were from, and he actually seemed interested in your answers.

At some point, you forgot who he was. You forgot that you were talking to someone whose life was splashed across headlines and social media. And when your best friend eventually came to drag you away, Max had looked genuinely disappointed.

When he asked for your number as you were standing up to leave, you hesitated.

"I don’t usually do this," you admitted, handing him your phone anyway.

"I don’t either," he replied, though the glint in his eyes made you doubt that.

Still, he’d texted you the next day and slowly things started to unfold.

What you didn’t know at the time was that across the room someone had been watching the entire interaction with a smirk plastered on their face.

Max had been sitting at a table with his friends earlier that night, a drink in his hand and an argument brewing. It wasn’t unusual competitive personalities clashed even off the track. But tonight Daniel had been relentless, poking at Max’s habits, his so-called inability to "settle down."

"You don’t even know how to date properly," Daniel joked. "I bet you wouldn’t last two weeks with a normal girl."

Max rolled his eyes. "And what does that even mean?"

"It means," Daniel said, grin widening, "you’re all about control. You don’t let anyone in unless you’ve already decided it’s worth your time. Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the spontaneity?"

Max scoffed. "You’re talking like I don’t know how to have a real relationship."

"Because you don’t," Daniel shot back, laughing. "Prove me wrong. Bet you wouldn’t last a month with someone who isn’t already part of your world. No models, no influencers, no one born into racing. A normal person. You’d combust."

Max leaned back, unimpressed. "I could date anyone I wanted."

Daniel’s eyes gleamed with mischief. "Alright, Verstappen. Prove it." He gestured toward the bar, where you stood unaware of their gaze. "Her. One month. Bet you can’t do it."

Max followed Daniel’s line of sight, lips twitching as he took you in. You were laughing at something a friend had said, head tossed back, easy and unguarded. There was no designer handbag, no polished effort to impress.

Max smirked, arrogance slipping easily into his voice. "Easy."

"Oh, is it?" Daniel teased. "She doesn’t look like the type to fall for your usual tricks mate."

"She’ll fall," Max said, confidence unwavering. "They always do."

Daniel arched an eyebrow. "Alright then." He held out his hand. "If you pull it off drinks are on me for the rest of the year."

Max clasped Daniel’s hand without hesitation. "Deal."

What he didn’t anticipate was how easy it would be to approach you or how different you would be from what he expected. When he wandered over to the bar, leaning casually against the counter, he didn’t have to try hard to strike up a conversation. You were warm, quick-witted, and entirely uninterested in the weight of his name.

You didn’t look at him like he was Max Verstappen, Formula 1 World Champion. You looked at him like he was just a guy who spilled your drink and owed you a new one. It caught him off guard, that refreshing lack of pre-tense.

Max had meant for it to be a game, a challenge to prove his point. What he didn’t realise then was that he’d just placed a bet against his own heart. And for the first time in his life, he was about to lose.

Looking back, you’d wonder if you should have noticed the cracks sooner.

Everything felt perfect. Max was attentive, charming, and surprisingly easy to talk to. He wasn’t just the Max Verstappen the world saw he was softer with you, more thoughtful. He’d remember small details, how you liked your coffee, the book you were reading, the song stuck in your head.

He made you laugh too, really laugh, the kind that bubbled up unexpectedly, catching you off guard, leaving your cheeks aching and your stomach fluttering. And when he kissed you for the first time his hands cradled your face, careful and deliberate, like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers if he wasn’t gentle enough. There was something almost reverent about the way he touched you, like he was holding something fragile, something precious, something he wasn’t sure he deserved but wasn’t willing to let go of either, and when he finally pulled back, his forehead resting lightly against yours, his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw, you realised something terrifying.

You had fallen fast, and you had fallen hard.

What you didn’t know was that Max hadn’t expected to fall at all.

A month came and went, but by then Max wasn’t counting anymore. The bet was long forgotten, buried under the weight of late-night conversations, stolen glances, and the way your laugh seemed to echo in his mind long after you were gone.

At first, it was easier to ignore the way something shifted in his chest whenever you were around, the way his mind drifted to you even in moments when he should have been focused. He told himself it was just intrigue, a fleeting distraction that would fade once the bet was over. But then, moment by moment, the reality became impossible to ignore.

It was the way you laughed, unrestrained, unselfconscious. The kind of laugh that made people turn their heads, infectious and full of life. The way you talked with your hands, so animated and expressive that he found so captivating. The way you challenged him, never intimidated by his sharp edges or his reputation, meeting him head-on with quick wit, making him feel like he didn’t have to be Verstappen, the calculated driver, the public figure, with you he could just be Max.

He fell without realising it, like slipping into a warm bath, slow, comforting, inevitable.

The tipping point came on what should have been a regular, quiet evening at your place. You’d insisted on cooking dinner for him brushing off his protests about how he could just order something instead. The kitchen was chaos, vegetables half-chopped, sauce simmering too quickly, flour dusting your shirt, but you didn’t seem to care. You were too busy laughing at yourself, muttering about how you were definitely not cut out for MasterChef.

“Come on Verstappen,” you teased, tossing him an apron. “You can’t be a world champion and not know how to chop an onion.”

Max caught the apron midair, a mock look of horror on his face. “I don’t think that’s in the championship requirements.”

“Well it’s in mine,” you quipped, tying your own apron behind your back. “Get chopping.”

Max leaned against the counter, watching you with an expression that would have given him away in an instant if you’d turned to look at him.

“You’re staring,” you teased after a while.

He smirked. “Maybe I like what I’m seeing.”

You rolled your eyes, but the blush on your cheeks betrayed you.

It was a simple moment, but it lodged itself in Max’s chest like a permanent fixture. He knew then it wasn’t just intrigue or infatuation, he loved you. And that terrified him.

The closer you got, the harder it became for him to bury the truth. He tried telling himself it didn’t matter, the bet had been stupid, something meaningless that had quickly been replaced by something real. But every time he saw the trust in your eyes, every time you looked at him like he was the best thing to ever happen to you, the guilt churned in his stomach.

There were nights he barely slept, lying awake in bed with the weight of it pressing down on him. What if you found out? What if you looked at him with disgust, walked away without giving him the chance to explain? He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t lose you.

Every moment with you, big or small, was another thread tying him closer to you. He didn’t know how it happened so fast, but he couldn’t imagine his life without you in it. You were his home, his safe place, and he was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you.

One evening, the two of you sat curled up on the couch in his Monaco apartment, a movie playing in the background that neither of you was paying much attention to. You rested your head on his shoulder, and he pressed a kiss to your hair, his heart aching with how perfect it felt.

But then you spoke. “You’re quiet tonight. Everything okay?”

The words made his chest tighten. You always noticed. Even the smallest shifts in his mood never escaped your attention.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”

You tilted your head to look at him, your eyes searching his face. “Are you sure? You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

The guilt surged, and for a fleeting moment, he considered telling you. The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, but then he imagined the way your expression would change, the way you’d pull away from him, he couldn’t bear it.

Instead he leaned down to kiss you hoping it would be enough to distract you. You sighed into the kiss, your hands finding their way into his hair, and for a moment he let himself believe it was enough.

“I love you,” you murmured against his lips, your voice soft and certain.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours. “I love you too,” he said, his voice trembling with the weight of everything he couldn’t say.

He adjusted the blanket over you and pressed another kiss to the top of your head. “Get some sleep liefje.”

Max buried the secret deeper after that night, convincing himself that it was better this way. You wouldn’t forgive him, he was sure of it, and he couldn’t risk losing you.

But the guilt didn’t go away. It lingered like a shadow, growing heavier with every passing day. He started overcompensating, showering you with affection, he’d buy you flowers every day, plan spontaneous dates, and do anything he could to keep you happy.

And it worked. You were happy. You loved him. And Max loved you so much it hurt.

The fear of losing you consumed him. It drove him to be better, to be the man you deserved, but it also ate away at him. He avoided certain conversations, terrified that you’d somehow stumble upon the truth. He cut Daniel off sharply whenever he brought up the bet, even if you were nowhere near, his tone cold and final.

“Don’t,” he snapped when Daniel jokingly mentioned it in passing. “It’s not funny.”

Daniel raised his hands in surrender, the mere mention of the bet made Max’s chest tighten, the fear creeping back in. He couldn’t let you find out because Max knew one thing with absolute certainty, if you ever did he’d lose you.

No matter how hard he tried the fallout was inevitable.

The night had started out like any other, one of those glitzy, over-the-top events Max had to attend where champagne flowed like water and conversations were laced with artificial charm. You had never particularly liked these parties, but for Max you endured them.

Maybe that’s why you had stepped outside. The ballroom was too loud, too stifling, too full of people who smiled too widely and spoke in half-truths. You had wanted air, a moment to breathe away from it all, and then you heard it.

Max’s voice, unmistakable even in the distance, low and edged with something uncharacteristically uneasy. You followed it instinctively, your heels clicking against the marble floors as you rounded the corner toward the balcony. You weren’t eavesdropping, at least that wasn’t the intention but something in his tone made you pause just before stepping into view.

"I didn’t think it’d go this far," Max said, his voice quiet with exasperation. "It was a stupid bet Daniel. A fucking drunk, meaningless bet. And now I—now she—”

His words cut off abruptly like he couldn't even bring himself to say it out loud, but the damage was already done.

Your heart stopped.

The world seemed to tilt under your feet, the music and laughter from the party fading into white noise. Bet. The word hit you like a punch to the stomach, knocking the air from your lungs.

You didn’t hear the rest. You didn’t need to.

A choked breath escaped your lips before you could stop it, and that tiny sound was enough to break whatever bubble of secrecy Max had been operating in. His head snapped toward you, his eyes widening in alarm as he registered your presence.

"Shit," he muttered, his entire body tensing.

You didn’t wait for an explanation. Your feet were already moving, the panic clawing at your throat as you turned on your heel and pushed past the doors leading inside. You needed to get out.

"Wait—"

Max was already chasing after you, shoving past Daniel, who muttered a quiet curse calling out for Max as he realised what had just happened, but Max didn’t hear him, or maybe he didn’t care. His focus was on you weaving through the crowd as you dodged between people your vision blurred with tears.

When Max found you, you were already halfway out the entrance.

"Wait," he called, his voice raw with panic. "Please just listen it's not what you think—"

"Don’t," you bit out, whirling to face him. "Don’t insult me by pretending this wasn’t exactly what it looks like."

His face crumpled, "It wasn’t supposed to be like this."

"Then what was it supposed to be Max?" Your voice shook, the weight of betrayal pressing down on your chest. "A joke? Something to laugh about with your friends? A game to pass the time until you got bored?"

"No," he said stepping forward, hands reaching for you like he could fix this if he just got close enough. "At first-when we first met I…it doesn’t matter, but not anymore. Not for a long time. I swear, I didn’t mean for this to happen-"

"But it did," you cut him off, voice breaking under the weight of it all. "And you let it happen. You let me believe in this, in you, while you knew—"

"I fell for you too," he rasped, his desperation tangible. "I swear to god, I did. And now I can't—" His breath hitched, words failing him. "I can’t imagine my life without you."

"Stop," you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. "You don’t get to say that. Not now. Not when this," you gestured between you, "was built on a lie."

His wiped away his own tear that had fallen. "But we were happy, that was real." he pleaded, voice breaking. "I tried so fucking hard to make you happy everyday, to make everything perfect. Doesn’t that count for something?"

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head as fresh pain sliced through you. "No, Max. It doesn’t. Because it was never real. You don’t get to build something on a lie and then act like the good parts outweigh the truth."

He reached for you again, but you stepped back, the distance between you feeling impossibly vast.

"I can't do this, Max. I can't be with someone who—" Your voice faltered. "Someone who made me love them knowing it was never real."

"It is real, I swear I lov-" he pleaded, but you just turned away.

And this time, when you walked away, you didn't look back.

Max tried everything to win you back. Texts, calls, presents, even showing up at your door unannounced. But you ignored him, too hurt to entertain the idea of forgiveness. It wasn’t until over a month later that he finally got through to you.

A knock at your door interrupted the quiet of your evening. You weren’t expecting anyone. And when you peeked through the peephole, your stomach twisted. Max, again.

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the lock, but before you could turn away, his voice came through the door, muffled but unmistakably determined.

"I’m not leaving until you talk to me."

You sighed, pressing your forehead against the wood. A couple of weeks ago you would have let him sit there all night. Now, all you felt was confused. But… you unlocked it, pulling it open just enough that you could stand in the door.

"Max—"

"Wait," he cut in gently, his eyes desperate. "Please. Just let me say this."

"I messed up," he admitted, his voice raw with regret. "I know I did. And part of me wishes I could go back and never agree to the stupid bet, to stop it before it ever started." He swallowed hard, his eyes searching yours. "But I can’t. And the truth is… I don’t know if I’d want to."

You reached for the door, but he pressed on.

"Because the bet led me to you. And I don’t regret that. I regret lying. I regret hurting you. But I could never regret you." His voice broke slightly. "I love you. Not because of some stupid decision, but because of who you are."

He took a step closer to the door careful, like he knew he was balancing on a knife’s edge.

"Because of the way you ramble when you're excited. The way you always text me when you see something that reminds you of me, no matter how small. The way you—" He let out a shaky breath. "The way you make me feel like I've finally found something that matters more than everything I ever thought I wanted”

"I know I don’t deserve another chance," he continued, voice softer now. "But if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that I’m not the guy who made that bet. I’m the guy who loves you. And I swear, I will never stop trying to be better for you."

Silence wrapped around you both. You swallowed hard, fighting against the warmth creeping into the cracks he had just reopened. "You had months, Max. Months to tell me the truth. And you didn’t. You let me find out like that…why?”

His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a long moment, he just stared at the ground, his breath coming uneven.

"Because I was scared," he admitted, "scared that if I told you, I’d lose you. That you’d look at me like you did that night, like I was just a mistake you regretted. I kept telling myself I’d find the right time, that I’d make it up to you before you ever had to know, and I fell for you, really fell, and suddenly telling you felt like handing you a reason to walk away."

For all the ways you wanted to stay angry, to hold onto the betrayal, there was something devastating about the way he said it.

"So you lied instead," you murmured.

His lips pressed together, his head bowing slightly. "I did. And it was the worst decision I’ve ever made." His eyes lifted back to yours, full of something desperate. "But I swear to you, losing you showed me exactly what kind of man I never want to be again."

"I don’t know if I can trust you again," you whispered.

Max nodded, no trace of frustration, just quiet determination. "I’ll earn it," he vowed. "No matter how long it takes."

Your gaze flickered to the flowers in his hands. Slowly, hesitantly, you reached out, fingertips brushing against his as you took them.

It wasn’t a yes. Not yet.

But it wasn’t a no, either.

And the way his lips parted slightly, the hope in his eyes you knew he’d wait for as long as you needed. A beat passed before you sighed and pushed the door open wider.

"Come in, just for a bit."

He paused, like he was afraid to move too fast, but the second you stepped back he followed slipping inside. You set the flowers down on the counter, fingers brushing over the petals as you tried to steady yourself.

"You’ve been eating right?" he asked a flicker of that familiar concern in his expression.

You huffed a small, reluctant laugh. "Seriously? That’s your first question after all that?"

Max shrugged, tentative in his smile. "I’ve been worried."

You rolled your eyes, but your chest ached in a way you hadn’t let yourself acknowledge in weeks. You had missed him, his presence, his quiet care, the way he always paid attention to the little things.

"Yes, I’ve been eating," you said, shifting your weight awkwardly.

"Good." He nodded, then hesitated. "Can I—sit?"

You hesitated to, then gave him a small nod. "Yeah. Just… don’t push your luck."

Max smiled at that, he walked over to the couch sitting at the far end, after a moment you sat down to, tucking your legs beneath you. Neither of you spoke at first. The air still felt heavy, but not unbearable. Max rubbed his palms over his thighs, glancing at you before looking away again.

"This is weird," you admitted.

"Yeah," he agreed, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "But not bad, right?"

You exhaled, staring down at your hands. "Not bad."

His grin widened, "Let’s order something, whatever you want.” his voice dropped, teasing. "Just don’t steal my fries."

"Who says I’d want your fries?" you murmured.

Max smirked. "You always want my fries."

You huffed dramatically, turning your attention back to your phone. "Fine. I’ll order my own. Happy?"

"Not yet," he murmured, the teasing edge in his voice softening into something else. "But I’m getting there."

You chuckled, rolling your eyes, but the warmth creeping into your chest was impossible to ignore. No, it wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But when Max stole a fry from your box later, grinning at you like he hadn’t just started a war you realised, it was a start, a real one.

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ahermitinverted · 2 days ago

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I am tired of liberals finding this post and yelling at me for getting Trump elected. I will attempt to put my thoughts together concisely.

First point: there is some mythmaking that Kamala did everything she could to win and the American public failed her and the Democrats. This is an inaccurate recasting of history. From the very beginning, Harris's internal polling showed that she was losing this election. You can come up with whatever excuses you want for why that is, but the point stands that she had a losing strategy that she knowingly committed to.

This USA Today article references the Pod Save America Podcast where Kamala's staff talks about this:

Second point: there is mythmaking that she simply had no winning strategy that she could find other than courting Republicans, because she was already too far left to get elected. This is inaccurate and we can see what voters wanted to vote for. I'm not going to go over every example, but I will point to a representative one. I don't think it's controversial to say that a major reason that Kamala lost Michigan is because of her hardline stance on supporting Israel's genocide of the Palestinians. Her strategy was to send Bill Clinton to yell at them to fall in line. Yet those voters didn't abandon Democrats for the Right because we still saw them vote for Rashida Talib. If Democrats wanted more people to vote for them, they could have met the voting base on the matters that they were asking for.

Here's an interesting article from some indie progressive new outlet that goes over some more progressive wins that got the votes that Kamala failed to find:

Third and most irritatingly, people are still mythologizing that third party voters voting for Jill Stein or whoever should have fallen in line and just voted for Democrats to stop Trump. I will acknowledge that it is absurd to demand that random people behave more Machiavellian than the literal politicians to mitigate harm, but that's a conversation for another time. We need to remember that Kamala didn't lose narrowly; she lost everything. She lost every relevant battleground state, and these losses were not due to third party voters.

Michigan: Lost by 80,103 votes. Jill Stein only got 44,607. Even if you give her Cornel West's votes, that's only another 6,664.

Wisconsin: Lost by 29.397 votes. Jill Stein and Cornel West only "stole" 15,028.

Nevada: Lost by 46,008 votes. No one voted Stein or West, but "None of the above" only got 19,625.

Arizona: Lost by 187,382 votes. Stein got 18,319.

Georgia: Lost by 115,100 votes. Stein found 18,229.

Pennsylvania: Lost by 120,266 votes. Stein got 24,538.

These are all states that Biden was able to win in 2020. I need people to understand that Kamala lost this election and it wasn't even close. The Green Party didn't steal it from her. Non-Voting Progressives didn't fail her. She lost so badly that they can't even convincingly run the normal "progressives abandoned us" playbook. They abandoned their own base and traded it for a handful of Liz Cheneys.

My issue with Liberal Electoralism is a desperate belief in the power of the individual voter. I get the impulse to think 'what could WE have done differently,' but ultimately it's not on 'us.' Democrats did not want to win this election, so it is silly to blame the people who pointed out the reasons they were going to lose as it happens.

So yeah I stand by my position. Go donate burritos to unhoused folks. It will do more good than yelling at people for not voting for Kamala. Mostly because the people that you're yelling at probably did still vote 'strategically' for Kamala and still saw her eat shit. Democrats aren't going to save you.

In conclusion vote if you want to. I don't care. But remember that the situation we are in was chosen by the power structures and not by the people who are criticizing them.

#anarchism #anti capitalism #anti electoralism #leftism #mutual aid #kamala harris

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kawhh · 1 day ago

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I was gonna go on anon with this, but you know what? I'm a whore for all three of our boys and I'm proud. So with that being said, what about being shared between Jack, Quinn and Trevor? Thoughts?

UNASHAMED WHORES UNITE. (before I sleep, it's 1am and I need a nap)

It keeps me up often. I'll admit. There's something about the balance of all three of them and how they'd make eachother worse.

They all have different levels of restraint but they'd all end up complete monsters. Constantly poking eachother. To the point of even making Q snap.

I feel like trevor would be the first to touch you. Forcing you on his lap, hooking your legs open. The way he'd trail his fingers slowly up your thighs, the way he'd threaten to violate you, hooking his thumbs under the lace of your underwear, snapping it back against your skin.

Burying his head in your neck, smirking at the brothers. If they're gonna be cowards about it, he's not gonna let that delay him ruining the cute little slut in his lap. A cruel look in his eyes as he bounces you slightly in his lap, forcing you to feel his cock press against you. Only getting harder with how they're glaring at him. Oh, if looks could kill.

Taking it further, licking a stripe up your neck as he lets his fingers dip under your underwear, close enough to your adorable little hole that he knows they won't know if it's actually touching you. Moaning in your ear, pretending that he's feeling you soaking his fingers.

He can see it working, he can see how worked up Jack's getting. His clenched fingers are pale. The slight tremble in his arms, the restraint he's using to not pounce on you. He swears he's almost drawing blood with how tight he's biting his lip. He won't take long. Just needs a little push.

"Mhmm.. Jaaack.. you really should feel how fucking soaked our little slut is. She's clenching around nothing.. such a fucking whore. Soaking my hand."

Biting your ear, making you squeak, giving your clit a harsh stroke, relishing in how Jack's eye's twitch at the sound of your arousal.

He's not focusing on Quinn. He won't snap until it's both of them bullying you. Too much of an ego. Too much self praise of his control.

The sound's too much for Jack, he's grabbing your ankles, yanking you down the bed. He can't handle not touching you. Can't handle someone touching his property. Trevor can't fuck you like he can. He's too selfish. He won't focus on you. Too focused on his own need to cum. Unlike him. He'll have you screaming before he even bottoms out in you.

Trevor's forgetting the numbers advantage. If he can get Quinn to snap, they're so in sync that he won't stand a chance. You'll be begging to be shared between them. You could wake up every morning with them, spit roasting you for breakfast.

He lets out a borderline growl as he watches Trevor rest your head against his cock. See? Selfish. Even now he's trying to get his dick sucked instead of worshiping you.

Fuck that.

He's yanking you even further down the bed, ignoring your comfort now that he's wrapped up in this ego battle. Blinded with how irritated he is. Giving you no warning as he rips your underwear, diving in to bite your hip, tearing the scraps from your body with his teeth. Glaring up at Trevor. He's still smirking. Still thinks he has the advantage. So what if he was the first to touch you?

