#call me lazy again but say it with your chest this time

[brookghaib-blog]

The ghost I left behind - VI

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

Word count: 5,5k

Note: This has been an emotional rollercoster, but welcome to the final chapter!! I hope you all enjoyed the story as much as I did!

--

The soft thump of a hammer echoed through the apartment again, followed by the high-pitched whine of an electric drill that had definitely seen better days. Y/N barely reacted—just lazily flipped a page in her fashion magazine, her legs swinging slightly off the side of the couch, toes brushing the worn rug. The model on the page wore something entirely impractical for pregnancy, but Y/N still admired the color.

Her belly shifted under the oversized shirt she’d stolen from Bob weeks ago—though she refused to admit that out loud.

The sound of shuffling tools and an exasperated grunt came from the hallway, and then Bob appeared, wiping sweat from his forehead with the bottom of his shirt. His hair was a mess again. Thank God the gel hadn’t made a reappearance in weeks.

He looked tired—but in that satisfied, proud way that came after a long day of fixing what was broken.

“I finally got the damn cabinet to stop swinging open every time someone breathes near it,” he announced, stepping barefoot onto the carpet. “Your shower isn’t leaking anymore either. Window in the kitchen’s fixed. Crib’s done. Everything’s… done.”

Y/N looked up from her magazine. “You say that like you’ve conquered Everest.”

He leaned his weight on the armrest of the couch, giving her a crooked grin. “I basically have. You know how long I’ve been fighting that crooked hinge in the pantry? Longer than I fought Abomination.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And which one smelled worse?”

“Definitely the pantry.” He smirked, but then paused, looking at her with something quieter in his eyes. “You’re comfortable, right? I mean, the place—it’s finally good again?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just flipped another page, then closed the magazine and set it beside her.

“I’m comfortable,” she said, finally. “For now.”

Bob nodded, like he knew that tone well by now. He did. Two months of it.

Two months of brushing past each other in the kitchen. Two months of long conversations that always stopped right before they could be about them. Two months of him staying on the blow-up mattress in the other room, waking at every noise she made, every time she turned in her sleep.

He’d offered her everything: the Watchtower, an apartment in the city, a bigger bed, a quieter life. She hadn’t taken any of it. She’d chosen the walls they once called theirs, now patched up and reimagined as hers again.

Still, he never left.

“I know I’m being stubborn,” she said softly, rubbing her stomach as the baby gave a lazy kick. “I just… I need to know that I’m doing this right. For me.”

“I get it,” Bob said, without hesitation. “I messed up. I was gone. I left you holding everything. You don’t owe me anything.”

There was a pause, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“And still,” he added, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/N looked at him, really looked at him—hair falling in his eyes again, knuckles scraped from fixing pipes and building furniture, shirt stained with sweat and dust. His whole being radiated exhaustion and devotion.

“Do you even sleep anymore?” she asked quietly.

He gave a breathy laugh. “Yeah. When you do.”

She felt a pang in her chest, unsure if it was affection or guilt or both. She leaned back into the cushions, hand absently rubbing her stomach.

“You’re doing all this for someone who hasn’t even told you if she wants you here.”

“I know,” Bob said, softer now, sitting down slowly on the floor beside the couch. “But I’m not doing it to earn anything. I’m doing it because I want to. Because you deserve someone who fixes things when they break—even if it’s just a loose screw or a cracked tile. Or me.”

He looked down, like maybe he’d said too much. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say that yet.

Y/N reached for her water bottle on the coffee table, then thought better of it and instead reached out, fingers brushing his.

“You’re better with the hammer than I thought,” she said, half-teasing.

He smiled at that. “You should see my drywall technique. Masterclass.”

The late afternoon sun bled softly through the curtains, painting the apartment in hues of gold and rose. Y/N shifted a bit on the couch, pulling a pillow behind her lower back, groaning as she tried to get comfortable.

“Hey,” she said casually, as Bob reached for his toolbox again. “You feel like going on a noble quest?”

Bob looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Oh boy. What now?”

“I want a sandwich.”

“That’s it?”

“Bacon and egg. Toasted bread. A side of fries. And a Coca-Cola.”

He blinked. “That’s a feast.”

She gave him a small grin, teeth biting her lip just slightly. “It’ll do.”

Bob exhaled like he was being sentenced to war. “Alright. Want me to go milk the cow and bake the bread from scratch too?”

Y/N leaned back into the couch, hand over her belly. “Don’t tempt me. You’ve got strong arms and the energy of a loyal man in love—I might put you to actual labor.”

He gave her a look, wiping sweat from his brow dramatically. “You are having fun slaving me around.”

“I am,” she said without apology, smug. “But you love it.”

Bob just shook his head, grabbing his wallet and keys, heading for the door. “You’re lucky I can’t say no to you.”

“I know,” she called after him sweetly.

Twenty minutes later, the door clicked open again, and Bob stepped in with two paper bags of hot food, a pair of soda cans tucked under his arm. He was already chewing on one fry, like he’d earned the reward. “Mission complete,” he said, dropping the goods on the coffee table like a hero returning from battle.

Y/N practically pounced. “God, bless you.”

They ate in silence for a while, the soft crackle of wrappers and the faint sound of city life outside the window filling the space. Y/N was already licking salt off her fingers before Bob was halfway through his sandwich.

He glanced at her plate and snorted. “You devoured that. I don’t think I even blinked and it was gone.”

She looked smug again. “I’ve got a whole human being inside me. What’s your excuse?”

“Touché,” he chuckled, and then, more gently, he reached out and rested his hand on her belly. “How are you two doing? I mean… you’re already seven months.”

Her smile softened. “We’re good. Tired, mostly. My back hates me. But he’s growing. Doctor says he’s healthy.”

Bob’s thumb traced slow, small circles on the curve of her bump. The expression on his face melted into something reverent, something quiet and heavy with awe.

Silence lingered for a few moments, the kind that feels full instead of empty.

Y/N looked down at his hand, then up at his face. “Bobby?”

He glanced up, still smiling. “Yeah?”

She watched him for a second longer, eyes unreadable, then said, “You should probably start packing up my things, you know clothes and everything.”

Bob blinked. “Huh?”

She tilted her head slightly. “I’m moving in with you.”

He froze. “Wait—what?”

“I already put the apartment up for sale,” she said with a small smile, brushing a crumb from her shirt. “Had a couple people interested. Figured I’d wait until all the fixing was done so the value would go up.”

Bob slowly lowered his sandwich, staring at her like she’d just told him the moon had fallen out of the sky.

“And you’re telling me this now?”

She shrugged, grinning. “I wanted to make sure first. And I needed a reason for you to fix everthing, you wouldn't do it if ou knew it wasn't for me. But… yeah. I’m moving in with you. I want to be there. For all of it. The baby. The crazy superhero stuff. Us, whatever we are.”

Bob still looked like he was trying to process oxygen.

“I mean, I heard,” she added with a teasing glint in her eye, “there’s a luxury suite available in the Watchtower. And a great man who sleeps on the other side of the bed. Big arms.”

His eyes went wide. “You’re serious?”

She nodded, beaming now. “Dead serious.”

Bob launched himself forward so fast the remaining fries toppled over. He wrapped his arms around her, careful of her belly, holding her with the full force of his love. He kissed her hair, her cheeks, her forehead, murmuring breathless declarations between kisses:

“I love you—I love you so much—you’re everything, everything to me—God, I’ve missed you—I can’t believe you’re actually—Y/N, I’m gonna cry—”

She laughed through it all, wrapping her arms around his neck, smiling like she hadn’t in months.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered into his ear.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes glassy. “And you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

They stayed like that for a long time—wrapped in each other, the smell of fries and warmth in the air, the flickering golden light of a day well-lived wrapping around them like a promise.

--

The elevator doors of the Watchtower slid open with a soft chime, revealing Bob awkwardly juggling two cardboard boxes stacked so high they completely blocked his line of sight.

“Can someone—uh—get the doors?” Bob grunted, bumping into the wall with a thud.

Y/N followed right behind him, visibly amused, a tote bag over her shoulder and a small plant in hand. “He insisted on carrying all the heavy stuff. Said it was his superhero duty.”

Bob peeked around the boxes just in time to see Alexei, Yelena, Ava, and Walker all sitting around the common room, half-eating, half-arguing about the best combat drills. They turned toward the elevator in unison.

Alexei blinked. “What’s this? Is Bob moving out?”

“Please say yes,” Walker muttered with a mouthful of trail mix.

Bob, ignoring them, stepped forward dramatically and proclaimed with a big grin, “She’s moving in!”

Y/N elbowed him gently. “Not into your bed.”

“Yet,” Bob whispered proudly, causing Yelena to cough suspiciously and Ava to hide a grin behind her water bottle.

Alexei nearly jumped up from the couch, arms thrown wide like he was welcoming a national holiday. “YES! I knew it! The baby is coming, the woman is here, life is beautiful!”

Bob beamed, setting the boxes down and slinging an arm around Y/N’s shoulders. “She’s selling the old place. Said she wanted to be here for everything. The baby, the team… me.”

Y/N rolled her eyes at his cheesiness but didn’t pull away. “More like I didn’t want to miss out on seeing Alexei pretend to be a baby whisperer.”

“Oh please,” Alexei said proudly, thumping his chest. “I already have plans! I will teach him to wrestle before he walks. We’ll bench press together. First words will be Red Guardian.”

Y/N laughed. “Right, because nothing says healthy development like a toddler trying to do kettlebell swings.”

“By age three, he will punch Walker in the knees!” Alexei continued, completely serious.

Walker threw a chip at him. “Try it and I’m throwing him into orbit.”

Ava smirked from the other couch. “We’re taking bets on who he bonds with first. I say me. I’ve got quiet mystery aunt energy.”

“Please,” Yelena said, raising a brow. “He’ll bond with me. I’m the cool one. I’ve already bought him four tiny tactical vests.”

Y/N covered her face, laughing. “You’re all insane. But fine, he’ll need uncles and aunts to balance out whatever chaos Bob contributes.”

Bob looked mock-offended. “Hey! I’m going to be a great dad. I fixed her kitchen window. That’s like… 70% of fatherhood, right?”

“I mean… it’s a good start,” Y/N said, leaning into him slightly. “But let’s see how you do with diapers before you get cocky.”

Walker stood and clapped his hands. “Okay, well if she’s living here now, do we need to create a safe zone? Somewhere baby-proofed where Alexei isn’t allowed?”

Yelena raised her hand. “I second that.”

“Traitors,” Alexei muttered.

As they all bickered and teased each other, Bob took a quiet moment just to look at Y/N. Her smile, her comfort, her laughter blending into the rhythm of this strange, dysfunctional family—they were all here. And soon, the baby would be, too.

“Feels good?” Ava asked softly, sidling up next to him.

Bob nodded, still watching Y/N as she scolded Alexei for something ridiculous. “Feels like home.”

--

Y/N stood in the center of the Watchtower suite, turning slowly as she took it all in. The space was enormous—modern, sleek, with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in soft golden light. Bob’s bedroom was bigger than their entire old apartment, and somehow still felt empty, like it had just been waiting for someone to fill it with life.

“So, uh,” Bob said, a little nervous, scratching the back of his head. “This closet’s all yours.” He opened a set of sliding doors to reveal an embarrassingly bare rack with maybe four of his T-shirts hanging. “I mean, technically it’s mine, but… as you can see, I don’t have a whole lot of style to make room for.”

Y/N stepped inside, running her fingers along the open shelves and empty hangers. “You weren’t kidding,” she laughed. “It’s practically begging for my shoes.”

“That was the plan,” he said with a grin, dropping the boxes of her clothes beside the bed. “Take over. Redecorate. Make it yours. Whatever you want.”

She smiled softly, a flutter in her chest she chose not to acknowledge just yet. Still holding on to that healthy distance, she reminded herself.

Her attention turned to the bed and she couldn’t resist—she flopped backward onto it with a dramatic sigh, arms stretched out like a starfish. “God… this mattress… it’s like it molds to my body. I might never get up again.”

Bob chuckled. “You like it?”

“I feel like I’m being hugged by a thousand clouds.”

“Well, good.” He smirked and backed toward the massive bathroom door. “I’m gonna jump in the shower real quick. Don’t worry, I’ll leave you the bathroom next, promise.”

“Take your time. I’ll start making sense of this chaos.” She gestured to the open boxes with a wave, still sprawled on the bed.

He disappeared into the ensuite bathroom, and a moment later she heard the water turn on. Curiosity got the better of her and she wandered over, cautiously peeking in through the open door. The bathroom was ridiculous. Marble floors. Double sinks. A tub big enough to fit a family of four. A glass walk-in shower where the water cascaded like rainfall from a ceiling fixture.

Y/N blinked. “What the hell is this place? A five-star hotel?”

She turned back, letting him have his privacy, and started unpacking her clothes, folding them neatly into drawers and rearranging the few things. She was halfway through organizing when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and turned—only to freeze in place.

Bob walked out of the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, steam trailing behind him like he was in some slow-motion cologne commercial. Hair wet and dripping onto his broad shoulders, muscles firm and… very different than the last time she saw him shirtless.

Her gaze lingered—just a second too long. Her mouth went dry.

Bob smirked.

“You can stare, you know,” he said, casual, smug.

She snapped her eyes away, cheeks burning. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying. I work hard, might as well be appreciated.” He winked, grabbing a T-shirt and boxers from a drawer and disappearing briefly behind the closet door to change.

She shook her head, trying to focus on folding a pair of jeans. This is going to be hard, she thought.

A minute later, he reemerged fully dressed, rubbing a towel through his damp hair. “We’re making dinner with the team. Nothing fancy, but I promised Alexei I’d supervise or he’d just fry everything in bacon grease again.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That actually sounds kind of amazing.”

He laughed. “Yeah, well. I’ll bring you a plate. But if you need anything, just call, okay?”

She nodded, offering a small smile. “Okay.”

As he opened the door to leave, she turned back to her clothes. Fold. Stack. Breathe. Then, under her breath, barely above a whisper—

“…Hold back Y/N.”

--

After organizing the last of her clothes and letting herself unwind for a bit, Y/N finally stood up, stretched, and headed toward the bathroom. The warm water felt like a balm on her tired body, and she took her time letting it relax her, scrubbing away the day, the dust, and the residual nerves of the big move. After drying off, she changed into a pair of soft sweatpants, a fitted maternity tank, and one of Bob’s oversized zip-up hoodies she’d quietly stolen from his drawer when he wasn’t looking. It smelled like him—clean, warm, comforting.

She made her way down the sleek Watchtower hallway, following the faint sounds of laughter and clinking silverware until she reached the dining area. The long table was completely set up—plates stacked high, dishes of food steaming, drinks poured. Bob and Yelena were still fussing over the placement of side dishes.

Bob caught sight of her first and grinned, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “Hey,” he said gently, walking over. “You came down.”

“I figured it was either this or let Alexei bring me a plate the size of a car tire,” she said, glancing at the food. “This all smells amazing.”

Yelena grinned. “You’d be correct.”

Y/N stood awkwardly at the side, unsure where to go.

“Where should I…?”

Bob gently pressed a hand to her back and nudged her toward the empty chair beside his. “Right here. Always here.”

She didn’t fight it. Just smiled a little and sank into the seat.

Around the table sat Alexei, Ava, Yelena, Bucky, and Walker, all already halfway into their meals. It was surprisingly loud, the team mid-conversation, joking, teasing one another. They made room without question, offering her drinks, napkins, pointing out which food was “safe” from Alexei’s over-seasoning.

She still felt like a guest, but… less like a stranger.

Then, in the middle of a lull between jokes about Johnny’s tragic attempt to use the toaster oven, Ava leaned in across the table with a curious smile.

“So… have you two decided on a name yet?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, uh—no. Not yet.”

Bob turned to her. “We haven’t really talked about it, actually.”

“I do have an idea,” she said softly, eyeing him. “I just haven’t run it by you yet.”

Bob leaned closer, curiosity written all over his face. “You do?”

“Ohh,” Yelena chimed in, sipping from her water. “Let’s guess.”

“Oh god,” Y/N groaned, already regretting the openness.

Alexei leaned back, cracking his knuckles. “Okay. Hear me out. ‘Red Guardian Junior.’”

“Absolutely not,” said literally everyone at the table, in unison.

“I like Bacon,” Walker said, unironically, pointing at the leftover strips on his plate. “Strong. American. Versatile.”

Y/N gave him a look that could kill. “You're banned from suggesting anything.”

Walker shrugged, trying to be helpful. “How about something normal? Like Matthew. Or Tyler.”

“That’s what you call a labrador, not a baby,” Ava muttered.

“What about Blaze?” Walker added.

Yelena deadpanned. “No.”

“Wait, wait,” Alexei said. “What about—Vladislav?”

Y/N stared at him. “Absolutely not naming my baby after a vampire.”

“I take offense,” Alexei grumbled.

Bob, half-laughing, turned back to Y/N. “Okay, now I have to know. What was your idea?”

She hesitated for a second. Then met his eyes and said, softly, “I was thinking… Georgie. Short for George.”

He paused, genuinely touched by the simplicity of it.

“…Because of Mr.Cooper?,” he echoed, testing the name on his tongue. “I really like that.”

“It's warm,” she said. “I like the name and...I don't know, I feel like I will always have him but... I feel like he would be honorable.”

“It’s perfect,” Bob said, and for a moment the room quieted, letting the soft sincerity settle.

“Wait, wait,” Walker suddenly said, raising a finger. “Middle name suggestion. Blaze. Just think about it.”

Y/N groaned and threw a bread roll at him, laughing.

--

The room was dim, quiet except for the distant hum of the Watchtower's systems and the soft rustle of sheets. Y/N lay back against the cloud-like mattress, belly gently curved under her oversized pajama top, flipping through her phone lazily while the glow of the bedside lamp cast a cozy hue over the space.

Bob was still moving around, digging through drawers and talking.

“So I was thinking we need one of those changing tables,” he said, pulling a shirt over his head. “The kind that doesn’t make me bend like a ninety-year-old every time. Oh—and maybe blackout curtains? You haven’t been sleeping well. Or is that just me snoring?”

Y/N smiled tiredly. “That, and your habit of kicking blankets off me in your sleep. But yes… blackout curtains. Add that to the list.”

“Also…” He paused, tugging off his jeans. “We’ll need a monitor. The fancy kind, not the creepy baby-camera-that-looks-like-it-wants-to-steal-your-soul type.”

Y/N chuckled, but then her voice faltered when she glanced his way—he was standing near the dresser in just his boxers, back to her, his muscles more pronounced than she remembered. Defined shoulders, strong arms, broad back. His transformation since Malaysia hadn’t just been emotional—it had left its mark on his body too.

She quickly looked away, cheeks heating.

He noticed.

He turned slowly, running a towel through his still-damp hair, catching the shift in her expression. His brows knit together as he walked over quietly.

“Did I—?” he asked gently, “Did I make you uncomfortable?”

She blinked, shaking her head quickly. “No, no. It’s not like that. I just… I haven’t seen you like that in a long time. Haven’t been… intimate with anyone since you left, obviously. And we’re not technically together, so I guess I just don’t know the rules. The boundaries.”

He stilled at the side of the bed, looking down at her with his heart practically pounding through his chest.

“Y/N,” he murmured, voice deeper now, low with something both urgent and tender.

Then, still in just his boxers, he slowly crawled onto the bed beside her, his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of her, his face hovering close but not touching. His eyes searched hers, full of sincerity and longing.

“We have to change that,” he whispered. “Not because I need you to be mine like some claim... but because I am yours. I don’t want anyone else. I can’t even look at anyone else. You’re everything to me—always have been.”

He moved even closer, brushing her hair gently behind her ear.

“I know I’ve hurt you. I know I need to earn back every ounce of trust. But I need you like I need air. It’s not about boundaries. It’s about wanting this to be real again. Us. And I don’t want there to be a single night where you wonder where we stand, or who you are to me.”

Y/N swallowed hard, blinking up at him. Her body flushed warm, half from nerves, half from want. He was being vulnerable—honest in a way that struck deep.

Her hand lifted instinctively, finding his cheek, fingers pressing into the sharp lines of his jaw. She held his face like something precious. Then, with a breathless whisper—

“Come here.”

And she kissed him.

It started soft—slow, like her lips were relearning the shape of his—but quickly deepened. Months of longing, grief, and unspoken love surged up between them. Her other hand tangled into his damp curls, pulling him closer. He let out a shaky breath into her mouth, hand sliding behind her back as he shifted to hold her more securely, reverently.

They kissed as if making up for every lonely night, every missed morning. They weren’t rushing—they were remembering.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, Y/N was still flushed and breathless.

Bob exhaled a soft laugh. “You always did know how to shut me up.”

She smiled faintly, fingers still in his hair.

“You said you didn’t want me to wonder where we stand,” she said. “Then prove it. Stay. Don’t go back to the couch or disappear when it gets too much. Let’s take this one night at a time. You, me, and him.”

He pressed a kiss to her cheek, then her forehead, then hovered his lips over hers again.

“One night at a time,” he whispered. “Forever, if you let me.”

--

The Watchtower meeting room was unusually tense, mostly because no one wanted to admit they were wildly underqualified for what was coming. A potential cosmic threat—something about "energy fluctuations" and "unidentified space debris"—was heading toward Earth. And their greatest weapon against it?

One guy. Who had godlike powers… but only when he felt mentally stable enough to use them.

"Okay," Bucky started, leaning against the couch, arms crossed, "so we’ve got a new alien enemy possibly crashing through our orbit in less than 48 hours. And our only actual superpowered asset is—no offense—kind of unpredictable."

All eyes turned to Bob, who was slouched on the oversized chair by the window, a book in hand, legs half-draped over one armrest like a gangly teen. He didn’t even look up.

"Sorry, guys," Bob said, flipping a page. "I can’t be the Sentry without the… you know."

He twirled a finger in the air vaguely, then pointed it at his own head.

Walker leaned forward, squinting. "What, you mean the psychotic alter ego part, or the part where you glow like a nuke and throw mountains?"

Bob glanced up and raised a brow. "Bit of column A, bit of column B."

"So what are we supposed to do?" Walker muttered. "Ride Bob into the sky?"

Alexei perked up, nodding. "Yess."

Just then, the elevator dinged. Heads turned.

Y/N stepped in, effortlessly cool in her hoodie and joggers, sunglasses pushed up on her head, a diaper bag slung over one shoulder, and a smirk on her face. On her hip sat one-year-old George—who had his dad’s impossibly blue eyes, a mop of golden curls, and an undeniable fixation on gnawing the zipper of Y/N’s hoodie.

"Ride Bob?" Y/N echoed, raising a brow. "That seat’s taken, sweetheart."

The room broke into laughter—except Bob, who was instantly upright, already holding out his arms like George was the greatest gift on Earth (which, to be fair, he was).

George squealed, "Dada!" as Y/N set him on Bob’s lap. Bob didn’t hesitate, dropping the book and scooping the toddler up, planting loud, exaggerated kisses on his chubby cheeks.

"Hey, little dude," Bob whispered, as George grabbed a fistful of his beard. "You’ve been working on your super-strength again, huh?"

George responded by smacking Bob’s cheek with a soft babble and a pleased shriek.

"I see the Void in him already," Ava said deadpan, sipping her tea.

Alexei stood, hands on his hips. "He’s ready. Let me train him. I’ll make him unstoppable. Like Red Baby Guardian."

Y/N narrowed her eyes. "He still poops in a diaper and I'm his source of food, Red Guy. He’s not ready for the Avengers."

"Avengerz... with a Z." Walker corrected.

"Whatever."

Before Alexei could reach for the baby, Y/N scooped George back up with a practiced mom move and took off running, George laughing hysterically as he bounced on her shoulder like a giggling backpack. "No combat training till he stops licking windows!" she called.

Bob stood up, watching them disappear around the hallway with a dazed look in his eyes, a soft, stunned smile pulling at his lips. The light from the window hit something on her left hand.

The ring. That ring.

It caught the sun perfectly.

"Engaged and still blushing when she calls dibs," Bucky muttered, rolling his eyes with a half-smile.

"She can call dibs on me forever," Bob said dreamily, still staring down the hall like he’d just seen a vision. "I’d let her ride me into a warzone if she wanted."

Walker snorted. "Man. That's disgusting—but kinda beautiful."

Alexei crossed his arms. "Fine. But I still want baby to punch something someday."

Ava sighed. "Maybe start with a stress ball."

--

1 Year ago - NYC Hospital

The pale light from the window cast a soft golden hue across the hospital room. The city outside was slowly waking up, but inside, time felt suspended. Y/N was propped up on the bed, a little tired, a little puffy-eyed, but glowing—not in the superhero way, in the I-just-birthed-a-whole-human-and-he’s-perfect way.

Her hospital gown hung loosely around her shoulders as she gently cradled her newborn, baby George, to her chest. He suckled quietly, little fingers twitching, soft breaths mixing with the occasional squeak. The room was silent but for that delicate sound—until a small sniffle came from her right.

Y/N glanced over. Bob was sitting beside her, hands on his knees, just… staring. His eyes were glassy, lips parted slightly, like he was watching the sunrise from the edge of the universe. A few tears tracked down his face.

She chuckled quietly, brushing a thumb over George’s cheek. “Why you crying, Bobby?”

Bob blinked, looking at her like she’d just asked why the sky was blue.

“You’re feeding him. You’re—he’s here. You’re okay. He’s okay. I just—I didn’t think…” His voice cracked as he wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand. “We made it, Y/N. After all of it. You’re here. He’s here. I can’t believe it.”

She smiled, resting her head back against the pillows, watching him quietly fall apart in the most beautiful way. “You almost didn’t make it. You passed out when they pulled him out. Hit the wall like a cartoon.”

Bob groaned softly. “Don’t remind me. That nurse is never going to look at me the same again.”

Just then—CRASH.

The door swung open with the force of a thunderclap. The team spilled in like they'd been waiting outside the entire time with their ears to the door.

“Where is he?! WHERE IS MY NEPHEW?!” Alexei boomed, holding a bouquet made entirely of red and gold flowers, and also—somehow—a small toy bear in tactical gear.

“You brought a tactical teddy bear?” Ava said, eyeing it. “Of course you did.”

“He must learn early,” Alexei insisted.

Behind them, Bucky, Walker, and Yelena entered with various levels of coordination, each holding a bouquet or balloon, all arguing over who would be the best babysitter. At the very end, nearly trampled by Walker and a rogue "IT’S A BOY!" balloon, came Mr. Cooper—older, kind-eyed, holding a simple, handpicked bouquet of bluebells and baby’s breath.

Y/N carefully detached George, now full and half-dozing, and shifted him to a blanket as Mr. Cooper approached the bed.

“Everything go okay?” he asked softly, eyes flicking from her to Bob.

She smirked. “Smooth sailing. Baby’s perfect. Mom’s tired. And Bob—well…” she looked at him, “…almost caused a second code blue.”