Slapping your soaking pussy, the smugness increasing in his glare as you moan and jolt. Pussy clearly knows who it belongs to. Resting his head against your inner thigh, slowly leaving kisses around your hole, teasing you, the way you squeak if he gets too close.

Seeing Trevor twitch, kissing you directly on your tight, wet hole, frenching your cute little lips. Dragging his tongue along your walls. Eyes rolling back in his head at your taste. 'Course his girl tastes delicious. Digging his hands into your ass, lifting you up towards him. Needing more leverage to tongue fuck you. Smothering himself in your arousal. Feeling it drip down his chin, soaking the bed.

He can feel Quinn sitting on the edge of the bed next to him, looking up briefly to see him stroke your hair.

"Being a good girl for Jack, angel? Yeah? You gonna cum on his face? Warm your cunt up for me, yeah?"

You're crying at the contrast. The softness of Quinn's actions.. the brutal way Jack's swirling his tongue inside of you. Firmly trapped in their grip, far away from Trevor.

Helpless to defend against the way Jack manhandles you, flipping you onto your stomach, tugging your hair back, forcing you to look at Trevor. Murderous looking Trevor. He's suddenly thrusting into you, giving you no warning, no time to warm up. Going back on his need to make you cum and scream first. He needs this. Feeling his balls slap against your skin, the sound echoing through the room. Every slap making Trevor twitch.

Hammering into you, pushing you further into the bed. The drag of his cock against your walls is brain numbing. You don't know if you're crying, screaming or dying. He's slamming into your cervix, a little circle to his hips at the end of every thrust, making sure you can feel how big he is, how he fucks you better than anyone ever will.

Yelping as you feel hands on your ass, taking a second to realise what's happening. You'd almost forgotten. Whimpering as you're attacked with an even harder thrust, like he's telling you off for forgetting Quinn in your cock drunk haze.

Trying to squirm up the bed as your feel Quinn playing with your ass, stretching you apart to spit on your untouched hole, giving Jack a better view of how your cunt is gripping him, desperate to keep him inside.

It's no good. Good little sluts don't crawl away from what they're being given. You're being yanked down towards them, feeling like you're actually going to split apart on Jack's cock. Your vision blurs at the brutality.

Feeling Quinn slowly drag his thumb around your hole, threatening to push in. The pressure, the threat, making you whine loudly, begging them for mercy.

"Want me to really show you a good time, angel? Or do you want us both in that stretched little cunt?"

Jack's collapsing against your back at his brother's words, the darkness in his voice. Slamming into you one last time before he floods you. Watching his cum leak out, eyes widening as Quinn scoops it up with his thumb, pressing it against your ass. Forcing it in slightly, giving your ass a smack as a parting gift.

You're barely conscious, dragging your face up the soft bedsheets, glancing up at Trevor. He's a fucking mess. You can see his cum soaked boxers from here, the redness on his cheeks. The way he's just staring at you.

You're being grabbed, the brothers half throwing you up the bed, making you land close to Trevor. They're sandwiching you in a huddle on the bed before you can move. Quinn holding your leg up against his grip, grinding himself against you.

"Best you get some sleep.. before you wake up with my cock down your throat. Still have to show you who the best brother is, don't I?"

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strayingawayy · 13 hours ago

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in love, and in line for the throne...

...the one where jisung, your royal companion since your diaper days proposes in the most jisung way possible

"let's get married then," jisung says as he kicks off his shoes messily and plops onto your bed without a care in the world.

there's a moment of silence. minho, your ever-stoic royal guard, looks like he wants to pass out. you, on the other hand, can practically hear the gears in your own head screeching to a halt.

"oh no. no, no, no, no. please, jiji, i was merely joking," you say, waving your hands frantically.

jisung blinks up at you, completely unbothered. "so?" he rolls onto his side, resting his head on his arm like he belongs there. "i'm not."

you stare at him in horror. "ji, i am the ruler of an entire kingdom! i can't just marry said kingdom's snack thief!"

he gasps, sitting up dramatically. "snack thief? is that how you see me? not as the charming, loyal, devastatingly handsome companion who’s been by your side through thick and thin?"

"you ate my coronation cake before the ceremony, han jisung."

"and it was delicious. you're welcome." he grins, utterly shameless. "anyway, the point still stands. marriage. you. me. think about it. no more boring suitors. free snacks for life. and, let's be honest, i’d make a fantastic royal consort."

you pinch the bridge of your nose. "i cannot believe we're having this conversation."

han throws his arms wide. "believe it, your majesty. think of the perks! i’ll make you laugh, i'll support all your ridiculous policies, and best of all, i'll keep all the royal advisors on their toes. win-win!"

minho, standing by the door with a look of sheer exhaustion, mutters, "i'm gonna need a raise."

you sigh deeply, staring at han, who’s now sprawled out on your royal pillows like he owns the place. "han-ah, i'm not marrying you."

"yet," he shoots back, winking.

"ever!"

he grins even wider. "we'll see."

you groan and flop onto the bed beside him. "this kingdom is doomed. my sex life, even more so."

"minho, get the invitations ready! the kingdom should know that the great han jisung shall soon bed y/n!"

"WED. NOT BED HAN JISUNG!"

"even better!"

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cire-things · 21 hours ago

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My bed seems more comfortable than normal today, warmer. Even if the alarm from my phone blares, I aim to stay in this warm hug of comfort. Yet, instead, I’m reminded by the low groan behind me that I gained a companion from last night's biweekly trip to the dive bar my friends forced me to go to.

I reach over to my phone, stopping the alarm, not just snoozing it as I normally do, but as I move to begin my day, a strong, warm set of arms keep me in place, “I need to get up, ya dope.” I get a noncommittal groan as a response, along with a kiss placed on the juncture of my neck and shoulder, as well as his arms tightening their grip onto my waist.

“Let me go ya’ fucker, I gotta get ready for my shift.” I say as I try to wiggle my way free from his calloused hands.

“S’not what ya called me last night, birdie,” the man responds, leaving a beat of silence before continuing, “Or did I fuck you too stupid for you to remember my name?” his deep voice rumbles out, a light chuckle accompanying his words as I freeze up in realization. “Stay and cuddle, love, you got time.”

“You pointing out that I might not know your name like you haven't referred to me as two different nicknames, I feel like you don’t know my name!” I state, returning to me trying to get out of his grip, and as I think I finally am about to get free, he let me go only after whispering out my name. Due to me having moved against his grip and him letting me go, on top of him whispering out my name, I ended up sprawled on the floor.

“C’mon y/n, you think that lowly of me?” his deep voice sings out my name like the call of a siren, he sits up in bed, still in shadow due to my blackout curtains keeping the sun’s rays from view. All I see is his bulking silhouette, I can feel his hot gaze staring down at me, messy hair, naked body, blushing face and all, even in the darkness of my room.

I jolt myself up from my position, and rush into my bathroom, lightly slamming the door behind me. I hear from my room a genuine belly laugh from the man. I hold my face in my hands for a moment as I stand there in the darkness of my bathroom, contemplating how I ended up in this embarrassing situation. Thinking over the previous night's moments, I flick on the overhead lights and turn on my shower.

I look over my body in the mirror, hickeys, love bites, and bruises cover many parts of my body. Hips have his handprints ingrained into them, neck has a few bitemarks and hickeys covering them, as does my chest. As the room begins to fill with steam, more of the night's activities come to mind as I look over his markings.

I mindlessly step into the shower, giving my body respite for the coldness I gained leaving his grip. The heat streams down my body, and my autopilot kicks in as I lose myself in remembering the order of events.

Soft brown eyes stealing glances from across the bar.

Face covered in a mask, momentarily moved for a sip from his dark amber colored glass.

Laughs around me, friends asking the same questions yet he keeps my attention.

A drink appears in front of me, mirroring his own. I look at him again, a nod from him, a nod from me.

We ended up in the bathroom at first. Lips clashing like a hate-fucking-ex-couple. Patrons filing in to do their business, ignoring our two sets of feet in the stall we nabbed. “This is a bit dingy, innit love?” He says to me between stealing my breath away.

“I live close by, with a large bed, and no roommates.” I responded back as I continued our addictive motions.

Pushed up against the not so clean stall wall, held up with ease. His lips feel slightly rough, but still plush, moving against mine as if we have done it before. As he finally lets go, his chocolate eyes bore into me with heated intensity. A string of our mixed saliva connects us. He gives me a toothy grin, lips curled upwards, the scars around them, mixed with his patchy stubble makes me want to just lean back in and continue our semi silent conversation.

I am broken from my recollection as the bathroom door opens, the shampoo was just being rinsed from my hair. A slight hesitation comes from him, as if he is worried he is about to overstep, but still is hoping for something. “S’alright for me to join you?” his voice almost whispers out, just barely heard above the rushing water of the shower.

“Yes love, c’mere.” I say, the last of my shampoo finally running free from my locks.

“Now who’s using nicknames?” I feel him step in behind me as I face the showerhead. His warm and bulking figure moves close to me, warming my back up the way it had while we were entangled this morning.

I turned to face him, looking into those brown eyes that first caught my attention last night. “S’only fair… ain’t that right Simon.” As the warm water streams down our bodies together. That same toothy grin from last night paints his face. It’s almost lopsided, almost like his face isn’t used to doing it. But my god if I can’t keep making him smile, I might kneel over and pass on.

“I guess you needed a minute, knew I fucked myself too far into your brain, love” His large hands reach up to cup my cheeks, pulling me into another sickly sweet kiss. I don’t think I can let this end, not when he holds me like glass and his lips feel like the sun is finally shining.

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #call of duty #reader insert #ghost x reader #first time posting fanfiction here #ooc #my bad on that #might work on it further but no promises #fanfic #fanfiction #simon riley x reader

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omamervt · 2 days ago

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oh my god every one of these replies is so stupid. I was content when it was just one to block and move on but y'all kept going, Jesus.

From top to bottom:

"Review embargoes are good, though!"

If you wanna miss the point, I can help you understand. If you're just wrong, I can try and help you see why. But if you're gonna be wrong WHILE missing the point, nothing you have to say is worth saying.

Ignore for a moment that none of the perks of an embargo in your eyes benefit READERS, only the reviewers, their publishers, and the game's publisher. Because even if I agreed with THAT point, do you think review embargoes had a bad reputation back in the day because of the NON-toxic patterns? No! The point is that reviews aren't allowed to come out now until the game's release is so close that it's too late to inform everyone who pre-ordered that they might want to cancel! And that this went from a predictable indicator that a game was gonna suck on launch to a near-universal practice! And AGAIN, that the editors and reviewers would rather maintain a positive relationship with AAA game publishers than with their own readers!

"influencers can play and stream the game before reviews are out, as long as they stick to certain talking points and avoid others"

In other words, you can only review the game if you don't leave a bad review? do you not think that JUST MAYBE that would fall under the category of "problematic embargo pattern?"

"why are you going to a video game magazine for ttrpg news instead of like, Dicebreaker?"

oh, I don't know? Maybe BECAUSE POLYGON HAS A FUCKING TABLETOP SECTION? Maybe because as great as Rascal and Dicebreaker and the like are and need support when they do good work, it doesn't change the fact that if Polygon wants to have a Tabletop beat, they should at least try and do a good job with it? And the head of that section writing an open letter to people his department has straight-up ignored, despite them doing everything right, and saying, "be more marketable!" You can't pretend it's not a bad look. Ignoring the work of members of his own team, who are doing the thing he's saying needs to be done? You can't pretend it's not a bad look. ESPECIALLY when you acknowledge that WoTC has a LITERAL MONOPOLY on the TTRPG scene!

and shieldfoss, I know you won't see this because I blocked you because you're an idiot arguing in bad faith, but everything you said is exactly what I meant by "debating the role of a games journalist in a way that lets them off the hook for not doing their job." Because actually, it IS a journalist's job to inform their readers, not just spoon-feed them what they want to hear, with info they could just as easily get directly from WoTC.

As it stands, the likes of Polygon ARE serving as part of the marketing for major products and services. And that's a BAD thing!

Oh, and about your analogy: If I were going to an e-bike repair man, then no, I wouldn't expect him to try and sell me a new e-bike. BECAUSE HE'S NOT THE PUBLISHER OF AN E-BIKE MAGAZINE! However, I WOULD expect an e-bike magazine to keep me as up-to-date as is reasonably possible on e-bike product launches, even if it's only via reviews. I would expect them to have a handful of guys whose job was to keep their ear to the ground to research up-and-coming e-bike makers. And if one E-bike brand had a monopoly on e-bikes, I'd hope that e-bike magazine would do everything in its power to at least not COME OFF as a shill for the company that holds the monopoly.

And it's all fascinating that two out of three of these replies are, again, still largely in the context of "this is an issue with Charlie Hall, specifically, writing an article about not wanting to have to do any investigation or research to populate his TTRPG section with TTRPG articles" when, as I've been saying from the beginning, this is bigger than him. It's bigger than Polygon. Every major publication has these issues, and they have them in regards to ALL types of games, not just TTRPGs.

So no, none of these people had good points.

I've often heard people debate the role of Games Journalists and their duties relating to coverage of Games, but its usually in the context of letting them off the hook for just taking the easy route and shilling for the AAA industry.

After This Article from Polygon today, whose TTRPG beat is almost entirely covering WoTC press releases, written by the editor for the TTRPG beat, talking about how indie TTRPGs need to do better about getting press coverage themselves (hmm wonder how that would happen, Charlie!), while neglecting to highlight his own team members' work to do so, but finding plenty of time to bemoan the lack of any upcoming Curse of Strahd-tier adventure modules from WoTC?

Yeah we're done with that. No more. Don't even think about it.

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moody-alcoholic · 3 days ago

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Cross My Heart

Part 15 - Special Delivery

Summary: eventual poly141 x reader. Enemies to lovers, mini fic. CW: Death, use of weapons, violence, military inaccuracies. AN: I'm sorry but none of you are ready for the next part...

Previous parts - masterlist - next AO3

Enjoy <3

It feels like every time you walk into a room with them it’s more and more awkward. You feel like eyes are digging into you as you walk over to the table in the room and put the laptop down.

“Give me your boots.” Johnny says coming over to you. Before you even question him you’re already taking them off. “I’ll dry them by the radiators.” You nod, Gaz walks up to you as you open the laptop.

“Can you help her set up a keyword search or something?” Price asks.

“What are you looking for?” Gaz asks, pulling the laptop towards him. You look over at Ghost sticking a cloth into some part of a broken down weapon.

“Here, type in what you want to search for.” He says turning the laptop back to you.

“What should I search for?” You ask the room.

“Try Makarov.” Price asks from the doorway. You type it into the search bar, you have no idea what Gaz has done or how he managed to get it working so quickly. In fact the search part seemed to take the longest. You pull a chair over and sit down clicking through each thing.

“Just some emails, nothing really. They’re talking about the post being shut down.”

“Try missiles.” Gaz says you nod typing it in if you try Arabic first and nothing comes up so you switch to Russian. There’s only one document, you open it and there's a list and pictures of missiles, at the end there’s a link. You click it and it opens to a video.

It’s Makarov, he's talking about something, it looks like he’s in some kind of lab or something. He picks up a vial of something. Everyone but Ghost have moved over to the table now.

“What’s he saying?” Gaz asks.

“He’s talking about a chemical. Those missiles in the garage they’re-” You stop continuing to listen to him. “Chemical bombs, he's using the missile casings to make chemical weapons.”

“If those are empty shells outside, where are the insides?” Johnny asks.

“Probably with Al Qatala.” You say, the video finishes on a freeze frame of Makarovs face. You look up, Ghost has started putting the weapon back together now.

“What kind of chemicals?” Price asks. You go back to the document turning it so Johnny can see, he scans over it for a few seconds.

“That's like white phosphorus.” He says pointing at something. “This is some kind of gas.”

“Like in Urzikstan?” Gaz asks.

“Like Urzikstan?” You ask.

“He had sarin gas. This is different though.” Johnny says you raise an eyebrow looking up at Price who has his arms crossed with a concerned look on his face.

“What do we do now?” Gaz asks.

“We send this to Laswell, let her start looking through it. Tomorrow when we follow them to Makarov we’ll know more.” Price says then moves away from the laptop.

“I can keep looking.” You say moving the laptop back towards you.

“Laswell’s programs are faster, besides we need to get some rest. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.” He says. You nod pushing the laptop back to Kyle.

…

Everyone wakes before the sun is up. You slept uncomfortably, not because you had no bed and you were basically sleeping on the hard floor. Because Johnny had the building so hot you woke up in a pool of sweat. At least your clothes are dry though, mostly.

“Tea?” Johnny asks, passing you a plastic cup. You yawn taking it from him.

“Carry tea into a warzone with you all the time?” You ask.

“Cause, how would we function without it?” You look over at Gaz sitting next to you, you smile at him.

“No time for a tea break. They could be here any minute.” Price says. You sip the tea anyway; it's sweet and milky not like the kind you’re used to. You get up going over to where all the gear is drying and pick up your vest. It’s still damp but it’s better than being sodden.

You walk over to the window where Ghost and Price are standing.

“When do you think they’ll be here?” You ask, tightening the vest.

“Anytime now.” Ghost says.

“How are we going to follow them without being spotted?” You ask.

“We’ll take the car they left yesterday, if they do see us we’ll hope they think it’s one of them.” Price says. You don’t know if that will work but you trust him.

“When we get there what's the plan?” You ask.

“Haven’t got that far yet.” Price smiles and turns to look back into the room. You raise an eyebrow, Johnny comes up next to you throwing his arm over your shoulders.

“Hey, wanna cozy up with me in the back of the car when we leave?” He says winking at you, you feel heat rushing to your cheeks.

“You’re driving.” Price says smiling. Johnny’s arm leaves your shoulder as he starts to complain. You chuckle going back over to the window.

“C’mon, help me pack. You two keep a lookout.” Price says walking past you. You lean up against the window, looking out at the garages.

“So. What's with the mask?” You ask looking over at Ghost, he turns slightly and crosses his arms looking at you. He doesn’t answer, you frown at him.

“I think it’s cute.” You tease. He scoffs going to look back out the window. “Are you shy or something? You don’t seem shy.”

“I don’t like people knowing what I do.” He says. It’s not really a satisfying answer.

“What, you don’t want people knowing you're military?” You ask. He just lets out a sigh.

“I get it.” You say looking back out the window. “You want to keep work and home life separate. Do you have someone at home waiting for you?”

“No.” He says quickly. “Not anymore.”

You don’t press him any further, it feels like you’ve hit a nerve. You’re not waiting much longer, the sun has only just started to break over the horizon when a truck pulls up to the gate. You all make it outside and climb into the car they hid round the back of the building.

You all wait in silence hearing the garage doors open and close. Johnny doesn’t turn the engine of the car on until you all hear the distant click of the front gates slamming closed. By that point everyone is getting somewhat restless, you’re sat in the back between Ghost and Gaz. Price is in the front with the laptop on his knees.

“Laswell thinks they might be heading to an old cold war base a few hours from the border of Kastovia.” Price says. “Satellite images have been promising and Russia has no troops in that region.”

“And they would have no reason to lie.” You say raising an eyebrow. You shrug when Price looks back at you.

“Let’s move, we don’t want to lose them if we’re wrong.” He says gesturing for Johnny to drive.

…

Price was right, they end up driving into what looks like an old cold war air base. Grass is peaking through the cracked concrete of the runway. The surrounding fence is rusted and collapsed in some places the buildings look rundown and barely functional but you all watch as one of the doors to one of the hangers open and the trucks drive in.

Price orders Johnny to drive round to a forest about a kilometre away from the place and you all get out.

“How can we be sure he’s there?” Gaz asks as he closes the boot of the car.

“He’s there.” Price says confidently.

“What about the others, The Butcher and Khaled?” You ask as you follow them through the trees.

“No, they haven’t been spotted. This is a cold war era building though. Chances are there’s an underground tunnel system they’re hiding in.” Price says.

“That explains why we didn’t see many guards.” Ghost replies.

“Right, besides I don’t think it’s going to be getting in that's the problem.” Price says. You let out a sigh, this feels too easy. It feels like you’re rushing, he’s in that building but like Price said there could be miles of tunnels hidden underneath. He could have a whole army in there just waiting.

You follow them in silence listening to them talk strategies. The plan seems to be to go in as quietly as possible, cut the alarms, locate Makarov and take him out. Then confirm where the bombs and chemicals are so the US and Russia can come in and clear them up.

It was a plan, not one you’re particularly happy with but it’s a plan nonetheless.

“Gaz, Soap. You get in to see if you can find a maintenance room of some kind. Something we can use to tap into their systems.” He hands them the laptop. Gaz takes it then they start making their way down to the building.

You’re all hidden behind something you think was once a barn but now there's a tree growing out of it and it's collapsed on one side. Ghost has binoculars looking around the place, the sun is out and the sky is clear which is way better than the thunderstorm from last night.

“Place is quiet. I don’t like it.” Ghost says after a few seconds.

“Makes our job easier.” Price says. You straighten up when you see the doors of the hanger open again.

“Eye’s up Ghost.”

“I see.” He replies. You squint trying to get a better look, you can’t see anything really from this distance, you wonder if Soap and Gaz are having any better look.

“Shit. That’s Makarov.” Ghost says handing the binoculars over to Price. He brings them up to his eyes. You see a smile on his lips.

“Got you now fucker.” You hear him whisper under his breath as he takes the binoculars down and hands them over to Ghost.

“Update Soap and Gaz. I’ll get Laswell in the loop.” He says before turning to walk away.

“Soap, Gaz. Makarov is heading into the main building.”

“Copy.” You hear Gaz call back. “How’s our way in looking?”

“You’re clear. Watch yourselves.”

“Always.” Soap replies. You turn behind you to see Price talking on a phone. You try to look for them but you can’t see them at all. You watch as Makarov makes it into the building with his entourage.

“We’re in, making our way to the building now.” Gaz says.

“Copy, watch your step, we have no intel you’re going in blind.”

“Copy, won’t be blind for long though.” Gaz whispers. You’re holding your breath, your palms have gone sweaty. You’re nervous, you want to be with them, helping them. What if they get hurt? They know what they’re doing, they’ve been trained for this.

“How’re we looking?” Price asks as he comes back standing next to you.

“We’re in, looking for a maintenance room.” Soap whispers as if on cue.

“Good. Let us know when you have access then we’ll move.” Price says. It feels like you’re waiting forever, the seconds feel like minutes, you find yourself constantly checking your watch.

“Nervous?” Price asks. You look over at him and smile.

“Never.” He smiles back nodding his head.

“We’re in. Looks like Makarov is sitting pretty at the top of the ATC. Can you get a visual Ghost?” You all look up at the tower, you can’t see anything from here.

“Copy. I see him.” Ghost says after a few seconds.