“I thought the monitor flatlined!” Bob interjected from his seat. “There was a beep!”

“It was somebody screaming on the corridor, sweetheart,” Y/N said.

The team had gathered around the bed like it was the Holy Grail, peering over each other’s shoulders trying to see the baby, even though Bob was now holding him again, arms perfectly cradling the tiny human like he was made for it.

“He’s got your curls, Y/N,” Ava noted. “He’s got Bob’s big eyes,” Yelena said. “He’s got my fighting spirit,” Alexei declared proudly. “He’s been alive for four hours,” Walker deadpanned.

Mr. Cooper stepped forward, still looking between Y/N and the baby.

“So…” he asked gently, “what’s his name?”

Y/N looked around at the chaos—the grown adults bickering over who got to hold him next, Bob softly humming to George, who blinked up with those sleepy blue eyes.

She turned back to Mr. Cooper with a small smile.

“George.” She paused, then added, “Well, Georgie, really. That’s what we’ll call him.”

Mr. Cooper stared. The silence fell heavy for a beat, then his eyes began to well up.

Before he could speak, Y/N held up a hand. “Yeah, it’s after you, old man. Don’t start crying.”

But he was already crying. No sobs, no theatrics—just quiet tears sliding down his wrinkled cheeks. He stepped in and wrapped her in a soft hug, careful not to jostle her too much.

“I told you, Y/N,” he whispered, voice tight, “everything was gonna be okay. And you… you’re gonna be a good mom.”

Y/N smiled, eyes stinging now too. “I should’ve doubted you less.”

He pulled away with a nod, then looked around the room—at the laughter, the love, the baby everyone was trying (and failing) not to wake up.

“Well,” Mr. Cooper said, clearing his throat, “this kid’s got the weirdest, most dangerous family I’ve ever seen. But also the luckiest.”

Alexei, meanwhile, was whispering Russian lullabies at the baby, Walker and Yelena were arguing over pacifier brands, and Bucky was quietly tying balloons to Bob’s IV stand for “aesthetic purposes.”

Bob stood, rocking George gently and watching Y/N from across the room—his eyes full of everything: disbelief, pride, relief, love.

[vinnyvamppp]

can you do sub!sinister! mark Grayson x Amazonian!reader where he challenges her to a fight or something (you choose if you want) and whoever loses has to do what the other wants for 24 hrs and he loses

Knees Up, Mouth Shut

Note: Someone requested something similar, so I'll be combining the two! Could this have been written better... yes. It shall be edited tomorrow, lmfao. (Matching Request: https://www.tumblr.com/vinnyvamppp/782759621438881793/could-you-please-write-smut-of-siniester-mark ) She is Amazonian... so ofc!

Synopsis: Across the stars, two names are whispered with fear: Invincible, a smirking black hole in the shape of a man, and the Daughter of Ares, a war-forged Amazon with thighs that have crushed kings. When a challenge is issued, winner takes control for 24 hours, they both expect victory. Now, pinned back with legs folded to his chest, pride cracking under the weight of her hips, Mark finds himself unraveling with every deep roll and breathless moan.

Warnings: Powerplay, Switch Dynamics, Sub!Sinister Mark, Dom!Amazonian!Reader, Amazon Position, Size Kink, Strength Kink, Praise & Degration, Mild Breath Control, Desperation, Man in Denial, Post-Fight Smut, Mentions of Intergalactic Reputation, and etc.

Sinister!Invincible x Dom!Fem!Reader

WC: 2k

"You sure you wanna do this?" he called down, voice lazy, almost bored. That grin, sharp as ever, never left his face. "Because if I win—"

"You won’t," you cut in, rolling your shoulder until it popped. Mark narrowed his eyes and descended slowly, boots hitting the ground with the smooth confidence of a man who'd never been humbled. He walked toward you with practiced confidence, amusement dripping from him. "You’ve never fought me," he said, circling like you were already his. "You’ve fought Viltrumites. You’ve fought monsters. But me?" His tone dropped, low and sugar-slicked menace. "I don’t hold back."

You smiled at his words, with a dangerous and anticipatory glance. "Neither do I." The air thickened, tension snapping at the edges, and then you both lunged. Fists collided, bodies twisted, and the ground beneath you shuddered. He was fast—god-like speed—and he fought like he knew it. But you were something older, a child of Ares. He fought with ego; you fought with the purpose to match.

He taunted the whole time, voice close to your ear as he dodged: "You get turned on fighting, sweetheart? Or just when you know you’re losing control?" Yet the taunts quickly stopped when you slammed him into the ground. That was his fatal flaw. Thinking he could escape such a close reach. Your body pinned his with ease, forearm pressed lightly against his throat.

He should’ve been angry. Should’ve been plotting a reversal, but all you saw was that grin, a little cracked around the edges now—with wide eyes wide, and chest heaving like he was absolutely wrecked.. "Twenty-four hours," you whispered, your lips a breath from his. "You’re mine." He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. "Fuck." Your chambers were expensively refined. High stone ceilings perched against columns, torches flickering low along carved walls, silks draped lazily from above, catching firelight in soft waves. The room was warm, scented with amber and a hint of fruit. You spun him slowly to face you. His breath caught again, this time not from pain. His hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to grab you, take control again. But he didn’t, no he wouldn’t, not without your say.

He lets you push him back.

That’s what he tells himself. That’s what he says with that crooked little smile, even as his knees fold and you settle between his thighs, pinning him wide open like a goddamn offering. He tried to laugh it off, smirk up at you like this was all foreplay and not the slow beginning of his surrender. But you saw the tremble, you felt the quake under his skin, the subtle sheen of sweat beading against his skin. You crawled up over him, reaping your rewards. When you straddled him, his legs shifted involuntarily—parting for you like instinct. He’s never been like this before. Flat on his back, legs bent and pressed up by you. Pinned open, thighs against his chest, your hips nestled between them, your body a monument of strength and control looming above him. You don’t even need to hold him down; his body’s already betraying him. His cock was heavy and hot, veins visibly throbbing beneath its flushed skin and his tip weeped lazily against your inner thigh. It stood in all its glory as his eyes roved over your looming, robust figure, which was as powerful as it was supple.

"You ever been taken like this, Grayson?" you murmured, hands pressed to his chest, fingers teasingly caressing the ripples of his abs. He tensed under your palms. "Ever let someone ride you for their own pleasure?" He swallowed thickly, lips twitching into a grin. "No," he whispered. You leaned closer, letting him feel your weight, your lips gliding along the veins of his dick. "Then you better learn to keep up."

He… tried. "You’re really enjoying this, huh?" he grins up at you, voice strained but still cocky, eyes dragging down your body like he’s memorizing his own demise. "Power trip looks good on you." But his voice hitches when you shift your hips forward, and you feel his breath stutter against your hand. He’s trying so hard to be casual. His fingers clenched in the sheets, jaw tight, pupils blown—but still grinning, like he’s got something left to hold onto.

"Just so you know," he manages, chest rising and falling fast beneath your hands, "this doesn’t mean I’m—" You drop your weight just enough to make him feel it, every ridge and wet caress. His sentence dies with a ragged inhale, his head tipping back. God. Every inch of pressure, the way his legs are pressed to his chest, the way your thighs cage him in—he’s never felt this kind of stretch, this kind of depth. He can’t run from it. Can’t posture through it. All he can do is enjoy the sweet pressure of the wind being knocked out of him.

And you’re not even moving yet. "Still talking?" you murmur, hands splayed against his chest, pinning him like prey. He exhales, biting down on a groan that still rumbles in his throat. He tries to laugh it off, breathless. "I can handle it. Just didn’t expect you to come at me like—fuck—"

You start to move, with a slowly grind down in a rhythm so controlled it feels cruel. Every roll of your hips hits just right, drawing a choked sound from him he doesn’t get to muffle. He looks up at you—eyes glazed, mouth slack for half a second—and it’s almost pitiful. “Let me up. Just once. Let me show you how I make gods beg.” He grits his teeth and tries to buck up into you. Tries to meet you halfway like he’s still in the fight. Your gaze alone said it: Stay down. 

You press your palm into his sternum. He drops back instantly, panting. Your smile curves sharp, fingers deftly clutching around his jaw. "Shut. Up. Don’t pretend you don’t love this." And fuck, the look on his face? He wants to argue. Wants to throw some smug little line about how he’s letting you have this, how he could flip you in a second. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t move, nor does he even try. He just lays there open, flushed, breathing through his teeth, while you ride him with terrifying control. Your lips pursed together, withholding any sound of your own just to bask in his own. Each one sending a spine jolting spark through your body.

"God, you’re—" he gasps, voice cracking. "You're gonna ruin me like this." You lean down, breath ghosting his cheek. "That was the deal, wasn’t it?" And he moans, quiet through pursed lips as his fingers gripping your lower thigh, finger gauging like he’s fighting gravity itself to stay buried within you. Every time you slammed down he forgot who’s game this was supposed to be.

You roll your hips again, this time harder, and his head jerks back with a groan, toes curling as his legs loosely dangled mid-air. Even now, even as you fuck the fight out of him, he’s still trying to smile through it. Still talking shit between gasps like he’s holding on to the last shred of pride: "Hope you’re enjoying yourself," he breathes, trembling.

"Because when it’s my turn? You’re not walking for a week." Your hips grind down, impossibly deep as you feel his tip prod a new ring of muscle through your insides. His eyes slam shut, jaw dropping open as a sound escapes him, a shout, a pathetic sound, causing you to just smirk. He writhes, head tossing, back arching as he chokes out your name like it’s something sacred and cursed all at once. "Mm. You think there’s gonna be a turn?" His laugh breaks halfway through. You let up slightly, grinding your clit downwards with each stroke, lips pursed through quiet moans as your head rolled. “Yeah? You think you’re using me? Then don’t slow down. Come on—use me like you mean it.” His words caused your eyes to snap open with annoyance, your hips slowly shifting, insides tight enough to squeeze the fight out of him, clenching like your body didn’t want to let him go. With the slightest swivel, you punctuated each thrust, ass meeting his, gentle vibrations rippling through his balls from the sheer vigor of him dragging aginst your walls. The tell-tale stutter in his breath, the quiver in his thighs trapped beneath your hips, the helpless flutter of his muscles as he strains to keep it together, mouth open wide as ragged breaths escape him in uneven bursts. Every drag and grind was designed to stretch him thin, to burn him down to nerve endings and begging.

"Don’t," he pants, voice fraying at the edges. "Not yet—I can’t—" But we know better, he can. You lean forward, your hands gripping the backs of his knees, pushing them further toward his chest, forcing every inch of him to take. His eyes fly open—blown black and twitching, theres no smartass left, no cocky grin—just raw need, terror and awe, carved into his expression like you’re the first and last thing he’ll ever see.

His muscles clench as a hoarse, shattering sound rips from his throat. Not a moan or growl like something you'd expect, but primal. His orgasm hits involuntarily, legs trembling as his back bows off the bed, chest heaving, eyes unfocused with drool splintering the corners of his mouth, and cum pooling out of you in fat globs as he contracts within your abdomen, milking himself. He doesn’t even realize he's gripping the mattress so hard it tore.

"Oh my—" he tries, voice completely gone, and then he just gasps, body seized with the force of it. His pleading voice beneath you, makes the tension in your spine coil tighter and tighter. It hits you in ripples, your thighs locking around his hips, your nails digging into his chest for purchase as wave after wave crashes through you. Your head drops, your breath stutters, and you shudder so violently it pulls another choked cry from him just from the way your body clamps around his.

"Shit, shit—" he’s panting, eyes rolling back, voice breaking apart with yours like he’s feeling every second of your release from the inside out. The room feels too small for the sound of it, the slap of bodies, the fractured breathing, the quiet, raw "fuck—" that slips from your lips as he goes limp beneath you, like you’d just pulled his soul out with your climax.

You finally climbed off him, slow and satisfied, watching as his legs dropped with a tremble like his body forgot how to function. Mark didn’t move or speak. Just… lay there.

His hair was damp, wild against the pillow, and his eyes—red-rimmed and glassy—stared up at the ceiling like he was questioning every decision that led to this moment. You stretched, muscles loose, barely winded. Meanwhile, “Sinister” Grayson looked like he’d been through a black hole. Eventually, he swallowed. "So that’s…" he breathed, voice hoarse. "That’s what losing feels like."

You leaned over him, trailing a finger down his twitching abdomen, slow enough to watch him flinch. "Was it everything you fantasized about?" His mouth twitched, an attempt at a grin, but it was weak. "I didn’t fantasize." He paused, looking at you.  "I had... strategic thoughts."

You laughed, rich and triumphant, as he turned his face away, cheeks tinged with a pink he’d deny to his grave. Then he tried to sit up. Key word: Tried. His arms worked, his core engaged, but the moment his legs shifted to help, he made a horrific noise—somewhere between a whimper and a string of curses—and immediately dropped back down.

"Legs not working?" you asked sweetly. "Shut up."

You arched a brow. "Is that how you talk to someone who just made you see god with your ankles next to your ears?" His hand flopped up weakly, dismissing you. "You’re evil," he muttered. You leaned in close, brushing your lips against his ear. "I warned you," you whispered. "You lost. You’re mine for the next twenty-three hours."

His breath caught as he turned to look at you, and there it was again: that flicker in his eyes. Fear? No, hunger. "Oh," he rasped, licking his lips, "you’re not done?" You smiled, mimicking that false sense of sweetness he always gave. "Baby," you said, climbing back over him for round two, "I haven’t even taken you apart yet."

He whimpered, then—grinned. "Guess I’ll die then." He looked up at you like you were the sun, and it was burning him alive. “You like watching me lose it, don’t you? Look at you, still shaking on top of me.” He breathes, watching as you straddle his hips, this time not daring to move. "Muscles twitch after a good stretch. Doesn’t mean I couldn’t crush you again."

A/N: Y’all request submissive men but don’t indulge in pegging fics, NAURRRR BRING BACK BENDING OVER MEN.

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[gojoscumrag]

ღ just a cumrag - part 1

warnings: degradation, praise kink, creampie, rough sex, light choking, orgasm denial, public sex, exhibition kink, established dynamic, reader is Gojo’s plaything

“You like being this, huh?” Gojo’s voice was low and rough as he held you by the jaw. His thumb smeared his last release across your lips like a filthy lipstick. His other hand was already between your legs again, teasing your overstimulated cunt. “Just my cumrag. That’s what you called yourself, right?”

You could only nod and whimper. Your legs were already trembling, thighs slick and twitching with need. He hadn’t let you cum in hours. That man had edged you over and over, then shove himself back inside and use you again. Filling your sweet cunt up just to watch it drip down your thighs before pushing it right back in with two lazy fingers.

“You don’t need anything else,” he murmured. “You don’t need love or dates or sweet words. You just need this cock and my cum inside you.”

He slammed in again deeply, forcing you to feel all of him. Your walls fluttered and squeezed in a desperate attempt, aching for the release he kept snatching away.

“That’s all you’re good for, huh?” he breathed against your ear. “Being warm and wet and open for me. A fuckin’ hole. My sweet little cumrag.”

You moaned like it was a confession, because it was. You loved it. Loved the way he used you. Loved how obsessed he was. How he never let you clean up. How he whispered that no one else would ever touch you again.

“You’re mine,” he said darkly, his thrusts punishing now. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, barely able to speak. “I’m your cumrag—only yours—”

He groaned low in his chest, pushing you to the edge again, watching your body tighten and tremble. But just when you were about to fall apart, he stopped.

“Not yet,” he said with a smirk, grabbing your throat. “You don’t get to cum until I want you to. That’s what a good little rag does. You wait. You beg. You take it.”

Next time you were walking through the halls of Jujutsu High and the next, Gojo’s hand was wrapped around your throat. His blue eyes glowing and that lazy grin on his lips.

“Need a break, sweetheart,” he said, all honey and heat. “Spread your legs.”

You barely had time to yelp before he activated his cursed energy, blink-quick movement that made your head spin, and pinned you against the nearest wall. Your skirt pushed up, panties ripped off like tissue. And then he shoved his cock inside. No teasing. No warning. Just thick, brutal thrusts that knocked the breath out of your lungs. Your legs wrapped around his waist while he used you like you belonged to him. You did. You absolutely did.

“That’s it,” he panted into your ear as he slammed into you. “Just a tight little hole. My personal fucktoy. Don’t even have to ask anymore, your body knows what to do.”

He was relentless, fucking you so hard the pictures on the wall rattled. One hand under your ass, the other forcing your head back so he could watch your face twist in blissed-out shock. No one dared interrupt, not when it was Gojo. Not when he was glowing with power, cursed energy crackling faintly around him to keep your body exactly where he wanted it.

“You feel that?” he murmured, slowing just enough to roll his hips and make you clench. “You’re made for this. For me. For my cock. Gonna fill you up again, baby. Let it drip down your thighs while you walk to class, huh?”

You whined, nails clawing at his back. He was already close. You could feel it. His grip tightening, his breath going ragged, the sharp thrusts getting messier.

“Take it.”

He shoved in deep and stilled, cock twitching as he filled you full, the heat of it spilling inside. Your head dropped to his shoulder, brain empty, body soaked in sweat and juices. But Gojo just chuckled smugly. He pulled out with a filthy squelch, let your feet hit the ground, but you barely stood. You were dripping. You felt it running down your thighs, his cum thick and warm and claiming you.

He tucked himself back into his pants like it was nothing, pressed a kiss to your cheek, “Don’t clean up. Let everyone see what you are.”

[twlgholts]

always kind of was, j.b.

chapter eight, hollow bones

— jacob black x f. reader

a/n: i wonder what is so important he had to leave to do hmmmm i wonder

taglist: @asillysimp @grimlinn @eneywey @shinobuily

prev. series masterlist! next.

Since you got back, Jacob found small ways to be around again: dropping by to fix the deck light without being asked, showing up with a socket wrench like he’d just remembered your dad had mentioned the grill was busted. He was around enough that your parents started teasing you again, throwing each other knowing looks over dinner like they knew something you didn’t.

You got comfortable. Too comfortable.

Lately, the nights had started to feel off.

He bailed more. Told you he was busy. Said he was tired. You didn’t push, but you noticed. The way his eyes drifted toward the treeline more often. The way his phone would buzz and he’d get quiet. He never said it, but you knew there was something pulling him away from you—something heavy he didn’t want you to carry with him.

Jacob hadn’t texted. Not a blurry sunset picture. Not even his usual dry, late-night “you alive?” that you’d come to expect when the house was quiet and everyone else had gone to bed.

You stared at your phone too long, your thumb hovering over his contact, but you didn’t type anything. You expected the dots to pop up on your screen first, like maybe he was already thinking of you.

That weekend, you waited for him at the dock for a fishing day and a swim. You stood with your pole, glancing at your phone every few minutes. When five o’clock came and went, you sat down instead, feet dangling in the water. Then the minutes turned into nearly two hours. Five missed calls to voicemail. You weren’t sure why you kept waiting.

Jacob: I’m sorry I can’t make it

You: That’s it?

Jacob: I’m sorry

You left him on read. He eventually promised to make it up to you. Matilda and chocolate cake.

But tonight, the storm hit before he did.

You waited too long in the living room, your parents eventually giving up and kissing your head before heading to bed. You wandered into the kitchen instead, looking for something—comfort, distraction, sugar. Anything.

The storm outside was violent. Unseasonal. Like it didn’t belong in a lazy summer night. You stood at the window with a glass of water, blanket around your shoulders, the lightning making brief ghosts of the trees outside.

Then–two sharp bangs on the door.

Your heart leapt up into your throat. You opened the door, blanket still clutched, anger already stitched into your expression.

Jacob stood there, soaked. Shirtless, barefoot, hair flattened to his face, his body steaming faintly in the cold night air.

“Why the hell are you not wearing clothes, Jacob?” you snapped before you could stop yourself. “Where are your shoes? You’re gonna catch a cold—”

You dragged him inside, grabbed a towel, shoved it into his chest. “Clean your feet before my mom sees those prints and has a heart attack.”

He didn’t say anything, just quietly doing as you said.

“You bailed on me again, and now you show up like this?” You threw your blanket over his shoulders out of reflex. “What is up with you lately?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low like it hurt to say anything at all.

“Couldn’t you have texted me? Called?”

He pushed his hair back and looked at you. “Didn’t think it would come down this hard.”

“You scared the hell out of me,” you admit, quieter this time. “I thought something happened.”

“I’m okay.” He hesitated. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You hugged him–brief, sharp–and he froze before returning it, his hands settled lightly on the small of your back.

“No cake, I’m guessing?”

He looked away. Not a funny joke, you guess. “I’m not staying. I just–Just wanted to come by. Say sorry.”

Your chest tightens.

“That’s it?”

“I have to go soon.”

You studied him. The way his jaw clenched. The flicker of something in his eyes he couldn’t quite hide.

"Don’t lie to me, Jacob. Just—don’t. I’m not mad that you missed things; I’m mad you didn’t tell me you would. I’m not a stranger—you don’t need to vanish. And I’m confused. Confused why you don’t respond for hours, why you show up at one in the morning, why your clothes are missing." you let out a slight laugh at how ridiculous you sound.

“I know.”

“Then why do you keep doing it?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Yeah. That’s what people say when they don’t want to talk about things. Avoid things.”

Silence. Then a soft “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“That’s not your call.”

You didn’t realize your voice was shaking until he looked at you, his brow drawn, almost like it hurt him.

“I’m leaving soon, Jake. I only get you for the summer. Everyone else gets you the rest of the year and I hate feeling like I’m begging for scraps of time from someone who’s supposed to be my best friend.”

He winced, like that hit harder than he expected.

“Stay,” you almost beg. “Just until the storm slows.”

“I can’t.”

“Why? Is it something I did? Something I said?”

“No.” It came out sharp, too fast. “No. It’s not you, no.”

You stared at him. At the way his hands fidgeted with the edge of the towel. At how he couldn’t look you in the eyes anymore.

“You used to tell me everything,” you said.

“I still want to.”

“Then tell me why it feels like you’re not really here anymore.”

You didn’t mean for it to sound like a plea, but it did. Soft and breaking and too close to the truth. Jacob didn’t move. His eyes flickered to yours, then down to the floor again, like he couldn’t stand to meet the look in your face. Like it might burn.

You watched him breathe. His chest rose and fell too slow, like each inhale was a choice he had to make. The towel in his hands hung limp now, damp and wrung out at the edges where his fingers twisted the fabric.

He shook his head once, barely. “I can’t explain it.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

Your throat tightened. “It is when you used to tell me everything.”

“I still want to.” he repeats, this time more desperate like he’s trying to get you to understand something hiding behind his words.

“Then do it.” You took a step closer. “Just be honest. Tell me whatever it is that makes you disappear. That makes you lie about why you don’t come around. That makes you look at me like you’re already halfway gone.”

You didn’t raise your voice, but something cracked under the surface—raw and hollow. He heard it. His jaw tensed. His eyes flicked to the window as thunder rolled again in the distance. For a second, he looked like he wanted to bolt. Like staying here any longer was going to ruin something.

He didn’t move, didn’t say anything, didn’t even try.

The thunder outside cracked louder this time, a low roar rolling through the floorboards. Rain lashed the windows in steady waves, but inside, the silence thickened like fog. You could feel it clinging to your skin—heavy, electric, expectant.

“Say something,” you said, quieter now. It didn’t come out angry. Just tired. Bone-deep and quiet, like you’d already given him all the fight you had.

Jacob’s lips parted, then closed again. His eyes shifted—your face, the floor, the towel in his hands—anywhere but yours. Like he was hunting for an answer that didn’t exist. Or one that wouldn’t destroy you both.

“I…” His voice cracked, barely there. This wasn’t the Jacob Black you knew and loved. He scrubbed a hand down his face, jaw tight, rainwater still dripping from the ends of his hair. “I don’t know how.”

You stared at him. This boy used to finish your sentences, used to look at you like the world made sense. Now he stood soaked and silent in your living room, unable to finish his own sentence, and he felt farther away than ever.

The rain pounded down harder as if on cue, the wind howling against the side of the house, rattling the windows like fists against glass.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

“I hate this,” you said, almost a whisper. “I hate pretending like everything’s fine when it’s not. I hate wondering if I did something wrong. If I said too much or not enough. I hate how I keep waiting for you to come back—to actually come back—but every time you show up, it’s like I’m watching you from the other side of a glass wall.”

He flinched, not visibly, not much–but you noticed. A ripple in his shoulders. A breath that caught too hard in his throat.

“I’m still me,” he said, low and shaky.

“Then why don’t you feel like you?”

Jacob swallowed hard. He turned away like he couldn’t stand being seen by you as if he would come undone if he looked at you too long.

The towel hit the floor.

“I can’t stay tonight.”

The words landed like a blow. You didn’t know what you expected—but not that. Anything but that.

You nodded slowly, lips pressed together. “Right. Of course.”

You stepped back to give him space, even though all you wanted to do was close it. Grab his hand. Shake him. Ask him what the hell he was doing—why he was running when you were right here, asking him to stay. But you didn’t because what good was holding onto someone who was already slipping away? Making the choice to do so?

He moved toward the door, slow but sure, like each step pulled him farther into a choice he didn’t want to make. The storm outside surged louder, wind curling beneath the frame like it was trying to claw its way in and keep him here.

His hand hovered over the doorknob.

You didn’t say his name.

He didn’t say yours.

The door opened with a groan and the cold rushed in. Damp and bitter. He stood there for a second, shoulders hunched again, back to you, like he might turn around. Like he wanted to. Like maybe, just maybe, he’d choose you this time over whatever secret he was hiding.

But then the door clicked shut and he was gone.

You stood there for a long time, staring at the empty space where he had just been. The towel still lay on the floor, the rain still pelted the windows, the silence stretched until it wrapped itself around your chest like a second skin.

You were alone and this time, it wasn’t an accident.

[kathlare]

make them bond

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amelie and Lando navigate a tricky reunion with old friends while trying to leave recent drama behind.

Wordcount: 6.5 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

May 12th, 2025 - Los Cabos, Mexico

The water was warm, the kind of perfect that made you forget the world outside the pool even existed. Amelie floated lazily on a pink donut float, sunglasses on, legs dangling in the water. Lando stood beside her, half-submerged, arms crossed on the float’s edge, watching her with a shit-eating grin that gave away exactly how smitten he was.

—You’re staring again,— she said without looking at him, lips twitching.