“We can override the security and lock him in there?” Gaz asks.

“Good, do it. Any signs of tunnels?” Price asks.

“Nothing, everything seems to be above ground.” Gaz responds, you look over at Price. It feels too easy.

“How many inside?”

“A few dozen, 30. Maybe 40.” Soap says.

“Civilians?”

“Negative.”

“Stay put, we're coming to you.” Price says tapping Ghost on the shoulder.

It doesn’t take you long to make it to the part of the wall Soap and Gaz made it though. Ghost and Price are faster than they are. More sure in their movements, they handle their weapons in a way you’ve never seen before, its second nature to them. You all slip through a side door and walk into a dimly lit corridor.

“Were in.” Price says. You see Soap stick his head round a corner with his weapon drawn before lowering it. You all walk over to him seeing Gaz kneeled down next to the laptop hooked up to what you assume is some kind of server.

“Gaz, stay here. Guide us, we’ll clear floor by floor. Make sure Makarov doesn't try anything. He’s not getting away this time.” Price says. Gaz nods and the rest of you make it out the room closing the door behind you.

“Which way Gaz?” Price asks as you all stand there looking to him for direction.

“Door to the left will take you through to the main entrance, then right through the double doors will take you into the mess.” Gaz says. “You’re looking at about 15-20 people.” You swallow hard. That’s a lot.

“Are you sure we can take that many people at once?” You ask before you can stop yourself. Soap chuckles and you feel embarrassed.

“We’ve dealt with worse odds. Besides, we have an advantage.” Price says. You frown, shaking your head at him.

“They don’t know we’re here.” Price says, clicking the safely off his weapon and turning to the left.

He was right again. Surprising them was a big advantage. Gaz was good at calling out hazards too. You knew where they were before they could even find you. It felt clinical, maybe you’re used to it now, all the killing. It’s not hard when you’ve done it a few times.

You don’t think about it, you just shoot, shoot them or they will shoot you. You don’t think about if they have a life outside of this. They’re the enemy, they’re making bombs and chemicals to hurt actual innocent people.

“Mess and kitchen are clear. You’ve got people coming from the west side of the building.” Gaz says. You all get into position before the first few soldiers manage to get shots off. You have to duck under a table slipping on something and fall on your ass.

You hear Soap chuckle coming over to you and grab your arm pulling you up.

“Change your mag, I'll cover you.” He says. You nod, pulling the almost empty one out and pressing a new one in. The firing has stopped by the time you’re ready to fire again. You look over at the pile of bodies in the doorway. The room stinks of blood and gunpowder.

You don’t think that is something you can ever get used to.

“Looks like you’re clear.” The last few soldiers are with Makarov. I would hurry if I was you. I had to trigger a security lockdown so they couldn’t leave the ATC tower. He’s trying to override it. I don’t know how long you have.” Gaz explains.

“Copy, we’re moving.” Price says already jogging out the room. When you make it back outside the building you see people coming out of the hangar towards you.

“Go we’ll hold them off!” Soap shouts grabbing your arm to stop you. You nod at him and watch as Ghost and Price run off towards the ATC tower. You fire off shots with Soap, some are hitting, your adrenaline is pumping and your hands are sweaty.

He grabs your arm pulling you to cover behind a roadblock. Now it’s your turn to cover him so he can reload. You look over the block and fire off shots trying your best to make them land. You can’t tell if you’re getting better or not. The last one falls as he gets back up.

“C’mon let's catch up with the others. You watch our six, yeah?” You nod and follow him up the winding stairs of the tower.

You hear an explosion. You both freeze for a second, your eyes meeting before you’re sprinting up the stairs. It takes the wind out of you sprinting up the steps trying to keep up with Soap. By the time you make it to the top you have to brace your hands on your knees and take in lungfuls of air.

When you look back up Soap has gone, the doors to the control room are open. You walk in hearing voices.

“You think you can stop us all Captain?” That has to be Makarov, his thick Russian accent cutting through the air.

“Maybe not. But we’re going to give it a damn good try.” You hear Price say as a shot is fired. You make it round the control panel just in time to see his body flop to the ground.

“Gaz, target down. Where’s the control room in this place?” Price asks as he turns, your eyes meet. There’s something different in them now, you quickly look back down at the body. His eyes look dark, focused. This was personal, you swallow hard, your throat feeling suddenly dry.

“Main building second floor.” Gaz says. You’re already turning to move back down the stairs before them. You feel a shiver up your spine. They got Makarov, they’ve got the weapons, now all they need to do is get the Americans and Russians in here to clear the place out.

It felt weird, like something had changed between you all. Well something had changed, they’ve completed their mission. You feel a shiver run up your spine remembering the cold look in Price’s eyes.

It’s not even over yet Jamal and Khaled, they're both still out there, they’re both probably involved in continuing Makarovs work. He was right, they can’t stop them all.

You make it to the control room first Gaz is leaned over a laptop. The room looks out of place almost like they just slammed a concrete box down in the middle of the building, maybe they did. You had to walk through a set of metal sliding doors to get in.

“Where are the others?” he asks looking over your shoulder, you turn to see no one following you.

“They must have got turned around.” You say.

“I’ll go get them, stay here.” he says. You nod, swinging the weapon off your shoulder and putting it on one of the tables. You hear them before you see them, they must have not been that far behind. You walk over to the door to meet up with them. It slides shut and you step back for a second then step up again. Nothing changes, you frown looking up at the sensor waking your hand.

You sigh, maybe it can only be opened from the other side, you can see them walk into the little room you can only describe as an airlock. This building really is as old as the cold war. When they make it to the door it doesn’t budge.

They look at you confused.

“I don’t know.” You say reaching over to press the red emergency open button, it doesn’t do anything. Suddenly you hear a hiss and a clank, they all turn watching the door behind them slide closed and lock.

An alarm rings out. They look at Gaz who looks down at the laptop, you can see him furiously clicking on the keyboard.

“The whole system’s gone into lockdown.” He says, you see panic on his face. Fuck. Price looks back at you.

“Did you touch anything?” He asks.

“No of course not!” You shout back defensively. Suddenly there’s another hissing, this wasn't like the one in their room. This one sounds different. You look up trying to place it.

“What’s happening?” Price asks. You look round, it’s the vents, a few seconds later a thick smoke starts to seep out of them. It almost immediately makes you gag and cough. You bring your arm hand up to block your nose and mouth.

You look back at Price, now you can see panic on his face.

Fuck.

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makeyoumine69 · 1 day ago

Text

Patrick catches you masturbating in the shower

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Masturbation, Daddy kink, fingering, mild size kink, unprotected sex, blow jobs & deepthroating, pussy eating, squirting, body worship, spanking, marking, creampie, dirty talk, pet names, hair pulling, Patrick is very possessive.

𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒: [MASTERLIST]; [MY IMAGINES AND SHORT REQUESTS].

Even though you had stayed at Patrick's apartment several times before, you had never really thought about taking a shower because you were afraid of spoiling something in this extremely lavish place. But tonight the two of you were going to see the show on Broadway, and since it was pretty hot in New York these days, you decided to freshen up a bit, knowing that you had to look absolutely impeccable.

As you stood under the streams of warm water, you imagined Patrick standing in this exact spot every morning—the lather running down his broad back, outlining his tight muscles until it slid off his firm ass. You let out a rapid breath as just the thought of it set your nerve endings on fire, and dear God, you needed him here and now. Hot and bothered, you slowly traced your hand between your legs, never stopping to think about Bateman, his strong arms and the dimples on his lower back. One day you accidentally stumbled into the bathroom while he was showering, and you couldn't help but be mesmerized by the sighе—Patrick didn't mind, in fact, he was glad to be presented like this, enjoying the way you looked at him as if he were a God in the flesh.

"Mmhm-fuck," you whispered into the palm of your hand, leaning against the wet marble wall in front of you as you touched your aching clit. "Patrick...please..."

With your eyes closed, you rubbed your little bud with slow but intense movements before you began to pump your throbbing pussy until you felt yourself so close to falling apart that you had to stop for a second, wanting to tease yourself a little longer to make your orgasm even more vivid. Panting, you took your hard nipple between your thumb and forefinger, pinching and rolling it, when suddenly you heard a low, almost mocking sneer behind your back. For a moment you thought it was just your imagination, considering how easily you fantasized about this man whenever he was away. But now it all seemed too real. Slowly, you turned around, the sound of splashing water nothing more than a backdrop to the raspy, tantalizing voice that could only belong to one person.

"My my, I never thought I'd see you like this," Patrick crooned, standing in the doorway to the bathroom with his arms crossed over his chest. "Enjoying yourself, princess?"

Princess.

The nickname alone almost made your legs buckle, but you managed to keep yourself upright. "I thought... I thought I locked the door," you blurted out awkwardly, standing half facing him. "I didn't expect you to come... so early."

The man grinned as he watched you closely—the way you tried to cover yourself with your fingers still inside you made him laugh, but when you attempted to pull away and pretend nothing had happened, Patrick pointed a finger and chuckled.

"Hey, stay where you are," he ordered, loosening his tie with his other hand. "You're not going anywhere, kitten."

His hoarse voice echoed off the bathroom walls, sending cold shivers down your spine, contrasting with the hot steam in the shower. The moments before Bateman's return felt like an eternity, but as soon as he walked in, almost naked, wearing only his red silk boxers, you wanted nothing more than to fall to your knees and let him use you as he pleased. And Patrick didn't keep you waiting, he slipped his briefs down and approached the shower, giving you a full view of his perfect physique; his thick, fully erect dick bobbing up and down as he walked and fucking hell, it was a sight to kill.

With one practiced move, Bateman opened the shower door and joined you in the steamy shower, pressing you against his solid form and pulling you into a lingering kiss that left you dizzy, but that was only the beginning. The slight friction of your mound against his cock spurred you both to rub against each other until Patrick couldn't wait any longer and pushed down on your shoulders to make you kneel before him.

"Did you miss me, darling?" He asked you, encircling his dick at the base to stroke its entire length. "Tell me you missed me."

You licked your lips briefly and instinctively squeezed your breasts together, your eyes fixed on his large palm as he stroked his beefy shaft, the water splashing down on you in harsh jets, but you didn't care.

"I missed you," you gave in, biting the inside of your cheek as he gently cupped your face and teased your lips with his tip. "I missed you...s-so much, Daddy."

Squinting down at you, Patrick let out a soft chuckle before he collected your hair in his fist for better control, and the next second your mouth was around his hot flesh. At first, Bateman was slow and delicate, but that was only for a moment considering how quickly this man could lose his mind, especially when you were sucking him off like a fucking lollypop.

"Mmmh," you moaned around him as you used your hands to massage his balls while he fucked your throat. Patrick only gave you a brief moment of respite as he wanted to reposition you a bit to dive even deeper into your mouth. "You... are so f-fucking huge."

"Gonna choke on me, huh?" Bateman winked and plunged down your throat again. "Take all of me."

And you did exactly what he wanted, wrapping your hands around his strong hips for support, but the intensity of his movements was literally overwhelming, reducing you to a whimpering mess without a single coherent thought.

"Ohhh, what's wrong?" The man taunted you as he noticed your eyes rolling back into your head. "Too much for a cock-drunk slut like you?"

He didn't let you answer, though—he just kept pounding into your face with sheer abandon. Only when he got bored with your mouth did he pull back and lift you up to turn you over so that your ass was completely at his mercy. After several hard slaps, Bateman crouched down and spread your buttocks to give your throbbing cunt a long, flat lick, starting at your clit and ending at your puckered little hole.

"Daddy," you wailed, grabbing his head. "I'm so... so close!"

"I bet you are," he hissed and spanked your bottom again, watching it jiggle before leaving a small bite on your right ass cheek. "You been fingering that little pussy all day while Daddy was at work? You're not guilty of that? For touching what's mine?"

Shit, shit, shit!

His goddamn mouth felt so good on you as the man knew how to treat you right, how to pull the strings to make you tremble and moan like a bitch in heat. But what he also knew was that he wouldn't last long if you kept moaning like that, arching your back and grinding your ass against his flushed face. All the while Patrick was pumping himself, the water washing away every drop of his pre-cum, but the tension in the base of his balls was a testament to how fucking aroused he was— just one more wiggle of your hips against his face and he would be done.

"I wanna cum inside," he rasped abruptly and stood up, tossing your wet hair aside to kiss the small of your neck. "I wanna make you so full of my cum..."

Gasping, you stood on your toes as the man began to poke at your worked up opening, stretching your pussy with his girth. "Yes...yes, Daddy," you almost whispered into his mouth as he grabbed your neck to make you look at him. "Do it...please...I want you to-"

And then you both lost it as Bateman finally bottomed you out and soon you felt him moving inside of you, his heavy sac slapping against your ass with every powerful thrust. You found yourself so small next to him, trapped between the pile of muscles and a black, smooth wall made of perfect, expensive tiles. With a throaty groan, he fucked you hard, he fucked you as if he really believed you could be one, as if there was no tomorrow, as if both your lives depended on it.

"Holy shit," he suddenly cursed under his breath, grabbing your shoulder for leverage. "Your pussy clings to me so fucking... hard."

The man punctuated his words with deep, desperate strokes, hugging you with his free hand to squeeze your breasts, but then Patrick drew it down to your lower abdomen and God, he could swear he could feel his dick moving inside your little body. That sensation, along with all the little lewd whimpers you made and your inner walls encasing him like a fucking vine, coaxed him to fuck you even harder, literally sprawling you against the shower wall. And when you finally collapsed, squirting from the merciless assault on your G-spot, Patrick followed your suit and unloaded his thick spurts of seed deep into your womb, anchoring you to his muscular body to make sure that every last drop of his cum was secured inside you.

Like a reminder to you not to touch what belonged to him.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my writing community to know when I update!💞

#american psycho #patrick bateman x reader #patrick bateman imagine #patrick bateman #patrick bateman x you #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #slasher x you #slasher smut #patrick bateman smut #patrick bateman headcanon #christian bale smut #christian bale x reader #patrick bateman reader #christian bale #patrick bateman imagines #slasher fanfic

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monkebearness · 3 days ago

Text

Maple Spice and Everything Nice

Yamada Kaede (tripleS) x Male Reader

Tags: smut, alcohol, fingering, blowjob, daddy kink, wall and standing sex, some fluff and angst

Word count: 10.4k

After nine tedious minutes of waiting in line, four friends finally enter through the doors of hell, or heaven, depending on one’s perspective. Welcomed by the almost deafening speakers, they witness the wave of guests all over the place, most of whom may as well embody the nine inner circles of Inferno or the seven terraces of Purgatorio—although some of them will probably consider this realm their paradise for a night. Yet one of these friends does not have the same level of enthusiasm as the other three as his mind is filled with doubt and regret for setting foot in this place on this weekend night.

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea to bring me here.”

“Come on, now. No need to be a party pooper, man. We promise you won’t regret this.”

“I already am, though. Besides, I don't mind being a party pooper.”

“Dude, Honggi’s not entirely wrong. Junghoon-ah, we might not get another chance to have fun in the next two weeks since people started booking reservations at the diner!”

“Well, I can’t blame customers for wanting to dine there. Isn’t that what gives us jobs in the first place? I can’t even believe you’re also going along with this, Kangmin-ah.”

“I know, I know... But think of this occasion as spending our paychecks for something new and fresh. Plus, you're the most hardworking guy between the four of us… This is your time to relax!”

“But this isn't the first place that comes to my mind when it comes to relaxation.”

“Oh, just wait until you meet someone who will change your mind,,” Honggi points his finger at him a few times. “Then you'll thank us for letting you come here!”

Autumn has arrived. Clubs were never Junghoon's style, it never has been. Ever since he’s gone on his own, he often spent his independence working from job to job across various kitchens in Seoul. But his colleagues couldn't help but insist that he tag along with them during his sixth month of working at a casual dining restaurant. And tonight, they’re inside a venue where most casual things also happen to their visitors. It’s the first time in a while that he hasn’t stayed inside home. Aside from buying groceries during weekends, going on jogs at local parks, or killing his free time on his laptop with content that’s either insightful or “brain rot-inducing,” though he tends to balance the two, more in favor of the former.

“Yeah, dude,” Insoo chimes in. “Who knows if some of us will be lucky enough to bring a chick to their place tonight? Ever thought about that benefit?”

“You should’ve definitely cleaned up your own place first if you want that to happen,” Junghoon shoots back.

“Eh,” he shrugs. “I’ll just head to their place instead and I'll make them a mess.”

“You know, words like those are why you haven’t hit off with anyone whenever we go here,” Kangmin chimes in.

“Whatever,” he grumbles. He’s had enough of his friends’ banters. “Are we just gonna stand here in the corner like a bunch of dorks or are we gonna start pushing our luck?”

Junghoon considers these given options. “I actually don't mind just standing here—”

“Come on. Get in there, man!” Honggi slowly pushes him as they both walk into the middle of the dance floor while the other two follow. “I promise you won’t regret it.”

And there he is. On the spot with the rest of the guests.

Junghoon slowly nods his head, awkwardly moving to the rhythm of the music. The less he became conscious of the crowd around him, the more he encouraged himself to keep on moving to the upbeat sound. Closing his eyes on his spot, his thoughts reassure him of an upside of clubbing, unlike what his buddies have been suggesting for the past half an hour. It’s a reminder that clubbing doesn’t have to be about flirting or mingling with others. Knowing that he may no longer want to visit a place like this the next time he’ll be invited, he gives it all. Tonight, the kitchen and restaurant are the least of his worries. It's about time he serves himself. Plus, he’s watched or played enough TikTok challenges in the background during his spare time to not be empty-handed for this hyper moment.

But after a minute has passed, Junghoon suddenly bumps into a woman in front of him with force not strong enough to be painful, yet strong enough to interrupt her movement and once unbothered mojo. Slowing down his dancing, he remains alert, with adrenaline pumping to his veins, bracing himself for any form of outburst or reaction from the very person he’s now.

“Joesonghamnida…” he speaks out—raising his voice so she can hear, knowing that he had already disrupted her ethereal spirits.

But as she turns around and meets her eyes with his, her eyes of confusion transform into disbelief, widening at the sight of the man. And just before Junghoon can bow to her in a rapid succession, he reacts similarly as the woman. “Junghoon-sunbaenim?”

“Kaede-ssi.” A smile forms on both their faces, having found familiarity amidst the neon sea of strangers. As the intensity of the music drops, both take the chance to walk to the bar counter, sitting down on the stools and offering each other drinks as an icebreaker to make up for lost time and catch up on their present in the next several minutes.

He looks at her, realizing how much her hair is shorter compared to their last encounter. As her attire looks more daring. It's a new look for her, but he can't help but admit how it suits her, at least in his mind. “You’re the last person I’d see in a place like this,” he teases, before taking a sip of the bottle of light beer she bought him.

“Feeling’s mutual,” she tuts, making him chuckle. To him, she’s more or less the same snarky, sometimes menacing, and cutesy junior he knows, just a few years older since their last encounter. Still kinda snarky, he thinks.

“Well, I didn’t go here by choice,” he clarifies, taking a glance at a distance to check on his friends at the other side of the club, grooving with faces who he has no familiarity with as the music continues to keep enchanting the larger crowd in the middle back into the dimension where electronic and techno music dominates.

“Not all of us have a choice at first,” she takes a sip of the same bottle he bought her, noticeably a much larger amount than his. “I know that sounds dramatic, but I never expected to be an occasional visitor here until my friends practically begged me. Still, there’s a sense of comfort here the longer you're here.”

“I guess that’s true,” he nods, seeing the other side of guests at the venue. Ones who are like them, simply laid back on their seats, chatting or cracking up jokes with friends or newfound companions while the rest keep on grooving. “But that being said, what are you up to these days? Don’t tell me you’re just visiting here every night.”

“Nah, I don’t wanna have fun somewhere where I’m also working. I do some work at some side gigs here and there, and I’m either a part-time coach and fitness or dance instructor on weekdays, I also do some modeling and photoshoots for quick bucks.”

“Got a lot on your plate I see,” he quips, impressed by her list of jobs, listing them as if she’s citing him her past experiences for a job application.

“Yeah, but I’m just making ends meet while I try to find a more stable job…” she groans. “You see, this is why idols are so damn lucky.”

“Couldn’t your parents have helped you with that?” he wonders, though his tone remains cautious. “But I hope you don't take it the wrong way! It's just, the last time I saw them, I remember they were probably one of the most thoughtful and protective folks out there. I’m sure helping you with jobs shouldn’t be that different.”

“It's fine,” she replies, chortling at his abrupt tone of panic. “I get it... But looking back, living here is different from Toyama. I can’t always rely on them. I get to start over and learn to mostly live making my own choices, though it’s also thanks to you and our club that adjusting in these conditions has become a little less difficult.”

“Of course, you were an amazing addition to Mad Money… You were a bit menacing at first, but I thought that was impressive. And a good thing. The girls thought the same. You even taught them a thing or two about Japanese culture.”

“Well,” she sighs. “None of my achievements back then would’ve been possible without you guys… And if I’m being honest—I always appreciate my parents’ job offers through our relatives or their associates. I'll always be touched whenever they worry about me. But I just don't wanna be their little otter anymore, you know? Not all the time.”

“Otter, huh?” Junghoon snorts, though he finds his hoobae’s sentiment to be overall heartwarming. “Mianhae. I understand what you mean. You want to find your own place in this ‘big river.’ It’s just, I can’t believe you still remember that nickname.”

“Of course,” she gloats without shame. “I embrace my spirit animal. Going through those booths at the festival were one of the first things that made my freshman year memorable, including our own. Made me realize it was worth staying here in Korea. Like another big river or sea worth setting my foot on.”

“You mean your paws?” he interposes.

“Yah!” She can’t help but laugh at his tease. “I thought we were being serious here.”

“I’m kidding!” he lets out a snicker. “Kudos to you, I suppose,” he respectfully raises his near-empty bottle with a smile. “You’re now an independent otter—I mean person. You were always one of the most capable members in the club—so now that I think about it, there is no doubt that you’re doing well now.”

She raises her bottle in response, giggling at his verbal slip up, yet hearing his honest compliments only made her smile. “You think that? How so?”

“You didn’t just prove you could do things on your own. You simply can,” he answers with a straight face, delivered with a modest tone. “You were a tough cookie, but you were also a compassionate person. You didn’t hesitate to help out others.”

Only gazing at him with a sense of comfort and perhaps adoration, Kaede doesn’t have a sarcastic remark to throw back at his statement. While some things have changed, some remain the same, even with him, she realizes. “Still got the dad energy, I see.”

“Dad ener—” he raises an eyebrow, making an embarrassed chortle leave his mouth. “Please don’t say it like that. I’m not that older than you.”

“I know, but I don’t know how else to describe it,” she shrugs. “I’ve forgotten how good you are at giving compliments… You’re that wise, perhaps a little too protective sunbae when we first met in the club.”

“I only say those things to someone if they’re true,” he retorts. “Besides, that’s all you. So at least everything we’ve done paid off, to say the least.”

“I guess so… How about you, sunbae?” Now it’s her turn to ask, resting her chin on her clasped hands. “How's our old ‘errand boy’ doing nowadays?”

“Not that different, to be honest,” he tells her. “This errand boy never really found the time to have fun at work. Kitchens tend to be busier on weekdays… So whenever we do find the time to relax, my buddies would invite me to places like this. I just happened to say ‘yes’ this time.”

“That’s exactly why I go here!” she exclaims with excitement in her voice. “Even when I’m not with my friends, blowing off some steam on my own often helps me forget the fact that having dreams isn't enough to make it from day to day.”

“I never thought of it that way,” he places his hand on his chin and rubs it for a moment. “But then again, I’ve always thought you were a great dancer since then, especially when you joined the Dragons. And even if things might not look the best right now, I'm happy that you're still doing something you’re passionate about, Kaede.”

She looks down slightly, trying to hide her reaction, as she can feel her lips forming a smile after hearing Junghoon’s compliment. “Thanks, sunbae… I’m sure you’re doing the best you can too. Not to mention, you have some thoughtful friends who still care about your social needs.”

“You don’t get those often?” he teases.

“I have too much of those from my colleagues!” she shoots back with a giggle. “That's another reason why I go here on my own. I love them, but I rarely get my ‘me times’ whenever they invite me for a get-together.”

“Well, it does feel nice to have some folks to have your back, but as someone who’s the complete opposite, I’m not judging you.” He turns to look around, scanning the areas where he last found his friends. He feels a buzzing in his pocket—receiving a message that only got sent just a minute ago. It’s official: they are nowhere to be seen, making him sigh in disappointment. He looks back to Kaede once again, who was also paying attention to where his eyes went. “Speaking of which… I wished they were still here so I could introduce you to them, but it looks like they got what they wanted, so here we are.”

“Hmm, that can be for another time… More time for ourselves to catch up. It would be disrespectful of me to just let go of a sunbae like you.”

He did not expect those words from her. “Didn’t strike you as the flirtatious type.”

“Yet you were intimidated by me,” she hums, darting her mischievous eyes at him. “Remember those times?”

“Nah, that was back then,” he defends himself as if her remark didn’t affect him. But in actuality, her words strike through him. Not because he was embarrassed by her factual teasing about him during their past, but about the way he’s starting to see her now. How she’s different from her past. How she’s no longer the soft-spoken and cutesy hoobae or an amusing force to be reckoned with that he knew. I mean, of course, she’s still cute, he corrects himself in his mind. And besides, he has long known that her reserved attitude, which others adore her for, was more of a facade or surface level impression whenever she meets new people she’s not hostile to. She can be bubbly, teasing, and energetic at times, just like she is now. But still, there is another shade of beauty from her that he never noticed, or at least appreciated before, considering his mind and heart were longing for someone else. That was a different time. This present matters more.

“I didn’t get why you weren’t popular with girls,” she brings up. “Outside Mad Money, of course. And they adored you very much! They had some of the most stunning visuals of any student on campus, and none of them were idols.”

“I can't believe you're describing yourselves like that.”

“But that's how a lot of folks saw us,” she defends her recollection.

“I know. I was kidding,” He chuckles, before letting out a nostalgic sigh. “Though, with my case, I’m pretty sure that everyone else wouldn’t be into someone like me. At least, not back then. Considering how I looked and how little of a social life I had—that was expected of me... But I didn’t mind. College for me wasn’t about dating or hook-ups.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t be all imposter syndrome on yourself.”

Such a term struck a chord in him, but he keeps himself reasonable, willing to hear the woman’s words out. “I’m not.”

“Look, sunbae. College wasn’t perfect. But I remember it not being as bad, either. Not every person was a bully, and it’s not like everyone doesn’t gain any weight during those times either! Even in our batch, I knew people who don't hold high standards anymore. I knew women who started looking for personality a lot more than looks, though it’s a plus. Some of them didn’t even want relationships ‘cause their hearts were broken by asshats—yet they ended up with folks who were keepers.”

“I understand your point,” he interjects, albeit with a polite tone.

She opens her palms. “And my point is, you had both of those. Personality and looks.”

He guffaws at her claim. “Again with your teases.”

“They're not!” she defends herself. “And if they wanted to hook-up with some stereotypical ulzzang douche, they would’ve gotten that from every fuckboy they see. You’re a keeper, Junghoon-sunbae… Any woman would’ve been lucky to be with you.”

“Well, thanks, I guess,” he takes a final swig of his drink, not reacting much to her point. “But, umm, listening to your point… I can say that I feel fine with the way I am now.”

“And so do I,” she backs him up. There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, some things are better for me.”

“You didn’t enjoy your college dating life?” he asks back.

“It was fine,” she shrugs. “It was like yours, if I guess so myself. Had its ups and downs. Never lived it to the fullest, that’s for sure.”

“But you’re cute and charming. And you were kind of outgoing at times because of the Mad Money Club. That’s like a plus for you when you were meeting people back then.”

“That’s what they all said about me. Cute, adorable, soft-spoken. It’s like most of the people I dated just wanted a companion to hug or talk to, which is fine, if they would have just started making more moves than those two. And I can't even act angry when there's a reason for me to be one! I’m not some rent-a-girlfriend or a living teddy bear!”

“You’re an otter,” he interposes.

“Exactly,” she sarcastically affirms. “They couldn’t even get my spirit animal right.”

“But in all seriousness, you are beautiful, Kaede-ssi. That was their loss.”

“Now, where did those words come from?” she teases him, despite his words triggering a surge of electricity trickling throughout her body. Her mere gaze at Junghoon makes her heart start to skip its usual beat. The way she sees him feels different, at least compared to back then. Even though she knows well that the “beer goggles” effect is nothing but a bunch of baloney, perhaps the alcohol that makes her question things, now that they’ve met after college. “Was your fourth bottle making you tipsy all the sudden?”

“Not drunk, just being honest,” he shoots back. “Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“Fair enough,” she snickers. “But no thanks to you, all I find out tonight are nothing but non-stop surprises.”

“So it’s my fault now?” he questions with a smile forming on his face, surprised at her sudden jab. “You’re blaming the newcomer?”

“In a way,” she taunts even more. “And I don’t wanna miss any more surprises by just letting you leave early.”

“I like the sound of that, actually. What do you have in mind?”

“Why not go for another round?” she suggests, piquing his interest about her more.

“The same bottle?” he wonders. “I feel like you’ve already had three, but okay then.”

“Not that, sunbae,” she stops him before he could raise his hand to the bartender. The woman motions her head behind her, keeping a smug smile at him. Junghoon notices the now-less yet still crowded dance floor, a bit taken aback by her suggestion. “I was thinking we’d head back. I’d rather have fun and be a little more sober.”

“Oh, I’m not the dancing type,” he shakes his head with a humble smile, lifting his hands like he got caught. “You saw me out there. I didn't know how to hit the floor like you did. You were practically an idol!”

“You weren’t that bad,” she reassures him. “I actually think you were better than most of them. You were on the beat.” She stands up from her stool and holds his hand, sending a tingling spark of electricity through his skin. A grin forms around her lips, as her actions fascinate him more. “But this time… You're following my lead.”

Kaede slowly walks Junghoon back to the crowded dance floor, where they would bust out their moves, syncing in their expressive spirits, now that they’re grooving next to each other. The longer he tries to imitate her every style and move, or at least give his own spin to it, Kaede's facial expressions allure Junghoon. Throughout their years in college, Junghoon never saw Kaede as anything more than a hoobae and a friend. Sure, he’s only a year older than her, and they weren’t that close, but they were on good terms. Their presence gave each other comfort and a space to confide in each other whenever they met.

Yet tonight—new feelings from him arise, thanks to their reunion. Unbeknownst to him, she’s not feeling too different. In fact, Kaede may be harboring stronger feelings. Not necessarily something that gives her butterflies on her stomach. Rather, more of a physical one. She never brought it up when they’re talking, but his physique has caught her attention, she wouldn’t have noticed it was him, if it wasn’t for his face. His breath just tempts her to get closer.

“Looking better, sunbae,” she shouts to him while her body sways. “Keep it up!”

As minutes go by, mixes and tunes of songs he’s familiar with play through the speakers.

Balkkeuchi ajjilhage Eodiro hyanghadeunji Sunsuhan sangsang geu kkeut neomeoe Deryeodajweo glassy~~

What you waiting for? ige tarakimyeon we fall fall fall What you looking for? weonhandamyeon now we fall we fall we fall

nasseon ikkeullimeul majuhan sungan mweonga dalla I won’t let you out of my sight jom deo ppajyeodeulge do me right

Mmmm I can melt an igloo Yeah cause I’m so dang hot~~

He has little to no clue how to dance any of the songs' choreo but he can only find them pleasant tunes to dance to. And now that he's with a familiar face, Junghoon feels more comfortable. The playlist has, more or less, a pattern as the DJ must’ve intended it—but the pair are too immersed to notice.

They keep dancing to the tune until there’s only a few inches of space between them, practically grinding on each other's bodies on the dance floor as their rhythm syncs in with the rhythm of the sensual and upbeat music. Her hands slowly direct him to wrap his hands around her petite and well-toned body, smoothly sliding down through her curves until they reach her hips. Junghoon’s slow and gentle touch electrifies the woman, sending sparks within, especially on her more sensitive regions that makes her let out a soft moan amidst of cacophony of thunderous speakers and passionate cheers in the club, making herself bite her lower lip in to muffle whatever else unforeseen and obscene noise that was about to leave her mouth in front of the everyone else.

Their eyes meet as everything around them slows down. They can feel each of their own heartbeats, getting louder as the roaring speakers that surround the place. Despite their five-centimeter difference, Kaede’s sudden jolts of pleasure urge her to rest her arms on his shoulders. Junghoon leans in closer, allowing her to entangle them around his neck.

Looking into each other’s eyes from a few inches, no words come out from either of their mouths, knowing how vain it would be to mutter a sound in a sea of dissonance. Unlike him, there’s virtually no sense of hesitation from Kaede—only curiosity and longing for what’s in front of her while she breathes heavily in his sight. She closes her eyes as her lips touch his for a moment, before parting to anticipate his reaction. For a few seconds, Junghoon becomes paralyzed by her sudden advances, yet feels his senses stimulated at the same moment. Her flavored lipstick oddly tastes like maple syrup. Even as their lips have already parted, her intoxicating breath still lingers. He feels a sense of hunger for her. His senses and his impulses can no longer lie to him. Through every reaction he feels, his mind and body screams at him. He wants her, here and now.

This time, he leans closer to Kaede, letting out a moan as they slowly have a taste of each other’s mouths, exploring a gustatory spectrum of bitter, sweet, sour, salty, and savory, which they both relish while embracing under the neon lights, not giving a single care about everyone and everything else around them, despite their ears catching cheerful whistles beside them, considering how they take pleasure in this irresistible excitement with their soft lips smacking each other in a tight embrace. Their heated moment on the dance floor would last for a minute until the DJ plays another mix, though for them, it is only the beginning.

The restroom was their next destination. Sloppily locking lips and battling each other’s tongues inside a stall. Despite the insatiable sensation they’ve been savoring in the past five minutes, they decide to catch their breaths—leaving a string of saliva—as their lips part. And yet, he’s not done. He leans down on the woman, playfully kissing her neck and holding her waist with his right hand, triggering a rousing stimulus that reaches down her crotch. Acting more on her ecstatic urges, she kisses him while holding his hand and guiding it down her crotch. Juices were leaking through her pants, but he got her memo. Tempted to explore her pants, he digs two fingers deeper, though the fabric is not thin enough for him to traverse into her regions.

“You can reach inside,” she murmurs under her breath, tingling at his alluring touches.

He nods, before cautiously pulling down her pants until his hand finally reaches her clit, which he begins to rub from side to side, before massaging it for a moment just to check her reaction. “Ugh… Fuck, that’s it.”

His index and middle fingers finally do their trick by making swirling motions inside her cunt, tickling and stimulating the woman at the same time while he places her neck once again. She tries to muffle her moans by biting her lower lip, but he adds another trick by finally inserting a finger inside her entrance—slipping into her opening with ease thanks to it being coated in her juices. Her continuous positive murmurs encourage him to keep on going as the middle finger follows inside, igniting a louder moan from her. Now, both fingers slowly make their way deep inside her cunt in search of more stimulating zones. Much to his surprise, he’s already stumbled on most of them. Hence, he goes through his techniques in the next few minutes, not wanting to rush and dissatisfy Kaede while he tries on different rubs and strokes inside her in the same rhythm.

“Oppa… Nghh… It feels so—” she whines with pleasure, feeling the build-up down inside her nether regions while his fingers continue their work. “I’m–uhh… I–aah…. I’m close!”

More and more fluid leaks out of her opening.

Kaede can only close her eyes and let out another much louder moan in response, before delicately holding on his left shoulder and slowly resting her head on the right where she takes a breather from her orgasm, mumbling “Th–thank… Y-you…” which he hears well.

As Junghoon understands her movement, he looks at her with some concern. “You okay? I hope I didn’t read your gestures wrong.”

“You did great,” she wheezes. As a wide smile forms on her face, she looks at him with eyes full of surprise, curiosity, and hunger. “And by the way, I thought you weren’t all that intimidated by me, sunbae,” she teases, putting her hand on his blushing face.

“I can say the same thing about you,” he snickers, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you paid a waiter so we can have the room all by ourselves.”

“And for that, you’re welcome, sunbae,” she retorts sarcastically.

“Please, you don’t have to keep calling me that, Kaede-ssi,” he proposes, stroking her scruffy and sweaty hair. “We are way past formalities at this point, don’t you think?”

“Then stop using honorifics with me,” she counters him. “At least for tonight.”

“Well…” He thinks for a second, not wanting to disappoint the muse.

“Does Kae-chan sound good to you?”

“Of course, oppa,” she answers with glee, with her heavy breathing slowly subsiding. “Now, why don’t we head somewhere else? Somewhere where no else can bother us.”

= = =

Junghoon expected they would take a taxi or a bus ride to their next destination, but much to his surprise, Kaede’s apartment was only a three minute walk from the club. Setting foot on her doorstep, he notices that her place is the perfect balance of messy and clean, oddly enough. Still, he didn’t have enough time to look into this whole abode, because at the moment he takes his shoes off—his lips are met by Kaede’s once again. He holds on to her waist, pulling her closer so he can deepen the kiss in a more comfortable position.

“You done checking out my place?” she murmurs in-between kisses, slipping under his shirt and feeling his sweating chest. “How about you check something else instead.”

“I wouldn't want anything more,” he hisses, before latching his lips onto hers once more, with his hands resuming their exploration of her physique from her breasts to her waist.

Carrying the woman with his toned arms, they reach her bed. Leaving each other kisses on each other’s lips and neck, they start undressing each other’s tops, allowing them to access more zones to explore and pleasure.

“It’s my turn now, oppa,” she pushes him on the edge of the bed, making him sit down. Seeing her seductive smile, Junghoon anticipates her move, allowing her to zip down his pants and revealing his erect cock. Her eyes can only widen at his girth and length, while her mouth slowly drools. But despite this intimidating sight, she is not gonna back off so easily. With her tongue, she starts to leave a few licks around his cock before proceeding to his balls, sending tingles across the man’s brain and even making him moan, like how he made her. After her ticklish teases, Kaede finally takes in his member inside her small mouth without any word, surprising him. In her determined mind and excited body, it is a dare she is willing to take—considering how she wants for both him and herself to have a good time tonight. Within a short moment, she’s able to take half of his thick shaft as it enters her mouth, pushing the limits of her jaw by opening it as wide as she can.

He keeps his hands gripped on her hair while he thrusts his own member in and out of her mouth. Yet, despite this position, he knows that she’s in control. Feeling her tongue slithering on his cock with every thrust only intensifies the pleasure he’s already feeling. For more than ten minutes, Kaede continues her routine before, eventually, Junghoon’s stimulation begins to overload his senses. She finally returns the favor to him with how he serviced her in the bathroom earlier. “Fuck, Kae—” he groans loudly. “I’m gonna…”

Although he tries to pull out as far as he can, Kaede keeps her mouth open in front of his tip with her hand gripping on his legs, anticipating what comes next. A stream of semen blasts out of his shaft, entering straight through her mouth. He looks at her swallowing her catch, which makes him scratch his head just as a chortle leaves his mouth.

“You just took it all in?” He asks the woman out of concern and disbelief, comforting her with a caress on her back while she coughs and catches her breath.

“Most of it,” she clarifies with a smile. She takes another look down his flaccid, yet still leaking cock. “I thought I could, but they just kept on dripping, oppa.”

He laughs at her honest remark before pecking her on the lips, not caring about the fact that his seed is on her mouth. “It’s fine. You didn’t have to… You did good, Kaede-chan. Thank you.”

As she couldn’t resist his bold gesture, and his mouth, Kaede leans in to extend and deepen their kiss once, resuming their heated makeout neither of their excited spirits want to end. This time, she assists him in helping take off her own remaining garments, unhooking her bra from the back while she takes off her panties and carelessly throws it into the floor, revealing her perky breasts. But as he lays her down on the bed, a serious thought pops up in his mind, making him ignore his now enlarged cock and follow his sense of reasoning before they can proceed with their next exercise.

“Do you have a condom?” He finally speaks about his concern.

“I–umm…” Her face starts to redden, alerting himself to take more initiative.

“If you don’t, I can just buy outside. I’m sure—”

“No, no!” she exclaims, much to his surprise, before lowering down her tone into a shyer one. “You can find a box inside the nightstand.”

Complying with her direction, Junghoon walks to the nightstand and opens it, finding a box of premium condoms, all of which are still unopened, something he finds odd due to how many it is. At the same moment, his eyes also spot some rather interesting toys next to the box, and a lube. Kaede notices him taking a little longer, though she doesn’t panic.

“I've been doing things by myself,” she tells him with the same soft-spoken intonation. “Things can get lonely here sometimes, you know.”

But truth be told, making assumptions about his old friend and partner for the night is the last thing he wants to do. He’s here because he wants to make her feel good. Both of them want to. Slowly and steadily, he opens a sachet and wraps the condom around his still erect member while she watches on from the bed surrounded by her two pillows.

“It's okay,” he smiles, giving off a comforting look to Kaede. “I don't judge. I get it.”

Kneeling on the bed, he pounces on her on the bed as she latches her lips onto his, resuming the flames of their passion. Slowly but surely, he positions her on the bed while she nudges a pillow on her rear end, their naked bodies now facing each other.

“Take it easy,” she coos as her blush remains, making Junghoon slow down from his more aroused state. He’s starting to notice her facial expression. She’s a bit nervous.

“Oh… It is your first time?” he tries to make sure.

She slowly nods, before adding, “I mean, it’s my first with someone I’m not dating... It’s been a while since I’ve done… This…” She lets out a sigh. “Is that, um, okay you, oppa?”

“Of course, Kae-chan,” he reassures her with a kiss. He doesn’t know why, but hearing such a revelation makes him feel a teeny-tiny bit of weight on his shoulders. Based on her words just now, he knows she’s done it before. “I’ll do it slowly, okay?”

She nods again, forming a dampened smile, as he positions his shaft into her entrance. With his head reaching the opening, he slides in his shaft ‘till the first half of his length reaches her vagina. Kaede cannot help herself but purr, slowly welcoming his member, though the fact that’s only halfway inside also makes her hold on to both his shoulders. He gives a few more thrusts as the rest of his cock reaches deeper inside her. Junghoon’s groans mirror the woman’s muffled moans, yet they sound music to her ears—eventually letting go as she opens her mouth and lets out rising pitched cries. Their noises compose a cacophony that echoes through the walls of the room. Their composition can reach the heavens and intensify the flames of hell. Such sounds feel like music to both their ears, similar to the mixes they were dancing to a while ago. Minutes appear like hours, but neither of their brains are in the state to count or process anything but their ongoing stimulating movement.

“Oppa!” she whines with overwhelming pleasure, already squirting from her cunt, while he can feel his cock reaching its second limit despite continuing his pumps on top of her. “Nggnhhh… Imma… Ugh… I’m close.”

Junghoon continues kissing her neck, appearing as if he’s devouring her like a vampire in order to speed up his climax, catching up to Kaede’s within seconds while they moan in each other’s mouths until the inevitable happens. She comes first; he busts his semen inside the condom milliseconds later, yet for all intents and purposes, they came at the same time. He lies down next to her, hearing each other panting amidst the silence.

They take a breather for a few minutes, lying still on the bed. He looks at Kaede, curious about whatever he just witnessed inside her nightstand earlier. That being said, he’s not being judgmental, though curiosity has already gotten to him. “Now that we’re done…”

She slowly gets up; a suggestive smile forms on her lips. “Who says we're done, oppa?”

Her daring look only encourages him with a realization. He didn’t fail to satisfy Kaede. And another, being intimidated by her isn’t such a bad thing. In fact, he’s into this side of her. “Only you can, that’s for sure.”

Turned on by Kaede’s nerves, the man leaves more kisses on her neck, before reaching down to her ears, armpits, and thighs. “Fuck, this feels so good,” she murmurs. Despite being stimulated by the slow and gentle marks he’s making, Kaede stops him and stares at Junghoon for a moment, as an idea has been brought to her mind.

“One thing, before we keep going,” she appeals with her recognizable reserved voice.

He halts his actions, attentive to her next words. “Yes, Kae-chan?”

Aside from blushing cheeks, a sheepish smile forms on her face. “Can I call you daddy?”

“Huh?” His eyes widen at her question, yet he immediately feels a jolt down on his shaft, slowly erecting once more at the woman’s words. “Well, I guess I'm not against it. Sure.”

He takes a second packet from the box, opening it while he sees Kaede touching herself in anticipation for their second round. Once he puts on the condom, the woman lunges at Junghoon, softly pushing him into the wall nearest to the bed. “Where are we goi—”

She shushes him with a finger to his lips, before turning around and facing the wall. “Let’s do it here.”

Getting her suggestion, Junghoon lets out a weak laugh, before leaving loving pecks on her neck. Tickled by his gestures, Kaede giggles and rests her arms on the wall with her rear end bending for him, taking a deep breath. Compared to last time, his cock enters her entrance with a little more ease, though he can still feel its tightness. He begins his thrusts deeper inside her chambers at a steady pace, hitting the same stimulating spots from this position. Despite his cock still only halfway like last time, she can already feel him stretching her walls all over again, and she cannot get enough of it the second time.