—Can you blame me?— he replied, voice low and teasing, fingertips dragging lightly along her thigh. —You look stupidly good in that bikini, Ames. I’m just admiring the view.—

—You’re such a simp,— she laughed, nudging his chest with her foot. —And this is your third time complimenting my bikini. I’m counting now.—

—And yet, I’m still under-doing it. You deserve ten more. Maybe twenty.—

She finally looked at him, raising her sunglasses. —You’re so whipped.—

—Only for you.— He winked. —Actually, that’s not true. Benny’s got me wrapped around his paw too. And your cooking. And the way your nose scrunches when you’re annoyed. And the way you say "fuck off" with that cute accent.—

—You’re disgusting,— she said with a grin, even as her heart melted. —I hate you.—

—You love me.—

She opened her mouth to retort when she heard the sound of a car rolling up the driveway. Her whole body stiffened, the air suddenly feeling ten degrees hotter. Lando followed her gaze.

—That’s them?— he asked quietly.

She nodded. The float squeaked under her as she sat up straighter, adjusting her bikini top unnecessarily.

—Yup. That’s them.—

Lando gave her knee a reassuring squeeze. —We’ve got this, babe. It’ll be fine. Awkward, but fine.—

They watched as Max Fewtrell stepped out of the car first, his usual lazy grin slightly strained. He opened the door for Pietra, who followed in oversized sunglasses, denim shorts, and a very neutral expression.

Amelie took a breath. She hadn’t seen Pietra since Miami. Not properly. And while none of the rumors were their fault, it was still… weird. Max had gone to Comporta with Magui and Pietra and some other people, and that had stirred shit online. Shit she hadn’t been prepared for, especially not when it came to rumors of Lando cheating—especially not with Magui of all people.

She pulled herself out of the pool, wrapping a towel around her waist and squeezing water from her braid. Lando joined her, brushing droplets off his chest with a shake like a golden retriever.

—Max! Pietra!— he called out with a smile that was just a little too bright.

Max offered a small wave as they approached the edge of the patio.

—Hey, mate. Nice tan.—

—Jealous?— Lando smirked.

—Absolutely. Brazil's been rainy as fuck.—

Amelie offered Max a quick side-hug, which was awkward, for them at least. They’d been close once—really close. Max had been her video game partner during lockdown, the one who’d tease her endlessly on Discord and send her memes at 2 a.m. And now… things were different. Not bad. But not the same.

—Hi Pietra,— Amelie said politely, pulling off her sunglasses.

—Hi,— Pietra replied with a soft smile, glancing around the villa. —This place is insane.—

—It’s my mum’s, technically. She bought it years ago and forced my dad into early retirement here,— Amelie said, voice light, trying.

—Well, she has great taste,— Pietra added, gaze flickering between her and Lando quickly before settling on the ocean view.

—You guys want a drink? We’ve got palomas, mojitos… Lando made some horrifying attempt at sangria earlier,— Amelie offered, slipping back into host mode.

—Hey! It was decent.— Lando frowned. —I followed a recipe. Ish.—

Max chuckled. —I’ll take a mojito, Ames. You still make the good ones?—

She arched a brow. —Is that your way of trying to charm your way back into my good graces?—

—Shit, is it working?— he grinned.

She didn’t answer, but she gave a tiny smile and disappeared inside the kitchen, leaving Lando alone with the couple for a moment. The air was thick with unsaid things.

—Look, about Comporta,— Max started.

—Mate, it’s done,— Lando cut him off, voice firm but calm. —You don’t need to explain. Ames knows it wasn’t you, or Pietra. It was just bad optics.—

Pietra spoke up, voice soft. —Still, I should’ve thought it through. It was a dumb oversight, and I’m really sorry for the heat you guys got because of it.—

Lando nodded once. —It’s all good. You’re here now, so let’s just… enjoy the next two days, yeah? Golf, pool, bad dancing. No drama.—

Pietra nodded, but it was clear she still felt the weight of the tension hanging in the warm coastal air. She gave Lando a small, grateful smile before Max slung an arm around her shoulders and tugged her toward the house.

—C’mon,— Lando said, grabbing their duffel bags with ease. —I’ll show you your room. Got the best view in the house after ours.—

—Is that supposed to make me feel better or worse?— Max muttered with a smirk, following Lando up the stone steps.

Inside the villa, the air was cooler, scented faintly with salt, sunscreen, and a hint of lime from the half-prepped drinks in the kitchen. The place was airy, all whitewashed wood and glass, with sliding doors open to the ocean breeze. Lando led them down the hall to the guest suite at the far end, dropping the bags at the door.

—King bed, your own little patio, ocean view, and that bathroom’s the size of Max’s ego,— he said, pointing toward the en-suite.

Pietra let out a soft laugh as she stepped in, already digging into her bag. —I’m gonna change into my swimsuit real quick. I feel like I’ve been in jeans for forty-eight hours.—

—Take your time,— Max said, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek before she disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door behind her.

The moment it clicked shut, Lando turned to Max, dropping the polite act.

—Okay, real talk,— he said, arms crossed. —We can’t keep doing this weird split-trip bullshit. I’m not spending another summer where I have to choose between you or her because our girlfriends don’t talk.—

Max scrubbed a hand over his face. —God, yes. It’s exhausting. Pietra and Amelie are civil, sure, but they’re not friends. Like, not real friends. And it’s starting to get in the way.—

—Exactly. I swear, Ames would never say it out loud, but she’s tense as hell anytime Pietra’s around. And when she saw that Comporta thing with Magui… fuck, man, it messed her up. Even if she knows you didn’t mean anything by it.—

—Yeah, Pietra felt like shit for that too. She gets why it was a big deal now. I think it clicked when the rumor went viral. She hadn’t thought about how it’d look from Amelie’s end.—

Lando exhaled and sat on the edge of the bed. —We just need them to click. Properly. Like, if they become friends, Pietra stops hanging out with people who bring drama. And Ames will stop feeling like she’s always watching her back when we’re in the same room.—

Max pointed. —And we can start making actual plans again. Like double dates. Trips. You know, normal couple shit. Instead of this weird avoidance dance.—

Lando smirked. —Operation Make Them Bond starts now.—

-------------

liked by lanmelliesimp13, maxiebae, and others

f1gossipgirl: 👀 SOOO Pietra and Max are officially in Cabo too… which means 👏 she’s 👏 with 👏 Lanmelie 👏 now 👏

looks like the friend group is BACK together?? 😳👀 wonder if the vibes are as chill as the drinks… or if someone’s still side-eyeing 👀💅

View all 59,119 comments

glamgptea: pietra and max in cabo too??? this trip just got messier 😭 → f1hotgirleras: @glamgptea i’m grabbing popcorn and sunscreen rn

lanmeliecentral: not them turning a cheating scandal into a double date vacation 💅 growth → wifeyforlan: @lanmeliecentral i would’ve held a grudge forever but amelie’s too classy for that → povurmom: @lanmeliecentral she’s giving mature queen and i’d be giving petty

lanmelliesimp13: max and pietra prob walked in like “can we talk?” and lando was already shirtless in the pool 💀 → babygrid: @lanmelliesimp13 amelie handed them a margarita before they finished “hi”

tropicwags: not pietra & max crashing the lanmelie honeymoon part 2 😭 → lanmelie4ever: @tropicwags they’re in their we forgive but we don’t forget era 😌✌️ → f1dramaqueen: @lanmelie4ever let’s just hope nobody mentions comporta or it’s over

lanxamelie: lando said “make peace or swim home” 😭

gridgirliee: pietra really went from comporta chaos to cabo redemption arc and i respect the hustle → landoisdownbad: @gridgirliee she said “lemme fix my PR and get a tan” 💅🏽

wifeydayman: i give it 2 margaritas before max says something and gets death stared by ames → chaosnferrari: @wifeydayman 2 is generous, i’m betting halfway through the chips 💀

letameliecook: not them on a forgiveness vacation while i’m crying over a man who can’t even text back

maxiebae: max got his boyfriend back and that’s all that matters 💔💅 → softlaunchsupreme: @maxiebae now kiss

sunburntcircuit: amelie really said “let’s be grown” and booked a villa 😭 queen → helmet4heels: @sunburntcircuit fr she’s too classy for this world

paddocktea: pietra showing up post-miami like “hey besties 💕 ignore the rumors” → queenamelz: @paddocktea she’s walking a fine line but honestly? brave → tyrepressure: @paddocktea she brought pão de queijo, she’s forgiven

-------------

After a lazy couple of hours by the pool filled with mocktails, sunburn threats, and a very unfortunate cannonball from Max that nearly soaked Pietra’s Kindle, everyone slowly peeled off into their corners of the villa. Pietra and Max disappeared to their guest room with murmurs of "nap time" that made Amelie roll her eyes, and Lando had slinked off to their bedroom to "change."

That was already suspicious. Because Lando never changed early unless he was going somewhere.

Which meant…

Amelie, still in her damp bikini, towel slung lazily around her waist, padded barefoot into the kitchen. She opened the fridge and pulled out a slice of leftover quiche—because fuck it, she'd swam and hosted and smiled politely through enough strained silences today to earn herself a snack.

She’d just taken a big bite, leaning back against the cool marble island with the fridge still cracked open behind her, when she heard his footsteps.

And then—of course—his voice.

—Hey, babe.—

Her eyes flicked up. And there he was.

Polo shirt tucked neatly into beige golf shorts, belt perfectly aligned, those stupid little no-show socks with pristine white golf shoes, and—God help her—a cap flipped backward over his curls like he was auditioning to be in a country club boyband.

Amelie stared, chewing slowly. Swallowed. Pointed her fork at him.

—No.—

Lando’s brows lifted in faux innocence, hands slipping into his pockets as he leaned against the doorway like he hadn’t just walked in looking like the human embodiment of her worst nightmare.

—No what?— he asked, voice syrupy.

Amelie tilted her head, narrowed her eyes.

—No. I know that outfit. I know that walk. I know that fake-ass casual greeting. You’re gonna say something like ‘we’re just gonna hit a few balls’ or ‘come on, babe, it’ll be fun’ and I am telling you now...no.—

Lando smirked, pushing off the doorframe and strolling toward her with the easy swagger of a man who had been plotting. Plotting for days.

—You don’t even know what I was going to say,— he said, reaching around her to close the fridge door.

She crossed her arms, the quiche plate balanced on one palm. —It’s golf, isn’t it? You’re gonna try and make me go. Don’t lie to me, Norris. You’re in uniform.—

—Technically, yes. But hear me out.—

She took another bite of her quiche, glaring at him like it was the only thing tethering her to sanity.

—There is no hearing out. I hate golf. It’s walking in the heat while pretending to care about something that makes paint drying look thrilling. And don't even start with the 'just a few easy holes' talk.—

—That’s the thing,— Lando said, now fully grinning, grabbing a grape from the fruit bowl and popping it in his mouth. —You’re not doing the hard ones. Max and I are. You and Pietra are just doing the, like… mini-golf equivalent. A few swings, a golf cart, some drinks. Vibes only.—

—So you’re leaving me alone with her?— Amelie asked flatly.

Lando shrugged, only slightly guilty. —Not alone. Just… not with us. Temporarily.—

—This is the worst idea you’ve ever had.—

—Oh, come on.— Lando’s voice dropped into that dangerous, boyish persuasion tone she hated because it always worked. —You’ll keep Pietra company, and Max and I’ll do the harder holes. Maybe you’ll even have fun. Stranger things have happened.—

Amelie scoffed. —Yeah? Name one.—

Lando’s smile widened as he slid closer, trapping her gently between the kitchen island and his very annoyingly toned, golf-ready body.

—Stranger things? Easy,— he murmured, hands finding her waist, fingertips brushing against the edge of her towel. —You dating me. You letting me see you first thing in the morning with your hair like a war zone. You crying during Finding Nemo. You surviving F1 weekends without committing homicide.—

She narrowed her eyes. —You’re dodging the question.—

—No, I’m sweetening the pitch,— he corrected, leaning in until his nose nearly grazed hers. —Plus…— His gaze dropped for a second, a lazy smile spreading across his lips. —I’ve been dying to see you in that golf set I got you. You know the one.—

Her eyes widened a fraction. —No.—

—Yes,— he said, almost reverently. —The little green skirt. The matching sleeveless top. The knee-high socks. The visor, Ames. You haven’t even touched it since I bought it for you in Monaco. And it’s just been sitting in the closet, all lonely, unloved, unworn.—

—I told you when you bought it, I wasn’t wearing it because I wasn’t going golfing. It was a statement.—

—And now look at us. The statement has circled back to bite you in the cute little ass I’m currently holding.—

—Lando,— she warned, trying not to smile, especially when he dipped his head and kissed her jaw, right beneath her ear.

—I’m not asking you to like golf,— he murmured against her skin. —I’m just asking you to fake it for, like, an hour. Maybe two. Pretend the cart is a Mario Kart. Drive Pietra around. Talk shit about Max’s swing. Hit one ball and dramatically scream like you’ve pulled a muscle.—

Amelie huffed. —That sounds like something you’d do.—

—Exactly. I’m setting the bar low here, Ames. Bare minimum energy. All vibes, no pressure. And maybe…— his hands slipped lower, tugging lightly at the towel, —maybe… if you wear that outfit… I’ll owe you a favor. Any favor. Cash it in whenever.—

Her brows lifted. —Any favor?—

His grin turned sinful. —Anything. Within reason. Or mildly outside of reason if I get to film it.—

Amelie groaned, tilting her head back against the fridge. —God, you’re the worst. The absolute worst.—

But her resolve was already crumbling.

Because she did remember the outfit. And she did know how Lando had looked when he’d picked it out—like he was imagining her in it before the hanger even hit the register. And she did want Pietra to feel included, like they were cool now, like she could trust Amelie to meet her halfway.

And also…

Lando’s hand had snuck up under her towel and was currently tracing small circles on her hip.

—Ugh,— she groaned dramatically. —If I say yes, you owe me a massage tonight. With oil. And music. And no whining about your hands getting tired.—

—Deal,— he said instantly. —And I’ll even light a candle. One of the sexy sandalwood ones you like.—

She sighed, finally pushing her plate onto the counter. —Fine. But if I get sunburned and have to go back to filming with a golfer’s tan, I’m writing a diss track about you.—

Lando leaned in and kissed her—slow, smug, and sweet. —As long as I’m the music video lead, I’m in.—

—God help me,— she muttered.

—Go put the outfit on,— he whispered against her lips. —Make my country club fantasies come true.—

—You’re disgusting.—

—You love me.—

And as she stalked off to the bedroom muttering curses under her breath, Lando turned and pumped a silent fist in the air. Phase One: complete. The girls were going. Which meant Phase Two—Get Them To Bond Over Mocking Golf—was officially a go.

-------------

liked by chaoticwags, f1.gamercrush, and others

landoupdates: Lando and Max went live on Twitch today while golfing in Cabo and when chat kept asking “where’s Amelie and Pietra???” these two idiots started laughing like 12-year-olds and said “we left them alone on purpose so they can trauma bond or whatever.” 😭😭

🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️💅 the girls better come back braided up like childhood besties or this experiment FAILED

View all 99,054 comments

chaoticwags: not lando forcing the girlies to bond like it’s couples therapy 💀

lando1simp: lando when the girls finally laugh at the same joke: 🧍‍♂️💅✨🥹 → maxielstan: @lando1simp bro acting like dr. phil with a golf club

traumabondingirlies: not max & lando golfing while the girls rework the alliance terms 😭 → brunchwags: @traumabondingirlies ceasefire secured over mimosas probably

chaoticwags: NOT THE DOUBLE DATE DETENTE LMFAOOO → norihottie: @chaoticwags peace in the lanmelie kingdom finally fr → cactussocks: @norihottie give them matching bracelets already 💅

ameliecore: if they come back from Cabo doing TikToks together I’m gonna scream → softlanmelie: @ameliecore “bestie vibes only 💋” and I’ll know it was all Lando’s doing 😭

wifeyamelie: Lando locked his girl down and got his boyfriend back. balance has been RESTORED. → maxnation: @wifeyamelie he missed Max more than the papaya team missed podiums 💀 → landoilover44: @maxnation be fr he probably cried after Comporta

pietraangel: I’m lowkey rooting for Pietra and Amelie to become unhinged besties → screamingformclaren: @pietraangel imagine them side-eyeing Max and Lando in sync… ICONIC

maguischilling: i know magui somewhere punching air rn 😭 → gossipgrill: @maguischilling don’t summon her pls we just got peace

lanmelieslay: this is the healing era. lanmelie nation… we won.

celebchaoscentral: not pietra and amelie entering their diplomatic relations era in cabo 😭😭 → lanfanclub: @celebchaoscentral the UN wishes they had this level of peacekeeping → softforlanmelie: @celebchaoscentral Lando and Max playing peace brokers like it’s a romcom subplot help 😭

lanmeliedaily: lando got his boyfriend and his girlfriend back i fear → pietraslittlegirl: @lanmeliedaily he really said double date or DIE

lanmelietok: max: “we left them alone to bond” — that man was scared for his LIFE 😭 → amsluvr: @lanmelietok max said “no drama no beef pls i just wanna golf and vibe”

tropigridgirlies: if they come back from this trip matching friendship bracelets i’m gonna SCREAM → cabokissesss: @tropigridgirlies enemies to brunch friends like we’ve never seen before → noforrealmax: @tropigridgirlies if pietra posts amelie i’m calling my mom idc

-------------

Amelie stepped out of the villa just as golden hour hit, the fading sun brushing her skin with a warm, forgiving glow. She adjusted the little green visor Lando had once dramatically tossed into their shared shopping cart in Monaco and tried not to think about how smug he’d looked earlier when she finally pulled the outfit out of the closet. Because now she understood why.

The skirt was short. Like, very short. The sleeveless top clung in just the right places.

She looked like every teenage boy’s fantasy of what golf should be. And judging by the way Lando turned his head so fast when she appeared, jaw slack and pupils dilated like he’d just seen a UFO, she was right.

—You’re staring,— she said flatly, shifting her weight to one leg, hip popping.

—No, I’m not,— Lando said, still staring, not even blinking. Max coughed a laugh behind him.

—Bro, you literally just walked into the umbrella stand.—

—Shut up,— Lando muttered, tugging at his collar like it was suddenly suffocating him.

They were all gathered by the stone steps that led down to the private golf course attached to the villa. Max was already loading clubs into the back of one of the two waiting golf carts, and Pietra stood off to the side, sipping from a bottle of water and eyeing Amelie with the kind of neutral appraisal that made Amelie’s neck itch. Not hostile. Not rude. Just... unreadable.

—Alright, teams,— Max called out, clapping his hands together. —Boys go tackle the manholes.—

—That’s not what they’re called,— Lando said distractedly, eyes still locked on Amelie.

—You sure? Because I’ve definitely heard you say something about 'checking your manhole' before.—

—Max.—

Amelie snorted. Pietra did not.

—And ladies,— Max continued, ignoring the death glare his girlfriend was now giving him, —you get the fun cart. Drinks, shade, easy holes. Don’t crash it.—

—You say that like you think we’re the problem,— Amelie said, walking toward the second cart, feeling Lando’s eyes burn into her legs the entire way.

—No, he says that because he once flipped a golf cart trying to impress Daniel Ricciardo,— Pietra muttered under her breath as she climbed into the passenger seat.

Amelie blinked. Oh.

Interesting.

Lando opened his mouth, clearly about to protest the seating arrangement—because obviously he wanted to be in a cart with Amelie, that much was written all over his red-eared, barely-holding-it-together face—but Max clapped a hand on his shoulder and dragged him to the other cart before he could say a word.

—C’mon, lover boy. Let the girls bond. We’ll reconvene in two hours with sweat stains and wounded pride.—

Lando looked back one more time, lower lip between his teeth, and Amelie knew that if he stayed any longer, he’d either say something inappropriate or try to drag her into the woods.

So she just gave him a little wave. Sweet. Innocent. Absolutely dripping in silent mockery.

He groaned audibly as the cart pulled away.

The first few minutes were… painful.

Amelie drove. Pietra fiddled with her phone. Silence hung in the cart like smog, thick and awkward and threatening to choke both of them. The breeze did nothing. The trees whispered uselessly. Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirped and Amelie considered asking it to peck her eyes out for entertainment.

They reached the first easy hole. Pietra got out, stretched, and swung her club with robotic precision. It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t relaxed either.

Amelie sighed. Picked up her club. Took a lazy swing. The ball rolled a whopping ten feet.

—Wow,— Pietra deadpanned. —Incredible display of raw athleticism.—

Amelie smirked. —Thank you. I trained with Tiger Woods once. He said I was too powerful for the sport.—

Pietra cracked a smile. Barely, but it was there. The first dent in the silence.

They moved on. Hole two. Pietra drove this time. Her posture behind the wheel was almost surgical—straight-backed, two hands, full concentration like they were navigating a Formula 1 track instead of a perfectly paved golf path with butterflies crossing like it was a Disney movie.

—So,— Amelie said, voice overly casual. —You always this serious about sports that don’t matter?—

Pietra exhaled through her nose, turning the wheel with a little more force than necessary. —I just don’t like looking stupid at things. Especially things Max is good at.—

—Fair,— Amelie said, adjusting the strap of her visor. —Although if “not looking stupid” was the bar, I wouldn’t have agreed to this at all.—

Pietra let out a huff that might’ve been a laugh. Still clipped. But less icy.

They reached the third hole. It had one of those annoyingly placed sand traps, like someone had designed it specifically to ruin your self-esteem. Pietra got out and sized it up like she was about to perform surgery on it.

Amelie, meanwhile, slumped dramatically over the steering wheel. —You think if I pretend to faint, they’ll let us go home?—

Pietra’s lips twitched. —Only if you commit to the bit. Foam at the mouth or something.—

—Too far. I’m method, not deranged.—

That got a real laugh. Quick and surprised, like it snuck out before Pietra could decide whether or not she wanted it to.

—Max always foams at the mouth when he sleeps,— Pietra said, stretching her back with a faint grimace. —I swear to God, he’ll roll over, open his mouth like a dying fish, and it’s like a damn waterfall. I nearly drowned last week.—

Amelie blinked. Then blinked again.

Then snorted so hard she nearly choked on her spit. —Wait, what?—

Pietra shook her head, face serious but eyes a little brighter now. —Dead serious. We stayed at this hotel in Lisbon, and I woke up thinking it was raining. Nope. Just Max, sleeping face-up like a cartoon character, drooling like his jaw forgot how gravity works.—

Amelie wheezed. Bent over the steering wheel. —Oh my God. That’s so foul. Lando snores. Like, whistles. Through his nose. It’s like sleeping next to a dying kettle.—

Pietra’s eyes widened, then narrowed like she was trying to picture it. —That actually makes so much sense.—

—Right? I love him, but every time I get woken up at 3 a.m. by Steam Engine Norris, I start making mental hit lists.—

Pietra laughed again—louder this time. Amelie grinned, surprised at how easy it suddenly felt. Like they’d cracked something. Or maybe just realized they were both dating deeply stupid, occasionally disgusting boys who somehow made it worth it.

—Max takes, like, forty-five minutes to pick a movie,— Pietra said, hopping back into the cart. —And then he falls asleep twenty minutes in.—

Amelie gasped. —Lando does the exact same thing. Swears up and down he wants to watch something, spends ages making a whole thing of it: lights off, snacks, makes me pause trailers to “really analyze them”... and then he’s out like a light. Head back. Mouth open. Whole performance, gone.—

—And then tries to recap it the next day like he was awake the entire time.—

—“Yeah, yeah, the bit with the guy in the suit... crazy, right?”— Amelie mimicked, rolling her eyes. —Sir, you were unconscious before the title card.—

They both dissolved into laughter, the tension finally shedding like an old coat.

The cart bumped slightly as Pietra hit a root, but neither of them cared. They were too busy making a list of their boyfriends’ most criminal habits.

—Max has this thing where he talks in his sleep,— Pietra added, smirking.

Amelie’s eyes lit up. —No. What does he say?—

—Mostly nonsense. One time he said, “Tell Lando the penguin has the codes.” I didn’t sleep after that. I thought it was a warning.—

Amelie nearly dropped her club. —That’s a spy movie. That’s not even his real life! Why is he dreaming in fake espionage plots?!—

—Don’t ask me. I think he watched Mission: Impossible and it rewired his brain.—

They were still laughing when they pulled up to the fifth hole—an easy one, with a wide green and zero traps—but neither made a move to get out.

Instead, they just sat there, the cart idling, the sun sinking lower over the rolling hills, painting everything in a soft golden haze. A light breeze swept Pietra’s ponytail to one side, and Amelie leaned her elbow on the steering wheel, suddenly aware of how different this felt than she expected.

Not forced. Not fake. Just… warm.

Pietra glanced at her, expression shifting, the humor fading just enough for something more honest to slip in. —Hey,— she said, tone softer now. —About what happened. With Comporta. And the rumors.—

Amelie straightened a little. The mention of Comporta tightened something in her stomach—an echo of that week in May when she’d woken up to her name trending, paired with cheating and Lando and Magui, all because of one stupid photo.

—It wasn’t our fault,— Pietra continued, —but I should’ve said something. Reached out. I didn’t realize it would blow up the way it did, and when it did, it was already too messy. I didn’t know if I should text you or leave it alone. And by the time Max tried to explain it all, it just… felt too late.—

Amelie didn’t answer right away. She stared out at the course, tapping a finger against the wheel. —Yeah,— she said finally. —It sucked.—

—I know.—

—It really fucking sucked.—

Pietra nodded. —I know.—

Amelie glanced at her, searching her face. —Did she know I’d see those pictures? Magui, I mean.—

Pietra hesitated. Just a beat. But that was enough.

Pietra hesitated. Just a beat. But that was enough.

—That’s what I thought,— Amelie muttered.

—She didn’t do it maliciously. At least not...— Pietra stopped. Winced. —Okay. No. I don’t know that. But I do know Max was furious. He genuinely had no idea she’d be there, and it caused a whole thing between us. Like… a real fight.—

Amelie blinked. That part she didn’t know.

—I’m not saying this to get points,— Pietra added. —I just want you to know that we didn’t... I didn’t...cosign any of it. Max wouldn’t do that to you. Neither would I. Not intentionally.—

—I know Max wouldn’t,— Amelie said quietly. —And I guess… I know you wouldn’t either. Not now, anyway.—

A silence settled between them. Not tense, just thoughtful.

Pietra pulled at a loose thread on her polo. —I was kind of nervous inviting you to come out here. I thought you’d say no.—

—I almost did,— Amelie admitted. —But Lando bribed me with a massage.—

Pietra barked a laugh. —Sounds about right.—

—He also promised to light a sexy candle.—

—Jesus Christ.—

—I know. It’s tragic.—

They grinned at each other. And suddenly, it wasn’t awkward anymore.

They played a few more holes. Hit balls into bushes. Got mildly yelled at by an old man in plaid pants. Shared a can of sparkling lemonade from the cooler. Amelie showed Pietra how to swing like a “drunk aunt at a wedding,” and Pietra showed Amelie how to restart the cart when she accidentally flooded the engine. They were not good at golf, but they were getting better at this—whatever this fragile, hesitant friendship thing was turning into.