“Hngghh… Daddy,” she gasps, tightening her grip around him. “You’re so fucking big!”

“You’re still…” he groans, finally entering the rest of his length deeper inside her, with his hand holding on to her hip. “So… Fuck…ing… Tight… Kae-chan!”

“Hayaku,” she murmurs on the top of her breath. Though he has some clue of what she means, she adds “Faster!” for him to understand her on-the-spot request.

He quickens his pace. She stiffens her arms, tightening her fingers on the wall.

“Would you like it… If I…do this…baby?” he murmurs. His hands climb their all the way up to her breasts, Feeling them bounce, he uses his fingers around both her nipples.

“Fuck!” she gasps at his sudden maneuver. “Yes, daddy…just keep…doing it! Ngghhh…”

Enveloping each with both his palms, he kneads her knockers in a circular and an up and down motion. Surges of pleasure run through her mind, making her tilt her head backwards as her tongue sticks out while she keeps moaning during his robust thrusts. With his hands at work, Junghoon licks her nape, tasting her dripping sweat like nectar.

While she wails in gratification, he slows down his pumps so he can lean into her ear. “Imagine if we’re doing this eye to eye, Kaede-chan.”

“Hnggghhh… Fuck!” His words strike a nerve. “You–ugh–would like that wouldn’t you?”

“You have no idea,” he chuckles. In her mind, she wants it too.

“I’m close!” she wails after a few minutes.

Junghoon doesn’t say anything, but her confession makes him smile. “Let it out, baby.”

And with a few more thrusts, Kaede finally reaches her second orgasm.

Taking their time to breathe, he holds her arms, keeping her from falling straight down to the floor.

“You didn’t come, did you?” she mumbles.

“I was… Close. But it’s fine.”

“Mianhae, I didn’t wait.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“Damn right. You were the one whispering all those stuff to me.”

“Those worked for you?” he scratches his head.

“Shut up,” she chuckles before pulling him closer to her. She trails her fingers up to his toned abs and chest. “How about we go for another one, hmm? Now, you lead the way.”

In their third round, Junghoon and Kaede face each other once again and in a burst of strength from his arms, he lifts the woman off the floor—triggering a squeal of surprise and excitement from her. With his hands holding onto her hips and her arms wrapping around his neck, their lips hungrily touch once more, still addicted to each other’s taste and scent. This time, her tongue invades his mouth, which he welcomes, allowing his to be dominated. Junghoon breaks their session after a minute to tell her he’ll be putting it in once more. With her back now comfortably reclined on the wall and him steadying his arms, she wraps her leg around his back. Their eyes lock, filled with thirst for each other.

“Hopefully, the third time’s a charm,” he quips. She bites her lower lip, suppressing her excitement with him now in control.

Junghoon begins motioning his cock inside her cunt, thrusting it in and out, triggering another of her erogenous zones. He alternates in kissing each of her plump and sweaty breasts, adding to the layers of pleasure that she’s feeling now while he rams her with a slightly faster pace and more robust pumps—inevitably flexing the muscles of his arms for Kaede to witness, despite her field of vision shaking and her whole body trembling.

“More, daddy,” she begs him with a peck to his cheek. “I want more…of your… Tricks.”

He cannot help but grin as he nods before sucking one of her tits in his mouth, licking every ounce of sweat that drips like maple syrup, amplifying the volume of her moans and cries while riding his member in carnal bliss. “Nngghh… Yabai… More, ugh!”

Another idea spirals into his lustful brain, making his hands squeeze both her soft butt cheeks, triggering another spot that makes her gasp and squeal next to his ear. “Such a good girl,” he whispers right back to her ear, continuing his teases. “Taking it so well.”

“Daddy! I’m–I’m…” she screams, with her eyes rolling on the back of her head while her tongue sticks out. Witnessing such a reaction only allows his cock to remain erect, if not grow a little longer than it already is, while he continues to plow the woman to his limit. While her ahegao still persists, Junghoon latches his lips on her tongue, surprising her in a satisfying manner. They kiss more sloppily, with their tongues dancing in rhythm, complementing the sound of their skins slapping together amidst their primal noises.

Kaede parts her lips to catch her breath, tightening her grip around his back. As if that's not enough, her fingernails dig through his skin just to snap herself out of her own state of overstimulation and tell him, “I’m close!”

“Me… Too!” he groans loudly in response, maintaining his rhythm despite feeling his muscles tire out and the slow aching yet stimulating sensation he’s feeling on his back. “Toge…ther, let’s…”

With a few more powered thrusts, the man finally explodes his load inside the condom. With the last ounce of his strength, he walks back to the bed and places down his worn out partner in the middle. They both lie once again, and much longer this time for five minutes of huffing and puffing, laughing, and exchanging more quips to one another.

“Fuck…” she pants, lightly tapping his upper abs beside her. “That was intense, daddy.”

“Language, dear,” he shoots back, making his voice even deeper and commanding.

“Oppa!” She lets out a burst of laughter, playfully smacking his shoulder. “You don’t have to take it that far.”

“I’m kidding, but it was really wild,” he chuckles, breathing a little heavier than her. He fixes her disheveled hair, moving them to the side to see her face. “You did well, baby.”

His words made her giggle, still enchanted by his charm of going along with her request. She leans closer to give him a simple yet comforting kiss then lies on his shoulder to rest next to him, which he welcomes–even helping her lie more comfortably by adjusting his posture. Her hand slowly slides down to his crotch in hopes of teasing him, but her eyes and smile can only widen in surprise when she feels his shaft up and running again.

“How is that even possible?” she exclaims.

He laughs in disbelief. “Well, you made it happen, I guess.”

Temptation drives her into wrapping her hand around his cock and slowly making an up and down motion, reinvigorating his lust and drive within seconds. His moan says it all.

“You up for an encore, oppa?” she winks at him.

“Lead the way, baby,” he reciprocates her enticement.

Despite both parties initially hoping for a warm and comforting spooning session due to their recovering bodies, it turns out they still have more than enough drive and vigor to get back up. Kaede straddles Junghoon's hips and just like that, their lustful passion is reignited the second their lips touch for the nth time. In fact, they’re still only halfway through the night, one that's about to be filled with more noises of pleasure. One that will involve more than several used condoms being tossed in the trash bin every few minutes. While this night may not have been one of Junghoon's ideas of relaxation, there's no doubt in his mind that this refreshing experience is a worthy addition.

= = =

9:50 AM. No alarm wakes her up, just her circadian rhythm. Thank God it’s Saturday.

Kaede opens her eyes, wrapped up in her blanket. It’s a miracle that she’s not feeling any headache from her hangover, although her body is screaming at her in the form of a few visible hickeys and sores felt from her neck to toe. Junghoon is nowhere to be found—at least not in the same room. She finds some of her toys, a vibrator, a butt plug, and a pair of nipple suckers, on top of the nightstand, letting out a chortle as they’re well organized compared to the last time they’ve used them. He’s a quick learner, she contemplates.

After dressing up in a new set of casual clothes, the woman opens the door, immediately catching the scent of something boiled, familiar, and delectable. She finds Junghoon in his attire last night, yet he looks clean and tidy, having used the bathroom about an hour earlier. He’s at the kitchen counter, putting the finishing touches of garnish on two large steaming bowls of ramen, whose black soup and ingredients remind the woman of her native dish back home. Near the sink, she sees her cooking pan and pot, alongside a few plates and utensils, have just been washed, including the cutting board that she hasn’t used in two weeks. As he places the bowls on the dining table, her eyes notice a large platter of assorted Japanese appetizers—which includes agedashi tofu, miso eggplant, shumai, and pork gyoza—along with a bowl of fresh, well cut fruits on a smaller platter. Although she knows what her sunbae does for a living, she's still amazed by his decorum, even daydreaming as if they’re now staying at a bed and breakfast, and she just happened to spend the whole night with the hunk, tall chef, who is now preparing breakfast.

“You’re up!” Junghoon greets her with a wave. “I hope you don't mind me using your kitchen. And just so you know, I didn't steal anything. Just borrowed your utensils.”

She walks to him, still looking at the cuisine in wonder. “No it's just—this is too much. But how did you get these ingredients? I haven’t bought groceries in a week.”

“Oh, I had them delivered from a nearby grocery, since I kinda did not wanna get locked in,” he snickers. “Or got the chance to ask you what your door pin is, though that’s fine.”

Her gaze at the table remains in spectacle, though Junghoon reads it as consternation.

“Did I cook too much?” he tries to clarify. “Or do you prefer takeout, ‘cause I can also—”

“No, no!” she panics, although she calms herself down to avoid any misunderstandings. “Don't. I didn’t say it's a bad thing. I've never cooked for myself in a long time, so seeing these on the table is just so—Wow… Thank you, sunbae. I can pay you the ingredients—”

“Please. No need for that,” he interrupts her politely. “It’s the least I can do, Kaede-ssi.”

They eat breakfast over the table. Minutes past, Junghoon can only hear the humming and cheerful chewings of the woman. “Mmm! This is something else, oppa. It’s hard to believe any of these ingredients are store-bought.”

“Thanks,” he answers, but something else is on his mind. And his silence alerts her.

“Come on now, oppa,” she initiates. “Your face is already obvious. Spit it out.”

“I don't mean to ask anything about earlier… but about those toys,” he still stops, hoping that she won’t be offended.

“You're still curious about my sex life?” She places down her renge spoon and puts her elbow on the table, raising an eyebrow at him with a half-suppressed smile. “Isn’t last night enough for you? Wait, did you not enjoy using them?”

“No, no, it’s not that! Of course, I enjoyed them.” he retorts. “That’s not what I want to ask. I’m just wondering how your friends see your dating life, considering how you said you started going to the nightclub without them at times. If that's okay with you, at least. You don't have to answer if it's uncomfortable for you.”

Kaede sighs. She’s given much thought to it herself as well, considering her hesitations from the other night. Silence ensues in the room, though she breaks it once she finally makes up her mind. “Maybe, it has stuck with me since college, but umm, you know I was roommates with Yubin-ah. You remember her, right?”

“Yeah,” he nods, trying to process where her point is heading. “Of course.”

“She’s done a lot of wild stuff with your friend back then, Yeonghwan. When they were dating and all that… I know that bringing them up may be sudden, that was maybe the first time I felt that I was envious and insecure.”

Concern arises in his eyes, yet her words somewhat resonate with him. “Of what?”

She stares into the distance, reminiscing her regrets. “Of not having that kind of experience… That feeling. Yet I didn’t get the chance until I was in my later years.”

He remembers her words from last night. Her desire to be touched, like most women, hindered by a lot of people’s surface-level perceptions and shallow expectations of her. To some degree, Junghoon himself understands how she feels, based on how others had viewed both of them in the past. Despite those things happening a long time ago, certain unpleasant memories and some hesitations still lingered within them from time to time.

“And of course, my, umm, first time with my own ex wasn't the best,” she turns to him. “But last night, you kinda made me forget that… It's like that never even happened.”

He didn’t expect those words from her. “Really now? I honestly don’t know what to say… I'm glad. But–uhh, whoever you meet next, I hope they’ll treat you the same.”

She giggles at his remark. “I don't think that's even possible, oppa.”

“This must be a new thing for you, then…” he surmises. “Though from someone who’s new, you still did well. Actually, I think well’s an understatement.”

“Thanks,” she looks down with a smile, though another realization shifts her face into a sullen expression when she looks up to him. “Though I don’t know if I want to keep up this kind of routine with my colleagues. Not everyone’s like you, sunbae.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” he counters. “You get to meet someone better. And why would it matter to others if you keep going on one-night stands? That’s your choice.”

“Well, I got myself into this when I showed off to my friends at work. They would brag about their flings and wild relationships, so I make them think I get laid a lot of times. Whenever they stop by to hang out, I try to make things more... convincing. Maybe it’s just my insecurity getting the best of me, but I've also gotten used to it. I lied because I thought that my own life wasn’t good enough to be shared.”

“I…” He's at loss for words, simply astonished at the woman's tale. “Didn’t expect that. But it must be tough, pretending to be someone you’re not to your friends.”

She raises an eyebrow again, her lips forming a pout. “You're judging me, aren't you?”

“I'm not judging you!” he waves his hands. “It's just, I didn't expect you to open up.”

“But your face makes it look like you have something to say about my life choices.”

“Not much… I just think that it doesn't matter how often you sleep around with anyone. And who cares if you have a lot of toys? If they really are your friends, then they would respect, forgive, and understand that you’re actually not that kind of a person. If not… Then they’re not worthy of being your friends to begin with. Just my two cents.”

“Doesn't sound like just two cents. Don’t undersell yourself,” she quips.

He lets out a sardonic laugh. “I’m just saying… Live your life however you want, as long as you’re happy, Kaede. Besides, going to a nightclub does not have to mean you got to hook up with someone... You're just having fun on your own or with your friends, and there's nothing wrong about that.”

She tilts her head as a somber smile gleams on her face. His words somehow put her at ease. “You know, with words like that, how come you still don't have a girlfriend now?”

“Because saying things like that will bore the heck out of them,” he admits. “I didn't say those things to flirt with you. I’m just saying my piece to you as a friend.”

“I know, but some gals dig that type, you know? It's like when someone's disciplining them when they're being a bad—”

"Again with the dad kink thing," he whines, yet can’t help but laugh at her frankness.

“I'm kidding!” she insists. “Well, half-kidding. And you still didn't answer my question.”

He scoffs at her attempt to change the subject back. “Again, I don't have the time—”

“That’s bullshit,” she goads. “Didn't you remember what I said about you?”

“Well, it's true though,” he simply tells her, his energized tone slightly dropping.

She senses something else. He looks discouraged. “Did someone hurt you..? You don’t have to tell me… But it seems like you have something you want to get off your chest.” She stops for a second, considering that she has gotten ahead of herself. “Unless, I’m misreading the situation.”

“You’re not, Kaede-yah…” he lightens her up. “And besides, since I asked you a personal question first, the least I can do is answer yours.” Even with his deep voice, he begins to crack as he continues to speak. “But... I–uh, I guess, I wasn't honest enough with my ex. In a way, you can say that I hurt her instead. Instead of appreciating whatever we had, I messed it up. I thought I wasn’t good enough… So I guess you're not the only one who fell into their own insecurity. Mine ruined a relationship.” He sighs, doing his best to hide his more vulnerable side from his hoobae, but she’s already seen it through his clenched fists and heard the slight quivers in his voice.

Standing up from her seat, Kaede walks to him with her arms opened, enveloping him in a warm embrace. Such an action raises his heartbeat, reciprocating her heartfelt gesture, yet he feels more than comforted.

“I hope you find someone you will love," she murmurs next to his ear. “Once you sort out whatever has been keeping you from doing so, that is. You deserve to love and be loved like anyone else, oppa.”

“And I hope you find someone who’s willing to open their door to you, and love you in all your cute, wild, sexy, and funny sides. Someone who loves you for who you are," he requites. “I'm sure someone will, Kaede.”

Their passionate night wasn’t a romantic one, but they know and feel that it doesn’t have to be meaningless either. They’re friends who reunited after a few years, and that’s more than enough for them to reconnect again. Not the closest, but good friends nevertheless.

She chuckles, before letting out a sigh of relief. No tears came out from either of them, but their hearts felt at ease from each other’s embrace. Their bodies finally part after a few seconds. Kaede looks at him with a hopeful smile. “I didn’t know one-night stands can be emotional afterwards.”

She heads back to her seat. “Me too,” Junghoon concurs. “And it’s my first time too…”

“Geojitmal,” she scoffs with a teasing smile. “Last night was, no, were your first times?”

“I wasn’t finished,” he frowns for a moment. Kaede smirks in return. “I mean this was also my first time having an emotional one-night stand. At least in the morning after.”

“Whatever,” she chortles. “Come on now, we better finish up all this food you’ve cooked. And it sucks because this will be the only time I have anything better on my table that is not delivered outside.”

“You better start cooking on your own then,” he teases. “Unless you want to come visit our restaurant some other time, you’ll get the same, if not better, quality of food for a decent price.”

“Way to go promoting your workplace,” she teases, jabbing him lightly on the shoulder. “But of course, sunbae! Just tell me the name and address. I may even bring my friends there for lunch or dinner.”

After a moment of laughter and him sharing with Kaede the name of the restaurant he’s working at, Junghoon feels a buzzing from his phone on the table before he can pick up his spoon and chopsticks. The latest messages on his buddies’ group chat arise. While Kaede takes another healthy slurp of her ramen, he reads their ongoing exchanges.

[Kangmin]: What happened to your date? Yel, was it?

[Insoo]: The busty blonde? She and her friends just ditched us right as we outside.

[Honggi]: Or maybe she already lost interest in you because she heard you call her that.

[Insoo]: Whatever. That was her loss! I bet that's not even her real name.

[Honggi]: I told you we should've gone after someone else Like that short-haired one!

[Insoo]: As if any of us had the chance! That woman was insane and untouchable on the dance floor! She definitely has high standards.

[Kangmin]: Come on, guys. Don’t beat yourselves up.

[Honggi]: Coming from the one who got someone's number.

{I’m sure there’s always gonna be another night for y’all.}

[Honggi]: Junghoon-ah!We’re so sorry for leaving early, man. Insoo got us leaving ‘cause he thought he rizzed someone up.

[Insoo]: Don’t listen to him, man. It was Honggi’s idea. I actually thought of you before he went all down bad on some redhead. [Honggi]: Yah! I only went along with you 'cause she was friends with Yel. You're the one who's down bad.

{Gwenchana, guys ㅎㅎㅎ I’m just glad you guys got home safely.}

[Kangmin]: How ‘bout you, Jung-ah? Were you still in the club when we left?

{I did! I stayed there for a little while.} {I actually had a good time.} {I owe you guys one.}

Junghoon takes a glance at Kaede. She's also on her phone, scrolling through her social reels with a wide grin.

[Insoo]: See? Now, what did we tell you?

[Kangmin]: That’s great to hear, man! Anything interesting happened?

{Oh, nothing much.} {Well, actually, it was interesting.}

She looks at his face with curiosity, after seeing him chuckle while texting his friends. “Are those your friends right now?”

[Insoo]: Really? Come on, dude, spill those beans. [Honggi]: You’re killing us with this wait! [Insoo]: What happened to you?!

“They are,” he nods, unable to hide his smile. “And I gotta say, I guess I was kind of the 'lucky one' among us last night.”

[Kangmin]: Looks like we have a true winner after all! 🤝

[Honggi]: Don’t leave us hanging, man! ㅠㅠㅠ

“Oh yeah?” she giggles, before taking a piece of pork gyoza into her mouth with a look of curiosity at his remark. “How so?”

{Guys, just chill out! ㅋㅋㅋ} {I met up with an old friend.}

= = =

a/n: so, you finally made it through the end lol. you've either read the whole thing or skipped here. either way, thank you for reading my first fic. this definitely ended up a lot longer than I intended it to be, but it's here. I'll definitely do my best to improve my writing. have a nice day!

#kpop smut #triples smut #kaede smut #male reader #male reader smut #kpop fanfic

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obvithe-bestsoph · 3 days ago

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No. 43 | "Charming, you know how to make a girl blush." HF32

masterlist requests

prompt list (if you request a prompt, please request a player for it as well!) genre: best friend's cousin to lovers lmao word count: 2.7k (ish) warnings: swearing, mentions of pregnancy at the end.

When you were 16, your best friend, Amira, moved from your guy’s hometown of La Almozara, Zaragoza, as she was going to go and live with her aunt and uncle in Barcelona to do her Bachillerato because she preferred the options and schools there over the options in Zaragoza.

But now, 18, and a free woman, you’ve got a fresh driver’s license and a best friend to see.

You have also decided to move to the infamous Barcelona, studying at Universitat de Barcelona while having an internship at a nearby physiotherapist clinic. However, it’s still a few days until your new apartment will be ready, and you’re going to stay with Amira in the meantime while you wait.

You make the three-hour road trip from La Almozara to Barcelona and now, here you are, standing outside the door of the address Amira had given you. You ring the doorbell and hear footsteps and some cluttering, until the door finally opens, revealing your best friend. “Y/N!” she squeals, throwing her arms around you. “Hola, Ami!” you grin, hugging her back.

After a short reunion on the front doorstep, she brings you inside. The house is big, and expensive looking. You glance around the entryway for a moment, pulling your suitcase behind you. “I can see why you moved here.” you laugh. “Definitely, it’s so nice, right?” Amira laughs back and leads you into the kitchen. Standing behind the large white marble countertop, making breakfast, is Amira’s aunt, María. Sitting across from her on the island, eating an apple is her uncle, Carlos.

Amira introduced all of you to each other, and just as you were leaving to go upstairs to her room, the front door opened and closed once more, and in walks her cousin, Héctor.

Now a rather famous footballer, playing professionally for F.C. Barcelona, he’s still dressed in his training kit, having come straight from the stadium. He flashes that perfect smile of his at you, and speaks up in his smooth, accented voice. “Hola.” “Hola, how-” you reply, about to ask how he is when you’re cut off by Amira. “Héctor, wipe that stupid smile off your face and stop trying to flirt with my best friend.” he laughs and she rolls her eyes, taking your hand and continuing to lead you up the stairs. You and Héctor hold eye contact as you watch him over your shoulder as you’re dragged away, before looking away and shaking your head, as if trying to shake away the thought of him.

Once upstairs in her room, Amira shuts the door behind you and flops down on her bed. “Sorry about him, he’s actually such a flirt.”

Laughing, you sit down on the bed beside her, “It’s alright.” Amira tugs on your arm again so that you’re laying down next to her. “So what’s all the tea that I’ve missed?” “Tea? No, not really anything.” “Still no boyfriend?” she teases.

“Me? No way. You know I don’t do boyfriends.”

“Fine. Any new hookups then? Talking stages, even?”

“How many times do I need to tell you, Ami? I don’t need any boys.”

Amira rolls her eyes and laughs, shoving you playfully, “You’re so boring.” “Oh, am I now? How about you then señorita? Any new boys for you, hm?”

She glares at you for a moment before laughing slightly. “Okay fine, fair point, no new boys either. Well, not really…”

“Hold on, what do you mean, ‘not really?’” You ask with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m not talking to anyone, but I’ve discovered that I have the biggest crush on one of Héctor’s teammates.” You laugh, “Which one, they’re all, like, stupid hot.” “Lamine.” “Fair.”

“I mean, have you seen those biceps?” she grins. “Not specifically, we can’t all be as pervy as you.” that remark earns you being hit with a pillow. “Cállate (shut up), he’s just really fine, vale (okay)?” “Okay, okay. So have you ever actually talked to him, or are you pulling the usual Amira move of just admiring from afar for years?”

“We follow each other on Instagram.” “Well that’s a start.”

“Mm.” she hums flatly. “What?” you ask, confused by her lack of enthusiasm.

“You like Héctor,” she states simply.

You panic, thankfully she can’t see your face from the way you’re both lying face up. “Pffft, no. I already said, I don’t need a bo-” “Oh would you stop with that, it’s painfully obvious you like him.” Amira cuts you off. “Why don’t you just admit it?” she rolls over so she’s facing you. “I know he’s my cousin, but I don’t have a problem with it or anything.”

“You don’t?” “Why would I? His life, your life, not really my business… unless it’s me somehow helping you two get together.”

You sigh in defeat, “Fine. Maybe I like him a little bit.” Amira grins, “Liar.” “Okay, fine. Maybe I like him a lot then.” her grin turns smug. “Knew it.” “Shush.” “So what are you going to do about it?” “Nothing, you know the kind of guy he is. He’s a flirt, not a boyfriend.” “True, but that’s not to say the right girl couldn’t change his mindset.”

You laugh, “Don’t get my hopes up.”

“Whatever. But you should know that it’s now my own personal mission to get you two together.” she grins, poking your side.

Squirming away and laughing, you reply sarcastically, “Sure. Good luck with that.”

The conversation moves on and you guys chat the day away, until eventually heading to bed.

The next morning, you wake up at 7 AM, Amira still snoring away peacefully next to you, you’ve always been an early riser and she’s always been able to sleep for hours, so long that occasionally you question whether or not she’s actually alive behind her eyelids.

Knowing very well she isn’t going to be awake for a while, you get up and head down to the kitchen for a glass of water. When you enter the kitchen, Héctor’s already sitting at the kitchen island, eating some eggs and a bowl of cereal while scrolling on his phone. You freeze and then turn around back towards the direction you came in, contemplating going back upstairs again, hiding there until he leaves for training, however, that thought process is interrupted by that smooth voice again.

“Buenos días, guapa.” you can practically hear the amused smirk in his voice. Begrudgingly, you surrender to your fate and turn back to face him, smiling. “Buenas días, Héctor.”

“Sleep well? Amira’s always been a bit of a snorer.”

“It was fine, gracias,” you say tightly, heading back into the kitchen to get the glass of water you originally came for.

“I could make you a coffee if you want.” he offers. “No thanks, I don’t drink coffee.” “Why not?” You shrug, continuing with your water. “Makes me feel weird, I dunno. Just don’t like it.” “Huh, okay then, I guess,” he replies casually, but on his phone, he swipes out of TikTok and into his notes app. He goes into the note titled, ‘Things I know about Y/N.’

So far, his list consists of: - Her name is Y/N Y/L/N.

- She and Amira have been best friends since they were 8.

- She’s supposed to wear glasses but never does because she doesn’t like how they look.

- She supports Barça.

- She looks very pretty in brown and white.

- She’s studying sports physiotherapy at university, specialising in knees.

- She used to play football, and was good, but then got injured and had to stop playing.

- Won the 2022 U-17 Women’s World Cup with Spain.

And the most recent addition,

- She doesn’t drink coffee because it ‘makes her feel weird.’

Héctor finishes typing and puts his phone down, watching as you drink from your glass, admiring the way you look in the mornings. You put your now empty cup in the dishwasher, before turning to leave the kitchen, but you turn back around when Héctor calls your name,

“Y/N?” “What?” “Um, I’m, er- I’m going into town later if you need a ride. We could go and see your new apartment?” he offers, looking almost… nervous, shy even.

“No, I’ve got my car. That’s all good.” you decline politely, a slightly confused look on your face as you give him another smile before continuing your way up the stairs.

Weird. Why was he nervous about talking with you? After thinking about it for far too long, you decide that you were just imagining it.

Once back upstairs again, you slip into bed once more, Amira still dead to the world. You open your phone to scroll on TikTok for a while, and as if it could hear your thoughts, for some reason, your For You page has decided to start feeding you Héctor Fort edits. Great.

For the most part, you just scoff and scroll past them, aside from one random one (i’m imagining this one), that you decide to watch for no particular reason, and dios mío (my god). It’s almost embarrassing how many times you watched it. No.

‘I don’t do boyfriends, and even if I did, he doesn’t do girlfriends.’ you remind yourself firmly, closing the app and putting your phone down, needing a second to think after that.

Meanwhile, in his own room down the hall, Héctor’s on his phone, texting his best friend Marc Guiu.

Héctor: Hermano, she’s actually so fine, I can’t.

Marc: Who? That friend of your cousin's?

Héctor: Yeah, Y/N.

Marc: And you haven’t asked her out yet, becauseee..?

Héctor: Because there’s no way she says yes.

Marc: Okay, fine, but what’s the harm in asking? You can’t predict her answer.

Héctor: Maybe… I’ll think about it. I just don’t wanna get rejected, yk?

Marc:Well, obviously. No one wants to get rejected. But getting rejected is better than saying nothing and wondering what could’ve been, or seeing her with another guy.

Héctor: Since when’d you get so wise? Calm down.

Marc: What can I say? Apparently London’s changed me.

Héctor: Whatever 🙄 Anyway, I’m gonna go help my mamá. I’ll talk later, sí?

Marc: Vale, hermano. Have a good day. Text later. 👋🫂

Héctor: Adiós, hermano. 👋🫂

Héctor sighs and puts his phone down, staring at the wall for a moment before sitting up and heading down to the kitchen to help his mamá like he said, as she’s making her usual weekly batch of baking.

Being an only child, and his father working during the day, growing up, Héctor spent the most amount of time with his mother, and he’s a total mamá’s boy. So as they make some cookie dough together, he asks her for advice.

“Mamá, I think I like a girl. Different than how I usually like girls.” María raises an eyebrow, “Sí?”

Héctor nods, “Sí, she is very pretty and I like her personality. But I’m scared to ask her out. What would you do?” “Buy her flowers,” she says simply.

“Yeah, but I can’t just… *buy* her flowers,” he replies, frowning as if that was just obvious.

“Why not?” “Well, because, um…” Héctor then realises there isn’t really any good reason. “What kind of flowers do girls like then?” he sighs.

His mother just smiles, picking up the tray and sliding it into the oven. “Red roses. A handwritten letter with them wouldn’t do any harm either.”

He gives her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek before heading back up to his room. “Gracias, mamá.”

“Any time, mi hijo.” she smiles, hugging her much taller son back, patting him on the back and letting him go.

That night when you and Amira get back from your day at the beach, sitting on the pillow of the side of the bed you’ve been sleeping on the past few nights is a bouquet of long-stem red roses, an envelope sitting on top of them. You freeze when you see them before walking over to the bed and picking up the envelope.

Amira is already going crazy, her face right next to yours as she leans over your shoulder trying to read the letter. But you laugh and hold it close to your chest, not allowing her to see.

“Let me read it first, and then depending on the contents, I’ll let you.”

Slightly annoyed, Amira agrees.

You carefully open the envelope and slide out the piece of paper from inside.

Dear Y/N,

I’ve never really done this before, so I asked my mamá, and she said girls like flowers and handwritten letters, so I hope you like them too. I was going to get white roses, but then I saw the red, and they reminded me of your fiery soul, so I got them instead.

As I say, I’ve never really done this before, the whole ‘romantic love confession’ thing, so sorry in advance if I do it wrong.

I don’t know if you remember this, but we first met when we were 11, at Amira’s birthday party. Amira and all the other girls were playing with the new toys and things she had gotten, but you came and kicked around a football with me for basically an hour because I was the only boy there and had nothing to do. Amira got so mad with you. But I never really forgot that, it’s a shame you can’t play anymore, you were really good. Long story short, your little action back then has stuck in my brain, and ever since then, the memory floats back through my mind sometimes, and it always makes me smile.

Especially these past few days, with you being here all the time, I’ve realised just how much I do feel for you. I know that on the outside, I’m flashy and flirty, but really I’m a little shy to tell you all this in person, and I figured a letter was better than a text.

A date, for me, is kinda the end goal here, but I’d really even just take a follow back on Instagram.

This feels like really fucking primary school, but:

WILL YOU GO ON A DATE WITH ME?

YES 🔲 NO 🔲

Please say yes, - Héctor.

You put the letter down, shocked. You hadn’t been expecting that. Amira was already reading one your shoulder, despite your original protests.

“You know, I think he’s being serious. He’s not one for heartfelt shit like this, you clearly mean a lot to him. It’s not often he actually says ‘please’.” Amira speaks up once she finished reading.

“Yeah, actually. I think I will.” You say firmly, nodding.

“You’d be a little stupid not to, honestly.”

You pick up a pen from Amira’s desk, ticking the ‘Yes’ box, and writing on the back.

It’s funny you think I’d ever say no to that. DM me and we can plan our date? And yes, I do love the flowers, it's charming. You know how to make a girl blush.

Taking the letter with you, you slide the letter back under his door, knocking and then quickly ducking back into Amira’s room before he can catch you.

Héctor hears the knock on his door and immediately jumps up from where he has been on the bed, anxiously waiting until he got some sort of reply since he heard me and his cousin get home from the beach.

He sees the tick and reads the note, a smile growing on his face.

And now, here you are, 2 years later, sleeping peacefully in Héctor’s arms, his hand resting protectively over your small 3-month baby bump, calming the kicking baby girl inside so her mamá can continue sleeping. He admires your face as you turn your head to bury it further into his chest, taking comfort in his familiar smell and touch.

A lot has happened since the day he left those roses for you on the pillow, but he only loves you more.

He’s also glad he listened to Marc, and to this day, it’s the only thing Marc is allowed to say “I told you so.” about.

#hector fort #hector fort fic #obvithebestsoph!hectorfort #hector fort x reader #fc barcelona #fanfiction #football #football fic #culer #teenage romance #HF32

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nereidprinc3ss · 2 days ago

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I didn’t mean to have so much to say about this but wow do I!!!!

Lots of people say they love domestic spencer reid but I don’t think they love domestic spencer reid like EYEEE love domestic Spencer Reid. Because I love domestic spencer reid where he’s doing nothing. Or he’s being kind of….. not an asshole but…… where it becomes clear that he’s just dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person and then I love domestic Spencer Reid where he’s dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person but he can still say I’m sorry!!! And they can hug and it’s okay because loving someone requires being close enough to sometimes hurt them!!!! And the realism of this kind of fic just fills me w so much joy like THISSSS is what I want from tumblr dot com I LOVEE the meditative fics where nothing crazy happens and the plot comes from the authors understanding of rich interpersonal relationships!!!! I love!!!!

This was also beautifully beautifully written like a breath of fresh air wow I truly am so lucky to get to read work from such talented people thank you for writing this and thank you for sharing it with us!!

So anyway here are the lines that jumped out at me. There is really no rhyme or reason, I tend to extra love lines that are a little philosophical and ponderous about human connection and boy was this full of that!! I am not a literary critic I am just a girl full of thoughts

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

I just think this is an jarringly astute and concise observation of something we as humans do all the time in relationships and again there is nothing I love more than an observation about human connection that I can point at and go MEEEE I UNDERSTAND THAT I KNOW HOW IT FEELS!!!! It’s very exciting to me!!

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

This to me was a kind of honesty most fanfic lacks and obviously most fanfic is supposed to be optimistic and perfect and reflect the readers desires back to them but quite frankly to me it hits harder when there is this subtle kind of interpersonal angst and strife that is something we can feel and recognize within ourselves it makes it easier for me to actually connect to the fic. Rather than watching it like a movie I can recognize this kind of sentiment and it’s far more immersive to me and therefore a lot more fulfilling and rewarding and interesting to read

Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.

YEAH MAYBE THAT IS THE POINT!!! THE POINT OF EVERYTHING!!! THE POINT OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!!! This to me is just beautiful and very succinctly summarizes something I’ve been working on and will probably continue to work on for the rest of my life and I think really the whole point of love and the lesson most people need to learn!!!! Once again I like my fluffy fanfic tempered w this kind of realism!! It adds so much texture

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

No yeah actually this IS the sexiest thing a man could possible say or do!! Like care and pay attention and be present and observant!!! I won’t even be talking about this because I love it too much to dissect it

Anyways this is maybe making me look crazy I just haven’t been engaged with fanfic very much recently and I did not go into this with the intention of having anything to say about it afterward but to my own personal deep surprise was so motivated to!! And it was so beautiful and so lovely I had to say something. Pls excuse if I’ve gone overboard!! This is just such a good example of fanfic at its absolute best to me like this is what it’s forrrr this is what I wanttttt!!!! Thank you for writing thank you for posting beautiful

mouthful of sunlight (18+)

Some nights, Spencer can’t sleep. His mind runs too fast, too far, tangled in cases, in horrors he can’t unsee. But in the quiet of morning, wrapped in the hush of young sunlight, he finds solace in you—the warmth of your breath, the slow, steady rhythm of your fingers tracing his skin. The comfort is fleeting; distance is inevitable. His absence lingers in the empty side of the bed, in unfinished cups of coffee, in the soft weight of his sweater draped over your shoulders. But when he returns—exhausted, unraveling—you stitch him back together with soft reassurances, gentle hands, and the familiar ease of laughter. warnings: sexual content (who tf am I), very very wordy, mentions of a cannon-typical case, longing, some angst if you squint, mostly reader and spencer being lovesick fools wc: 7.6k

You wake to the sound of rain, soft against the windowpane. The sheets are warm, tangled around your limbs, heavy with the scent of sleep and him. Faint traces of his cologne linger in the cotton, something clean and quiet, the ghost of him woven into the fabric.

Spencer is still asleep beside you.

You turn your head, slow, deliberate - shifting too fast might startle him awake. And there he is, curled into the pillow, his body half-buried beneath the blankets, face softened by the hush of morning. His breath moves through the space between you in slow, measured exhales, lips parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheekbone.

You could spend lifetimes watching him like this.

The curve of his mouth, the way his curls press against his forehead, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes—the ones you're not sure he knows about yet. You think the mentioning of them would send him into a spiral about aging and lost time but you love their presence. It reminds you of how he's laughed with you in the past, their arrival a notion of his genuine joy. The body keeps score in freckles and scars, and time can be found in the weight of sleepless nights and too many days spent carrying more than he should.

In sleep, he is weightless. The tension he wears so often—creased brows, tight shoulders, fingers restless against his knee—has melted away, leaving only the quiet.

You reach for him before you can think of it, fingers trailing over the ridge of his knuckles where his hand rests on the pillow between you. His skin is warm, his palm lax, open. He doesn't stir so you let yourself press further, sliding your fingertips up the length of his wrist, feeling the slow pulse beneath his skin.

Spencer Reid is always thinking. Always calculating, always predicting, always existing a step ahead, untethered from the present moment.

But, right now, wrapped in the hush of morning, doused in soft rainlight, he belongs here. With you.

The thought is terrifying in its simplicity.

You swallow, pressing your fingers a little firmer against his wrist, grounding yourself in the proof of him. His pulse beats steady against your touch, and you let it lull you, let yourself fall into its rhythm.

Spencer stirs beneath your touch, just the faintest twitch of his fingers against the pillow.

You go still.

A part of you—the part still tangled in hesitation, in old wounds and old fears—worries he’ll wake, that he’ll blink at you with those sharp, knowing eyes and startle away the calm you've fostered. You love Spencer, asleep or awake, but the peacefulness of this moment is something to be cherished. You want to watch him more, to exist in this lulling moment between seconds where life doesn't matter.

He doesn't wake, though, and instead, he shifts closer, instinctive, unconscious. The space between you vanishes, his breath warming your collarbone, his hand brushing against your arm where it lies between you. He is reaching for you without realizing it, drawn in like something inevitable.

And god, that does something to you.

You exhale, slow, careful, and let yourself watch him again, let yourself sink into the quiet reverence of it.

The morning light has stretched further now, slanting through the window, gliding through the messy sprawl of his hair. He is all sleep-heavy limbs, the weight of him pressing into the mattress in a way that drags you forward, leaning against him.

Flesh and bone, heartbeat and heat.

He is here. He is yours.

The way he leans into you even in sleep, the way his fingers twitch like they are searching for yours, even now. The way his body gives him away, whispering the things his lips have not yet said.

You cannot be careless with this. With him. But before the weight of it can settle too deeply into your chest, before you can let yourself spiral, Spencer shifts again—his breath catching, his brow furrowing just slightly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

You barely have time to think before his eyes blink open, slow and heavy-lidded, thick with sleep.

It takes a moment, his hazy eyes focusing and unfocusing. Still, he sees you. Not just looks, not just registers your presence; he sees you.

His lips part slightly, and for a moment, he only stares, like his mind is still catching up, like he’s still tethered somewhere between dreaming and waking. Blinking like he's not sure if you're a dream. Likely, everything is clouded by sleepy eyes and fading memories of dreams.

Then, his voice, quiet, still wrapped in the softness of sleep, “Morning.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you do the only thing you can—you lift your hand, still resting near his wrist, and press your fingers over his pulse once more. A quiet confirmation. A tethering.

Spencer exhales, slow, deliberate, and then he turns his hand, just slightly, just enough, so that his palm meets yours.

His fingers curl between yours, and you feel it—the certainty, the weight of something unspoken settling between your ribs.

There is morning, and then there is night.

There is sunlight spilling over Spencer’s sleeping form, gilding his cheekbones, illuminating the curve of his mouth. And then there is the stark contrast of shadow—of sterile hotel rooms, of the sharp, artificial glow of a bedside lamp casting his face in harsh relief.

His fingers, curled loosely around yours in the golden hush of morning, become hands gripping the edge of a desk, knuckles white, trembling with exhaustion. His voice, soft and thick with sleep, morphs into something raw, something fraying at the edges.

"I don’t know how to turn it off."

It takes you a moment to realize what he means.

He’s still in his suit, the fabric rumpled, the scent of cheap motel soap clinging to his skin. There’s a stack of case files beside him, a half-empty cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold. He doesn’t meet your gaze, just stares down at his hands, fingers twitching like they’re desperate for something to hold onto.

"Spencer."

Your voice is quiet, hesitant, as if anything louder might shatter him completely.

"Come to bed."

He shakes his head, exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

"I can’t."

A fight, sharp and cutting. His voice raised, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

"You don’t get it," he snaps, voice raw, eyes burning. "You don’t know what it’s like to have a mind that never fucking stops—"

"I do," you interrupt, and the way he flinches makes your chest ache.

A pause.

Silence stretching between you like a wound torn open, bleeding into the space between your feet.

Spencer exhales, shakily, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then why do you keep trying to fix me?"

And there it is.

The knife twisting.

You inhale, but the breath never quite fills your lungs.

The thing is—you don’t want to fix him.

You just want him to rest.

To sleep without nightmares. To let you hold him without feeling like he has to apologize for the weight of his existence. To believe, even for a second, that he doesn’t have to earn the space he takes up.

But you don’t know how to say that in a way that won’t turn into another wound, another reason for him to step back, to pull away.

So instead, you say nothing.

"Fuck. I'm sorry." And it's that simple, really.

Sorry, arms finding each other, whispers of "I know" pressed into necks and soft conversations easing racing minds.

Spencer can't stop the relentless chase of the case in his mind. You can't stop the constant overthinking of being enough, of your body, of desires edging into too much.

Morning. Again.

Spencer, golden in the dawn, the soft breath of sleep still heavy in his lungs. Your fingers ghost over the ridges of his knuckles, tracing the delicate architecture of him, the places where bones knit together beneath skin. Flesh and blood. A body, human and whole.

Then, blood, dark and seeping through the gaps in his fingers, staining his cuffs. Not his blood. Someone else’s. A case. A mistake. A man who didn’t survive the night.

His hands shake as he scrubs them raw in the motel sink, crimson swirling down the drain, his breath coming too fast, chest rising and falling like he’s drowning, like he can feel it slipping between his fingers, the weight of every life he couldn’t save.

You touch his shoulder, and he flinches.

Time lurches.

His head on your lap, hours later. His hair damp, fingers curled weakly in the fabric of your shirt, like holding onto you is the only thing tethering him to the present.

"I don’t know how much more of this I can take."

Morning.

Back in your bed, the light different now, stretched across the sheets in delicate bands. You can’t tell if you’re awake or dreaming.

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

Spencer shifts beside you, a quiet sigh escaping him, and you watch, desperate to memorize the shape of him here, untouched by grief, by the heaviness of what he carries.

You want to wake up to this every morning.

But the truth is, you don’t.

You wake up to the version of him that drinks too much coffee, to the one who is always looking at things that aren’t there, playing scenarios in his head like a film reel stuck on loop. You wake up to the version of him that gets lost in thought mid-conversation, who chews at his nails until they bleed, who flinches awake from dreams he won’t tell you about.

And you love him anyway.

Maybe because of it.

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

Mornings like this, where he sleeps beside you, still and warm and untouched by the weight of the world—stretch, slow and unhurried, slipping into the day like honey dissolving in warm tea.

Spencer moves through your apartment with the careful quiet of someone who knows how to exist in shared spaces—how to make himself at home without ever taking up too much of it. He is measured, gentle, a man who has spent too much of his life folding himself into small places, and yet, with you, he expands.

You watch him from where you stand at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, warmth seeping into your palms. The coffee is slightly too bitter, but you drink it anyway, because Spencer made it. Because he takes his with too much sugar and no milk, and you take yours with just a little, and the contrast is something you love.

The morning light catches in his hair as he moves about the kitchen, curling slightly at the ends where sleep left it unruly. He wears his clothes loose in the morning—his pajama pants low on his hips, his sweater slightly too big, slipping past his wrists when he reaches for things. He is soft here, unguarded in the way that makes your chest ache.

You don’t say anything when he hums under his breath, something classical, a song you don’t recognize but have heard him play before on nights when he lets the record spin long past midnight.

You don’t say anything when he pours his coffee with one hand and flips absentmindedly through the book he left on the counter with the other.

But you do say something when he starts reading aloud.

“You know, according to the Journal of Neuroscience, studies show that sleep inertia—”

“Spencer,” you interrupt, smiling into your mug.

He pauses, blinking at you, book still in hand. “What?”

You shake your head, setting your coffee down, stepping toward him until you can reach for the book, plucking it gently from his fingers. He lets you take it, watching as you slide it onto the counter behind you, clearing the space between you.

“We’re supposed to be waking up,” you murmur. “Not filling our brains with research before we’ve even eaten breakfast.”

Spencer tilts his head, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering it. Then, his lips curve, slow and warm. “That’s how I do wake up.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. You both know that you love when Spencer rambles, miss it when he's gone, call him craving the sound of his voice when he's away on trips. “Come here.”