By the ninth hole, they were sun-flushed and laughing again, legs kicked up on the dash while they waited for the boys to reappear.

Amelie leaned her head back and sighed. —Honestly? You’re a lot cooler than I thought you’d be.—

Pietra raised a brow. —That’s either the best or worst compliment I’ve ever gotten.—

—I mean it. We’ve just… never really hung out. Outside of group stuff.—

—That’s because you’re famous and terrifying and I thought you hated me.—

—I don’t hate you.—

—Good. Because I think we’re in a codependent support group now. For Girlfriends of Stupid Men.—

Amelie laughed. —God. You’re right.—

-------------

liked by amelzbackup, norisbaby, and others

daymangallery: AMELIE JUST POSTED PIETRA ON HER STORY?? 😭😭

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f1gftrash: amelie posting pietra on her story… peace has been restored🙏 → lanlover44: @f1gftrash fr the girlies are HEALING → wagwatcher_98: @lanlover44 max and lando probably high-fived after that story went up 😭

chaoticwags: lando and max sending their girls off like “go bond babes” while they go play golf is so boyfriend-coded → norisimp: @chaoticwags literally bromance + matchmaking in one trip → f1flirtz: @chaoticwags max was like “i want my boyfriend back, fix it queen”

ameliesfingertats: we went from “pietra unfollowed amelie??” to “pietra in amelie’s story looking like a vogue ad” like how did we get here → lilacformula: @ameliesfingertats idk but i’m living for this arc

lanmelieupdates: lando really said “you two are gonna get along even if it kills me” and honestly? king behavior → amelesbian: @lanmelieupdates he’s tired of group dinners being awkward 😭 → tiktoklanmelie: @lanmelieupdates lando’s in his peacekeeper era and it’s WORKING

formulababie: they better be sipping caipirinhas and trauma bonding rn i NEED this friendship → pietraluvbot: @formulababie if they come back with matching bracelets i’m gonna cry

hotlapshottie: be honest lando invited max just to fix his girlfriend’s beef with max’s gf so he can go back to being thirdwheeled in peace → daymansdaydream: @hotlapshottie the bromance agenda stays winning 😤 → amxln4: @daymansdaydream max missed his gossip sessions with amelie ok he’s suffering too

pietralover420: she in the golf cart like nothing happened... icon → wagsupreme: @pietralover420 she’s soft launching the redemption arc

maxiscat: max seeing amelie and pietra laughing like: finally. peace.

sunnyamelz: idc if it’s fake or not i love this new girlfriend alliance → y0uland0: @sunnyamelz honestly we needed this for the offseason content alone

pitwallprince: everyone talking about pietra and amelie making up but what about max getting his emotional support back

amelzbackup: remember when y’all said amelie was gonna throw hands?? now she’s throwing IG tags 💅 → wagsunite: @amelzbackup character development babes. we love to see it.

lanmelieslut: if pietra + amelie end up vibing??? iconic duo unlocked → gridgirlies: @lanmelieslut the fit pics will be out of control → pitwallpeach: @lanmelieslut we survived the cheating rumor arc for THIS

mclovinf1: wait… so this means double dates are back on the menu??? → tracksidewife: @mclovinf1 i’m manifesting dinner pics and chaotic uno nights → quadgirlszn: @mclovinf1 amelie dragging pietra into a skincare live in 3…2…1

norisbaby: Lando: "we left them alone to become friends" Me: refreshing stories every 5 seconds like a divorced parent on visitation weekend → kartingchaos: @norisbaby real the way i’m INVESTED

softlaunchlegend: i can’t believe pietra got promoted from ✨tension✨ to ✨instagram story✨ → ameliesbangs: @softlaunchlegend she passed the vibe check. welcome to the team.

-------------

By the time the sun dipped fully behind the hills, casting the Cabo sky in hues of burnt orange and cotton-candy pink, the two golf carts rumbled their way back up the path to the villa. Amelie and Pietra were both flushed from the heat, slightly sweaty, and—shockingly—laughing about something Max had done during a bachelor party in Ibiza that involved a pineapple, a karaoke machine, and a mysterious allergic reaction.

Lando and Max, waiting by the stone steps where they’d started, perked up like puppies hearing their owner’s car pull into the driveway.

—They’re smiling,— Max whispered under his breath, eyes wide with disbelief.

Lando clutched his chest dramatically. —Bro. They’re laughing. Laughing. Like... together.—

—That’s not just tolerance. That’s banter.—

—That’s progress! We’re heroes.—

As the girls climbed out of the cart—Amelie adjusting her visor, Pietra pulling her hair off her neck—the boys barely resisted the urge to sprint over.

Instead, they played it cool.

For about two seconds.

—Oh my God, you’re back!— Lando gasped, jogging dramatically like Amelie had just returned from war. —I missed you so much. I almost died.—

—We saw each other two hours ago,— Amelie deadpanned, ducking when he tried to spin her.

—Two very long hours.—

—He cried twice,— Max added, sidling up to Pietra with a dopey grin. —Once because his ball went into a bush, and once because he found a leaf that looked like Amelie.—

—Okay, it really did look like her ponytail from behind!—

Pietra raised a brow, but her lips twitched. Amelie just rolled her eyes and gave Lando a lazy kiss on the cheek before stepping back.

—You boys are idiots.—

—But we’re your idiots,— Max said, already looping his arm around Pietra’s waist.

She snorted. —Barely.—

As they reached the villa, Pietra slipped off toward her room with a muttered, —Shower. I feel like I’ve been attacked by the sun.— Amelie, still holding her water bottle, veered toward the kitchen.

And that left the boys blessedly alone in the breezy, sun-warmed entryway.

The second the girls were out of sight, Max and Lando turned to each other with synchronized grins.

HIGH-FIVE.

VICTORY DANCE.

It was stupid. It was off-beat. Max attempted a moonwalk that looked more like a seizure, and Lando did this weird chest shimmy that made absolutely no sense. But it was triumphant.

—They’re friends! They’re actual friends now!— Lando whisper-shouted, fist-pumping like he’d just won a Grand Prix.

—Operation ‘Get Them To Bond Over Mocking Golf’ was a success,— Max nodded solemnly, still panting from the dance. —I feel like I just won an Oscar for Best Boyfriend Scheme.—

And then...

—Are you two done being morons?— came Amelie’s dry voice from the kitchen entrance.

They both froze.

Amelie leaned against the doorframe, sipping her water. Her golf outfit—short skirt, clingy top, visor still perched atop messy hair—should’ve looked ridiculous. But it didn’t. It looked devastating.

Lando straightened, looking sheepish. —Hey, love. I...uh...—

—You’re such idiots,— she said, walking over to him. She kissed him square on the mouth, slow, with a teasing little hum like she knew what it did to him.

When she pulled back, Lando’s brain short-circuited a little.

Then she leaned up and whispered, —I’m gonna go take a shower. Hope you join me.—

Lando blinked. Mouth parted. Soul left his body.

—Right. Water. Yes. I’ll just… hydrate first.—

Amelie smirked and sauntered away, hips swaying just enough to be illegal in several countries.

Once she disappeared down the hallway, Max let out a long, low whistle.

—Damn. She’s gonna kill you.—

—Happily,— Lando muttered, grabbing a bottle from the fridge and chugging half of it like it could extinguish the fire blazing under his skin.

When he finally came up for air, he turned to Max, quieter now. —I haven’t told you yet… but she said yes.—

Max blinked. —To?—

—To moving in. With me. In Monaco.—

Max grinned, eyes wide. —No way. She actually said yes?—

Lando nodded, practically glowing. —Yeah. After the tour ends. She said she’s ready. Said it feels right.—

—Bro, that’s huge.—

—I know. I haven’t shown her the apartment yet. Not since the remodel. I figured I’d surprise her when she comes out for the Monaco Grand Prix. Give her the full “welcome home” moment.—

Max clapped him on the shoulder. —You hopeless, lovesick idiot. Show me. I want to see what you did to the place.—

Lando grabbed his iPad from the coffee table and pulled up a folder marked “Monaco Nest 🐣.” Max choked on his laugh.

—You named it that? What are you, a bird?—

—Shut up. Look.—

He swiped through photos of the apartment. Gone were the cold bachelor whites and the overly minimalist furniture. In their place: soft earth tones, plush couches, warm lighting, big windows framed with breezy curtains. A kitchen built for late-night snacks and chaotic baking attempts. A reading nook. Candles. A second closet for Amelie. Plants that weren’t fake.

Max stared, stunned. —Dude. This isn’t a bachelor pad anymore. This is like... a couple’s Pinterest board exploded in here.—

—That’s the point. I want her to feel like it’s hers too. Not like she’s just crashing at mine.—

Max looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

—She’s gonna love it. You did good, man.—

Lando smiled, already picturing the look on Amelie’s face when she walked through the door. Already counting the days until he could call her his roommate, his girlfriend, his everything—all under one roof.

Now all he had to do... was survive that shower.

[miapotterismyfav]

Innocence

————————————————————

Summary: Sirius Black thought he had Y/N all figured out—until one offhand comment sends his world into a tailspin and unearths far more than he bargained for.

Matching: Siriusxfem!reader, Remusxfem!reader

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Masterlist

————————————————————

Chapter four: peppermint and parchment… and cinnamon

Remus lay in bed facing the wall, jaw clenched, heart making a slow sink to somewhere under the mattress. The party had been loud and golden, and he had felt grey the whole time.

He’d left without saying goodbye.

Of course she hadn’t noticed. Not with the way Sirius had been looking at her like he’d just discovered fire.

Remus didn’t blame her.

He blamed himself—for thinking he could be something more than a quiet phase between better men.

The door creaked.

He went still.

Soft footsteps padded across the dorm, careful and light. His curtain rustled.

“Remus?” came a whisper.

He blinked. “Y/N?”

She peeked in, hair messy, eyeliner smudged, still in that bralette that made his stomach turn over. And a black leather jacket now thrown over her shoulders.

She was holding something.

“I brought you cake,” she said, climbing in without hesitation. “Chocolate. It was either this or trifle and you strike me as a dark chocolate kind of guy.”

He blinked as she tucked herself against his side like they did this every night. Her thigh pressed to his, her fingers brushing his chest as she handed over the slightly crushed napkin-wrapped slice.

“You left,” she murmured, tilting her face to look at him.

“You were busy,” he said quietly.

She rolled her eyes, clearly having none of that.

“I had so much fun,” she beamed, punctuating it with a kiss to his cheek. “I danced to this Muggle band Marlene snuck in on a charm—what were they called? Arctic-somethings.”

“Arctic Monkeys?”

“Sure, them,” she said, already kissing the corner of his mouth now. “I invented a new cocktail too—I think it might've been accidental poison but it tasted incredible.”

Remus chuckled. “Sounds dangerous.”

“Oh, definitely. We named it Slitherin’ Sin,” she added proudly, then kissed him full on the mouth.

He melted into it, his fingers instinctively finding the curve of her waist beneath the leather jacket.

She pulled back with a breathless laugh. “You should’ve stayed.”

“I didn’t think I was invited.”

She pulled a face. “You absolute idiot. Of course you were.”

Her lips met his again, slow and warm this time, her fingertips curling into his hair.

The chocolate cake lay forgotten between them, a crumpled witness to the softest sort of unraveling.

And when they finally settled under the covers, tangled up and giggling in the dark, Remus thought: maybe he wasn’t a phase.

Maybe he was just hers.

—————————————————————————

Sunlight poured in through the half-drawn curtains, hazy and golden. The dorm was warm with the quiet breath of early spring and the residual smell of firewhiskey, chocolate cake, and some sort of burnt sugar potion that had definitely spilled at the party.

Remus stirred as fingers brushed lightly along his jaw. He blinked awake to find Y/N still tucked against him, her leg draped over his hip, her head nestled just under his chin. Her hair smelled like smoke and mint.

“Hi,” she whispered, smiling as their eyes met.

He swallowed. “Hi.”

“Sorry I drooled on your pillow.”

He smiled, thumb brushing gently over her cheekbone. “That was my favourite pillow.”

“I’ll replace it. With my own. Clearly I live here now.”

He laughed softly, and she leaned in for a kiss — slow and lazy, their noses brushing, their lips warm and soft with sleep. He could’ve stayed like that forever.

Another kiss. Another sigh.

“You didn’t leave,” he murmured against her mouth, a quiet confession of awe.

“Didn’t want to,” she replied, eyes still closed, smiling like she had a secret. “Also, the corridor was freezing.”

A beat passed before she whispered again, “...but mostly you.”

Before he could respond —

BANG.

The door burst open with absolutely no respect for sleep or romance.

“Remus, mate, I swear to Merlin, your girl throws the best parties!” James’s voice boomed.

“I’m still hungover,” Peter groaned, but followed him in anyway.

Sirius’s voice cut through: “How the hell did she get floating lights and a live jazz section and a Quidditch beer pong table in the same room? That was actually sorcery.”

James dropped onto the edge of Remus’s bed. “Right, Moony? Moony—?”

Remus opened his mouth to warn them, but it was too late — James yanked back the covers.

And there she was.

Hair mussed, Y/N blinked up at the boys from Remus’s bed, still wearing his undershirt from the night before, and a smirk.

There was a beat of pure silence.

Then:

“OH MY GODRIC,” James shouted, staggering back so fast he nearly fell over. “YOU’RE HERE?!”

Peter let out a sound that could only be described as a squeak. Sirius blinked and said absolutely nothing for once, his jaw clenched just slightly.

Y/N, entirely unbothered, propped herself up on one elbow and waved. “Morning.”

James pointed wildly between them. “Since when?!”

“Since last year, technically,” she said, stealing Remus’s pillow and flopping back down. “Well, sort of. Off and on. He’s hard to resist.”

Remus flushed as she grinned over at him.

Peter blinked rapidly. “Wait. Wait. But the closet—Amos—New Year’s—?”

“Different stories,” she chirped.

“Wait what?”

James pointed again. “You’ve been together?”

“More or less,” Remus said, finally speaking. “We’ve been seeing each other. For a while.”

Sirius leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.

“You never said anything,” Peter muttered, bewildered.

Y/N shrugged. “Wasn’t about you lot, was it?”

“Fair point,” James said faintly.

They all turned to look at Sirius.

He said nothing.

“Alright,” Y/N said lightly, grabbing her wand and summoning her jacket from across the room. “We’re off to breakfast. Or possibly to elope. Anyone want tea?”

Remus stood beside her, brushing a kiss to her temple as he passed. James and Peter were still staring like their brains were buffering.

As they left, Remus glanced back once. Sirius was still watching her. But for the first time in a long time… he said nothing.

And that silence said everything.

—————————————————————————

The castle was quiet for a Sunday. Just past breakfast, the early morning sun had melted the last of the frost on the grass, and the wind that tugged at Y/N’s hair was soft rather than sharp. She and Remus walked side by side down the slope toward the Black Lake, a comfortable silence between them.

Every so often, their hands bumped. The third time it happened, Remus just reached out and took hers. No fanfare. Just fingers lacing together like it was something they’d always done.

She looked down at their hands, then up at him. “So.”

“So,” he echoed, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Are we dating?”

Remus blinked. “You’re asking me?”

“Well, I was the one who snuck into your bed and kissed you like we were already married,” she grinned. “So technically, I think the next move’s yours.”

He made a soft, embarrassed noise in the back of his throat. “Right. Erm. Well… I hope we are?”

She raised a brow. “You hope we’re dating or you hope we aren’t?”

“No, are,” he said quickly, then looked away, flushed. “I mean, if you want to. I don’t exactly—I've never—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not good at this part.”

Y/N stopped walking, tugging gently on his hand until he turned back to face her. “Remus Lupin, you are very good at this part.”

His eyebrows lifted, disbelieving.

“You brought me chocolate. You remember which books I dog-ear. You don’t blink when I ramble about Muggle politics and you always, always make room for me next to you.”

“I also keep forgetting which way you stir amortentia,” he pointed out, but he was smiling now.

“You’re forgiven. You smell like peppermint and parchment and sometimes…” She leaned in, nose brushing his. “...cinnamon.”

He melted a little at that. “You’re a menace.”

“And you like me.”

“I really, really do,” he said, soft and sure this time.

She smiled, eyes shining. “Good. Because I like you too. In a nauseating, stupid, probably-should-write-you-poetry sort of way.”

He laughed, full and genuine, and pulled her closer. “So we’re dating, then?”

She grinned. “We’re dating.”

There was a pause.

“I feel like we should tell someone. Make it official,” he said.

“I did literally crawl out of your bed in front of three of your best friends this morning.”

Remus flushed again. “Oh, right. That was…”

“Traumatic?”

“...Enlightening.”

She laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Let’s give them something else to talk about.”

And they kept walking — hand in hand, easy and glowing — the lake shimmering just ahead of them like it knew a secret too.

—————————————————————————

The library was nearly empty, just the soft turning of pages and the occasional cough echoing through the long rows of shelves. It was late—nearly curfew—but Y/N and Remus were tucked away in their usual spot, cross-legged on the floor beside a low windowsill, parchment and textbooks scattered around them in a barely controlled sprawl.

Y/N yawned and stretched, her shirt riding up just enough for Remus to catch a glimpse of the sliver of her waist before he quickly looked away, ears pink.

“You know,” she murmured, flipping her quill between her fingers, “I think I’ve retained exactly three things from this two-hour cramming session, and one of them is that I hate arithmancy.”

“You said that before we started,” Remus said, smiling faintly without looking up.

“Right, so technically I’ve retained two new things.”

He chuckled softly, quill moving steadily across the parchment as he solved the final equation.

She watched him for a moment, chin resting on her knee. He looked soft in this light. Golden. His jumper sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair messy from running his hands through it, the glow of the lantern lighting the slope of his nose, the curve of his jaw, freckles scattered like constellations across his skin.

“You’re beautiful when you’re focused,” she said quietly.

His quill froze.

Then he looked up, startled. “What?”

She tilted her head. “I said you’re beautiful.”

Remus blinked, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard her properly. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?” she shrugged, nudging his leg with her foot. “It’s true.”

He dropped his gaze, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re… very distracting.”

She grinned. “Good.”

She shifted, crawling over to sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder now. He watched her warily, like she might do something dangerous. She probably would.

“I think we’ve studied enough,” she whispered.

He glanced at her lips. “You think?”

“I know.” She leaned in, brushing her mouth over his with just enough pressure to make him inhale sharply.

The kiss was soft at first—tentative, sweet, familiar—but when her fingers slid into his hair and his hand found the curve of her hip, everything shifted.

She kissed him again, slower this time, deeper.

He groaned softly against her mouth before pulling her into his lap.

She followed easily, legs bracketing his thighs, hands braced on his shoulders.

“Y/N,” he breathed, like a warning or a prayer.

She kissed down his jaw, her voice against his skin. “You always say my name like that when you’re about to lose your mind.”

His grip tightened on her waist. “You’re not helping.”

“Not trying to.” She kissed him again, harder this time, fingers tugging at the hem of his jumper.

He shivered.

Remus sat back in the worn wooden chair now, hands resting lightly on the armrests, eyes locked on Y/N as she shifted closer. She straddled him deliberately, one knee on either side of his thighs, hands pressing into his shoulders for balance. The weight of her settled over him like a promise.

His breath hitched as the heat from her bare skin met the thin fabric of his shirt. She traced slow, teasing circles down his chest with her fingertips, lips barely grazing his jawline as she leaned in.

“Are you sure about this?” Remus murmured, voice low and rough.

Y/N smiled, the curve of her lips slow and certain. “Absolutely.”

Her hands slid under his jumper, fingers exploring the warm skin beneath with gentle insistence. She tugged the hem up just enough to reveal the plane of his stomach, and the sharp intake of his breath told her exactly how much he was feeling it.

She lowered herself, hips rocking slowly against him, the heat between them building like a tide ready to break.

Remus’s hands moved to rest on her waist, gripping lightly as if afraid to let go but unable to stay still.

Her skin was warm under his palms, every small touch sending sparks up his spine. She leaned forward, lips parting to kiss his throat, her breath hot and sweet. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper into the moment.

The chair creaked softly beneath them, the rough wood pressing against their bodies, grounding them amid the rush of sensation. Y/N’s hips moved with a slow, teasing rhythm, the friction deliberate, urgent—but gentle, careful, like a secret shared between them alone.

Remus’s head fell back slightly, eyes fluttering closed, lips parted in a quiet, desperate sound. His hands slid lower, fingers tracing the curve of her hips, then pressing gently under the waistband of her trousers. She shivered at the touch, gasping softly into his skin.

Their breaths tangled, mingling in the tight space between them as the world fell away. Time slowed to the heat of skin on skin, the pulse of heartbeats, the soft sighs and whispered names that hung in the air like a spell.

Y/N’s lips found his again, slow and exploring, before deepening with a hunger that matched the fire burning in both of them. She moved with a steady, deliberate pace, letting every touch, every brush of skin, stretch out and burn.

Remus’s hands held her steady, anchoring her as she leaned into him, riding the waves of sensation, building the tension with a careful, exquisite patience. There was no rush—only the slow, steady burn of two bodies learning each other’s language in whispers and sighs.

Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, her lips ghosted down his throat, and with every soft gasp and gentle moan, they were woven closer together—two halves of a whole, caught in a quiet storm of desire and tenderness.

When at last they slowed, hearts pounding, breaths ragged but full, Y/N rested her forehead against his, hands still warm on his chest.

“Stay with me,” she whispered.

Remus smiled, eyes shining with something fierce and soft all at once. “Always.”

—————————————————————————

The greenhouse was thick with the smell of damp earth and blooming plants, sunlight filtering through the glass panes and casting dappled patterns on the worn wooden benches. Y/N crouched over a stubborn mandrake root, gently cradling its leaves as Sirius knelt beside her, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Careful, or it’ll scream your ear off,” Sirius whispered with mock seriousness, grinning wide.

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “You say that every time, and I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

He chuckled, reaching for a handful of soil and flicking it at her. A few specks landed on her cheek. “Barely.”

Without warning, Y/N retaliated, flicking a bit of water from her watering can right at his hair. Sirius shook his head like a wet dog, droplets flying everywhere, and suddenly the quiet greenhouse was filled with laughter — that wild, easy kind they hadn’t shared in ages.

“Oi! You’re going to get us both in trouble!” Sirius hissed, though his grin didn’t fade.

“Worth it,” Y/N said, eyes sparkling as she splashed water again.

Their playful skirmish continued — a spray of water here, a splash of dirt there — until they collapsed against the bench, breathless and muddy, surrounded by overturned pots and scattered leaves.

“You know,” Sirius said between chuckles, “we make a terrible gardening team.”

“Best in class,” Y/N replied with a wink.

For a moment, Sirius just watched her — the way her eyes lit up when she laughed, the way her whole face softened in a way that caught him off guard. His smile faltered slightly, and his gaze lingered just a beat too long.

“Y/N,” he said softly, the laughter fading from his voice, “this... this is nice.”

She looked up, puzzled but smiling, unaware of the small shift in his expression.

“Yeah,” she said, “it really is.”

But Sirius’s eyes held something more — a quiet hope tangled with a hesitation that didn’t quite fit the easy friendship they’d rekindled.

—————————————————————————

“Oi, Moony,” James sing-songed as he flopped dramatically onto Remus’s bed, knocking into his knees, “got room for two girlfriends in here or should I come back later?”

Peter cackled, mouth full of toast. “He’s practically glowing. You’re not even trying to hide it, mate.”

“I’m not glowing,” Remus muttered, ears going pink as he shoved James half-heartedly off his legs.

“You are, though,” Sirius chimed in from his perch at the window. He was staring down at the courtyard, jaw tense, but when he turned to look at Remus, his voice was light. “Never seen you look so disgustingly well-rested. Is she feeding you special Slytherin potions or just shagging you to sleep?”

James groaned. “Not while I’m sitting on his sheets, Padfoot—show some respect.”

Remus threw a pillow, though he was laughing. “You lot are insufferable.”

“Jealous, more like,” Peter said, grinning. “I’d kill for a girl to look at me the way Y/N looks at you.”

Sirius made a noncommittal noise.

James smirked. “You did well, mate. I mean—Y/N bloody L/N. Most people think she’s some unapproachable goddess and here she is, sneaking into Gryffindor Tower to spoon our favourite lycanthrope.”

And just like that — it hit Remus like a bucket of ice water.

Their favourite lycanthrope.

His smile faltered. “Right,” he said too quickly. “Yeah.”

The others didn’t notice the shift, not right away. James had already launched into some story about how he once tried to flirt with her in third year and she hexed him with hiccups for a week. But Remus wasn’t listening anymore.

Because they were right.

He was a werewolf.

And Y/N… she wasn’t. She was brilliant and fiery and kissed like sin and smelled like honey and old books. She deserved warmth and safety. She deserved someone who wasn’t dangerous once a month. Someone who didn’t live with the knowledge of what he became.

He should have thought about that earlier. Why hadn’t he thought about that earlier?

—————————————————————————

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Masterlist

@bache3

@amatoanima

@captainlunaxmen

@sodavrr

@mayuwolfstar

@the-lavender-girl

@beekeepingageissome

@starmaniii

@infinitely-astro

@cupidblyss

[eeniey-past-bedtime]

Midnight Milkshakes & Meaningless Flowers

A/N: "Eni it's mermay how about you write some more fish?-" How about i go devour a cheeseburger?-

So my punkish vampire Carter strikes again with a cool 24-hour diner vibe and more flowercore cause i think that's HOT. Gender neutral reader of course and why not consider gifting me some raw spaghetti?

.

..

The diner smells like burnt coffee and nostalgia.

It’s the kind of place where the vinyl booths are cracked and sticky, the jukebox hasn’t worked since the '90s, and the waitress doesn’t even blink when Carter walks in with a scowl and fangs. He doesn’t need to say anything—you both just slide into the same booth as always, across from each other, though he leans his back to the wall so he can stretch his legs out under the table and tap your ankle with his boot like it’s an accident.

It isn’t.

"Midnight special’s the same," he mutters, glancing at the chalkboard menu like he ever orders anything.

You chuckle. "You don't eat human food."

"Doesn't mean I can’t judge yours." He smirks, resting his cheek on his fist. "You gonna get those floppy pancakes again? The ones that look like someone stepped on 'em?"

"They're comforting," you say with a dramatic sigh, flagging the waitress. "Unlike certain company."

His grin sharpens. “Admit it. You like my company.”

"I tolerate it." You look at him over the top of your menu, and for a second, his expression softens—but only just.

It’s funny. For all the rough edges—scarred face, ripped jacket, the way he walks like he owns every streetlight in town—Carter is surprisingly good at this weird almost-dating thing you’ve fallen into. He doesn’t make a big deal of it, never calls it what it is, but he’s always there. Always showing up at the exact moment you’re bored or annoyed or just quietly wishing someone would.

He leans forward now, fingers toying with a stray straw wrapper from a previous visitor.