You reach for him, and he comes easily, stepping into the space you make for him, folding himself against you like he belongs there.

Spencer exhales as you press your cheek to his shoulder, hands slipping around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater. His arms come around you in return, slow and careful, pressing you against him like he knows exactly how to hold you.

The shape of each other, the cadence of shared breath, the quiet rhythm of a love that is not loud or fast or reckless, but something slow and deliberate.

Spencer is slow to let you go.

Even as you shift, even as you move to pull back, his fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there for a moment longer. You don’t resist. You let yourself be held, let yourself stay.

But then his stomach growls. Loudly.

You grin against his shoulder. “Well, that’s attractive.”

Spencer groans, burying his face in your neck. “I knew I should have eaten before I went to bed.”

You laugh, pressing your hands to his sides. “Come on, genius. Let’s get you some food before you start reading case files on malnutrition.”

He sighs, exaggerated, but finally steps back, rubbing a hand over his face as you turn toward the stove. “I do have a study on nutritional deficiencies and cognitive function bookmarked somewhere.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You have studies bookmarked on everything.”

Spencer shrugs, completely unapologetic, and moves to lean against the counter beside you, watching as you pull out a frying pan. He doesn’t help—doesn’t even pretend to help—but he does reach for the bag of coffee grounds again, refilling your mug and his, making himself useful in the way he always does.

“You want eggs?” you ask, already cracking one against the rim of the pan.

He hums, peering into the fridge. “Only if you make them the way I like.”

“You mean, as you proclaimed the first time you stayed over, the right way?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

Neither of you mention how he burned them immediately after, distracted by kissing you in the early light filtering through the curtains of the kitchen window.

You huff, but it’s all affection, and he knows it.

Spencer doesn’t sit while you cook. He doesn’t retreat to the table or get lost in a book. He stays right here, a constant presence at your side, sipping his coffee, occasionally nudging your hip with his when you get too focused.

When you plate the food, he takes his with an approving nod. “See? Perfectly cooked.”

“They;re just scrambled, picky,” you tease, nudging him toward the kitchen table with your hip.

Spencer grins, mouth full of toast. “I have standards.”

You snort, setting your plate down across from him. “Oh, I know. That’s why you’re dating me.”

He swallows, takes a sip of coffee, and then, without missing a beat, says, “No, I’m dating you because I’m in love with you.”

Your breath catches.

He says it so easily.

No hesitation. No grand declaration. Just a fact, spoken between bites of breakfast, like it’s something he’s known for years.

You blink, lips parting slightly, and Spencer—Spencer, who notices everything—tilts his head, eyes softening.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching across the table, brushing his fingers against yours. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head, covering his hand with yours. “No, I—I just—”

You exhale, glancing down at where your hands meet, at the gentle press of his fingers against yours. Then, quieter: “I love you, too.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow, small, but full of something deep, something certain.

“I know,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “But I still like hearing it.”

And so you say it again, just for him.

Just because he likes hearing it.

“I love you.” Spencer smiles.

After breakfast, Spencer lingers at the table while you move about the apartment, rinsing dishes, wiping crumbs from the counter. It’s a soft sort of silence. When you pass by him, his hand brushes against your hip, absentminded but full of intent, a touch that says I know you’re here. I know you’re mine.

You catch his wrist, squeezing gently before letting go.

Neither of you speak as you make your way toward the bedroom, but Spencer follows, because of course he does. Because his place is beside you, moving with you, orbiting within the same small universe.

Inside, the morning light has stretched further across the bed, creeping in golden streaks over the fabric. The air is warm with the scent of sleep, of coffee, of him.

Spencer moves first, tugging his sweater over his head and tossing it onto the bed. His hair goes staticky, curls fluffed from the fabric, and you reach out instinctively, smoothing them back into place. He stills beneath your touch, the corners of his lips twitching.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he murmurs.

“Probably.” You grin, carding your fingers through the strands anyway, just for the sake of touching him.

Spencer huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t move away.

You let him slip his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. Let him reach for the zipper of your trousers, sliding it down with the same care you’d shown him.

There’s nothing rushed about it.

Nothing frantic, nothing heated. Just this. Just hands smoothing over fabric, fingers brushing against skin in passing, the quiet, unspoken promise of I know you. I love you. Let me show you.

Spencer tilts his head, gaze flickering down, not to your lips, but to the hollow of your throat, where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. He watches it like a scholar studying something precious like he’s measuring the exact rhythm of you, the precise way you exist in this moment.

And then, with all the patience in the world, he leans in.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Like he has all the time in the world to memorize you.

His lips brush your jaw first—so soft it could almost be nothing, just a breath, just a thought of touch. Then, lower, trailing warmth along the delicate line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder.

Your fingers find his wrists, not to stop him, but to hold him there, to feel the heat of him seeping into your skin.

You shift—not much, just enough to press closer, enough to let your forehead rest against his, enough to let his breath mingle with yours.

His hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the curve of your ribs, the warmth of his palms bleeding through the fabric like sunlight through frosted glass.

Like he understands, without either of you saying it, that this is the sacred part. Not the wanting, not even the having, but the holding. The staying.

He presses his lips to your temple, soft and sure, and you feel it—the weight of love settling between your ribs, deep and real.

“I want you,” he murmurs, voice low, full of something aching.

You shudder, your fingers tightening around his wrists. “You have me,” you whisper.

Spencer swallows, pressing his forehead against yours again, his hands gripping you just a little tighter as he breathes you in.

You feel his adoration in the way he moves—hesitant, reverent. Like he’s unraveling you thread by thread, pulling you apart just to piece you back together in the way only he knows how.

His fingers ghost over the curve of your waist, not grasping, not pulling, just feeling.

Your breath catches when he finally presses closer, the full weight of him sinking into you, a slow collapse into something inevitable. His body is warm, radiating heat like a fever, like a star burning too close to your skin. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it tight in your grip, grounding yourself in the weight of him.

He exhales against your jaw, warm and unsteady.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do.

And god, it’s unbearable—the way his eyes search yours, wide and dark and pleading.

His breath stutters when you reach up, cradling his face in your hands, fingertips skimming the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, his lashes fluttering, his lips parting slightly, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

“Spencer,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He answers you with a kiss.

Not rushed, not desperate. His lips move against yours, unhurried but insistent, a careful exploration, a patient claiming. His nose brushes yours, his breath mingling with yours, the quiet sounds of longing pressing into the spaces between you.

You sigh into his mouth, and he shudders, his fingers tightening against your ribs.

“Again,” he whispers.

So you kiss him again. And again. And again.

Until the space between you is nothing, until your bodies are tangled in sheets and sighs and whispered names, until everything is breath and warmth and wanting.

His hands find yours, fingers threading together, clinging, pressing, grounding. His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, his body trembling with the weight of this.

“I want you,” he whispers, voice wrecked, shaking, repeating himself.

You tighten your grip on his hands, pulling him closer. “I know,” you breathe. “I know.”

And when he moves again, when his lips find yours with a new kind of urgency, you know—you feel it in your bones—this isn’t just wanting. It’s everything.

Spencer kisses you like he’s searching for something.

Like the answer to every unsolvable equation is pressed between your lips, tucked beneath your tongue, hidden in the soft give of your sighs.

And you let him.

Because you know this—this rhythm, this language you’ve built together. The slow pull of hands over fabric, the careful way he unravels you. The heat that grows between you, steady and unrelenting, like a pot left to boil over.

Spencer exhales sharply when your fingers find the sharp ridge of his collarbone. You press your lips there, breathing him in, and he shivers.

Spencer is reaching for you again, already fitting his hands to the curve of your back, already tilting his head to press open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the place just beneath your ear that makes you sigh.

“We’re going to be late,” you murmur, though you don’t mean it.

Spencer hums, his lips still pressed against your skin. “I don’t care.”

You laugh—a breathy, delighted sound that he swallows with his next kiss, his hands smoothing over your ribs, pressing warmth into your skin.

His trousers slide lower on his hips, and he makes a sound—low, breathless, almost dazed.

And then—“I’m sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, against the corner of your mouth.

You blink, pulse stuttering. “For what?”

“For all the times I haven’t been here.” His fingers tighten at your waist, like he’s grounding himself in the weight of you, in the proof that you are here. “For leaving. For missing too much. For—”

You don’t let him finish.

You press your lips to his, pouring everything into it—forgiveness, love, understanding.

When you break apart, your voice is quiet but sure. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Spencer exhales, shaky and relieved, and then—

Then he laughs, something soft and breathless, because you’ve pushed his trousers past his hips and now they’re tangled around his ankles, and it’s clumsy, and it’s human, and neither of you can bring yourselves to care.

Your own clothes follow, piece by piece, scattered and forgotten, because this is more important.

Spencer is warm everywhere, all golden skin and careful hands and parted lips. He hovers over you, his breath fanning over your cheek, his fingers tracing slow, reverent paths down your arms, your sides, like he’s still memorizing you.

And when you reach for him, guiding him closer, pulling him in, he exhales a sound—soft, broken, something like ah, like yes, like finally.

You sigh into him, arching, meeting him where he waits, and the warmth between you turns molten, turns necessary.

Spencer presses his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his fingers twining with yours in the sheets.

“I love you,” he whispers.

And you—You're lost in the heat, the smell of him. The gentle movement as there's nothing left but you and him and him and him.

"Ah, Spencer," you breathe, and he shushes you.

"I know, I know."

It's quiet, it's breathy laughs, it's warmth building building buildig until something cracks - it has to, it's necessary, it's perfect and lovely and hot honey dripping down your thighs to gather into something greater, something perfect, something more.

It should be impossible, the way you fit together.

Like something sculpted by hands that knew what they were doing, shaping flesh and bone with deliberate care, pressing you into each other until there is no separation, no beginning or end. A seamless thing. Thread looping over itself, over and over and over into infinity. Until it cannot be separated from itself, until it is one ball of mass and moving and friction.

Heat and pressure and warmth build into something more, more more. Spencer is calling your name as if you are lost, you're grasping his back to remind him you're right here.

He tumbles and you're stuck on the edge, unable to follow. It's a brilliant thing, watching him. Eyes screwed shut, tightly. Breath coming out in spurts and spasms. Love, love, love. Pouring out of him and into you.

It's warm, so so warm, and nearly enough to send you to the place of glass shattering and pleasure fluttering and complete unity.

It isn't until Spencer's hips are faltering that he notices you there, hanging on the precipice of masterpieces yet unknown.

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

And you fall after him, tumbling down into something safe and known and foreign and unlearnable.

When you clatter back onto Earth, Spencer is warm against you, chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of shared breath. His fingers—long, elegant, familiar—trace mindless patterns against your arm, mapping you the way he memorizes pages, theories, entire histories. As if you are something to be learned, something to be understood.

As if he hasn’t already written you into the marrow of his bones.

Your limbs are tangled in the sheets, in each other, some quiet aftershock of connection humming between your skin. He shifts, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, the edge of your jaw, the corner of your lips, his breath still heavy with you.

Whole. Uninterrupted.

Until—

A loud grumble splits the silence, echoing off the walls.

Spencer stills.

You blink.

And then—

Your stomach rumbles again, louder this time, an undignified protest against your distraction.

Spencer bursts into laughter.

It’s warm, breathless, human, cracking through the solemn weight of the moment like lightning through a storm. He drops his head against your shoulder, shaking with it, his entire body vibrating with amusement.

“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.

Spencer’s still laughing when he rolls onto his back, his hand dragging down his face as he tries to compose himself. He fails, utterly, letting out another breathy chuckle before turning his head to look at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says between soft huffs of breath, his eyes bright with mirth. “It was just—so poetic, so profound—and then your stomach actually growled.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “You're going to give me shit when you essentially did the same thing earlier?" You ask, aghast. Spencer nods his head, cheeky smile overtaking his face.

You groan again, but it’s half-hearted, because Spencer is still laughing, and it’s the kind of sound you’d willingly make a fool of yourself for, over and over again, just to hear it.

"Did you not have any of your stellar eggs?" Spencer asks, pulling away from you.

You both wince as connection is lost, resisting the urge to pull him back in again, to be selfish and keep the warmth of him near.

He stretches, arms raised above his head, back cracking. You stay still, stretched across the bed as he moves into your bathroom and wets a washcloth.

"No, I don't really like scrambled."

Spencer hesitates, at the foot of the bed, one knee propped up on the edge. "What?" He asks, frozen, still as a statue.

"I'll eat them but this morning they were too eggy."

"Too eggy," Spencer mutters, voice aghast, cleaning you before pinching your thigh playfully. "Come on, time to get you to work."

The moment lingers, shifting into something softer, something easy.

And then—

You’re standing in the kitchen, hours later, Spencer in his undershirt, stirring a pot of something that smells like warmth, like home.

Your stomach grumbles again.

Spencer smirks, not even turning around. “Should I start reciting poetry, or—”

You throw a dish towel at him.

||||

There is the weight of Spencer pressed against you in the morning, the heat of his breath on your skin, the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing patterns into your ribs. And then there is the cold side of the bed, the imprint of him faded from the sheets, the silence of an empty apartment that settles like dust in your lungs.

He’s gone.

Not forever. Neer forever.

But the difference between knowing something and feeling it is vast, and this morning, you feel it.

The bed is too big. The air is too still. The coffee is too bitter without his absentminded habit of adding too much sugar to the pot when he thinks you aren’t looking.

His absence moves through the space like a ghost, turning everyday things into echoes of him.

A book left open on the table, spine cracked, a scrap of paper sticking out with notes in the margins.

A half-full mug beside the sink. He always assures you he'll finish it later but never does. You don't mind, savoring the reminder of him when he leaves in the middle of the day with little notice.

The sweater he left draped over the back of a chair, smelling like warmth, like him, like something undone.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table as if grounding yourself, as if it might keep you tethered.

You knew this would happen.

It always does—cases that stretch into days, weeks, phone calls that come at odd hours, the sound of his voice wrapped in exhaustion and apologies, the waiting, the not-knowing.

You reach for your own coffee, cradling it between your palms, letting the heat seep into your fingers.

Your phone buzzes. A message. Short, simple.

Spencer: I miss you.

The breath in your chest stutters.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, a response forming before you can even think about it.

You: I miss you too. It’s too quiet here.

Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.

You wait, staring at the screen, willing the space between you to close, even just a little.

Spencer: I’ll call you tonight. Stay in my sweater until then.

You let out a breath, something soft, something caught between a laugh and a sigh. You reach for it, slipping it over your shoulders, wrapping yourself in the remnants of warmth.

It’s not the same.

But for now, it will have to be enough.

||||

The door unlocks with a quiet click.

You don’t move right away.

You should—should stand, should cross the room, should meet him in the doorway. But instead, you sit still, curled into the couch, the weight of waiting still heavy in your limbs, pressing you down.

Footsteps. Familiar, careful.

“Hey,” Spencer murmurs, quiet, hesitant, like he isn’t sure if you’re asleep, if he should wake you, if he’s allowed to break the silence.

You inhale sharply, and that’s what does it—what snaps the moment in two. You push up from the couch, feet hitting the floor, your body moving before your mind catches up.

You are in his arms.

He exhales sharply at the impact, his bag slipping from his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you with something desperate, something relieved, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

The scent of him—faint cologne, the sterile bite of too many hotels, the quiet warmth that is Spencer—hits you all at once. You press your face into his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, holding tight.

“You’re back,” you breathe, and it’s obvious, unnecessary, but you need to say it, need to hear it, need to confirm it.

Spencer laughs—soft, exhausted, fond. “I’m back.”

You feel the words vibrate through him, feel the shape of them beneath your hands, the weight of them settling between your ribs.

“Did you miss me?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy thing, your grip tightening on his jacket.

“Not at all,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see him. His face is tired, his eyes a little shadowed, but there’s something soft there, something bright just beneath the surface.

His lips twitch. “Liar.”

You hum, tilting your chin up just slightly, brushing your nose against his, letting the warmth between you settle.

“Say it anyway,” he murmurs.

So you do. “I missed you, Spence.”

His breath stumbles and he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s homecoming, warmth where there was once cold. It’s touch where there was once absence. It’s the quiet, certain return of something that never really left.

It takes a while for Spencer to let go and, even when he does, he keeps a hand on you. Not even after the kiss fades into breaths, not even after his bag is abandoned by the door, not even after you’ve guided him toward the couch, pressing your hands to his shoulders until he sinks into the cushions with a sigh.

You don’t ask him about the case.

Not yet.

Instead, you move around him, nudging his shoes off with your foot, smoothing his hair back from his face, pressing your fingers into the stiff muscles at the back of his neck. His eyes flutter shut, and he exhales slow, like he’s unspooling one spiraling thread at a time.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles over his cheek.

“I feel worse,” he admits, cracking one eye open to look at you. “I think I might actually be a ghost.”

You hum, tilting your head. Slowly, you press a finger into the center of his chest, thumping it against his sternum twice. “I don’t know, you feel pretty solid to me.”

Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m only part ghost.” He waves a hand in the air, "I hover between realms, or whatever those silly books you read would say."

“Well,” you say, ignoring the dig at your admittedly less-academic reading preferences, pressing your lips to his temple, lingering, “if you were a ghost, you’d be a talkative one. Following me around, rambling about hauntings and historic criminal cases—”

Spencer scoffs. “I’d be a great ghost.”

“Would you?”

“I’d be an educational ghost.”

You snort, letting your fingers trail down his arm, wrapping your hand around his wrist, pressing against the pulse there. “I think I prefer you educational and alive.”

Spencer smiles, but it’s softer now, more worn, and when he leans into you, it’s not just playful—it’s relief.

You shift, curling into him, letting him fold himself against you like he’s been waiting for it for days. He buries his face against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you feel the tension still lingering in him, the weight of something else.

Something he’s not saying. So you just hold him.

One hand drifts into his hair, threading through the soft curls, the other smoothing over his back, steady, slow. His fingers flex against your side, gripping, holding, grounding. He sighs, deep, exhausted, pressing closer like he’s trying to escape something.

You kiss the crown of his head. “You don’t have to tell me,” you whisper. “But you can.”

Spencer is quiet for a long moment, his breathing uneven, his fingers still pressed into your skin. “The case was a little boy,” he murmurs, barely above a breath. “He lost his—” His voice wavers, and he swallows hard. “His whole family. We nearly didn't find him in time."

It's the most he can give you, the most that the public has probably heard, too, but it's enough to impress upon you the true horrors he's facing.

You close your eyes, tightening your arms around him. “Spencer.”

He shakes his head, shifting just enough to rest his forehead against your collarbone. “I just—I keep thinking about him. How small he looked. How scared.”

You press your lips together, blinking hard, willing yourself to keep it together for him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick. “I know that doesn’t help, but I am.”

Spencer exhales shakily, nodding against your skin. “It helps.”

You don’t know if that’s true, but you keep holding him anyway. Keep smoothing your hands down his back, keep whispering his name, keep pressing your lips to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, like you can will the heaviness away.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur against his skin. “You’re home.”

Spencer lets out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”

Spencer doesn't move much, pressed against you, letting himself be held. His breathing steadies, his hands no longer gripping like he’s afraid of being pulled away.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. “You wanna do something mindless for a bit? Watch bad TV? Read a book with no footnotes? Stare at a wall together?”

Spencer snorts, muffled against your skin. “Tempting.”

“I'm very persuasive when I want to be.”

“That’s one word for it.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?”

Spencer finally lifts his head, and there’s something lighter in his expression now, the weight of the case still lingering, but no longer pressing quite so hard against the edges of his mind.

He shifts, settling further into the couch, his knee bumping against yours. “You bullied me into watching a terrible documentary about haunted dolls last time I came back from a case.”

Your mouth falls open in offense. “It was informative!”

Spencer levels you with a flat look. “It was ninety minutes of a guy holding up dolls to the camera and whispering ‘Do you hear that?’”

You press your lips together, fighting back a laugh. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most scientific—”

“There was a scene transition shaped like a skull.”

“You didn’t have to watch it!”

Spencer gestures at himself dramatically. “I was physically incapacitated by exhaustion!”

You shove at his shoulder, laughing now, and he catches your wrist easily, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the inside of it before letting you go. The gesture is so easy, so thoughtless, that your chest goes tight with it.

Spencer sighs, shifting so he’s half-leaning against you again, pressing his forehead briefly to your shoulder before pulling back. “But,” he admits, softer now, “it was kind of nice. Sitting with you. Not thinking for a bit.”

You hum, tucking your legs beneath you, leaning into his warmth. “I am great at the whole ‘not thinking’ thing.”

Spencer huffs a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You sure? I distinctly remember you asking me how I manage to not overanalyze things while I was eating a bowl of cereal the other day.”

“That was—” He pauses, brows knitting together. “Okay, yes, but that’s because you were reading the cereal box like it was literature.”

“It was a compelling narrative, Spencer.”

He tilts his head. “The ingredients list?”

“The lucky leprechaun’s backstory,” you clarify.

Spencer just stares at you.

You grin, nudging his knee. “It’s called escapism, genius.”

Spencer shakes his head, exhaling something close to a laugh-sigh, then shifts again, tucking himself more comfortably against your side.

"Unless you're calling me dumb," you muse, not ready to give up teasing him. He takes the bait easily.

"I would never say that-"

"i'm pretty certain that's what I'm hearing."

"Absolutely not." You sit silently, humming dramatically, hoping for a compliment that you're sure is to come. "You're one of the smartest people I've met, actually. That's why your taste in books and documentaries appalls me."

"You're good at groveling, Dr. Reid."

He doesn't answer, chuckling and pressing his lips against your shoulder in response instead.

After a moment, his fingers brush against yours, hesitant for only a second before twining them together. Quiet settles between you again—not heavy this time, not suffocating. Just easy. Just you and him. Spencer squeezes your fingers lightly, voice soft when he speaks again.

“You make coming home easy.”

Your throat goes tight, and you squeeze back. The shift in tone is palpable. You long to linger in the feeling of warmth and safety and the earnest way he mumbles it. “Good,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his temple. “Because you are home.”

Spencer exhales, slow and steady. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”

You don’t move immediately after Spencer settles against you, letting his weight sink into the couch, his fingers loosely tangled with yours. He’s relaxed now, softer, the weight of the week still lingering in his tired eyes but no longer pressing quite so hard on his shoulders.

It’s the perfect time to strike.

You reach for the remote, flicking through streaming options with intense purpose.

Spencer glances at you, suspicious. “What are you doing?”

“Putting something on to help you unwind.”

His eyes narrow. “What kind of something?”

You hum innocently. “Oh, you’ll see.”

Spencer watches as you select a YouTube documentary—one you know is riddled with inaccuracies, one that will absolutely send him into a spiral.

The second the dramatic narration begins, Spencer physically tenses.