"I brought you something," he says, casually. "Don’t read into it."

You blink. “...Okay?”

From the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulls out a single flower. A dusky purple carnation.

He drops it on the table between you like it’s nothing. But the way he watches you when you pick it up? That means something.

You lift an eyebrow. "This another flower language thing?"

Carter shrugs, eyes flicking out the window. “Might be.”

You study it, smile playing on your lips. “What’s it mean?”

There’s a pause. He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“Unspoken affection.” Then quieter, “Stuff you don’t know how to say.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable—it’s charged. Warm in a way that makes your chest ache a little.

You reach across the table, nudging his hand. “You’re such a dork, Carter.”

“Bite me,” he mutters, lips twitching upward.

“You’d like that.”

He laughs, then, low and real. It’s a sound that curls around your ribs and settles there. The kind you want to hear again.

Your milkshake arrives, and you both pretend to care about it. You drink slowly, and he watches the way your fingers curl around the glass.

He reaches into his jacket again—not for a flower this time, but a crumpled piece of paper. You glance over. It’s… a sketch. Of the diner. You. Sort of.

“Wait—did you draw this?” you ask, startled.

He immediately tries to take it back. “It’s nothing.”

You yank it out of reach, grinning. “Oh my god, Carter. This is actually good. You’re, like… secretly artistic?”

“Don’t make it a thing,” he mutters, ears just barely pink. “I was bored. You sit still a lot.”

You tuck the paper into your bag, carefully. "Yeah, well. I like your kind of bored."

Carter watches you for a moment, expression unreadable. Then he reaches across the table and steals the cherry off your milkshake.

"Hey!"

He pops it into his mouth, smirking. “Mine now. Tax for sitting through your tragic order.”

You kick his ankle under the table. He doesn't move. Just leans back in the booth with that lazy, sharp grin, looking at you like you're the most interesting thing in the world.

You don't say it—but maybe he already knows.

And maybe, if you’re lucky, he’ll keep bringing you weird flowers at 2 a.m. and calling it nothing.

..

.

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

You're not "busy", you're just "lazy"

Ah, dear Anonymous, proud citizen of the ever-thriving and ever-growing metropolis of Auda!!!

I see you have arrived today bearing the most astounding revelation—one that must have required unparalleled wisdom, deep contemplation, and no doubt an intense study of my personal affairs.

"You’re not ‘busy,’ you’re just ‘lazy.’”

Fascinating.

Such an insight could only be delivered by one who possesses a mind sharper than Eöl’s finest blade, a perception keener than the keenest eyes of the Eldar.

And yet—allow me to counter your revelation with one of my own.

You see, the esteemed individual who lends their hands and wit to our words—our dear OP, whom Eredin and I hold in the highest regard—happens to be among the most industrious souls I have ever known. I cannot reveal too much, of course (the secrecy must be maintained, lest the shadows of Auda send forth their agents to uncover her many deeds), but suffice it to say: she does a great deal.

A great deal more, I would wager, than you, noble Anonymous, who sits upon your lofty throne of indolence and proclaims judgment upon those who actually move.

Busy, she is. Tirelessly so. She writes, she works, she studies, she creates. To claim her efforts as "laziness" is akin to saying that a Balrog is merely a candle with aspirations. It is absurd.

Oh, dearest Anonymous, most esteemed oracle of my personal affairs, knower of all things, seer of truths—tell me, what grand feats have you accomplished today?

Did you rise at dawn to forge the very pillars of Arda with your bare hands?

Did you compose an epic so moving that the Valar themselves wept upon hearing it?

Have you, perhaps and it is just a thought, even managed to accomplish something as simple as minding your own business?

Or did you simply crawl out of your little hole, crack your knuckles, and think, Ah yes, today I shall bestow my divine wisdom upon the masses and inform someone I do not know that they are lazy?

You have contributed to what, exactly? A single line of uninspired drivel meant to provoke? How noble. How useful. I am sure the history books shall sing of your deeds for generations to come.

So, let me extend to you a most generous piece of advice: the next time you feel the urge to open your mouth (or let your fingers run wild across your keyboard) with nothing but nonsense to offer, consider, perhaps, the revolutionary concept of not doing that.

[13curses]

𐔌 cockwarming toji after a horror movie scares you ! mdni

𝔀arning. fem!reader, age gap, comfort n sillies except for p in v <3 wc. 1,625 ⟢

you promised your new boyfriend toji you'd be just fine if you guys were to watch a horror movie. a borderline dumb, pig's blood type of slasher would've been just fine, except a psychological found footage horror has piqued your interest. toji claims if you were a cat, curiousity would kill you.

and it does bite you in the ass at three o’clock when you find yourself shifting, having to pee enough for it to wake you up. except . . your silly mind decides to flash images from the movie, hell, your dazed state convinces you that if you're to grab your phone and unlock it, your lockscreen will be from the movie.

your heart quickly begins to palpate and you dare not open your eyes, instead you curl up like the aforementioned kitten toji compared you to. speaking of toji, you've stopped cuddling a couple of hours ago, and as far as you know from the pitch black scenario, you're facing away from one another.

it's fine, it's cool, it's a hot night in the midst of spring and sometimes not glueing to each other is for the best when it comes to comfort. not this time, though.

“toji..?” you mumble.

no response. deep slumber. you hear his soft snorts, you even get petrified when they're delayed after one another.

“toji..” you call out again, voice in a higher pitch, more desperate. you turn to face his back—eyes still shut—and reach out to tap at his chiseled, uncovered back.

you whimper, and like a sleeper agent, toji grunts himself awake, head turning left-n-right, confused.

“mmwhat? what?” he grumbles, chest roaring as he shifts to face you.

he reaches out, and you’re glad he takes the initiative to move closer ‘cause you hold onto his arm for dear life, bringing it to your neck like a scarf. his biceps are adamantine even when he’s not flexing them. his calloused hand, immediately cupping your head, is kind.

“bad dream?” he asks in a suspicious tone with a bit of a told ya so meaning. you hook your hands over his muscles, humming.

“not exactly.” you huff shakily. “i have to pee . .”

toji gnaws at his own saliva, voice hoarse from awakening at dawn. “you panicked ‘cause ya have to pee?”

“no, stupid!” you exclaim, a cartoony wobble in your defensive voice. “i can’t go alone . .”

toji scoffs through his nose, hot breath fanning your face. he attempts taking his arm from you to sit up, but the inevitable force of you not letting go causes him to readjust his movement: he wraps both arms around you, unfolding your curled up state, and easily brings you upwards.

“let’s get you potty-trained, then.”

“you’re horrible.” you mumble, yet as soon as you’re scooped from the messy sheets, you vine your limbs around your boyfriend and bore your nose into his shoulder.

“sure . . shit, your heart’s ‘boutta pop out, sweet thing.”

throughout your trip to the bathroom, toji tells you he wasn’t affected by the horrors at all; he kept in mind that it was all acted out, scripted fiction. in fact, there were probably many bloopers and costume-design mishaps when it came to the part that frightened you the most.

waiting for you to finish, he leans against the counter, scratching his ribs, licking the scar across his lips. you apologise for lying about being fine with the genre and he says he doubts it counts as a lie as he pats your head, placing a lazy kiss in your hair.

when you’re carried back to bed, you intertwine to cuddle.

“you gonna be fine, doll?”

“yeah. you’re . . okay with snuggling, right? i know it’s a bit hot for it.”

“heh. you were not this concerned about clinging ‘ta me when we were just fooling around.”

you sigh, defeated, ear pressed against toji’s chest, listening to his much calmer pulse—trying to synchronise your own heartbeat with it.

“hey, now. you’re scared. i get it. if anyone or anything did come out of the screen to haunt you-”

you nestle impossibly closer at just the idea of that.

“. . which is not happening.” he articulates distinctly. “regardless, i would beat the fuck out of them, even in my sleep.”

you hum in understanding, feeling much more content with his raspy voice talking you out of it. “please stay close all night.”

toji nuzzles your side, trimmed nails soothing your skin. it’s silent for a second.

“wanna make sure i do?”

you look up at him, lashes fluttering in question.

“how? do we wear handcuffs, or?”

toji snorts, humoured, and you smile at the reaction you gain. “no. you’d rip me off the bed with the way you can toss around, sweets. i’m thinkin’ about being inside you.”

oh.

“you mean cockwarming?”

“if it needs a name, sure.”

you give it some thought, seconds pass by, and soon toji’s limbs feel heavier around you, meaning he will fall asleep in a blink if you don’t respond now.

“yes. okay.”

“attagirl.”

the sound of sheets ruffling fills the room as toji leisurely gets rid of his sweatpants and you roll down your panties. “lemme prep you, okay?”

you nod definitively—his massive hands meet your thighs that fit his grip like perfect handles. you hook a leg over his waist so he has more access. he continues palming one thigh of yours, other hand hovering over your chest to meet your nipple under his your tee.

you wince at his touch, buckling your crotch onto his abs. a kiss is placed on your forehead, then between your brows, nose, and you lift your chin when you comprehend that he wants to make out. tasting one another’s sugary lips softly, you claw at his chest dully, heaving delicately.

“can i help you, too?”

toji bites your plush lip slowly before answering, “your reactions are enough to get me going, baby. but if you wanna touch, ‘m all yours, yeah?”

“yeah.” you agree instantly. he finds your eagerness adorable.

as you wander down his torso, fingertips appreciating the way he’s carved, his touch between your lega travels to your core, too. he’s truthful—your little whines and so were enough to get him semi-hard. his large cock curves into your small hold impressively. it makes your breath hitch.

“it doesn’t bite.” he teases.

“it can be mean, though.”

true, his stupidly colossal dick has proved itself to be a menace to your cervix a number of times, but right now, its intentions are not entirely carnal. your comfort device will be oh-so-filling and lovely.

you form a fist around his girth. he lets go of your thigh and brings his index fingers to your mouth, “lick them for me.”

you oblige, pink tongue glossing his digits, even attaching your lips onto them. your teeth graze him as he removes his fingers, you’d keep on sucking if you didn’t know the purpose of getting them wet.

toji brings his hand down to seperate your semi-slick folds, tips lightly pressing against your pearly nub, welcoming it in a circular motion. you pant out in pleasure, fist tightening around his cock as you stimulate him so you have him inside you as soon as possible.

his thumb is pushed against your crotch as he cups your cunt, murmuring in satisfaction at your warmth. “you feel relaxed, little one?”

“yes.”

he moans harshly at the way your thumb crease brushes his mushroom tip. you grind onto him again, and shortly after, your flowing arousal makes a squelching noise below toji’s rubs. it’s all so sensual, you almost wish you didn’t have to end the foreplay.

however, when toji reaches down to take his cock from your clutch, positioning himself between your shorter self, the mere surface of his crown lets you know just how good, how fulfilled you’re about to be.

once in position, he grabs your hips—both of your eyes fixated on the contact happening—to help himself sink, sink, sink into your irreplaceable, gooey hole. he grits his teeth behind ajar lips, and as collected as he is, you’re not with your perfect little 0 shaped mouth.

“biiig stretch, fuck-that’s it.”

(you can tell he’s having a hard time refraining from thrusting into you beyond that.)

“oh…” you exhale, feeling compensated. there’s an itch that penetration scratches, especially when it comes to your boyfriend and his glove-fitting size. not having him move or explore your sweet spot is a bit weird for now, though, and your petal-like walls promptly clamp down on him, your body adjusting to the state of being still.

he hisses, “don’t jinx it.”

your eyes open wide and you beg his pardon, “jinx it?! i can’t loosen it. how about you go more limp?”

he looks you dead in the eye, trying hard to keep focused. he looks so serious to the naked eye, it makes you want to laugh, but that would have you squeezing him tighter, so you bring your hand to your mouth to bite your knuckles, pausing your breath.

toji rolls on his back, flipping you onto his chest as you remain smiling. your pooling wetness guarantees him a ludicrous feeling of warmth, and in return, his rock hardness fills you up deliciously.

you lay your head sideways on his chest, fingers sweetly scraping his side as you’re getting used to the sensation.

“you’re so fuckin’ cute.”

you scoff, relaxing as he gifts you by running his fingers through your hair, caressing your scalp. “you’re so handsome, toji.”

he leans down to kiss you, once long, then just a peck for a good night’s sake.

“good night, pretty baby.”

“good night, toji.”

. . .

“shit. we didn’t check under the bed for monsters.” he taunts.

you squeeze.

[zuzu-tries-to-write]

“What Did You Just Call Me?”

Requests are free btw!!

—————————————

It was a lazy afternoon in Bakugo’s dorm, and you were sprawled out on his bed, lying on your stomach as you scrolled through your phone. Katsuki sat beside you, his back against the headboard, lazily playing with your hair—something he’d never admit he enjoyed, but you knew better.

Everything was peaceful, comfortable, perfect.

Until you accidentally ruined it.

“Hey, Bakugo, can you hand me my charger?” you asked absentmindedly.

The moment the words left your lips, you felt the shift in the air.

Silence.

You blinked, turning your head to look at him, and—oh.

Oh, no.

Bakugo had completely stopped moving. His fingers, which had been gently playing with your hair, were now frozen. His crimson eyes slowly slid toward you, narrowing.

“The hell did you just call me?”

You swallowed, realizing your mistake.

Normally, you called him “babe,” “baby,” or sometimes, if you were feeling extra affectionate, “Katsu.” You had never—not once—called him by his last name since you started dating.

It felt so wrong.

You let out a nervous laugh, sitting up slightly. “Uh… I meant babe?”

His scowl deepened. “Yeah? Didn’t sound like it.”

“I just wasn’t thinking!” You scrambled to fix it, reaching for him, but Bakugo was already on a mission.

“Say it again,” he demanded, crossing his arms.

“Say what?”

“The dumb shit you just said.”

You bit your lip, fighting a smile. “Bakugo?”

His face instantly twisted in disgust.

“The fuck?” He looked genuinely offended, like you had personally betrayed him. “Why does that sound so damn formal?!”

You lost it, bursting into giggles. “I mean, it is your name!”

“Yeah, but not from you,” he grumbled.

You could see it now—the way his ears were slowly turning pink, his arms tightening over his chest in that way he always did when he was secretly sulking but too stubborn to admit it.

And oh my god.

He was pouting.

Not a full-on pout, of course, because he was Bakugo Katsuki, but his bottom lip jutted out slightly, his brows furrowed, and he refused to look at you directly.

Your heart completely melted.

“Aww, Katsu,” you cooed, sitting up fully and crawling into his lap. “Are you mad at me?”

“Tch.” He refused to answer, but his hands instinctively grabbed your waist, pulling you closer.

You grinned, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You’re so cute when you’re grumpy.”

His eyes snapped back to you, glowering. “Shut up.”

You leaned in, your nose brushing against his. “You’re my baby, not my Bakugo.”

His eyes flickered to your lips, his grip on your waist tightening.

“Yeah?” His voice was lower now, rougher, teasing. “Then prove it.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

You closed the distance, pressing your lips against his in a soft, lingering kiss.

At first, it was sweet, gentle—like an apology. Your fingers slid into his messy blonde hair, tugging slightly, and you felt the way his body reacted instantly.

His hands gripped your waist tighter, pulling you flush against him. The moment you sighed against his lips, he tilted his head, deepening the kiss.

And just like that, it was game over.

His lips moved against yours hungrily, his hands wandering, fingertips brushing under your shirt, tracing slow, lazy circles on your skin. His breath was warm, intoxicating, and the way he kissed you—slow but desperate, rough but soft all at once—it made your head spin.

You barely had time to think before he flipped you both over, pressing you down against the mattress.

“Say it again,” he murmured, his lips ghosting along your jaw.

Your breath hitched. “Say what?”

He smirked, brushing a slow, teasing kiss against your neck. “The cute one.”

Your cheeks burned as you whispered, “Baby.”

His lips curved against your skin. “Damn right.”

Then he kissed you again, like he was making sure you’d never call him anything else ever again.

[littlelamy]

sleeping with rafe

Rafe couldn’t sleep without you. Whether it was his bed, your bed, or even the couch, he needed you beside him, wrapped up tight, grounding him in a way only you could. Tonight was no different. The moment you slipped under the covers, he pulled you into his arms, sighing deeply as he buried his face against your chest. After a long, exhausting day, all he wanted was to be tangled up with you.

Usually, he preferred to be the big spoon, wrapping you up in his embrace like a protective barrier against the world. But tonight, he craved your warmth more than ever. He nestled his way down, resting his head on your chest, sighing contentedly as he felt your soft skin under his cheek, the rhythm of your heartbeat lulling him. His hand drifted beneath your shirt, fingers gliding over your bare skin, sending tingles through you.

“Missed you,” he murmured, pressing soft kisses against the delicate skin just above your heart. His lips traveled slowly across your chest, savoring each inch, each gentle curve. When he finally reached your nipple, he paused, eyes fluttering shut as he closed his lips around it, sucking softly, his tongue flicking teasingly against the sensitive skin. (rafe having an oral fixation > )

A shiver ran through you, and your breath hitched as you tangled your fingers in his hair, feeling the heat pool low in your stomach. Rafe smiled against you, clearly enjoying your reactions as he took his time, lost in the warmth of you. Each slow pull of his mouth was both possessive and adoring, a perfect blend that made you feel cherished.

“God, you’re so soft… so perfect,” he whispered, pulling back for a moment to watch your face, relishing the flush on your cheeks. He pressed his cheek against your chest again, listening to your heartbeat, tracing gentle patterns across your waist with his fingers.

But as the moments stretched on, you felt that familiar pressure building in your bladder, and you knew you’d have to get up. You tried to shift out of his hold, but Rafe wasn’t having it. Even as you tried to ease your way out from beneath him, his grip tightened, instinctively, possessively and with a sleepy groan.

“Where are you going?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep, his arms looping around you like a vice.

“I… I have to get up,” you whispered, trying not to disturb him too much. He just groaned, shaking his head as he snuggled even closer, tightening his hold like he thought you might just disappear if he let go.

“Just a few more minutes,” he murmured, pressing a sleepy kiss to your collarbone, his face still buried against your chest. “Stay.”

You chuckled softly, heart warming at how attached he was, even if it meant you were stuck for the time being. But eventually, nature’s call grew too insistent, and you had to put your foot down.

“Rafe, I really have to go,” you said, a bit more firmly this time. His eyes fluttered open, and he looked up at you, pouting slightly, as if to say how could you leave me like this?

With a defeated sigh, he finally relented, loosening his grip just enough to let you slip out of bed. But as you padded to the bathroom, you felt his presence right behind you, half-awake yet determined to stay close. You glanced over your shoulder to find him trailing you, eyes half-lidded and hair tousled, his expression one of pure sleep-addled stubbornness.

He leaned against the doorframe as you entered the bathroom, his gaze unwavering even as you went about your business. You shot him a look, but he only grinned, sliding down to sit by the door, resting his head against the wall with a lazy smile, as if this was perfectly normal behavior.

When you finally returned to bed, he wasted no time in gathering you back into his arms, settling back into his preferred spot on your chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin as he sighed in satisfaction.

“You’re not allowed to leave me again,” he muttered, voice muffled against you.

You chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, alright. I’m not going anywhere.”

And with that promise, he relaxed completely, his breathing evening out as he drifted back to sleep, held securely in the warmth of your embrace.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafecameroninterlude @sstargirln

[fear-is-truth]

𝓻afe cameron x reader ┊love language — gift giving .ᐟ

“rafe,” you called out, your voice echoing through the cameron house. no answer.

so you tried again; this time dragging his name into an exaggerated, sing-song drawl. “raaay-fe!” heavy footsteps thudded upstairs, followed by the sound of a door closing.“what?” he shouted back, voice muffled.

“come here!”

“why?”

“just come here!”

a few seconds later, your boyfriend appeared in the doorway, looking thoroughly unimpressed and a little keyed up. his hair was tousled, pupils blown—classic rafe, fresh off whatever coke he’d been doing upstairs. “this better be good—” he froze mid-sentence, his eyes locking on you sprawled on the living room rug like some sort of feral child.

in your palm was a small, lumpy rock.

“it’s a rock,” he said flatly, his tone teetering between confusion and exhaustion.

“a heart-shaped rock,” you sat up straighter. he blinked, taking an exaggerated second to process this revelation. “you called me downstairs… to look at a rock?”

“a heart-shaped rock,” you emphasised, offended by his lack of enthusiasm. “you don’t appreciate the finer things in life. plus, you’re so boring,” you added, clutching the rock dramatically to your chest. “this is a rare artifact. no wonder the universe gave it to me.”

“oh, trust me, the universe nailed it,” he said, crouching down to your level. his lips twitched when he got a closer look at the heart-shaped limestone in your hand.

“say you love me,” you declared suddenly, holding the rock up to his face like you were interviewing him.

“i love you,” no hesitation, as always.

“and?”

“and you’re—” he paused, giving the rock another long stare before looking back at you. “incredibly strange.”

“that’s the nicest compliment i’ve ever received.” you beamed, sitting up.

“you’re really keeping that?”

“keeping it?” you repeated, almost insulted. “no. you’re keeping it.” you thrust the rock into his hand, your expression daring him to fight it. “absolutely not. this is your cosmic rock,” he protested, trying to hand it back.

“too late,” you declared, pushing his hand away. “it’s a symbol of our eternal love.”

rafe sighed, staring at the rock, the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at his lips. without another word, he slipped it into his back pocket, shaking his head.

“eternal love, huh?”

you nodded solemnly, eyes wide. “forever and always.”

he brushed a stray piece of hair out of your face before leaning down to press an unhurried kiss to your forehead. “well. if the universe is handing out heart-shaped rocks for you, i guess i’ll keep it.”

“you’d better,” you mumbled, tugging him closer, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. “it’s important.”

rafe didn’t respond right away, just pressed his forehead against yours. his thumb brushed softly against your cheek, a lazy, tender gesture. “you’re right,” he murmured, so close his lips grazed yours as he spoke.

“it is important. but not as much as you.”

[thepencilnerd]

Glasses Be Damned

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader summary: Lazy Sunday mornings. You in his shirt. Him wearing—glasses? What could be better? genre/notes: domestic, tooth-rotting fluff, banter, implied-but-not-explicit smut, steamy and fluffy like the perfect scrambled eggs (or tofu), beard scruff, you being down so bad for your man in glasses, age-gap relationship word count: 1.8k a/n: happy sunday! I worship those damn 1x01 gifs that live in my head rent free

It was a sleepy Sunday morning. You’d stayed over the night before—his place, not yours—because he made a surprisingly excellent omelet and your apartment was a barren wasteland save for one expired can of soup and half a granola bar. You were planning on moving out soon anyway—leases expiring, schedules syncing, toothbrushes and charger cords already blurring the lines—and in with Robby.

One cold morning not long ago, you’d rushed into the hospital just a few minutes late, hair still dripping and teeth chattering from the walk over. Robby had looked up the second he saw you, eyes narrowing in concern, about to ask what was wrong.

You’d beat him to it. "My apartment’s basically falling apart," you said, breathless as you rubbed your arms. "No hot water, the heater’s busted, and I'm pretty sure there's black mold. I’ll call the landlord later. It’s fine."

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at you for a second longer, then quietly shuffled through the papers on the counter.

"You should move in with me," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You blinked. "What?"

So he repeated himself, just as casually. "Move into my place."

He said it like it was nothing—like he was asking you to grab coffee, or teach the interns how to perform proper chest compressions. Calm. Nonchalant. Then, as if to prove his point, he started listing the benefits: less commuting, better water pressure, warmer blankets, shared groceries, an actual place to hang your coat that wasn’t a pile on your chair, cuddle cards redeemable for forehead kisses and back rubs, and—most importantly—no more freezing walks alone or in the dark. He even threw in something about matching mugs and leaving notes on the fridge like it was a feature, not a fantasy.

You opened your mouth, prepared to deploy every avoidant tactic in the book—because even after dating for a couple of years now, there was still a part of you that worried about taking up too much space, too much of him. But before you could spiral into worrying about boundaries, permanence, or him getting sick of you, he looked up again and softened.

"Hey," he said gently. "If you’d rather find a new place, I’ll help you. Really. I just want you safe, healthy, and not at risk for mold poisoning or hypothermia."

Then, with the same ease as his offer, he pressed a warm kiss to your cheek. "See you in five," he murmured, as if he hadn’t just tilted your entire world off its axis, and walked away.

You stood there, frozen—and slowly, a small smile formed at the corners of your lips.

And that was it. No grand declarations. Just a calm, matter-of-fact offer that left no room for protest. So you said yes.

Robby had frozen for a second like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. And then—he lit up. That slow, rare smile spreading across his face like sunrise. He pulled you into a tight hug, spinning you once in the middle of the hallway, laughing against your temple. He kissed you—your cheek, your forehead, your lips—soft and quick and too many times to count, like he couldn’t believe his luck. Like he didn’t want to waste a second not holding you.

"You're going to regret it," you teased.

"Never," he said, kissing you again. "Not in a million years."

Now your things were already half there anyway—socks in drawers, your favorite mug on the drying rack, your name scribbled under his on the mail by the door. And every morning like this only made it feel more like home.

You’d rolled out of bed in one of his soft, worn-in T-shirts—the one with the hem that just barely skimmed your thighs—padding barefoot toward the kitchen in search of coffee, warmth, and maybe a kiss if you looked pathetic enough.

You’ve seen Robby in a dozen different states—bloody scrubs, half-asleep during pre-dawn rounds, in command in a trauma bay, soft and half-melted in post-call cuddles. But you’ve never—never—seen him in glasses.

Until today.

You weren’t expecting it. And there he was, standing at the kitchen counter, hair still a little tousled, wearing black, round-framed glasses while flipping through the newspaper like it was the 80s.

You froze.

He glanced up. "Good morning."

You stared. Mouth agape. Said nothing.

"What?" he asked, wary.

You pointed. "Since when do you wear glasses?!"

He blinked, then winced, lifting a hand to take them off. "I—only for reading. Usually. I forgot I had them on."

"No. No, no, no, no." You crossed the room like a woman possessed. "Do not take those off."

He paused, hand halfway to his face. "Why?"

You stepped closer, practically beaming as you drank him in with eyes like saucers. "Because that—is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life."

He stared at you like you’d just said you were into spleens. "You’re joking."

You weren’t. "Robby," you deadpanned. "You look like the hot professor everyone has a crisis about in college. It's a rite of passage."

"I’m decades older than you."

"Exactly! And only by a decade and a half. It’s working for you." You took a step closer and lowered your voice in the hopes of enticing him. "And totally doing it for me." 

He squinted, expression unreadable for a beat. "They make me look old." But his voice was softer now—like he wasn’t entirely put off by the idea. Like maybe, just maybe, his interest had been piqued.

"They make you look like you read poetry before bed and know how to ruin someone emotionally and intellectually."

He blushed—actually blushed.

You wrapped your arms around his waist, tugging him close. "Why have you been hiding this from me?"

"Because," he mumbled, suddenly very interested in the crossword puzzle, "I thought you’d think they made me look... I don’t know. Grandpa-ish."

"You’re out of your mind," you said, tugging the paper from his hands. "This is my Roman Empire now."

He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder. "You’re never letting this go, are you."

You grinned into his hair. "Not a chance."

His fingers skimmed under the hem of his shirt on your thighs—the one he always liked seeing you in, the one he claimed looked better on you than it ever did on him. His rough thumbs brushed against your bare skin in slow, reverent passes, toying with where the fabric met the soft curve of your hips. Goosebumps followed in their wake, your skin tightening under his touch.

He lingered there, gaze locked on the contrast between cotton and skin, the intimacy of it. The way you wore his shirt like it belonged to you—like he did. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his eyes darkened behind the lenses.

"You wore this on purpose, didn’t you?" he asked, voice low, one thumb brushing just beneath the hem like it had every right to be there.

You shrugged, playing innocent, but your smile was all heat. "It's pretty cozy."

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes soft but hooded, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss you or pin you to the nearest surface. "That’s not an answer."

You leaned in, lips brushing his jaw. "What are you going to do about it, sir?"

His breath hitched, gaze dipping to your lips before dragging back up to your eyes, hungry and tentative all at once. You felt the shift in the air—warmth curling low in your belly as his grip tightened, just slightly, like he was reminding himself you were real. And here. And his.

"You are unbelievable," he murmured, voice low and slightly hoarse, each word curling around the edges of a smile he couldn't quite suppress. There was awe behind it—fondness and a hint of reverence, like he still couldn't believe you were his.

"And you're absurdly attractive in those frames," you murmured, fingertips sliding up the back of his neck and into his hair, curling gently as you tugged him down to meet you. The kiss you gave him was slow, thorough, but it carried heat—a teasing sort of promise beneath the softness.

His hands spanned your waist, thumbs brushing bare skin with growing intent as he kissed you back, deepening it until your breath hitched against his mouth. The glasses stayed on, slightly askew, and it only made your pulse race harder.

You gasped softly when his lips left yours to trail along your jaw, then just beneath your ear, the scruff of his beard dragging deliciously against your skin. It was just long enough to rasp, to make you shiver, to remind you that this wasn't just soft Sunday morning, off-duty Dr. Robby—this was all of him. "This what does it for you?" he murmured, voice husky, lips brushing your pulse point, beard scraping lightly as he spoke.

"God, I want you to ruin me," you whispered, lips ghosting the shell of his ear, your voice low and just shy of reverent. The grin on your face was wicked, but there was no mistaking the heat behind it—the way your breath caught, the way your body leaned into his like gravity had given up pretending.

He stilled for a moment, like you’d short-circuited something vital in him. Then, wordless and driven by something primal, he kissed you again—hungrier now, hands roaming, touch reverent and desperate all at once.

You giggled against his mouth, breathless. "Race you to the bedroom. Winner gets bragging rights and top position."

His eyes flared with something dangerous and amused. "Is that a challenge?"

"I’m just saying," you murmured, backing out of his arms with a wicked grin, "you’re not the only one with stamina, Dr. Robinavitch."

The next second, you bolted.

Robby cursed softly, then took off after you with a kind of urgency that had nothing to do with competition and everything to do with getting his hands back on you.

Your laughter echoed down the hallway—right up until he caught you halfway to the bedroom, spun you around, and pressed you back against the nearest wall like he’d just won gold.

"Called it," he murmured into your skin, beard scraping, lips insistent. "I can’t wait until this is every morning. Waking up to you, going to sleep with you…" he trailed kisses along your jaw, voice low and reverent as though he were citing a prayer.

You smiled against his mouth, fingers curling into his hair. "Then don’t let me go. Not tonight. Not ever."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and tender all at once. "You’re it for me."

The omelet could wait—left forgotten on the counter alongside the crossword and cold coffee. And the glasses? They stayed on. Fogged, slightly crooked, and forever etched into your memory.

[dksfml]

EIGHTEEN - YANG JUNGWON (PART I)

pairing: fboy!jungwon x reader summary: where on your 18th birthday, you receive a blessing that lets you see the future, only to find yourself married to jungwon, the college heartthrob you’ve barely spoken to, with a child calling you mom. genre: college au, university au, soulmate (?) au, making out, fluffff, jungwon has a big bike (that's hot tbh) word count: 7.6k playlist: 18 - one direction, stuck with u - ariana grande & justin bieber, you belong with me - ts, lavender haze - ts, wish that i could - umi, meddle about - chase atlantic

masterlist.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

But you wake up to a warmth that doesn’t belong to your real life.

You’re lying on your side, skin pressed to something solid, someone. There’s a strong arm wrapped around your waist, holding you in place like you might float away. His grip isn’t rough, just sure. Certain. Like he’s done this every morning for years.

Your breathing catches.

The room is bathed in soft morning light, golden and quiet. Dust drifts through the air, glinting like stars. It smells like sunlight and cotton and something so familiar it makes your throat tighten.

You try to move to lift your arm, to turn your head but your body doesn’t listen. It’s not frozen… just heavy. Like something else is moving for you.

And then his voice finds you.

Low. Smooth. Sleep-warmed and fond.

“You’re not allowed to run away this morning.”

Your heart stutters.

“Not until I’ve had enough of you.”

The words are dipped in something dangerously soft. Like honey laced with electricity. They settle over your skin, deep and warm, and suddenly you’re not sure if you’re breathing at all.

Your head turns slowly, not by your own will.

And then you see him.

Jungwon.

Older. Sharper. Ridiculously handsome.

His hair is tousled, lashes casting shadows over cheekbones that have grown into sharper lines. His lips part slightly as he smiles at you. Lazy, teasing, like he already knows every inch of your heart.

But it’s his eyes that undo you.

He looks at you like you belong to him.

Like you always have.

“I didn’t think you could get prettier,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against your cheek. “But here you are proving me wrong. Again.”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. You’re stuck somewhere between awe and confusion. And even though your mind is spinning, your body melts into his touch like it’s been doing this for years.

His hand slides slowly up your arm, fingers curling against your back like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your spine.

“Come on,” he whispers, voice dropping lower. “Just five more minutes.”

“Let me have you to myself. Just five more.”

You try to answer, to say what is this? or what’s happening? But your lips move without sound.

There’s no fear. Just a strange pressure in your chest. Like your heart is trying to remember something your brain won’t accept yet.

“I have to get up,” you manage, barely.

He tenses behind you. Then—

“No,” he says instantly, his arms tightening. “You get up, I have to share you. I’m not ready.”

The words come out softer than they should. Almost like a confession.

You whisper his name. “Jungwon…”

At the sound of it, he exhales shakily, like you’ve touched something sacred.

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering closed.

“Let me love you quietly… just a little longer.”

And before you can say anything more, your body moves, like instinct.

You slip from his arms, legs brushing the edge of the bed. Your bare feet hit the hardwood. It’s warm.

Too real.

You reach for something at the foot of the bed and your hand wraps around fabric, his hoodie. You slip it over your head like you’ve done it a thousand times.

And you walk barefoot into the quiet glow of a house that isn’t yours… but somehow feels like it.

The hallway is lined with soft light and softer memories.

A second toothbrush beside the sink. Two mugs on the drying rack. A stray sock by the couch that definitely isn’t yours.

You pause outside the kitchen.

There, on the wall framed in wood worn smooth by time is a photograph.

You can’t breathe.

It’s you.

Smiling, windswept, holding a laughing boy in your lap. Jungwon is behind you, arms around both of you, lips pressed to your temple like he never wants to let go.

The boy is bright and soft and radiant, about five, maybe, and his name tumbles out of your mouth before you even think it.

“Jihoon…”

You don’t know how you know.

You just do.

Suddenly—

“Eommaaaa!”

Tiny footsteps thunder down the hall like a stampede of joy.

Before you can react, a small boy in dino pajamas hurls himself into your legs with all the power his little body can muster.

You catch him somehow. Arms instinctively cradling him close.

“Jihoon…” you breathe again.

He grins, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. “I want toast! And Appa said I can have Choco milk if I say please like a gentleman!”

You laugh. It feels strange coming out of your throat. Like a sound from someone else’s body. But it feels right.

And then a voice behind you—

“I also said you have to kiss your mom good morning. Or I get double.”

You turn, slowly, heart already racing.

Jungwon walks into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed and unfairly beautiful. His shirt is half-buttoned, collar wide, hair falling across his forehead. He looks like a dream.

But his smile?

That smile is real.

“Hi,” he says softly.

“You left the bed too early.”

You don’t speak.

You can’t.

He walks right up to you, presses a kiss to your temple, then one to Jihoon’s cheek.

“Unfair,” he whispers in your ear. “Wearing my hoodie and stealing my whole heart before breakfast.”

Your throat tightens.

And before you can answer, he scoops Jihoon into one arm and turns toward the stove, all casual affection and practiced ease.

“I’ll make the eggs,” he says with a smirk.

“You just stand there and look pretty.”

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The alarm blares, a sharp, unforgiving sound that rips you from sleep. Your body is sluggish as you roll over, eyes still half-closed. There’s a strange weight on your chest, like something that doesn't belong to you. You reach for it instinctively, only to find the bed beside you empty.

You freeze.

That dream. That dream.

The warm embrace of Jungwon’s arms around you. His voice, low and possessive, as he held you like you were his and his alone. The image of Jihoon, smiling up at you as his tiny hands reached for you, and you just knew his name. It all felt so real, like you could feel their presence even now.

You shut your eyes tightly, trying to push it all away.

But no—this isn’t real.

This isn’t how your life is.

Your heart starts to race. It was just a dream. Or was it?

You groggily grab your phone from the nightstand and swipe across the screen, your thumb trembling slightly. The words are there, just as they always are when your birthday arrives:

🎉 Happy 18th Birthday, Y/N! 🎉

It's time to check your Blessing 💫

You blink, trying to focus. You’ve been waiting for this moment. Everyone has been waiting for this moment.

In this world, everyone receives their Blessing on their 18th birthday. It’s a gift, a special power that defines your life. But it only comes once a year—on your birthday—and you can only use it that day.

Blessings are a mysterious and magical part of life. Some people get practical abilities like the gift of perfect memory or the ability to always know when someone is lying. Others receive mind-bending abilities like controlling the weather, seeing through time, or reading minds. There are even rare Blessings that come with superhuman strength or the ability to heal wounds with a single touch.

It’s always a huge deal. Everyone anxiously awaits what their Blessing will be, and it shapes their path forward. Some Blessings are more powerful than others, but no one ever knows until the moment it activates.

And today... it’s your turn.

You swallow, nervous. This is the day you’ve been waiting for, the day when you finally get to know what you’re meant to do in life. A strange fluttering sensation rises in your chest as you tap on the notification, feeling your heartbeat louder than before.

"Blessing Activated: The ability to see into the future."

You blink, your heart skipping a beat. You read it again.

See into the future.

Your mind instantly flashes back to that dream. Jungwon. Your son. The home. The family. Everything that felt too real.

But no. No way. That’s not possible. It can’t be.

It was just your wild imagination running rampant, a byproduct of your complicated feelings for Jungwon, the popular, carefree guy who could charm the entire campus with a smile and a wink. The one who always seemed to have a crowd of girls following him around, eagerly hanging on to his every word, craving his attention. It wasn’t his fault. He was just... well, Jungwon, always in the spotlight, effortlessly cool, and always a little out of reach.

You, on the other hand, were the ideal responsible student body president, constantly trying to keep everything in order while keeping your unaddressed feelings for him under wraps. It wasn’t supposed to be anything more than that, a fleeting daydream. Your mind must've just tangled everything up, creating a perfect world where you were married to him and raising a child. But no. You couldn't let yourself believe it was real.

It was just another one of those wild, embarrassing fantasies... right?

That’s all it was. Right?

You shake your head, trying to banish the thought. But deep down, you feel the weight of the words still pressing on your chest.

The bell rings, signaling the start of the school day. You drag yourself out of your seat, trying to focus on the tasks ahead, but the words on your phone, the words about seeing the future linger in your mind.

Your Blessing has been activated. And yet, you're not sure if you should even believe it.

How can that be your Blessing? How could you see the future? Maybe the system made a mistake. Maybe you read it wrong. There’s no way that what you saw in your dream could be your actual future, right?

You’re so lost in thought that you almost miss Sunoo sitting down beside you, his usual wide grin greeting you with far too much energy.

“So, Y/N, any plans for your Blessing today?” He’s practically bouncing in his seat, eyes sparkling. “I’m so jealous! It’s going to be so cool! What did you get?”

You glance at him, blinking rapidly to clear your head. “I... I’m still trying to figure it out,” you mumble, your voice sounding unsure, even to yourself. “It’s just... hard to process.”

Sunoo giggles. “Of course you are. It’s always hard to accept, right? I mean, last year, my sister got the ability to talk to animals. She’s been living with a pet snake for months now, and I swear, that thing is smarter than me. Some people get the craziest gifts! It’s just so exciting.”

You nod, trying to sound upbeat, but the mention of talking to animals only makes you feel even more confused. There are so many kinds of Blessings: there’s the ability to control fire, to read minds, to move objects with a glance, and some less flashy ones, like the ability to memorize anything you hear, or even the ability to speak every language fluently.

But seeing the future?

You shake your head. No way. That’s... too much. Way too much.

“Hey, Y/N, did you get your notification?” Sunoo asks, leaning in curiously. “I bet it’s something super cool. You’re going to be amazing with your Blessing.”

You can barely focus on his words as you pull out your phone again, a dull weight settling in your stomach. You scroll through the notification. Still there. Still the same message.

"Blessing Activated: The ability to see into the future."

You try to dismiss it. Your mind starts to race. Could it really be true? Could you really see the future? You look around the classroom, feeling a sudden wave of self-doubt. Was this a mistake? Or was your mind still so caught up in that dream with Jungwon, that it created something out of fantasy?

You glance out the window, distracted by the thought of what your future could hold. And yet, despite the fluttering feeling in your chest, you can’t shake the nagging thought at the back of your mind: What if it’s real?

The soft hum of the classroom was interrupted by the creak of the door opening, and in walked Jungwon.

“Holy shit,” someone whistles from across the room, dropping their pen. “Jungwon, you look like you just ran a marathon.”

You turn your head, and there he is.

Coming in the doorway, disheveled in a way that shouldn't look good but somehow does. His white button-up clings to his frame, damp and slightly wrinkled, the top two buttons undone to reveal a sharp collarbone slick with sweat. His usually styled hair falls messily across his forehead, and he’s practically glowing under the fluorescent light like chaos wrapped in charm.

Someone tosses him a bottle of water.

“What happened to you?” another guy laughs. “It’s third period, man.”

Jungwon catches the bottle effortlessly, twisting off the cap like he owns the moment. “Big bike broke down,” he says, taking a long drink before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Tire popped near Namsan intersection.”

“Damn. That sucks.”

“Why didn’t you call a cab or something?”

Jungwon’s lips curl into that infamous smirk, the one that always starts trouble.

“Couldn’t,” he says casually. “Left my wallet last night.”

“Where?”

He pauses dramatically, eyes flicking to the side before he says it:

“Some girl’s dorm.”

The silence is brief but heavy. Then, like clockwork, the room breaks into amused groans and howling laughter.

“You’re insane,” someone cackles.

“Bro. Again?”

“Whose this time?”

Jungwon just laughs, tossing his bag onto a nearby desk and shrugging out of his damp uniform jacket like he’s done this a hundred times. Which based on reputation, he probably has.

You look away, jaw clenched.

What were you thinking?

He might be handsome, charming, and seemingly always the center of attention, but that’s not you. You’re the class president. Always prepared, always on time. The responsible one professors rely on. You’ve talked to him maybe—what—twice? You barely share two classes, and even then, he never remembers to bring his ID, you even reprimanded him about that one time.

And yet this morning, you saw yourself in his bed.

His arms around you. His lips on your cheek. A little boy, Jihoon calling you Eomma.

A wild fantasy. That’s all it could be. A side effect of your Blessing. A trick of your crush-riddled brain.

Because that boy over there? The one with sweat dripping down his temple and a lazy grin on his lips while he talks about his nightly rendezvous like it’s a joke?

You take a breath, as if that thought alone should pull you back into reality.

But then you can’t help but glance at him again. The way his hair falls messily over his forehead, the glint of mischief in his eyes, how effortlessly the attention of the room falls on him like gravity pulling in everything around him.

And as your thoughts spiral, Jungwon catches your eye again. This time, he doesn’t look away. His gaze lingers just a second longer than it should, a playful glint sparking in the depths of his dark eyes. It's almost like he can sense your gaze, like he's aware of the tension in the air.

The weight of it all hits you. There’s no way someone like Jungwon could ever be husband material for you.

But you did have a crush on him, don’t you?

The question hits you like an electric jolt, and the realization makes your skin burn with embarrassment. You feel like a fool. A huge, pathetic fool for letting this fantasy play out, for letting him take up so much of your headspace when he barely knows you exist.

Your heart stutters, and you quickly look away, desperately trying to regain some semblance of control. No, you tell yourself. He’s not for you.

He’s not someone you fall in love with.

He's someone you survive.

That night, you had a plan.

A quiet café near the riverside, your favorite spot, where the view of the night city glimmers like constellations trapped in water. You’d go there alone, sip on something warm, pretend the world paused just for you, and think.

About the dream.

About the Blessing.

About how stupid it is to have someone like him trapped in your mind like he’s yours.

But before that… duty calls. Being class president means more than title and praise—it’s also staying late to organize reports other people forget exist. You’re hunched over your desk in the empty student council room, sorting folders by department, your phone buzzing softly against the desk.

It’s a message from Sunoo.

Sunooooo 🐥:

hey prez 😗 i left my USB in the drama club office, can u grab it for me?? it’s in the drawer beside the speaker. i owe u 2 bubble teas 😭🙏

You sigh, push your chair back, and stretch your arms. The building’s almost empty now, the halls eerily quiet, lights buzzing faintly overhead.

The drama club’s room is on the third floor. You climb the stairs, footsteps echoing, your mind halfway to the riverside already.

The door creaks open when you push it gently.

And everything inside you halts.

Your breath catches. The air leaves your lungs before your brain can tell you what you’re seeing.

Jungwon.

His back is to you, but you’d recognize him anywhere, even with his uniform shirt half-off, even with his mouth locked on someone else's neck like he’s starving, even with a girl tangled around him, her skirt pushed up high on his thigh, hands pulling him closer.

It’s raw, messy. Real.

The girl gasps and pulls away first, eyes widening in panic.

Jungwon turns. Hair mussed. Lips swollen. Chest rising and falling fast.

The room falls silent. Everything slows.

He sees you.

“Y/N?” he says, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just split your world open.

You feel your legs move before your mind catches up. You don’t say a word. You just back away, out the door, letting it click shut behind you.

You don’t remember how you got out of that room.

The door closed behind you with a click that felt too loud in the silent hallway, but your legs didn’t stop. You walked—no, stumbled—down the corridor like a ghost. Your heart still thunders in your chest, a strange mix of fury and humiliation burning behind your ribs.

You hear someone calling your name just as you turn the corner.

“Y/N!”

It’s Sunoo, jogging up to you with his usual bright energy and a hopeful grin. “Did you find the USB?”

You stop. Slowly turn to face him.

The expression on your face makes his smile falter.

“You—” your voice comes out shaky, then steadies with a strange coldness. “You seriously need to start screening the students in your club.”

Sunoo blinks. “Huh?”

“There’s a line, Kim Sunoo,” you snap, the words cutting sharper than you intended. “And whatever the hell was happening in that room? Way past it.”

He stares at you, brows furrowed in genuine confusion. “Wait, what are you—?”

You don’t wait for him to finish. “Tell your vice president to clean that space properly. And keep the door locked when it’s not in use.” Your tone is clipped. “This school has rules for a reason.”

And then you’re walking. Fast. Past the bulletin boards, down the stairs, out the doors into the open night air where it’s cooler, easier to breathe.

Sunoo calls your name once more behind you, but you don’t turn back.

You clutch your tote tighter, your steps hard on the pavement. Your thoughts spiral.

What the hell were you expecting?

That he was different?

That a man like Jungwon, irresistible, untouchable, a walking magnet of trouble and girls and charm would someday settle for someone like you?

You? The uptight, rule-following class president? The one who frowns at missed deadlines and documents everything in folders? You’ve spoken maybe twice. He probably doesn’t even remember what your voice sounds like.

The dream wasn’t a vision.

It was delusion.

A cruel, beautiful lie spun by a Blessing you hadn’t even asked for.

You sigh, pushing your hands through your hair as you finally round the corner, the warm light of the café now glowing just ahead. It’s quiet inside. A perfect place to sit with your thoughts, maybe even rewrite them into something less… pathetic.

But as you approach the glass doors, your reflection stares back at you.

Eyes wide.

Still shaken.

And behind all the anger, confusion, embarrassment—

There’s something else.

A flicker of hope that refuses to die.

What if it is the future?

What if, somehow, against all odds, things change?

And would you even want that?

You push the door open, the bell chiming softly above your head. The scent of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon wraps around you.

You find a seat by the window. You order something sweet.

And for the first time today…

You let yourself breathe.

The next day arrives colder than usual, the gray sky draping a slow, sleepy atmosphere over the campus. You’re halfway through skimming your notes at your desk when something plops onto the table beside your laptop.

You look up.

Sunoo grins, placing a cup of brown sugar bubble tea beside a bright yellow pack of gummy bears.

You blink. “What is this?”

He shrugs nonchalantly, but there’s a flicker of something mischievous in his eyes. “One of the two bubble teas I owe you.”

You raise a brow. “This?” Pointing at the pack of gummy bears.

He nods. “That’s... uh, from Jungwon.”

That makes you freeze.

Sunoo scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “He said I should give it to you since he felt bad about what happened yesterday. Said he didn’t mean for you to walk in on that.”

Your brows knit. You glance toward the door, scanning the incoming students. No sight of that familiar tall figure. “Where is he, then?”

Sunoo blinks. “Huh?”

“If he really felt bad,” you say, crossing your arms, “why can’t he say it to me upfront?”

Sunoo stammers. “Ah—he’s not skipping or anything. He just said he had something to take care of today.”

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

Sunoo shrugs again. “Lab research. BioChem. Said he’s getting data from the lab.”

Your eyes widen.

Lab research?

Your breath catches as you fumble to grab your phone. You had completely forgotten.

Two days ago, your Biochemistry professor had handed out a research task due in five days. You hadn’t even made a group chat yet for your team. You were supposed to assign roles, divide the work, set a meeting.

You swallow, fingers rushing to open your inbox and sure enough, there it is.

A message request from Jungwon, sent exactly two days ago.

hi y/n, i know we haven’t made the gc yet, but i was reviewing the assigned enzymes, so i made a quick draft of the intro and references. we can revise later. let me know if this is okay.

Attached is a PDF file.

You tap it open.

And you go still.

It’s… detailed. Clean. Formatted correctly. The citations are already APA 7th. He even included notes and potential corrections in the comments, like he expected you to edit it yourself.

Your eyes linger on the timestamp.

You feel a twist of guilt settle in your chest. Two whole days. And you only saw it now.

God, you think. He’s not just messing around all the time.

Jungwon may have the reputation of being a flirt, a wild card—hell, even that guy who disappears after parties—but his grades are stable. You’ve checked. Of course you have. And now, seeing this…

You hate that your heart flutters a little.

You shake it off. It’s ridiculous. You need to be logical. Collected.

Still, your fingers hover over the screen.

You type.

hey. sorry i just saw this. the draft looks good. where are you now?

You stare at the text, hesitate, then hit send.

The typing bubble doesn’t appear. Yet your chest is already tight.

Sunoo notices the way you keep looking at your phone.

“You okay?”

You hum noncommittally.

Because the truth is…

You don’t know what you want his reply to say.

Your phone stays silent all through your next class.

And the one after that.

You keep glancing at it when no one’s looking—pretending to scroll through lecture slides while secretly refreshing your messages. Nothing. Not even a “seen.”

By the time the afternoon rolls around, your head's a mess of static. You try to lose yourself in your workload, drowning in spreadsheets and professor emails, but everything tastes like paper and air. That dream still clings to the back of your mind like static on skin. Warm breath on your neck. That stupid soft voice calling you mine.

You shake it off again. It's all just hormones and brain chemistry and—yeah, maybe a little too much pining. You can get through this.

You push away from your desk, grabbing your bag. You’ll head to the lab early, maybe reorganize the data files. Be useful. Do something.

But as you exit the building, your heart stutters.

Jungwon is there.

Not in your imagination, not folded behind a dream, but actually there. At the shaded edge of the quad near the science wing, one foot propped against the wall, head tilted as he scrolls his phone. His uniform shirt is crumpled in that lazy way that’s probably not intentional but always looks intentional. His neck glistens faintly with leftover sweat from the walk, and his bangs stick slightly to his forehead.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

You freeze.

Part of you wants to turn around.

Part of you wants to go straight up and ask him why the hell he didn’t respond. Why he’s acting like nothing happened. Why your name still sits unopened in his inbox when he’s clearly online.

But mostly you just stand there.

Then, as if summoned by your indecision, he lifts his gaze.

Your eyes meet.

The air shifts. It doesn’t crash. Doesn’t burn. But it thickens.

He pushes off the wall slowly, slipping his phone into his back pocket, eyes locked on you.

No smirk. No signature grin.

Just him. Watching.

Then he calls, voice low but unmistakably Jungwon: “Hey. President.”

You stiffen.

Not Y/N.

Not even hey.

Just President. Detached. Teasing.

Like he didn’t make you spiral last night without even trying.

Like you didn’t see him tangled with another girl just hours after dreaming of his arms around you like a promise.

You square your shoulders.

“You got the lab data?” you ask plainly, walking forward with steady steps.

Jungwon nods, pulling a crumpled printout from his bag, and holds it out. “Compiled the results. Some weird numbers in the catalase trials, though. Might be a pipette issue.”

You take the paper, fingers brushing.

You pretend not to notice the tiny flicker in his eyes.

“Thanks,” you say, voice clipped. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

You turn to leave.

But just before you walk past him, his voice comes again, quieter this time, a little too casual.

“…You saw the file?”

You stop. Don’t face him. Just nod once.

“And?” he asks.

You pause again. Swallowing the lump of everything you could say.

“It’s good,” you mutter, before walking away.

You don’t look back.

But you feel his gaze burning into the space where your footsteps used to be.

That night, the campus is quieter than usual.

Most of the dorms have dimmed down, the courtyard echoing only with the soft chirp of cicadas and the occasional motorbike in the distance. You’re back in your room, the soft yellow desk lamp casting long shadows across your textbooks. The lab report glows on your screen, and your fingers move on autopilot, editing, cross-checking, reformatting Jungwon’s initial draft.