You stifle a smile. You watched it when he was gone, something mind-numbing after a long day at work, and have been waiting to see his reaction to the ridiculous claims of the conspiracies.

The documentary wastes no time getting things wrong.

A sweeping shot of pyramids. An ominous, overly intense musical score. And then, in bold, serious tones:

"The ancient Egyptians, known for their fascination with aliens—"

Spencer inhales sharply, head snapping toward you, eyes wide with horror. “Their fascination with WHAT?”

You shrug, biting your lip. “Aliens, love. Keep up.”

Spencer throws his hands in the air. “Ancient Egyptian society was a highly advanced civilization with remarkable achievements in engineering, mathematics, and medicine—why does everything have to be aliens?”

You pat his knee comfortingly. “Shh. The experts are speaking.”

He turns back to the screen just in time to hear the narrator say:

"Some theorists believe the Sphinx was originally a statue of a dog, not a lion."

Spencer physically jolts, glaring at you again.

“A dog?” he scoffs.

You bite back laughter. “I don’t know, Spence. It kinda looks like a dog if you squint.”

He looks betrayed. “It doesn't. I know you don't think it does.”

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to study the screen. “Maybe, like, a bulldog?”

Spencer presses the heels of his palms into his eyes like he’s in pain. Give me the remote. There's a better, actual documentary, about 1940s Germany that I wanted to show you instead of this-” he gestures toward the screen, "garbage."

You grin, nudging his side. “Oh, you love it.”

“I do not—”

A new segment starts, this one even worse, featuring a so-called “historian” confidently stating that the Romans invented cheese.

Spencer makes a noise nearly resembling a laugh and you know you've got him.

“No they didn't," he says, deadpan, shaking his head and clicking off of the video.

You lose it. You cackle, curling into his side, shaking with laughter as Spencer queues up an actual documentary, switching on subtitles for you.

“I hate you,” he mutters, but his voice is fond, his arm still wrapped tight around you.

“No, you don’t,” you tease, leaning into him.

He sighs dramatically, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.

“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “I really don’t.”

And just like that, the warmth settles back between you, easy and earned.

Even if he’s still muttering about the Sphinx as the documentary starts.

You settle down like that, listening as Spencer adds his own interesting facts to the documentary. This is home, wholly and truly, sitting on this couch next to him.

You're sure to ask questions, keep him talking, until he falls asleep, missing the sound of his voice the second he dozes off.

#fic recs #that should be me #fic motherfucking recs

476 notes · View notes

love-quinn · 17 hours ago

Text

— EMPLOYEE DISCOUNT

summary — you’ve missed a lot of work recently. carmen has no choice but to check on you, especially when you order dinner from the restaurant.

summary — swearing, general mentions of not eating due to finances, reader maybe doesn’t have the best relationship with her parents but that part is glossed over so quick it might as well not be there, reader is struggling financially, reader is heavily implied to be chronically ill, boss/employee relationship

pairing — carmen berzatto x fem!waitress reader

pronouns — she/her, explicitly mentioned as a girl + wears a skirt

word count — 4.3k

note — most of my waitress reader stuff is self-indulgent and that includes this. reader is heavily implied to have chronic pain, this is just my experience with things similar. this might not be everyone’s experience but i wrote this to make myself feel better about how i was feeling. thank you so so much for 250 followers, i hope you enjoy this <3333

Richie is tapping his fingers. They’re both in the office. Carmen’s chair is being held up with a pack of plastic forks that Sydney had banished to his space (“We’re a restaurant, Carmy, we don’t need plastic forks”), and Richie is perched on a box labelled “Important shit.”

Richie is playing Angry Birds on his phone, as he usually is when he’s not yapping to whoever is nearby. He’d probably be talking to Carmen if Carmen hadn’t already pissed him off that morning. He’d asked Richie if there was oat milk in the latte he’d gotten down the street and Richie had called him a “pussy bitch” and a “slave to the milk industry, Carmen, fuck you.”

Carmen’s looking through the schedule, working out the roster for the next month. Everyone’s full-time but Marcus has a few days off this month he needs, Ebra has a doctors appointment and Sydney has a few commitments as well. So in Marcus’s case he needs to move his prep time around so they’ll be ready for service, and for Sydney he’s figuring out what the menu should look like when she’s not there. It’s still constantly changing, but he doesn’t want to load something too heavy on the rest of the chefs without their sous.

And then of course, there’s you.

You haven’t been to work in over a week - eleven days to be exact. You’re in a full time contract, have been for a year. You have leave saved up, Carmen doesn’t know exactly how much, but he knows you have it. He should probably look it up soon; you’re chewing through your paid time off like you haven’t eaten in weeks.

He’d have appreciated a heads up. You requested it three days before it started and he’d granted it because Carmen knew that you wouldn’t do it without a good reason. But it’s been six days since he last heard from you, and he feels like he would’ve known if you were going out of town.

Carmen is your boss. He’s not your anything else. He has to remind himself of that. You have no responsibilities to him when you’re not at work. He is your boss.

It’s hard to remember that though when you’ve been asleep in the passenger seat in his car, listening to his shitty radio station because he can’t stay awake in the silence and you can’t stay awake with the noise. When you’ve sat on the floor of his office during your lunch break, sipping a lemonade and letting the bubbles fizz on your tongue. When his thumbs have ghosted over your pulse points as you place a bandaid on his arm with the utmost delicacy and care. It’s hard to not want more when he’s had everything already.

“When’s she comin’ back?”

Richie’s standing right behind him, hunched over so his head doesn’t hit the ceiling. Carmen’s written your name and underlined it, staring holes at the shapes of the letters as if they’d bring about your return.

Carmen shook his head. “I don’t know, Richie.”

Richie sat beside Carmen, leaning against the desk. “She’s been gone a while, ‘s she doing okay?” He bent down further so he was closer, crossing his arms. “Listen, cousin, is there something I need t’know?”

“Like what?” Carmen doesn’t even look up at him, head resting on one elbow, massaging his temple. He’s only really half listening, the best way he’s found to deal with Richie.

Richie muses, looking up at the ceiling. “Like how you fucked up and lost me my best waitress?” He looks pointedly at Carmen. “Like that, maybe?”

Carmen heaves out a sigh and tilts his head back so he can see Richie properly, squinting at the light. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Richie scoffs. “I’m not a fucking moron, idiot. I let you do your thing, I thought maybe she’d get you to calm the fuck down. But no, because you can’t have a mature adult relationship to save your life-”

Carmen stands on instinct, “Oh, you think I’m immature,” he’s too angry to even scoff out a laugh.

Richie doesn’t stop, “And now because you’re a fucking jagoff, I’ve lost my fucking waitress!”

“Oh, fuck off!” Carmen points at him. “You have no fucking clue what the fuck you’re talking about!” His face is hot, both at the idea that he’s the reason you’ve been not coming to work and also at the idea that whatever is going on between the two of you is important enough that he could’ve screwed it up.

He hasn’t let you know how important he finds it. When he first started with the restaurant, still sickly with the grief of losing Mikey, and resentful that he finally had what he wanted only when his brother was gone, you were literally the only person that didn’t give him a hard time. And sure, he probably deserved it, but maybe he didn’t need it from everyone. You were gentle, probably nervous around him because he’s your employer even though he’s only three years older than you.

“You think I’m fucking blind?” Richie counters. “I didn’t say anything cause I know you get all flighty and scared when you like a girl and I was really fucking hoping you wouldn’t fuck it up with her!”

“Oh, fuck off Richie!” Carmen feels his whole body getting warm. Richie antagonises him on purpose, neither of them possess any tact. It runs in the family, so it seems. Carmen isn’t any better, he’s half way through a facetious “Where the fuck is your wife, huh?” when Sydney hurls the door open.

It’s enough that he’s caught off guard. Sydney always knocks.

“What?” They’re both facing her now, anger directed away from each other.

Sydney looks apprehensive. “Uh, I um,” her eyes flick between the two of them. Carmen, red in the face, and Richie, chest heaving. “The kitchen got a ticket for a to-go order, and, uh.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Richie asks. Carmen doesn’t agree on the gangly motherfucker with much, especially not in the moment, but he does wish Sydney would elaborate on what the issue is.

Sydney holds out the ticket as if it’s about to explode, and Carmen rips it from her hand. She watches him intently as he reads it. It’s normal, it’s for a cacio e pepe, pre-paid for on the website. His eyes dart over the ticket until they finally land on the part he knows Sydney wanted him to see.

Your name. Your address. The price at the bottom has been modified with your employee discount code.

“Okay..” Carmen is struggling to stay composed. “What? What do you want me to do with this?”

Sydney shuffles on her feet. She can tell he feels almost explosive about it, and she doesn’t know what to say in order to not set him off. You and Sydney get along well. From what he’s gathered, you get lunch together on days you’re both not working, you often join her at the farmer’s market before her shift starts, and she spends an hour or so every week explaining the new menu to you and helping you understand why it works from a chef’s perspective. Carmen might not currently have any, but he knows the word for that is being friends.

So he trusts that Sydney also knows what he knows.

You’d told him one night as you were unlocking the front door to your apartment. He was leaning against the wall, looking sideways at you. It had been an unusually cold night, and he’d given you his woollen jacket. You hadn’t objected, you’d been doing this long enough that you didn’t have to pretend you didn’t want it. You’d been wearing tights that night, another thing you didn’t usually do. Everything else was standard - simple black skirt, white button up blouse, silver name badge lit up by the flickering hallway light.

You were rummaging in your bag for your keys, swearing you could hear them jingling in the bottom when you’d sniffed. Normally he’d ignore it, but it was the third time since the two of you had left the restaurant.

“Are you getting sick?” He’d asked it mostly as your friend (he was telling himself that’s what the two of you were), but also as your boss in the food service industry.

You shook your head. “No, I get stuffy when I’m tired. All I need is a good night’s sleep,” you promised.

“If you’re getting sick let me know,” he said as you pulled out your keys. “I’ll bring you soup. What’s your favourite kind?” Carmen enjoyed doting on you, it was the only way he felt like he reciprocated your gentleness. Ten hours of yelling in the kitchen couldn’t be undone by the promise of bringing you a hot meal, but he needs whatever he’ll get.

You wrinkled your nose, still smiling sweetly at him. “Not a soup but when I was a kid my mom would make me cacio e pepe,” you finally muscle open the door. It gets stuck most of the time, which is why Carmen always comes up with you. One time you couldn’t open it and you’d had to call him and ask if you could crash on his couch. You had been mortified but he’d brushed it off.

You liked Carmen a lot. He was highly strung and quick to anger. He was kind of an asshole most of the time, and when something pissed him off he made it everyone else’s problem. He didn’t know how to act around people, and often dug himself into a pit so deep nobody could reach in to help him out of it.

But you were also positive that he liked you too, and that changed things. He was still an asshole, he couldn’t help it, and you were slowly learning the building blocks that had made him the way that he was. But surely, very very cautiously, he was realising that he didn’t have to be defensive around you. You weren’t going to attack him. Taking that away and he was a whole new man.

It’s not your job to help him regulate his emotions. But you find you enjoy being around him so much that even if he’s pissed off and yelling, you don’t mind.

Carmen does this thing, especially when he’s driving you home after dinner service where he’ll leave his palm up, hand open. You like tracing the lines, bringing the tip of your index finger up and down his palm, from his wrist to his fingers. You catch him smiling out of the corner of your eye.

He hasn’t quite figured out how to tolerate people yet. So to see him smiling at something you’ve done that’s born from nothing but pure affection for him sometimes makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

You’d invited him inside, which was happening more and more frequently these days. He’d come in, you guys would talk for a bit, and then he’d go home. That was all that ever happened.

“It was the only thing she ever knew how to cook without a recipe,” you said, pulling off your coat and scarf. It was meant to be almost springtime, but nobody had told the weather that. Yet another cold front was headed your way, which meant another couple of weeks of spending every free moment at work under the guise of ‘helping out.’ Carmen’s been making extra at family and then conveniently forgetting to put it out. You went home most nights with a grilled cheese and a warmth in your chest. “I’d, uh, I’d wake up from a nap all sore and dehydrated and all I’d want was black pepper and cheese. She’d have to check, to make sure, but once she was she’d be at the stove talking about coagulation or whatever.”

You looked bashful, cheeks visibly warm in the cool light. “She hated making it, said she only got it right half the time. Never wanted to. Sometimes, I’d…” you looked hesitant. Carmen’s eyes were shining at you, emphasised by the neon of the 24-stop across the street leaking in through your window. The colours were saturated and soaking, and when they hit just right on your face Carmen would forget that he’d seen you with mustard in your hair.

He watched you, wanting you to keep talking but not knowing how to say.

“Sometimes I’d pretend I wasn’t sick,” you tried to sound nonchalant, but he could feel it radiating from you. He wasn’t good at naming emotions, it had never been a strong suit for Carmen. He knew the basic ones, sure; happy, sad, fuck off, angry, ten hour shift, hurt, your hand on his pulse point. The basic ones. He could tell you were somewhere been hurt and ten hour shift.

Carmen couldn’t imagine not giving you whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted it. Especially not if what you wanted was food.

Food he could do.

Normally, he’d never dream of leaving the restaurant during service, but Sydney had shoved the receipt at him, clenching his fist around it for him, and told him to handle it. He’d made himself a little corner on the line and got to work.

It’s not something he makes often, but he’s got it right often enough that he’s confident with it. He pulls out all the stops - two kinds of peppercorns, two skillets (so as to not let the cheese coagulate).

It’s technical, and he’s best when it’s technical. If he can just stir at the right rate, if he can temper at the right speed - hot, cold, on off - then surely he can figure out what to say to you when he’s in your indigo-bathed kitchen, so close he can smell your deodorant.

The pasta should be the hard part, getting it cooked and packaged and driven over to your place with the heater on full blast even though Carmen’s already sweating through his t-shirt. But he’s out the front of your door, looking at the way your paint is chipped off your door.

He knows he has about two more minutes before the food in his hand gets cold, and that means the heater was all for nothing. He also knows where your spare key is kept. It’s nestled right between the key to his place and the back door to the restaurant. It was under your spare mat, but Carmen had shamed you into putting it somewhere more secure.

He knows where you keep your bowls, and that you prefer to eat with a fork in situations where a spoon is an option. He’s quiet, and he’s not sure how you’d feel if you knew he’d been moving around your kitchen, but he’s in too deep to think about that now.

Now that the pasta is in the bowl and it’s twirled delicately around a fork, he has to actually find you. All the lights are off, which isn’t unusual. You worry about the electric bill, he doesn’t have to be observant to notice that. He doesn’t turn any lights on, he takes the bowl in his hands, using his elbow to rest it on and hoping to preserve the heat.

He calls out your name, wincing at the way his voice breaks. It echoes in the cold of your apartment. There’s a shuffle from behind him. “Sweetheart?” It slips out in a way that feels both embarrassing and empowering.

You’re the kindest person he knows, and he’s in your apartment right now calling you a petname.

Carmen knows all the basic emotions, the middle school descriptors. He doesn’t know what to call the feeling that bubbles up when he hears your voice say his name. You’re on the floor beside the sofa, and despite the blue washing everything out, he can see your eyes are red.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice is small, croaked.

Carmen sits down on the floor so he’s facing you. The bowl is still warm in his hands. “I made you pasta.”

Your lashes are watery and it feels like he can hear a piece of you break. You don’t want to be this, you’re aware of how pathetic it must look. Crying, curled up on the floor of your apartment in front of your boss. You’re a grown woman, you can usually handle this.

You’re not quite sure what happened.

“You,” there’s a dip in your voice. It fails completely on the second word and you have to start again. “You didn’t have to bring it here. You’re stealing jobs from delivery drivers.”

He wants to reach out and smooth your hair, instead he puts the bowl down on your coffee table. “I did have to bring it to you.”

Carmen doesn’t know what to say to you. It’s a whirlwind in his head, like when he was a kid and he used to lay on his back and try to follow the blades of the ceiling fan in the living room. But like, if one of the blades was Richie convincing him that he was the reason this was happening.

“I don’t.. I’m not,” he huffs, “good at…” He can feel himself getting frustrated, which makes it worse. You don’t deserve to have him come here and get angry. You deal with it enough. “You haven’t been at work in a while,” he says finally. “I got worried. So, I wanted to come and just,” He inhales shakily, deep and full like he can swallow some of the light in the room. “I wanted to.”

You don’t handle that as well as he’d hoped you would.

Carmen’s seen you cry a few times and, sure, it kind of freaks him out, but he feels like he’s gotten pretty good at soothing you. This is the first time you’ve ever cried in front of him and it’s been his fault.

You let your head fall forward so half is covered by the sofa and the other by your arm. The sweater you’re wearing is new, he knows that, not one of the many you’ve donned over your white button up after the dining room’s cleared out.

He’s not sure what to do, but mercifully, you beat him to speaking up.

“I’m sorry.”

Carmen can’t even fathom how awful he must have been to you for your first instinct to be an apology.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. “I know I’ve missed a lot of work and I wasn't even that good of a waitress to begin with, I’ll be back soon, I promi- if you want me back, I know you could probably find someone more reliable.”

“What do I have to do, give you tenure? Write it into your contract that no matter what I’m not gonna fire you?” Carmen runs a hand through his hair, knowing he sounds about as desperate as he feels and choosing to hope you don’t notice it.

“I didn’t even mean to take all the time off,” you’re still crying. “It just.. I thought it would be a sick day and then I just-” you hiccup. The tears seem to be slipping out of your eyes involuntarily, faster than you seem to be able to choke down the sobs, “didn’t get better.”

Carmen has never seen you like this. You’re inconsolable, to the point where you don’t even notice when he moves some of your hair out of your face.

“Sweetheart,” his voice is so low it grumbles against his chest. “What.. what can I do? Do you need to go to the ER?”

You finally take a gasping breath. “It hurts, Carm.”

He leans towards you, urgently. “What hurts, where? Where? What..” he can feel panic rising in his chest, trying to quash it for the sake of your wellbeing. “What can I do?”

“Everything,” you sound drowsy, voice wet and thick from the heaviness of your throat. “My- my hands, my shoulders, m-my back, fuck, my head.”

Carmen knows none of this is his fault, he knows that. But the idea that this - whatever it is - seems to be swallowing you from the inside, and he can’t do anything to stop it? He’s never felt more useless. He thinks about you more than he probably should - it’s intermittent between the feelings of despair and terrified aching. You’ve expanded in his chest, starting as a name on a roster and slowly filling every cavity of his body.

Like milk on a stove.

“Why didn’t you go see someone?”

You laugh, and that should be enough to make him feel better, but it’s not the laugh he hears at night. It’s tired, it’s cold, and it’s empty. “Do you think I can afford the fucking hospital, Carmen?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the words die in his throat.

“Look at this place,” you don’t even have the strength to lift your head to look around. One of your wrists twitches in a muscle spasm. “I… this is all I have, Carm. This. What you see here. This is my life, okay? This apartment, this job… you’re all I’ve got.”

Carmen is a success in his field. There’s no contesting that. He has his restaurant, he has his accolades. Some nights he looks at you and thinks to himself “she’s all I need.” He’d never considered the difference.

“I’m sorry,” he folds, not even thinking about getting defensive. This isn’t the first time you’ve gotten pissed at him for this exact thing. You live well within your means, Carmen forgets that sometimes.

He’d have helped already if he thought you’d accept it. He can’t give you more of a raise, you’re already making well above minimum wage and at that point it wouldn’t be fair to the other staff if you were getting a boost. Anything he’d give you would have to be out of his own pockets, and he knows you’d never accept that. So he does what he can to keep you safe and happy. He drives you home from work, he keeps your key on his key ring, he makes sure you’ve always eaten at least two meals every day.

But he can’t fix this, and he knows that.

“I… I’m not mad,” you say softly, fiddling with your fingers. They’ve been stiff lately, but they’ve loosened up over the last few days. “It just hurts, that’s all. And there’s nothing anyone can do about it. I…” you look embarrassed, like it’s just hit you how he’s seeing you. “It happens sometimes, every so often, that’s why I didn’t take all the time off at once. I can usually handle it. Pull myself together until my day off, and then bounce back from it.”

You’re lying to him, only slightly. Some days it seems like your body is punishing you, for what exactly, you’re not sure. You can barely drag yourself up the stairs to get home, before collapsing to fall asleep on the couch. Some nights the migraines at work get so bad you shut yourself in the walk-in under the guise of being upset while you wait for the pills to clear your head. Some days your stomach burns so badly that you don’t eat the food you know Carmen is forcing your way. It goes home, in your fridge, to be eaten when you can stomach it.

But you’re not lying about the fact that you didn’t think you needed more than a few days off. You could feel the flare up getting worse than usual, and with your one day off that week approaching, you’d finally decided to use some of your PTO to take a couple extra days.

Then, like you’d said you just… didn’t get better.

This is the worst it has ever been. You’re crying daily, you can barely move, and Jesus Christ you’re hungry. This is you on the mend. You wouldn’t have dared let Carmen in a week ago.

“Whatever you need,” Carmen tells you seriously. I would give you whatever you wanted. “I’m just sorry that I can’t make it go away.”

Something that you’d googled said stress makes it worse. You’re overworked, you know that, but you’re not sure what to do about it.

Carmen gestures to the bowl of pasta. It’s cold now, but it’s all he has to offer.

You raise your head to look at it. “I tried once,” you admit, “to make it myself when I first moved out on my own. I’d seen her make it so many times, surely I could figure it out.” Carmen is a chef. You know he doesn’t need to hear the story to know how badly you’d messed it up.

“I’ll warm it up for you?” He offers. You nod finally, resting your head on your forearm so you’re looking sideways at him.

It’s a hard dish to make right. It involves making a smooth sauce out of hard cheese. You need to avoid going in too hot so the sauce isn’t clumpy. It needs some time to cool first, before you finally let it melt.

Carmen watches you while he watches the numbers on your microwave shift closer and closer to zero. He doesn’t give a shit if he needs to start paying your rent for you. You can’t keep going on like this. Six days a week is causing your body to chew on itself, making worse something that would be there regardless. He can’t let this get worse.

You’ll be back at work four days later, now only working five days a week and somewhat shaky in your deliberations. He’ll keep an eye on you and you’ll roll your eyes and insist your fine.

But right now, he needs to make sure you’re relaxed enough to melt. To coat his motivations and to spread, pooling in the hollows of his collarbones and in the gaps between his cells.

You eat slowly, the fork scraping against the bowl sickeningly. When you’re done, he asks if he can do anything else.

You let him wrap his arms around you, fully engulfing you. Neither of you mention how it’s more for his benefit than yours.

#carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto fic #carmen berzatto x reader #the bear fx

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