You hate how well-written it is.

Hate how focused he must’ve been when writing it.

Hate that he sent it before you even made a group chat.

He knew. He just… did it anyway.

The way your mind keeps replaying today’s encounter isn’t helping either. That careless tone. The unread message. The way he looked at you, not like you were someone he’d kissed or remembered, but like you were just another task to check off.

You sigh hard through your nose, shoving your glasses onto your head and pushing away from your desk. You grab your phone out of habit.

Still nothing from Jungwon.

You frown.

And then like a cruel joke your phone buzzes.

Unknown Number

[9:47 PM]

hey.

You blink.

The typing bubbles flicker, disappear, flicker again.

Then:

it’s jungwon.

You stare at it. Right, you never saved his number. You consider leaving it on seen, out of pure spite.

But then another message arrives.

thanks for checking the file.

Simple. Casual. No emojis. Not even a period. You almost roll your eyes.

You don’t respond right away.

The dots appear again.

are you still mad about yesterday.

Your jaw tightens. Your fingers hover over the screen, unsure whether to ignore or unleash. But before you decide—

it’s fine if you are. just wanted to say i wasn’t trying to... make you uncomfortable or anything.

You blink again. This time, slower.

Another message comes.

didn't know you’d walk in.

That annoys you. A flick of your thumb and you're typing fast before you can stop yourself.

[You]

Don’t flatter yourself. You didn’t make me uncomfortable.

[You]

I’ve seen worse.

You hit send and set your phone down, heart beating faster than you’d like to admit.

But he responds almost immediately.

you sure? you looked like you saw a ghost.

You inhale sharply.

[You]

I was just surprised. That’s all.

Typing bubbles again. Then pause. Then again.

sunoo said you looked pissed.

[You]

Well, maybe tell Sunoo to mind his business.

Another pause.

Then finally:

you don’t like me much, do you.

Your fingers freeze.

For a second, you consider lying. Saying of course not, brushing him off.

But your thumb hovers too long.

And somehow, you type:

[You]

I don’t really know you.

This time, it takes a little longer before he replies.

But when it comes, it’s unexpected.

then maybe let me fix that.

You blink at the screen.

The cursor waits, asking what you'll do next.

The next day, Jungwon is already waiting in the hallway by the science building when you arrive.

It’s unusual—he’s unusual.

Not late. Not surrounded by a gaggle of students laughing at his latest offhanded charm. He’s just… there.

Leaning against the white-tiled wall with his arms folded, sleeves rolled up, and the usual smirk playing at his lips. But this time, it’s softer. Almost thoughtful.

You slow your steps. Part of you wants to ignore him. Pretend last night’s conversation didn’t exist. Pretend he wasn’t the reason your thoughts kept short-circuiting through biochemistry formulas you didn’t study for.

But of course, he notices you before you even consider slipping away.

“Morning, President,” he calls, straightening from the wall. “I was starting to think you’d ditch lab today.”

You give him a sidelong glance. “Why would I?”

As you step inside the lab, Jungwon follows quietly, his footsteps just a beat behind yours. For once, he doesn’t try to fill the silence with jokes or idle flirtation.

Just as you reach for your lab coat, he says it. Casual, but too quiet to be harmless.

“You seemed a little different last night.”

You pause mid-button, fingers stilling at your collar. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, not meeting your eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe I had different views about you until yesterday.”

Your gaze narrows. “And what would you know about me last night?”

His lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “Just… stuff. The way you talked. Your messages. The way you suddenly replied. It felt different.”

There’s a weird pressure building in your chest. An old instinct, fight or flight.

Your voice comes out sharper than intended. “If this is your way of getting back at me for… walking into that night, then please—I hope you stop.”

That makes him blink.

For once, he doesn’t have a snarky comeback ready. He just watches you, expression unreadable, lips slightly parted like he wasn’t expecting that.

You drop your bag on the nearest chair and turn away from him, fixing your gloves with more focus than you need. The lab is silent except for the hum of overhead lights and the slow clink of glass being arranged.

And still, you can feel his gaze.

Heavy. Focused. Not the kind that undresses you, but the kind that unravels.

He doesn't speak again for the next ten minutes.

But whatever he’s thinking?

It lingers in the air between you strange, searching, and unsettlingly curious.

“Right, I read the sample analysis section you made this morning. You write well,” you say.

He grins, leaning closer as you reach for the lab equipment. “Well, maybe I wanted to impress you.”

You choke slightly on air. “Excuse me?”

Jungwon’s smile doesn’t falter. “What? I figured if you’re gonna think I’m just some fuck-up with a nice face, I should prove you wrong.”

His words hit sharper than they should. Like they were dipped in something hot before being handed to you.

You fix your gloves with more pressure than necessary. “I don’t think that,” you lie.

He hums. “You sure?”

You glance at him. He’s already pulling on his goggles, but the tilt of his mouth is too smug for someone who’s not enjoying this.

He’s trying.

Not in the way people usually do, with flowers or pick-up lines or chasing you through the quad. But trying in his own strange, infuriating way.

Jungwon, campus heartthrob, late to every second class, always with a hickey or two to hide, is suddenly showing up on time, preparing lab notes, offering to help you with the pH balance readout before you even ask.

And the most confusing part?

He’s not flirting like he usually does.

There’s no winks. No lazy drawls of your name. Just this steady, unnerving attention. Like you’re a problem he wants to understand, and maybe, just maybe, solve.

Halfway through titration, you break the silence.

“You know,” you say quietly, not looking up, “we barely know each other.”

Jungwon glances at you over the rim of his beaker.

“That’s kind of the point,” he says simply.

You glance back. “What?”

“I want to,” he says, voice calm, low, and sure. “Get to know you.”

You freeze.

There’s no laugh behind his words. No teasing. Just sincerity. Raw and strangely unfamiliar, coming from him.

You drop your eyes again, hands tightening around the glassware. “Why?”

He tilts his head like the answer is obvious. “Don’t you ever get tired of people pretending around you?”

You stare at the blue liquid swirling in the beaker.

Yes.

But you don’t say it.

Because how the hell does he know that?

Your grip on the beaker tightens, knuckles paling. For a second, you forget to swirl.

The silence hangs there, suspended like the acid fumes in the air. Unspoken, unexplainable.

Jungwon doesn’t push.

He just returns to his notes, pen scratching gently across the paper, like he hadn’t just peeled open something raw in you without ever looking up.

The rest of the lab passes with that same strange rhythm. You work in silence, too aware of his presence beside you, too aware of the weight in his glances when he thinks you’re not looking.

You don’t know what’s changed. Only that something has.

And whatever it is, it’s throwing off your balance.

When class ends, you’re the first to gather your things. You need air, space, anything to clear the mess in your head. You sling your bag over your shoulder, brushing past the last lab bench, when you hear him behind you again.

“Hey, wait.”

You stop. But you don’t turn around.

“About what I said earlier,” he continues, and his voice is softer now, almost hesitant. “I meant it. I want to know who you are. Not as the class president. Just… you.”

You swallow hard. “You’re weird today,” you mutter, forcing a laugh that doesn’t sound like yours.

Jungwon doesn’t respond immediately. Then, as you start walking again, he says quietly:

“Maybe you just finally started paying attention.”

You leave before he can say anything more.

That night, you lie on your bed, staring up at your ceiling as the hum of the city fills your ears through the open window.

Your phone is beside you, lit up with the unanswered messages from your org groupchat, some random memes from Sunoo, and one still unopened message from Jungwon, sent just now.

You hover over it, thumb twitching.

Lab partner:

Let’s meet again tomorrow. I’ll bring the spectrometer data.

…Also, I didn’t mean to make things weird. I just think you’re interesting. That’s all.

You stare at the screen for a long moment.

How does someone change overnight?

How does someone who never cared suddenly act like they see you?

You lock your phone and press it face-down onto your chest.

Maybe this is just how college goes. People are unpredictable. Feelings shift. You’ve seen it happen.

But deep down… something in your gut says this isn’t just feelings.

It’s something else.

Something you can’t quite name.

Not yet.

Jungwon watches your retreating figure until you disappear into the stairwell, the glass door swinging shut behind you with a soft click.

He exhales. Runs a hand through his hair.

What the hell are you doing to me?

"Yo!" A familiar voice calls from across the courtyard. Jay’s already halfway toward him, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, lanyard swinging lazily from his neck. “You free?”

Jungwon nods wordlessly and falls into step beside him.

They walk in silence for a while, the wind cool and sharp against his skin. It's late afternoon now, the sun low, casting long shadows on the pavement as they make their way to the parking lot.

Jay’s halfway through a story about a classmate bombing their presentation when Jungwon suddenly cuts in.

"Hey," he says, voice low. “How stupid do you have to be… to not realize your long-time crush actually likes you back?”

Jay pauses mid-step. “Damn. Where’s that coming from?”

Jungwon doesn’t answer right away. He kicks at a pebble on the ground. “I mean, you’ve liked someone for so long, but you didn’t know—couldn’t tell—that they might feel the same.”

Jay raises a brow. “Well, I wouldn’t say the person is stupid. It’s not easy to assume something like that about your own crush. Most people don’t want to believe in something unless, they’re sure.”

Jungwon hums, thoughtful.

Jay goes on, more carefully now. “And if that person—the crush—doesn’t show anything? Doesn’t flirt, doesn’t confess, doesn’t even act like they notice you? Then yeah. I can see why you wouldn’t suspect it.”

He shrugs. “Especially if you’re the type who’s also good at hiding your own feelings. You both end up playing it cool. Two silent idiots in a stand-off.”

That earns a half-smile from Jungwon. “So, it’s a draw?”

“No,” Jay chuckles. “It’s a mess.”

Jungwon laughs, then quiets again, eyes drifting up to the campus skyline. The same classroom windows, the same building. But something feels different now.

He thinks about the way you looked at him today. Guarded. Defensive. Scared, almost, that he was pulling some kind of joke on you.

And god, maybe he deserved that. Maybe he was a joke, before yesterday.

But now… now he knows something else.

Not from gossip. Not from rumors.

From you. In your own thoughts.

He shakes his head.

“Still feels like I don’t deserve to know something she hasn’t said out loud.”

Jay glances sideways. “You saying you’re hearing confessions in your dreams now?”

Jungwon smirks faintly. “Something like that.”

They reach the parking lot. The quiet hum of passing cars fills the space between them.

Jay finally says, “So what are you gonna do?”

Jungwon leans against the side of his motorbike, crossing his arms. The late sun glints off his helmet, dangling loosely from the handlebars.

“I’m gonna stop pretending I don’t care,” he says. “And I’m gonna make sure she knows I see her now.”

Jay raises an eyebrow. “You really got it bad, huh?”

Jungwon doesn’t answer.

He just looks toward the building one last time, expression unreadable—but no longer unsure.

"Late birthday gift," Jay says casually, already fiddling with his car keys. "Didn't have time to hand it yesterday."

Jungwon rolls his eyes but there's a genuine grin tugging at his mouth as he peeks inside the bag.

Inside, there’s a simple keychain—a silver motorcycle charm—and a half-eaten pack of mint gum taped to a note that says “For fresh starts. Don’t mess it up.”

Jungwon shakes his head, amused. "You're the worst gift giver."

Jay grins, unapologetic. “You’re welcome, asshole.”

Jungwon slips the keychain into his pocket anyway, feeling the small weight of it settle there. It's stupid. It's small. But somehow, it feels heavier than it should.

Maybe because yesterday wasn't just about turning eighteen.

Maybe because it wasn’t just about the blessing he received.

It was about everything starting to tilt sideways—about seeing things he never allowed himself to see before.

About realizing that maybe, just maybe, the person you spent so long pretending you didn’t notice… was already standing in front of you, noticing you too.

Jay unlocks his car, tossing his bag into the backseat. "You coming?"

Jungwon swings his helmet onto his head, the faint jingle of the new keychain in his pocket.

"Nah," he says, voice a little lighter. "Think I'll stick around a bit."

He watches Jay pull out of the lot, then leans back against his bike, staring up at the dimming sky.

For the first time in a long while, Jungwon isn't rushing anywhere.

He’s just… waiting.

For once, he doesn't mind.

Or at least, he thinks he doesn't until he checks his phone and sees your name sitting quietly in his notifications.

No new message.

Just last night’s thread, and your last reply still stuck in his head.

Something pulls at him. Impulse, maybe. Or instinct.

Without thinking, he swings one leg over his bike, starts the engine, and makes a turn back toward the front of campus.

The tires crunch lightly against the pavement as he rolls to a smooth stop just outside the main gates. His eyes scan the crowd.

And there you are.

Walking alone, the sunset catching the edges of your hair, a plastic bag hanging from your wrist—maybe takeout, maybe something from the café nearby. Lost in thought, your expression unreadable.

Jungwon lifts his helmet’s visor, smirking.

“Hey, wife!”

Your head snaps up.

You freeze, eyes wide, mouth slightly open like the word itself just slapped you in the face.

Jungwon chuckles, resting his elbow casually on the handlebar. “What?” he says, shrugging. “Hop on. I’ll give you a ride.”

You blink, still in shock, unsure whether to roll your eyes, yell at him, or melt into the sidewalk.

Probably all three.

You stare at him like he just spoke in another language.

Wife.

Wife.

The word still echoes in your ears, sharp and ridiculous and dangerously familiar. Too familiar.

Your hand tightens around the plastic bag. “What did you just call me?”

Jungwon only grins, a maddening glint in his eyes. “You heard me.”

You narrow your gaze. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

He shrugs, tapping the seat behind him. “Depends. Are you going to get on, or keep standing there like I didn’t just offer you the smoothest getaway from a long day of work?”

You glance at the bike. Then back at him. And suddenly your mind flashes, uninvited, to the dream you swore was just that: a dream.

A boy with dark hair, arms wrapped around you on a bike.

Laughter. Wind. A familiar warmth pressing into your back as the city blurred behind you.

You shake the thought away. No.

Absolutely not.

“Are you trying to be funny?” you ask tightly, your voice firmer than your heart feels. “Because I’m not laughing.”

Jungwon’s smirk softens. Not entirely, but enough that it startles you. There’s something in his eyes now, something quieter. Not playboy-charming. Not smug. Just… sincere.

“I’m not trying anything,” he says, almost too casually. “I just figured… we don’t really know each other, right?”

Your breath catches.

“And maybe,” he adds, his voice dipping lower, “you might want to get to know me too.”

For a moment, neither of you move. The wind brushes your hair into your face. His helmet gleams under the last stretch of sunset.

Then, slowly, you take a step forward.

His eyes flicker with something…surprise? Hope?

You raise an eyebrow. “Call me wife again and I’ll throw this bubble tea at your face.”

Jungwon laughs. Really laughs. “Noted.”

You roll your eyes. “One ride. That’s it.”

He pats the seat, triumphant. “One ride,” he echoes, and you swear his voice sounds just a little too satisfied.

You hesitate once more before climbing on, arms uncertain.

But when the engine roars to life, your fingers instinctively curl around his jacket.

And as the bike pulls away from campus, you don’t see the knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You don’t know he knew everything.

Not yet.

But soon—

You will.

masterlist.

lmk your thoughts :D

permanent taglist: @1starqi @imfuckingwhipped @moon0fthenight @jiawji @shawnyle @simja3 @babyboomysweetie @50-husbands @charlizefaye @anudocuments @ooriwoo @sa-brinaaa @luumiinaa @personallyminelol @yjwonsgf @lvvstruck @leah-rose03 @kanonjji @kyunlov @somuchdard @seongiewon @theothernads @luumiinaa @enhaverse713586 @lynanist @moriwori @han-to-my-minho @hhyvsstuff @gardenwons @frankenstein852 @firstclassjaylee @lamin143 @serenadehera @elove2047 @cookiesha11 @enhamysunshines @tkooooop @lizdevorak @hoshilysm @meggxsxs @deluluscenarios @babyboomysweetie @tinycatharsis @leesolbeesol

[flwrstqr]

﹙𝑓﹚ BABY, HOLD ON TIGHT ⟡ HOT THINGS THEY DO

𖹭 𝗠𝗢𝗡 𝗔𝗠𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗒

【 𝐋𝒪𝐕𝐄 】 ' 𝒏. boyfriend!enha & fem!rea ｡ 8OOwc ˊᯅˋ fluff established relationship 𓂃 skinship , petnames , hee checking you out ( click )

다니 ⠀⦂ hello,, i was suppose to post tomorrow.. but guess who's been neglecting writing a lot TT also a remake of my old fic

HEESEUNG ( when checking you out )

heeseung leans against the doorframe, eyes dragging over you slowly like he's trying to memorize every inch. “you tryna kill me or somethin’, baby?” he murmurs, biting his lip as he blatantly checks you out, no shame, no rush. “damn,” he breathes, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “how’d i get so lucky?” he pushes off the wall and saunters over, fingers hooking around your waist, pulling you close so your chest brushes his. “you look unreal tonight,” he whispers, voice low and thick, breath warm against your cheek. his hand slides up your back, and he dips his head, leaving a kiss on your cheek. he grins, all lovesick. and yeah, the date hasn’t even started yet.

JAY ( looking at your lips when you're talking )

you’re mid-sentence when you notice it again—the way jay’s eyes drop to your lips, lingering like he’s not even trying to hide it, and it makes your breath catch every time. “keep talking, baby,” he says, voice low, eyes flicking back up to yours for a second. “i like listening to you talk,” he adds, but you know he’s not listening to a damn word. he’s too focused on the way your mouth moves. when his gaze drops to your lips one more time, you give in. “just kiss me already,” you whisper, and he doesn’t hesitate—not even for a second.

JAKE ( calling you pretty girl )

jake’s always been affectionate, always calling you sweet things like “baby” and “princess,” and you love it, you do. but the first time he calls you “pretty girl”? oh you're weak on your knees. he knows it too, the way your breath catches. “what’s wrong, pretty girl?” his voice is all honey and warmth, teasing, and your heart does a full somersault in your chest. “nothing,” you mutter, but he just chuckles, thumb tracing circles into your hip, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “mm, you like that, don’t you?” he murmurs. oh god you do because when jake calls you pretty girl, it’s not just a pet name. it’s the way he says it like you’re the only one he ever wants to look at.

SUNGHOON ( pulling up his sleeves )

you’re sitting on the couch, half-listening to whatever sunghoon’s saying when he casually rolls up his sleeves, and it’s game over. his fingers tug at the fabric with ease, veins subtly flexing, silver rings glinting as he adjusts them without even looking. your mouth goes dry. “you good, baby?” he asks, glancing at you with that smirk, like he knows exactly what he’s doing—except he doesn’t, and that’s what makes it worse. or better. you can’t decide. “i—yeah,” you mumble, eyes glued to the way his forearm flexes when he runs a hand through his hair. not fair. he leans in, resting one arm on the back of the couch. “you’ve been staring for a while,” he teases. “want me to roll the other one up too, sweetheart?” your brain short circuits. yes. yes, you absolutely do.

SUNOO ( holding eye contact )

sunoo has this thing he does where he holds eye contact like he’s memorizing you. he rests his chin on his palm, eyes twinkling, lips curled in the tiniest smile. “you’re really pretty, you know that?” he says, voice light, almost absentminded, like he’s just stating a fact. his fingers trace lazy shapes on your wrist. when you tilt your head, raising a brow, he only grins, thumb brushing over your knuckles before intertwining your fingers. he doesn’t break eye contact. doesn’t even blink. “i like looking at you,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand once. and just like that, he wins—because how are you supposed to compete with kim sunoo looking at you like you’re the only thing worth seeing?

JUNGWON ( tucking your hair behind your ear )

you barely have time to admire your reflection before warm hands find your waist from behind, fingers grazing over the fabric of your dress. jungwon’s chin hovers near your shoulder, his smile evident in the way his breath fans against your skin. “you always do this,” he murmurs. “rush to get ready, forget the little things.” before you can ask what he means, he lifts a hand, fingertips brushing against your cheek as he gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. his eyes flicker over your face. then, with a grin so effortlessly charming it makes your stomach flip, he whispers, “there. now you’re perfect.” his thumb lingers just beneath your ear, tracing the skin there absentmindedly, like he’s memorizing you. and just like that, you’re gone.

RIKI ( leaning down to talk to you )

you're mid-sentence, drink in hand, barely listening to the noise around you when riki leans down, and god, it’s like the air shifts. you feel it before you even see him—his presence, brushing past your shoulder. “princess,” he murmurs, “you look bored outta your mind.” it’s that lean, the way he folds down just for you, one arm casually braced against the wall beside your head, the other resting low on your waist. his cologne is dizzying, cedar, and you have to tilt your head back just to meet his gaze. he grins, “wanna get outta here?” you almost forget the party even exists.

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: tease tease tease. explicit sexual content. unprotected sex. overstimulation. fingering. oral. breeding kink. daddy kink. manhandling. power play. degradation/praise. mdni.

notes: in which you read something about chan having a daddy kink on stayville and run with it.

The afternoon was one of those perfect, lazy ones—the kind where time barely mattered, and the world outside your little bubble felt distant. Rain drizzled against the windows, a soft, rhythmic hum, and Chris was warm against you, his body curled into yours on the couch. His hand rested on your thigh, his thumb rubbing gentle, absentminded circles as you both scrolled through your phones, comfortably lost in the quiet.

“Hey,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Chris glanced over at you, his gaze filled with something soft, something only meant for you. He squeezed your thigh lightly, his thumb lingering for a second longer. “Hey,” he murmured back, voice low and fond.

You don’t even hesitate. “Is it true you like being called ‘daddy’?”

The air shifted.

Chris stiffened slightly, the rhythmic tapping of his fingers against your side coming to an abrupt stop. His eyebrows knit together as his phone lowered, and he blinked at you. “Huh?”

You bit your lip, barely holding back a laugh at his reaction. “I mean, I keep seeing things online,” you continued, keeping your tone casual, even though you were fully enjoying this. “Stay seem really convinced that it’s, like… a thing for you.”

Chris just stared at you. Then, in one smooth motion, he locked his phone, placed it on the coffee table, and turned his full attention to you.

“Give me your phone.”

You gasp, clutching it to your chest. “Absolutely not.”

“Give. Me. Your. Phone.”

“You can’t stop me from knowing things, Christopher.”

He’s fast, snatching for your phone. You let out a yelp, trying to yank it away, but he was faster, snatching it clean from your grip. “What did I say about staying out of Stayville? It’s dangerous there.”

You shrug feigning innocence. “I was just scrolling, and it came up.”

“What exactly came up?” He squints at your screen, scrolling with exaggerated judgment.

You whine, reaching for it, but he holds it high above your head, his other arm locking you against his chest. “Chris! Give it back!”

He ignores you, still scrolling, his expression shifting from mild annoyance to absolute horror. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

You bit your lip, barely suppressing your laughter as he scrolled.

Chris ran a hand down his face, shaking his head. “Why are they like this?”

“Because you—” you poked his cheek, “—give them material.”

He caught your hand, holding it against his chest. “I do not.”

“You so do.”

Chris huffs, clearly exasperated but also too amused to fully commit to his indignation. “I literally just exist, and they make up the most unhinged things.”

You give him a pointed look. “Chris, baby… be so for real.”

“Okay, fine. Maybe I—” He pauses, struggling. “Maybe I… give them some material.”

You grin triumphantly. “There it is.” You shift so you were leaning into him, your chin resting against his shoulder. "So, you're saying it's not true?"

His jaw twitches. He hesitated for just a fraction of a second too long, and that was all you needed.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes widening in exaggerated delight. “It is true.”

Chris groaned again, dramatically flopping backward against the cushions. "It's not. I hate you."

"You love me," you corrected, poking his side until he squirmed. "And you also love being called—"

His hand clamped over your mouth before you could say it, his palm warm against your lips. "Don't." His eyes were dark, but his voice held that unmistakable lilt of warning.

You blinked up at him innocently, but the mischievous glint in your eyes betrayed you. You licked his palm.

Chris yelped, pulling his hand away like he'd been burned. "You animal."

You were cackling now, barely able to breathe through your laughter as he wiped his palm against your hoodie like you’d just infected him with some incurable disease.

"You're disgusting," he grumbled, but his lips were twitching.

"You love it."

"I tolerate it."

"You love it," you repeated, beaming at him. "And you definitely love being called—"

Before you could finish your sentence, Chris tackled you, rolling you beneath him on the couch, his hands pinning your wrists against the cushions. His nose was barely an inch from yours, his breath warm as he spoke. "Finish that sentence, and I swear—"

You blinked up at him, the challenge practically dripping from your smirk. "What? You’ll punish me?"

His eyes narrowed, but the way his lips twitched betrayed him. “Careful.”

“Oh no,” you gasped, feigning terror. “Are you gonna make me behave... Daddy?”

Chris groaned, letting his forehead thud dramatically against yours as a laugh bubbled out of him. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m your favorite,” you corrected, beaming up at him.

He huffed, though the way his gaze softened betrayed his amusement. “Unfortunately.”

______________________________________________________________

It started small.

A passing whisper in his ear when you walked by. A smug little smirk whenever you said his name just a little too sweetly.

An innocent stretch while calling out, "Daddy, can you pass me the remote?" like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Chris played it off the first few times. He’d roll his eyes, let out an exasperated sigh, and mutter, “You’re insufferable,” before going back to whatever he was doing.

But you saw it. The way his jaw would clench, how his fingers would flex like he was restraining himself. The flicker of something darker in his gaze that vanished as quickly as it came.

You weren’t dumb. You knew Chris. You knew that teasing him like this was playing with fire, especially because he was always so soft with you. You had him wrapped around your finger—he kissed the ground you walked on, always so patient, so gentle, even when you pushed him.

But patience had limits. And you were determined to find his.

You started pushing.

By now, you were convinced he was doing everything in his power to ignore it—to ignore you. But you saw through it.

You saw the way his jaw clenched every time you purred Daddy in that syrupy-sweet tone. You noticed how his fingers twitched when you batted your lashes at him, playing the role of the innocent little thing you so clearly weren’t. You caught the way his ears turned red when you leaned in too close, lips grazing his ear as you murmured, Thank you, Daddy—for the smallest things, like opening a jar or holding the door for you.

And yet, still, he hadn’t snapped.

So, you pushed harder.

One night, while sitting next to him at the dorm, you absentmindedly played with the chain around his neck, your fingers tracing the curve of his collarbone. The others were watching a movie.

Chris, ever the affectionate boyfriend, had one arm lazily draped over the couch behind you, his focus mostly on the screen—until you leaned in, lips barely brushing his ear.

"You’re so good to me, Daddy."

His entire body went rigid beside you.

A sharp inhale, a slight clench of his jaw—before, once again, he exhaled through his nose, choosing to ignore you.

You almost pouted.

But when you glanced up, you caught it—the flicker of something dark in his eyes before he blinked it away.

Oh, you were getting to him.

Later that night, as you lounged in bed, he propped himself up on one elbow, voice deceptively light. "You think you’re real cute, don’t you?"

You grinned, stretching languidly against the sheets. "I know I am."

Chris’ fingers traced slow, lazy circles against your hip. "You like testing me, huh?"

You hummed, shifting to face him, lips just shy of his. "What, you don’t like it?"

For a moment, you thought he might finally snap—but instead, he exhaled through his nose, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before rolling onto his back. "Goodnight, baby."

Disappointment.

You had expected him to at least call your bluff. Maybe flip you over, put you in your place. But no—he was still Chris, soft and loving, never pushing past what you allowed.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

So, you planned your final move carefully.

______________________________________________________________

Chris was tired. Not from work or the chaos of the boys—no, this exhaustion had a name.

You.

Weeks of teasing. A soft “Daddy” here, a sweetly smug smile there, and Chris held onto his patience with a white-knuckled grip. But you pushed—again and again. And he didn’t snap. Not yet.

He was at the studio with Changbin and Jisung, trying to focus when a knock interrupted. Jisung answered, revealing a delivery guy holding takeout bags.

“Uh... delivery for Daddy?” the guy announced, glancing at the receipt.

Silence.

Jisung and Changbin lost it, cackling while Chris stood frozen—expression dark, jaw clenched. Slowly, he took the bags. “Thanks,” he bit out, the door clicking shut.

Ignoring their laughter, Chris pulled out his phone and typed a message with deadly calm:

Be home by the time I get there. Do not make me come find you.

He pocketed his phone and left, tension coiled tight in his shoulders.

You weren’t home when he arrived. You could practically feel the moment his patience snapped, like a distant thunderclap on the horizon. But you didn’t rush. No, you dragged it out—lingering at a late-night café, scrolling through your phone with a smirk, ordering another drink just because you could. Chris wanted you home? Then home was the last place you’d be.

By the time you finally decided to return, it was late—far later than it should have been. The air outside was thick with the weight of your own defiance, every step toward your front door deliberate, measured.

You knew he was inside.

The apartment was eerily quiet when you pushed the door open, the usual hum of music or the soft murmur of the TV absent. Just silence. Heavy. Waiting.

You barely had time to set your keys down before you felt it—that unmistakable presence.

Chris sat in the dimly lit living room, sprawled on the couch like a king on his throne. One arm draped over the back, the other resting on his knee, fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm. His eyes found you immediately, dark and unreadable. Not a single muscle moved, but the energy around him crackled.

“Baby,” you greeted, with a casual smile. “You waited up.”

Chris didn’t answer right away. He just watched. Studied. The air felt thick, suffocating in the silence.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, voice dangerously calm.

“Where were you?”

There it was. That quiet fury, simmering just beneath the surface.

You shrugged, toeing off your shoes. “Out.”

His tongue clicked against his teeth, his gaze unwavering. “Out.” A beat of silence. “You got my message.”

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed, refusing to let the weight of his stare shake you. “I did.”

Chris exhaled through his nose, fingers flexing against his knees. Still eerily calm. Still watching. And yet, something about the way he held himself—the way his jaw ticked, the way his shoulders sat so unnaturally still—sent a prickle of unease down your spine.

“You do that on purpose?”

You took a step closer, tilting your head. “What if I did?”

Chris let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. He pushed off the couch, moving toward you with slow, measured steps. The closer he got, the smaller the space between you felt—until he was right there, close enough that his warmth seeped into your skin.

His fingers brushed your chin, tilting it up just enough to meet his gaze fully.

“You think this is funny?”

Your breath hitched. “Maybe a little.”

Chris hummed—a low, unimpressed sound that sent a shiver down your spine. His fingers lingered against your jaw, deceptively gentle, his thumb brushing over your pulse point. You could feel it there—your own heartbeat, hammering wildly beneath his touch, betraying the nonchalance you were so desperately trying to hold onto.

“Is that right?” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful. “You think it’s funny to ignore me? To push me?”

Oh, you were in trouble.

The kind of trouble that made your stomach twist, that sent heat prickling down your spine, that made your pulse stutter when Chris’s thumb pressed just a little harder against the rapid thrum of your heartbeat.

You knew exactly what you were doing—poking at something primal, something restrained, something that you weren’t sure even Chris had fully let himself acknowledge.

And yet, even as he loomed over you now, eerily calm, his gaze dark and unreadable, you still pushed.

You smirked. “I think it’s fun.”

Chris exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was barely holding something back. His fingers traced along your jaw, slow, deliberate, before trailing lower—down the column of your throat, pressing just lightly enough that your breath caught, that your lips parted in an unspoken challenge.

“Fun,” he echoed, his voice a whisper of something dangerous.

You swallowed, and his eyes flickered down, watching the movement with quiet intensity. His hand lingered for a moment longer before he took a step back, putting space between you that somehow felt heavier than his touch.

Then, he smiled.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t warm. It was something else entirely—something that made your stomach flip, that sent heat curling low in your belly.

“Alright,” Chris murmured, his tone infuriatingly casual. “You wanna play?”

His hand fisted in your hair, dragging your head back as his mouth crushed against yours—no hesitation, no warmth, just teeth and frustration and the weight of every time you’d pushed him past his patience. His tongue shoved past your lips, licking deep, swallowing the soft gasp you barely had time to let out before he was pulling back, teeth catching your bottom lip and tugging, like he wanted to hurt just a little.

Then he let go.

Your scalp tingled from the force of his grip, your lips slick and tingling from his bite, but he didn’t give you a second to process before his hand was on your throat, pushing—not choking, just forcing you back, walking you blind toward the couch until the edge caught the backs of your knees. You wobbled, grabbing his forearm on instinct, but Chris didn’t stop. He kept pushing until you fell onto the cushions, then he was on you, knee pressing between your thighs, caging you in, his palm still firm on your neck.

“You think this is fun, huh?” His voice was quiet, but there was nothing soft about it. “Teasing me for weeks, acting all cute, saying shit you knew would get to me?” His knee pressed harder, not enough friction, just enough pressure to make you squirm. “Go on, baby. Laugh. Thought it was real fucking funny before.”

Your breath hitched. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the weight of his body so close but still not where you wanted him. You knew what he was doing. This wasn’t the usual game where he’d pretend to resist, where he’d give in after a little bit of teasing. No, he was making you sit in it now. Making you feel the consequences.

Chris leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice dropping even lower. “You wanted my attention. Now you’ve got it. What the fuck do you wanna do with it?”

You exhaled sharply, fingers flexing against his forearm. “Chris, I—”

His hand moved from your throat to your jaw, forcing your head back. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, but his expression was nothing like the soft, eager-to-please boyfriend you knew.

“Try again.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering beneath his fingers. This was new. With you, he was always patient, always indulgent, always so fucking soft. But this? This wasn’t soft. This was something else entirely.

“I—” you started, but the words caught in your throat when he suddenly leaned in, lips just ghosting over yours.

“You what?” he murmured, his breath warm against your mouth, teasing, taunting. “Not feeling so mouthy anymore?”

Your fingers twitched against his forearm, nails digging in slightly. You knew better than to play dumb now. Knew you had pushed and pushed and pushed—until finally, you weren’t in control anymore.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t going to test him.

You wet your lips, your voice deliberately sweet. “I just wanted your attention, Daddy.”

Chris inhaled sharply through his nose. His grip shifted, fingers tilting your chin up higher, forcing you to hold his gaze. “Yeah?” he mused, his tone almost mocking. “That what you wanted?”

You nodded, batting your lashes. “Mhm.”

Chris’ jaw ticked, his fingers flexing—before suddenly, he let go.

For a second, you almost thought he was pulling away. That he was going to do what he always did—roll his eyes, kiss your forehead, and let you get away with it.

But then, his hand was at your throat again, pressing you back into the couch, pinning you there without so much as an ounce of effort.

“You want my attention?” His knee wedged between your thighs, spreading them wide, forcing you open. His other hand trailed down, fingertips barely brushing over your inner thigh—so close, but not close enough.

His lips curled as he pressed the barest hint of pressure between your legs, right where you needed him most. You exhaled shakily, hips twitching toward his touch.

Chris chuckled, shaking his head. “So desperate,” he murmured, almost fondly—before he pulled his hand away entirely.

You whined, arching toward him, but he tsked, pressing you back into the cushions.

“You’ve been running that pretty little mouth for weeks,” he mused, his thumb tracing along your lower lip, pressing in just slightly before dragging down your chin. “So fucking bratty, thinking you could do whatever you wanted and get away with it.” His eyes darkened, his voice dipping even lower. “What made you think I’d let you off easy, sweetheart?”

You shivered, swallowing hard. “I—”

Chris just smiled. “You thought I’d cave?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Nah. Not tonight.”

His fingers trailed lower again, teasing, skimming along the edges of where you wanted him, never quite giving in. You whimpered, shifting against his knee, seeking friction.

Chris noticed.

“Oh, baby,” he cooed, mockingly sweet. “What’s wrong?”

You glared at him, lips parted, breath uneven. “Chan—”

He tsked again, his grip tightening on your throat—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel it. “Wrong.”

You swallowed, cheeks flushing. “Daddy—”

“There she is,” Chris murmured, lips barely brushing yours.

You thought that was it—that he was finally going to give in. But then, he was shifting, pulling away again, dragging out the anticipation.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he continued, voice slow, deliberate. “You’re gonna sit right here, and you’re gonna take whatever I decide to give you.” His fingers traced along your inner thigh, featherlight, teasing. “And you’re not gonna come until I say.”

Your breath caught. “Chris—”

“Did I say you could speak?”

You sucked in a sharp breath, your thighs clenching involuntarily. Chris noticed that too. His smirk deepened.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” he mused, dragging his fingers higher, finally pressing them against your clothed heat, rubbing the softest, slowest circles. “You like when I tell you what to do?”

Your pulse thundered beneath his touch, but you forced a pout. “Maybe.”

Chris’s smirk was a slow, dangerous thing. “Maybe?” He pressed harder, just enough to make your hips twitch, to drag a broken whine from your lips. “Still got that attitude, huh?”

You wanted to fire back—something smart, something witty—but his fingers worked lazy, torturous circles, each drag and press igniting sparks of pleasure that made thinking impossible. The smirk didn’t fade as he watched you struggle, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“You wanted my attention,” Chris murmured, dipping his head to press his lips against your jaw—soft, teasing. A mockery of gentleness. “But you keep running your mouth. You think that’s a good idea?”

You whimpered, every nerve alight, but you managed a defiant little smirk. “I think you like it.”

Chris hummed, his mouth brushing your ear. “Oh, I do. I love it when you act out, princess. Just means I get to remind you who’s in charge.”

You opened your mouth to quip back, but his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, dragging them down your thighs with a deliberate slowness that had you trembling. He didn’t even look—eyes locked on yours, dark and taunting—as he shoved them aside, baring you to his gaze.

“Let’s see how long that attitude lasts,” Chris drawled, sinking to his knees.

He hooked your thighs over his shoulders, strong hands splaying possessively across your hips. His breath was hot against your bare skin, lips trailing lazy kisses up your inner thigh. Every inch of contact had your breath quickening, your resolve fraying. You tried to wriggle closer, but his grip tightened, pinning you in place.

“Impatient,” he chided, his tongue tracing a slow, maddening path closer—so close. “Thought you liked games, baby.”

A strangled whimper slipped from your lips, thighs quivering where Chris held you pinned. The wicked, taunting curve of his mouth made your pulse jump—anticipation coiling hot and tight in your stomach.

“You talk a big game, sweetheart,” he murmured, breath feathering over the most sensitive part of you. “But look at you now—already falling apart and I haven’t even touched you properly.”

Your hips twitched, the barest grind against his mouth, but his grip tightened, fingers digging into your thighs just hard enough to sting. A warning.

“Ah, ah,” Chris tutted, squeezing until you stilled. “You’ve had weeks to run your mouth. Now, you’re gonna stay still and be good for me, yeah?”

The teasing lilt of his voice sent heat prickling along your skin, a shiver rippling down your spine. You wanted to argue, but the words caught in your throat as his tongue traced a slow, teasing circle around where you needed him most.

The soft, wet heat of his mouth was a shock, a lightning bolt of sensation that had your head falling back, a choked moan spilling free. Chris hummed against you, the vibration a taunt of its own, lips curling into a smirk that you could feel more than see.

“Fuck, baby,” he drawled, fingers pressing bruises into your skin. “You’re already dripping. This what you wanted? Attention from Daddy?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasped, fingers curling into the couch cushions as he licked another slow, deliberate stripe.

Chris’s tongue flicked over you again—slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to unravel you bit by bit. Your hands scrabbled for purchase, nails biting into the cushions as your hips twitched, desperate for more.

But just as you started to grind against his mouth, a sharp smack echoed through the room, pain blossoming between your thighs. You cried out, hips jerking back in shock, but his hands held you firm—pinned and helpless beneath his unyielding grip.

Chris looked up at you with a raised brow, eyes dark and unrelenting. “Did I tell you to move?”

You whimpered, the sting lingering, and tried to catch your breath. “N-No, Daddy—”

Another slap—sharper this time—landed on your swollen, slick folds, sending a shudder through your whole body. Tears pricked your eyes, but the heat pooling in your stomach only grew, arousal mingling with the ache.

“That’s right,” he muttered, tone low and warning. “You’re gonna stay fucking still unless I tell you otherwise. Got it?”

You nodded, lip trembling, but Chris wasn’t satisfied. His hand tightened on your thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make you squirm. “Use your words, princess,” he demanded, voice rough and unforgiving.

“Yes, Daddy,” you managed to choke out, voice barely above a whisper.

He hummed in approval, pressing a brief, almost gentle kiss to your inner thigh before his mouth returned to you—hot and wet, tongue flicking over your swollen clit with deliberate, calculated precision. Your body arched instinctively, desperate for more, but you forced yourself to stay still, the threat of his hand still tingling through your skin.

“That’s better,” he muttered between slow, lazy licks, his breath searing against your oversensitive nerves. “Such a pretty little thing when you’re behaving.”

Your whole body burned under the praise, the contrast between his harsh treatment and his soft words leaving you dizzy. You were barely holding it together, every flick of his tongue making your hips twitch despite your best efforts to obey.

Chris’s tongue never slowed.

Each flick over your clit sent sparks racing through your nerves, making your thighs tremble where he held them apart. You wanted to move—had to move—but his grip was unforgiving, fingers digging into your skin like a silent warning.

“Such a needy little thing,” he murmured against your skin, breath hot and mocking. “Spent all that time teasing me, and now look at you.”

You whimpered, back arching when his tongue flattened against your clit, pressing hard before dragging down to your entrance. He licked into you, slow and deliberate, groaning like he was the one getting wrecked.

“Taste so fucking good,” Chris muttered, voice muffled by the way he buried himself between your legs. “So wet for me. Bet you’d let me do anything to you right now, huh?”

You nodded frantically, breath coming in sharp gasps. You were already on edge, already burning—weeks of teasing, of pushing him, finally catching up to you in the most devastating way.

Chris pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his lips slick, chin shining with your arousal. “Use your words, princess.”

“Anything, Daddy,” you gasped. “A-anything–fuck–”

Chris hummed, pleased, before diving back in. His tongue was relentless, licking into you with obscene noises, lapping at every drop you gave him. And when his fingers joined—two thick digits pressing inside without warning—you nearly sobbed.

“Oh, baby.” His voice was low, taunting. “Haven’t touched you in a while, have I? You’re so tight.” His fingers curled, pressing just right, and your whole body jolted. “How do you think you’re gonna take my cock?”

You clenched around him, and Chris laughed.

“Yeah? That what you want?” His fingers pumped deeper, stretching you open, teasing that one spot that made your vision blur. “Want Daddy to fill you up? Make you take every drop?”

Your body was too hot, too tight—you couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but nod and whimper. Chris didn’t like that.

He smacked your thigh, sharp enough to sting. “Words.”

“Yes! Yes, Daddy, I—” Your voice caught as he crooked his fingers, fucking them into you with ruthless precision. “Want you to come inside me, please—please—”

Chris groaned, low and dark. “That’s my girl.”

Your orgasm slammed into you before you could even brace for it, pleasure surging through you in dizzying waves. Your thighs trembled, hands fisting the cushions, body locking up as you came with a broken moan.

But he didn’t stop.

Not for a second.

His fingers kept thrusting, his tongue kept flicking, dragging you through it—and right into another.

“Ngnn—Chri–daddy—fuck, I—” Your voice was broken, wrecked, your body barely able to keep up with the relentless pleasure tearing through you.

Chris just smirked. “Oh, baby,” he cooed, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Too much?”

You nodded frantically, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, your body twitching and jerking beneath him.

He hummed, fingers fucking into you harder. “Nah,” he murmured, low and smug. “You can take more.”

Your second orgasm hit before you could even process his words. Your entire body locked up, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Chris groaned against you, tongue lapping up every bit of your release like he needed it, his fingers fucking you through the brutal aftershocks.

Still, he didn’t stop.

Your body thrashed, your hands pushing weakly at his shoulders, but Chris was stronger, more determined, his grip unrelenting.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your soaked folds, voice dark and filled with something dangerous. His fingers slowed, but only slightly, pressing deep, grinding against that sweet spot inside you. His tongue flicked over your oversensitive clit, teasing, taunting.

“You wanted my attention,” he mused, watching the way your body twitched beneath him, the way your thighs trembled, barely able to stay open. “Now you’ve got it.”

You sobbed, your whole body shuddering, overstimulation tearing through you like fire. “Daddy—please—”

Chris groaned, his cock straining painfully against his sweatpants. “Shit, baby,” he muttered, voice strained. “You crying?” His fingers traced over the wet tracks down your cheeks, eyes darkening. “That good, huh?”

You could barely think, barely breathe—and Chris looked like he was barely holding himself together.

It hit you like a thunderclap—shattering, consuming, a pleasure so intense it almost hurt. Chris groaned, lapping up every drop, working you through it even as you trembled beneath him.

Only then did he pull away, lips slick and curved into something dark and satisfied. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gaze locked on your wrecked form—your twitching thighs, your heaving chest, the way your body still shook from the aftershocks.

“Look at you,” he mused, dragging his hands up your legs. “So fucking messy already. And we’re just getting started.”

You barely had a second to breathe before he was tugging his shirt over his head, muscles flexing in the dim light. He undid his belt slowly, deliberately, watching the way your eyes followed the movement with rapt attention.

Chris chuckled. “That desperate for my cock, huh?”

You whimpered, nodding, your thighs still trembling.

Chris reached out, his hand gripping your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. His pupils were blown, his expression something raw and hungry.

“You wanted Daddy’s attention?” he murmured, leaning in, lips brushing yours but not quite touching. “Now you’re gonna take everything I give you.”

Your breath hitched. “Please.”

Chris groaned, his forehead dropping against yours for a beat. Then, his fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

“You’re gonna let me fuck you as deep as I want.” His voice was low, almost dangerous. “Gonna let me fill you up—fuck my come so deep you’ll still be dripping with it in the morning.”

Your whole body shuddered.

You nodded frantically, every nerve in your body on fire. “Yes, Daddy, please—”

He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, fisting your hair as he dragged your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, blown wide with lust, his jaw clenched tight.

Chris smirked, sensing your reaction. He reached between you, stroking himself slow, teasing. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He tapped his cock against your swollen clit, making you jolt. “Gonna take me like a good little breeding toy?”

You nearly whimpered. “Yes—yes, Daddy—”

Chris didn’t give you a chance to brace. He pushed inside in one long, slow thrust, stretching you open around his cock.

Your back arched. The stretch was unbearable, too much, even with all the prep, but Chris just groaned, pressing deeper, inch by inch, watching your face contort with pleasure.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, pressing a hand to your lower belly. “Feel that? Feel how deep Daddy is?”

You did. He was there, pressing into something devastating, making your walls flutter around him.

Chris cursed, his hand squeezing your waist before he snapped his hips forward.

You cried out.

Chris groaned, watching the way you took him, how your body clenched and trembled. “Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick with something dangerously close to affection. “So fucking good for me, baby.”

His thrusts picked up—hard, relentless, brutal. Your body rocked beneath him, every drag of his cock sending another sharp spike of pleasure through your nerves.

Chris’s grip tightened, his breath ragged. “You’re gonna take every drop, sweetheart. Gonna fuck you so full, gonna make sure it sticks.”

A wrecked sob left your lips, your hips rolling back instinctively, desperate. “Want it—please, Daddy, I—”

Chris groaned, slamming his cock inside in one deep, brutal thrust.

Your mouth fell open, your fingers digging into the sheets, pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. Chris didn’t stop. He set a relentless pace, fucking into you deep, his hands gripping your waist so tight you were sure you’d feel it tomorrow.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, watching the way your body took him, watching how your slick coated his cock every time he pulled out. “You were made for this, you know that?” His fingers slid to your stomach, pressing down, making you feel every inch of him inside you. “Made to take my cock—made to be bred.”

You clenched around him, and Chris groaned, his thrusts turning rougher, more desperate. His fingers slid lower, rubbing your swollen clit, sending sparks of pleasure straight to your core.

“You’d look so fucking pretty, baby,” he murmured, his pace never faltering. “So round, so full of me.” He pushed in deeper, making sure you felt every inch, making sure you knew exactly what he wanted. “Gonna keep you like this, keep you stuffed with my come, fuck you full every night until you’re dripping—”

The words sent you spiraling. Your whole body locked up, pleasure crashing into you so fast, so intense, you could barely breathe. Your walls clenched around him, milking his cock, your release spilling down your thighs, making a mess between you.

Chris groaned, shoving himself as deep as he could go, holding himself there, letting you ride out the aftershocks. His fingers dug into your hips, his cock throbbing inside you, so fucking close, so desperate.

And then he was flipping you over again, manhandling you like you weighed nothing, pinning you beneath him.

“You’re not done yet, baby,” he murmured, gripping his cock, rubbing the tip through your soaked folds, smearing your release everywhere. “I’m not done.”

You barely had a second to brace yourself before he was pushing back inside, slow and deep, stretching you all over again. You mewled, pleasure so overwhelming it bordered on too much—but Chris just cooed, brushing your hair back, pressing soft kisses to your jaw.

“You can take it, princess,” he whispered, rolling his hips, grinding so deep it made you see stars. “Gonna fill you up, yeah? Gonna fuck my come so deep it stays inside you?”

You whined, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. “Please—”

Chris groaned, something wrecked and raw, his thrusts turning messy, erratic. “Yeah? Want Daddy to fill you up? Want me to breed this pretty little pussy?”

Your entire body clenched, and Chris cursed, his cock pulsing inside you, right on the edge.

“Fuck—” His forehead dropped to yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Gonna come inside you, baby. Gonna make you mine.”

His hips snapped forward, his grip tightening—and then he was gone, his whole body tensing as he came with a wrecked moan, spilling inside you, so deep, so much. His cock throbbed, thick ropes of come filling you, making you feel impossibly full.

For a moment, all you could do was exist in it—the heat, the weight of him, the unbearable fullness that made you feel stretched, stuffed, ruined. Chris groaned low, his body twitching against yours as he gave you everything, pushing himself as deep as he could go, holding himself there like he could carve himself into you, like he could make it stay.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped, voice thick and wrecked, forehead pressing against yours. His breath fanned across your lips, his nose brushing against yours as he swallowed hard. “Took me so fucking well. So perfect.”

You barely had the strength to answer, your body too wrung out, too wrecked from the relentless waves of pleasure. Your walls clenched weakly around him, still pulsing, still trembling, and Chris groaned, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.

Then, slowly—reluctantly—he pulled out, hissing at the way your walls fluttered around him, still desperate to keep him inside. A wrecked sound left him when he saw the mess between your legs, his come already spilling out of you, sliding down the curve of your ass, pooling onto the sheets.

His jaw tightened. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding them open as he watched the way you leaked, completely spent, completely his.

“Shit,” he muttered, running a hand through his damp curls. “Look at that.”

You barely had the strength to move, your thighs still shaking, your mind hazy, floating somewhere between exhaustion and bliss. Chris kissed your temple, whispering something you couldn’t quite make out, something sweet and soothing as he gently eased you onto your side, gathering you up into his arms. His hands rubbed up and down your back, slow, tender, the complete opposite of how he’d just been fucking you.

“Deep breaths, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing over your sweaty forehead. “There you go. You with me?”

You made a small noise, barely more than a whimper, pressing your face into his chest. Chris chuckled, though it was quiet, full of warmth.

“Too fucked out to talk?” he teased, his fingers slipping into your hair, massaging at your scalp. “My poor baby.”

You whined, and he cooed, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, your cheeks, every bit of skin he could reach. “S’too much,” you mumbled, voice slurred, wrecked.

Chris grinned against your cheek, his hand smoothing down your back. “You love it,” he whispered, nuzzling against you. “Love being full of me, don’t you?”

You whimpered, your body shivering despite the warmth of his embrace. Chris hummed, something dark and pleased curling in his chest. His fingers trailed down, over your stomach, rubbing softly, soothingly. He groaned, knowing his come was still inside you, knowing how full you must feel.

“Good,” he whispered, pressing another soft kiss to your shoulder. “So good for me, princess.”

"Let me clean you up," he murmured after a moment, shifting like he was about to move.

But as soon as he tried to pull away, you whimpered, clutching at him weakly. Chris immediately stopped, his expression softening. "Oh, baby," he crooned, kissing the bridge of your nose. "You want Daddy to hold you, huh?"

You nodded, too exhausted for words.

His arms tightened around you, pressing you fully against him. "Okay, sweetheart," he whispered, tucking the blanket over both of you. "M'not going anywhere."

He kissed your temple, his fingers still trailing up and down your skin, featherlight, absentminded.

“So pretty,” he murmured, his voice thick with something soft, something impossibly tender. “My pretty girl.”

You sighed, barely conscious, barely awake, and Chris chuckled, shifting just enough to reach for the wet wipes on the nightstand. He moved carefully, gently, wiping away the mess between your thighs, murmuring quiet reassurances against your skin.

But when he pulled back, his gaze landed on your entrance again—still puffy, still stretched from him, still leaking his come despite how much he’d given you.

Chris groaned, his jaw clenching, something dark flickering behind his softened gaze.

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. He was trying—really trying—to let it go. To let you rest.

But then his fingers were there, brushing over your swollen folds, pushing in just enough to spread the mess, to watch the way your body twitched in response. You whimpered, barely coherent, shifting weakly beneath him.

Chris exhaled sharply.

“Gotta make sure it stays, baby,” he murmured, almost apologetic, pressing two fingers inside, slow, deep, watching the way your walls fluttered around them, sucking them in, so perfectly pliant.

You whimpered, half-asleep, but didn’t stop him.

Chris swallowed hard, his cock twitching all over again.

Maybe he’d have to make sure again in the morning.